SkinThief

by Sonnet O'Dell

  I came to a paragraph about switching over bodies. I had wondered why there was no sign of wear on Merrick. Humans, it seemed, could be swapped over with few side effects to their bodies, as the transfer followed the laws of equivalent exchange. Which basically meant that for something to be achieved, something of equal value must be lost. So swapping one human for another was no problem. Swapping over two people with power might prove difficult, though. If one was more powerful than the other, it could work much like a demon possession and burn the body out.

  I raised my eyes from the book for a minute to find Truth looking at me again with that strange, intense confusion on her face. I closed the book, and she jerked with a little start. She closed her book too.

  “What is it? You’ve been looking at me weird since I came in.”

  “Did something happen to you? Something important or intense?”

  “Why?” I wasn’t that close to Truth. I hadn’t told her about my near-death experience, and I knew she didn’t read the papers—and not for the obvious reason either. She leaned back in her seat, looked at the ceiling and then slowly stood, replacing the book on the shelf.

  “Your aura is changing color; I’ve not seen it before.”

  “What do you mean?” I leaned forward with interest; she had my undivided attention.

  “I don’t want to sound insulting, but it was a dirty gray color; there was guardedness to it. I understood that, as you’re not a very sharing individual, you like to keep to yourself.”

  “And now it’s changing color?”

  “Yes. No. Well, it’s less like it’s changing color—it’s like a shell is flaking away from your real aura. Like the gray was a shield for what was underneath. I’ve seen it with people who’ve been bound in some way, but you have to be the strongest-willed person I know, so I cannot imagine that someone could bind you.”

  I rose to my feet, handing her the book, and she put it back into the shelf and moved along, looking for something else.

  “I did have something happen, something that made me feel different, intensely so. But I’m still me; at least I still feel mostly like me.”

  “That’s all that really matters then,” she said with a smile and pulled another book from the shelf. It was deep green and the title was worn off. She handed it to me.

  “This is an encyclopedia of magical artifacts; hopefully it should be in here.”

  I took it and headed back to take a seat while she took another book for herself. I stopped and turned back to her; she froze in mid-motion and turned to face me.

  “Just out of curiosity, what color is it? You know, underneath.”

  “Gold. Metallic gold—it shines out through the cracks. It was kind of hard to ignore, which is why I kept staring. It’s like being in the room with a human-shaped firefly.”

  I thanked her with a little nod of my head and sat with the encyclopedia, flicking through to the T section, but stopped to think. Gold was the color of great spiritual energy, of awakened power. With the power surges I had been experiencing, the increased healing and now adding that Truth said my aura was changing color, I was puzzled. Something had really happened to me on that cold concrete floor where I had nearly died. For a minute I thought about sharing my dreams with Truth, but I hadn’t shared them with anyone, not even Virginia, who for all intents and purposes was my Yoda. I had been sent to her by the Wizard council to learn my powers because they would not find a place for me in their school. Virginia was tough but fair, and sometimes I thought the old woman had been really lonely before I came along.

  I was absentminded as I turned through the pages; I envisioned myself turning the page and finding the right one. I blinked, turned the page, and there on the left-hand side was an ink-outlined drawing of the amulet I had a photo of in my pocket. I took the photo out just to check it and then turned to the text.

  The amulet of Taish, a silver circle dotted with peridot stones and centered around a mystical Burmese emerald. This amulet is imbued with eastern magic with the words of activation on the other side. Roughly translated from the Thai, it reads as “my heart to yours, my soul in exchange.” These words must be spoken while wearing the talisman and in skin-to-skin contact with the intended. The amulet is potent enough that speaking the word is enough to invoke the magical energies imbued in it. It was intended for use in teaching those to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes that they might understand them better. Some talented wizards may even be able to activate the magic of the amulet by only thinking the incantation, making this a dangerous magical artifact.

  “I found it,” I said. Truth walked over slowly, taking the book from me, and used her own method to read the words to herself. She smiled.

  “That does sound interesting.”

  “It explains how a simple human managed to use it. Thing is, I can’t figure out how he found out about it in the first place.”

  “Well, this is an original copy, and I do happen to know that you can also read an electric copy of it online.”

  I smacked my fist against the palm of my other hand.

  “That explains why he was logging so much computer time. Thanks, Truth, this has been really helpful. Now that I know more about it, it should be simple enough to get everyone back to the way they should be. All I need is to get the amulet away from him.”

  Truth closed the book and re-shelved it immediately. She didn’t like to leave anything out of its proper place. I got to my feet, feeling positive I could reverse this whole mess if we could just get our hand on Petrovich. It would involve a bit of playing musical chair with bodies, but eventually we could get everyone back to where they started.

  “Cassandra, I was wondering, when you get hold of the amulet what do you intend to do with it?”

  “You mean after putting everybody right,” I said, raising an eyebrow. She smiled at me, a very businesslike smile.

  “Yes, after that. You don’t intend to keep it, do you?”

  “I suppose not. I mean, what use would it be to me?” If I was honest, I couldn’t think of a practical use for it apart from wearing it as a pretty impressive piece of jewelry.

  “If it comes into your possession, perhaps you would consider selling it to me. An item like that would be a wonderful addition to my collection. I will pay handsomely.”

  I smiled and shook my head a little at her audacity.

  “If it comes into my possession and doesn’t end up in police evidence, then I’ll think about it. Thanks for the help, I’ve got a skin thief to go stop.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was barely out of the door when my phone began to ring. I drew it out and saw that it was Hamilton. I answered with a chirpy hello.

  “Hey, Hamilton, I just finished finding out about that pendant. Seems like Petrovich is using it to swap bodies. Good news is if we can get our hands on it, the effects should be easy enough to reverse.”

  “That’s great, Cassandra,” he said, but he sounded less thrilled and more tired. “But he’s already struck again. I need you to come to the scene.” I sighed. Petrovich was a busy boy.

  “Give me the address.”

  I took out my notepad and jotted it down. I told him to give me half an hour to get there and searched through my phone for a taxi company. I spent more than I needed on travel; I should consider purchasing a mode of transportation of my own. I walked out to the street and called for the cab.

  Petrovich was on a rampage. He was attacking the little fish to get to Mr. Big, but we had no idea who that was or how to get to him, or even who Petrovich would go after next trying to reach him. I stood on the curb tapping my foot and checked my wallet to make sure I had enough cash to get me to the other side of the river. A black and red taxi cab pulled up to the curb in front of me, and the passenger window rolled down.

  “Farbanks?”


  “Yup, that’s me.” I opened the door and climbed into the backseat. I made a point of always sitting in the back of cabs—sitting next to the driver was just a little too close to a stranger for my liking. You heard some stories about women who just got into the wrong cab one night. I liked having that little Plexiglas window between him and me.

  “Where to then?” he asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I pulled out my pad and checked the address again.

  “Knight Street, St. Johns.”

  The cab pulled out and headed to the end of the road, turning right into traffic and heading through town, past the racecourse, round the one-way system and across the bridge. When we reached the street, it was blocked off by an ambulance and police cars. There was tape across the road, and since it was the middle of the day there was a small crowd of onlookers, nosy neighbors, and kids who should have been at school. The cab stopped short of the tape.

  “Looks like we can’t get any further,” he said, starting to reverse into a space between two cars so that he could do a three-point turn.

  “That’s okay—this is where I want to be.” I leaned over the seat to read the little meter and handed him some money. “Keep the change, okay.”

  I swung the back door open, stepped out and skipped quickly out of the road to the pavement so that the taxi wouldn’t hit me as it turned. Several housewives eyed me carefully as I approached the yellow line. I lifted it and ducked underneath.

  The houses on Knight Street were modern terraced houses with double-glazed white plastic-rimmed windows and neat little yards out front.

  The police cars were empty; there was one uniformed officer on the far side from me, behind the tape, talking to a couple of women who appeared to live across the road. The back of the ambulance was open. Paramedics were attending to a woman sitting on a gurney; she had a blonde bob, and blood soaked the sleeve of her tight blue top. She kept shaking her head as the paramedics tried to examine her. She tried to stand several times, but they forced her to sit back on the gurney. She didn’t look like she was badly hurt, but she seemed disoriented, or maybe she was in shock.

  The house in the middle of the tape was number twenty-two; the stone wall that separated the front garden from the street barely reached my waist but was topped with sharp up-pointed stones. The white painted wrought-iron gate stood blowing in the breeze and the front door, also white, stood open with a bloody handprint on it. The woman had probably run out into the street to raise the alarm and left it there. I looked back at her. More than her sleeve was covered by the blood; it looked to me like she had tried to do CPR on whatever body was inside. Then I recognized the face. It was the body of Chloe Dietrich. I hoped the paramedics were under strict instructions not to let that woman go anywhere.

  I was careful not to touch the gate as I stepped through it—there were smears of blood on the catch—and headed up to the doorstep. There were roses planted under the windows and the lawn was very green; it was a very pretty little yard, I felt a twang as I looked at it. Such a shame to have such a tragedy strike here. I slipped passed the front door and stood in the small hallway. A mirror in the hall hung next to a table that held a phone. There was mail next to it, suggesting that someone had only just gotten home. Stairs ran up to a darkness that suggested the upstairs was off limits, that either all the bedroom doors were shut or the curtains closed so no light penetrated.

  The last body had been in the living room, so I figured that was where the second one would be too. Ivan Petrovich struck me as a man who would repeat himself so that each of his victims suffered exactly as his daughter had. I started toward the nearest door. I could see a door open at the end of the hall. It was a kitchen, and inside, a couple of uniformed officers were standing in a cluster over a box of pastries. I smirked.

  As I got closer to the door, I could hear the voices. People were arguing in low tones, angry tones. I took a step nearer, staying tight to the wall so I wouldn’t give my presence away, and listened to the voices to identify who was arguing. One voice was definitely Hamilton, and the other was... I sighed. The other voice belonged to D. I. Rourke. What the hell was she doing here? This was a homicide; surely she had no right to be here. I spun round the edge of the door frame and stood there. Doc Cameron stood over the body—during the day, he attended crime scenes instead of Ro. His balding head gleamed, and his puffed-up little cheeks still reminded me of a hamster. He was a small man and looked a bit like a fuzzy potato in his silver pathologist suit. Hamilton was facing me, Rourke had her back to me, and D.S. Benjamin Hodgeson stood at her side as her wingman. They both worked for PCU and shouldn’t have been here. I looked at Hamilton, who acknowledged with his eyes that he saw me, but tried not to let Rourke know I was behind her. I let the argument continue.

  “It’s a death by supernatural means, Hamilton; you know that’s my department.”

  “How is a knife through the heart supernatural?”

  “Magic is involved. I saw your report from the first body, and if magic is involved, it’s supernatural. That means it comes to me.”

  Hamilton crossed his arms and looked at her, defiant. Rourke was a large woman with her hair currently tied back in a severe ponytail. She looked like the daughter of the Incredible Hulk, except for the fact that she had a face rather like that of a china doll. Benjamin, standing next to her, wasn’t small either; he had the body of a man who used to play rugby but had slowly started to let himself go. He and I had dated for a little while way back when, but it turned out we couldn’t stand each other.

  “Magic isn’t the murder weapon; it’s still just a homicide. I have a consultant working on the magical angle.”

  Rourke’s body stiffened, and it was almost like I could steam rising from her ears.

  “Who? No, no, don’t tell me. You didn’t.”

  I finally decided it was time for me to speak up.

  “Yes, I’m afraid he did.” Rourke rolled her head to look over her shoulder in slow motion, and she glared at me. She looked crossly at Benjamin.

  “Is nobody watching the perimeter? How did she get in here?”

  I walked around her and joined the group standing closer to Hamilton to show whose side I was on. Rourke looked down at me as she often did, and Benjamin’s lip curled with dislike.

  “I walked, and most of Hamilton’s folks let me through if I just show them my ID.”

  Rourke growled a little. She hated the fact that I was now a licensed Paranormal Investigator and she hadn’t been able to stop it.

  “If it’s going to be my case, then I say who gets to consult,” Rourke said, giving me a look that told me it would not be me if she had any say in it.

  “I’m not handing the case over, Rourke. You can take it up back at the office if you really want to, but right now this is my scene.”

  “And technically you already passed up this case when you passed it to me in the first place, Rourke. You didn’t want to go on the goose chase to the prison; not my fault it turned out to be legitimate.”

  She growled at me.

  “I was told to pass that case off to you as we don’t have a practitioner on staff, but I didn’t want to. I want this case.” I stared her right in the eyes, and her gaze darted around as she tried not to look directly at me.

  “You want it back now because it’s interesting. It might be big, which means press and commendation if you catch the bad guy. Rourke, really, are you such a glory hog?”

  She balled her fists at her sides and looked at the floor, counting to ten to calm herself down. Sometimes with me Rourke seemed to have rage issues.

  “I want out of PCU; it’s not a crime.”

  “Yeah, but if you get out, they’ll probably put you into Homicide, and then you would have to take orders from D.I. Hamilton every day.” She looked at Hamilton, and he smiled widely at her. I could tell from the way he
r hands twitched that she wanted to punch him right in his smug smile. I’d had that urge myself before, so I didn’t hold it against her.

  “I’m going to ask you once more, and then I am going over your head, Hamilton.”

  “Go ahead,” he challenged her. I rubbed my temples and took a deep breath.

  “That’s great, you two. Go ahead and get into another pissing match—but can I make a suggestion?” Hamilton said “yes,” while Rourke and Benjamin both said “no”—but I ignored them.

  “Can you save it for when you’re back at the station? For right now, can we concentrate on the body and catching this guy before he ends up killing someone else? It’s slightly more important that we catch the bad guy—or maybe I misread the guidebook.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rourke stormed outside to question the woman in the ambulance, leaving the body to me and Hamilton. I looked at him and he shrugged at me.

  “How did she get word of this?”

  “She’s been keeping an eye on reports I’ve been filing. Her side of things is slow, since she pretty much refuses to look into any crimes unless the suspect is supernatural.”

  “But she gets plenty of complaints from supernaturals about humans committing crimes against them.” He gave me the same little shrug. I grumbled an insult under my breath. Rourke was such a bigot. Supernaturals were bad and deserved whatever they got in her opinion; she didn’t spout off such sentiments, but you knew she believed them. She refused to work both sides of the street evenly. If I’d liked the mayor, if we had been friends, I might have put a push on him to get her replaced with someone more fair minded.