Spiritdell Book 2

by Dalya Moon

  She pokes me on the tip of my nose. “Don't. Just don't.”

  “Seriously, I am stressed. I think I'm losing hair. Is my hairline receding?”

  I lean over to show her my hairline, and in response, she licks her finger and rubs my forehead where it meets my scalp. “Good kitty.”

  “How are you even standing? How are you not throwing up right now?”

  She shrugs, nearly tipping herself over.

  “Oh, Julie, what am I going to do with you?”

  Shrugging again, she says, “Love me?”

  James is nowhere to be seen, and Julie's in a class after lunch that we're not in with her, so what am I going to do with her? I pull out my phone and call James, but the call goes straight to voice mail.

  Do I have any allies here in the school? Denise. She's helped me before.

  I grab Julie's hand and drag her to the office. Her eyes bulge and she hiccups, staring at the intimidating artwork on the wall: the creepy person with the binoculars, and the wrecked sailboats.

  Denise, the petite blonde who is our school secretary, comes over and props her elbows on the counter. “Are you doing another BS project?” she asks me.

  “Different BS today entirely. Someone gave my friend something to drink and she's not doing so well.”

  “Does she have any alcohol on her?”

  I sniff Julie's shirt. “Just in her.”

  “Smartass,” Denise says, amused enough to show her dimples.

  Julie holds up her index finger to get our attention. “Do NOT let me drive,” she says.

  Denise leans over the counter and puts her hands on both sides of Julie's face. “Do you want to get expelled and miss graduation, or do you want to come have a nap in the supply closet for a few hours?”

  Julie hiccups. “Supply closet.”

  “I owe you,” I tell Denise.

  “Yes, you do,” she says as I leave the office.

  * * *

  When I meet up with Julie at the last class of the day, she's upright and sober. Her hair's back to its normal wildness, and if I hadn't seen her with my own eyes, I'd never believe she'd been so drunk earlier.

  “Stop staring,” she snaps at me.

  James leans forward from his desk behind me and says, “Our family tolerates alcohol almost too well.” I told him about Julie's adventures when we were in our last class and he thanked me for taking care of her.

  “Must be your genes,” I say.

  “Lucky us. You coming to the movie tonight? Raye-Anne will be there.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And that tall guy, Shad Miller.”

  “Oh, I think I have plans. Yeah, some last-minute planning for Gran's wedding.”

  “Family first,” James says.

  I pull open my text book and start reading the day's assigned pages—anything to erase unwanted images from my mind. If I never, ever use my power again, that'll be fine by me. It's never given me anything but trouble.

  * * *

  School's over, and I'm walking home. I could have gotten a ride from James and Julie, but walking is helping me think. Walking is good.

  I hear footsteps. Is someone following me?

  Zan, stop being paranoid.

  The footsteps speed up, from fast walking to running.

  I turn to look just in time to see big, tall, redheaded Shad Miller tackle me, throwing us both into a hedge.

  As I try to get away from him and the scratching branches, I yell, “This isn't funny!”

  “It's not supposed to be,” he says as he punches me in the face.

  Stars. I see actual stars, then a wave of heat washes over my body.

  I twist my torso, trying to get away from him, but his limbs are so long, he's everywhere. This is not entirely unfamiliar, and I think of his girlfriend, Rosemary, and her vision of them in their private tangle. Not funny, vision.

  “What are you doing?” I yell.

  “Stay away from my girl!” His hand comes at me like a missile, but I block it.

  RAGE!

  I feel Moira's anger, and other people's anger, mixed in with my own, and death. They aren't strong, but I am.

  Everything goes dark.

  I'm strong and they'll be sorry.

  Colors flash by. I'm heavy and then I'm light again.

  Shad's crying, whimpering.

  I shake out my arms. My chest bone hurts, and my face is tingling.

  Where did Shad go? I don't see him. I'm standing on somebody's lawn, in front of their house, near a big tree. Nobody else is around.

  “I'm sorry,” Shad says between sniffs.

  He's … above me?

  I look up at the branches of the tree I'm standing beside.

  Shad's several feet over my head, clinging to a branch.

  “What are you doing up there?” I ask.

  “Doing? Nothing! Why'd you throw me up here?”

  I threw him up there? I don't remember anything. “Oh, yeah? Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you punched me. I didn't do anything to your girlfriend, I was just talking to her.”

  “I don't think those herbal steroids I got off the internet are agreeing with me,” he says.

  “No shit.” I stand under Shad and hold my arms out. “Drop down, I'll catch you.”

  He does, and I catch him as easily as a fireman catches a kitten.

  “How are you doing this?” he asks as I set him down. “Is it magic or voodoo?”

  I look around to see if anyone's watching. “Shh,” I say. “I don't know. I'm just stronger lately. I don't know why, but I'm not taking anything.”

  “Must be that magic stuff you do,” he says. “I've heard weird things about potions and spells.”

  “Right. If I could do magic, I would.” A thought pops into my head. Maybe I can do magic. Moira could. What did she do again?

  I wave my hand in front of Shad's face. “Forget.”

  He blinks.

  It worked, I just made him forget this whole incident and my freaky strength. Wow. This one little spell is going to make life a whole lot easier for me.

  “Hey, are you okay, man?” I ask. “You've got some scratches on your ear from where you, um, fell down over there.”

  “Right,” he says flatly. “From where I fell down.”

  I grab my nose and squeeze the bridge of it. The pressure hurts, but nothing's moving or wiggling around.

  “I sure fell down hard,” Shad says. “And repeatedly.”

  “Shad, what do you think just happened?”

  “I tackled you and then you went all Hulk crazy and threw me up into a tree with super-human strength.”

  “Oh.” So I guess the spell didn't work.

  “Don't worry, I won't tell anyone,” he says. “But you should consider joining the wrestling team.”

  “I'll think about it. So, hey. You know I wasn't coming onto your girlfriend, right? I just wanted to know about the incident at the pawn shop.”

  He nods and runs his fingers through his red hair, pulling out stray branches. “We're cool. I mean, I'm cool if you are. We're cool, right?”

  “Yeah, we're cool.”

  He turns slowly and walks away, picking up speed a few feet away, and he's running before he hits the end of the block.

  So, that happened.

  I threw a guy way bigger than me up into a tree.

  * * *

  When I get back home, I pull out my digital camera and take a photo of myself. I would have thought my nose or my eye would be swollen from taking the hits from Shad, but my face is smooth and free of evidence of fighting. My nose doesn't even feel sore now.

  I pull the new digital image up on my computer screen and compare it to some pictures from a month ago. My face does look changed, but it's odd.

  My face is not wider, or longer, or different in shape, but it does seem bigger, as though it has more volume. I look down at my clothes. My jeans and shirts do seem tighter, and my shoes were uncomfortable today.

&nbs
p; I don't look any different in the photos, but I'm bigger, just a little bit bigger, in every direction. I wouldn't see that in any of my photos, because I'm not too careful about measuring my distance from the camera, choosing instead to resize the images on-screen.

  This size change could be something magical, or it could just be a growth spurt. I should check my height and weight and write them down for future reference. Why wasn't I doing that along with taking the photos? Seems like that information would be handy right about now.

  Well, I'll worry about that later. After I solve this case.

  I have a quick peek at my other recent photos. I've got hundreds of shots from the Halloween party. Man, it was just over a week ago, but it feels like forever. The best photo is the one of Raye-Anne in her coconut-bra top posing with her arm around Julie. Julie's dark hair is so cute in little swirly kiss curls pressed to her forehead and cheeks. In the background is a disgusting zombie, James pretending to sneak up on them from behind.

  Taken the same evening, the photos of the sculpture made out of appliances are incredible. Even with the low light, I got some good shots, even including Mr. Crow on the shoulder. What a jerk that crow is. If I see him again, I will punch him in the beak.

  These pictures aren't helping me with the task at hand, and I'm down to one day to solve Newt's murder, before the dire consequences take effect.

  As much as I wish that vague threat didn't mean anything to me, I feel a shiver and get goosebumps when I think about those words.

  Okay, Newt and Heidi, I'll try my best.

  I shut down my own photos and open the case files again, paying close attention to the gun found at the crime scene. It was indeed a Glock—thanks, video games, for the gun knowledge!—but the police found no fingerprints on the gun. Crystal was wearing gloves with her Cinderella costume, which was probably a lucky break for her, and because she incinerated the costume, there'd be no gunshot residue. Unless an eyewitness comes forward, I think Crystal's safe from prosecution. Then again, Rosemary did take some photos of Crystal with her phone. Damn.

  I close my eyes and pull up the memory I got from Rosemary. There's Crystal, looking cute in the Cinderella wig, with a shiny gold ring on her hand, over top of the glove. My ring. Am I making up that detail, or did I see it in Rosemary's vision?

  At school, Ms. Mikado is always talking about memory playing tricks on us. No story, no first-person account, and no diary entry represents the truth, because it's always filtered through a human mind. The images become more watery with time. For happy people, time is kind and erases the pain, but for those who suffer, their pain is compounded by clear memories of the things they least need be reminded of.

  My phone buzzes with an incoming text: Austin, confirming she'll meet me at the wedding tomorrow. At least that's some good news in my otherwise crappy day. I wish she would have phoned me, so I could hear her voice, but at least I'll see her tomorrow. Weddings are romantic settings, so she'll have to forgive me.

  My real dilemma is how to bring up the topic of what I saw in my brief vision of her. While I'm relieved she was not the person who shot Newt, I saw her holding a gun. Two things: if she's about to do something criminal I need to stop her, and if she's simply joining some sort of gun club to do target practice, there's no way I'm not getting in on that.

  I close the gun file on my screen and pull up some other documents and photos.

  Two hours of staring at the case files later, my enthusiasm for investigative work is flagging.

  The house is quiet, and Gran's still at the rehearsal dinner. I haven't heard any white cats or other creatures stalking up on me, but that doesn't prevent me from getting up and making another quick check through the house.

  I return to my desk and slap my cheeks to stay alert.

  On my left-hand computer monitor, my icon tray flashes with incoming emails from James and Julie. They're inside the movie theater right now, and say the movie's really boring. I know they're completely separate people, but often they will both send me identical text messages at the same time. At first I thought they did it to mess with my head, but they've always denied cooperation, so who knows.

  At least they've sent the photos I requested.

  I put the pictures side-by-side and compare the construction site where the herbalist was formerly located and the renovation at the murder scene, the former pawn shop. I see a pattern, a connection: two logos in orange and green.

  I click the magnifying glass icon, saying, “Enhance, enhance,” out loud to myself, as I often do.

  Upon closer examination, the two logos are not the same, after all. So the construction contractors are different, and there goes that theory.

  Detective Wrong doesn't have any notes in her files about the Chinatown site at all, because she wouldn't be considering it as part of the big picture. I'm only comparing them because they're both linked in my mind, because of their involvement with magic. To be fair, I should have the book store on here too.

  I wonder how Moira's doing. I should bring her in some brownies or something, as thanks for helping me.

  Back to the case, Zan, think!

  In the photo of the Chinatown project, there's a pink blob at the side. I zoom in. The picture is pixelated at this resolution, so I enlarge the image and run an enhance filter. The enhance filter mainly finds edges and increases contrast. Unlike what you see on the crime shows, filters are not great at revealing information that isn't there, though they can give your image a boost.

  I'm definitely looking at a nostril shape. Yes, this pink blob is a nose, probably the guy I spoke to about the herbalist. What did he say? Something about a death in the family.

  A death.

  I pull up the other really big file Detective Wrong sent and look for the other homicide that happened earlier this year.

  According to the report, a pair of backpackers from out of town had an argument at the home they were staying, and one stabbed the other to death. That information is not triggering anything in my brain.

  Except the age is wrong.

  The taxi driver who drove me to Rudy's place last week said something about seniors being killed. The backpacker in the story was in his 20s.

  Was another senior killed in Spiritdell recently?

  No, there have only been two homicides this year.

  I check other deaths and find a suicide that looks suspicious. A woman named Ming Lee took the bad kind of nose dive off Hotel Doccione. She had no history of depression, but the case was closed and marked as suicide. Her occupation is listed as housekeeper, and I don't see any connection to the herbalist location, except her being Chinese-American. I google her, but the name is so common I get a million search results. I send Detective Wrong an email requesting a photo of Ming Lee and asking if she thinks the suicide is suspicious.

  This whole thing is so confusing, but if I keep looking, I might see something. Still mulling over the suicide, I go back to the two construction photographs. There are birds visible in both, but when I zoom in, they're only sparrows, not crows.

  Next, I pull up the photographs from the murder scene again. Something is bugging me. What? What is it? I close my eyes and make my mind go blank, then I open them, trying to keep my mind open and still.

  The back room of the pawn shop is very neatly organized.

  That's it? That's my big insight? And that's unusual because ...

  My ring.

  The ring I found on the ground wasn't just some random thing lying out with a jumble of mess. These crime scene photos show the back of the pawn shop was Martha-Stewart-level organized, with things like bolts and screws separated into their own glass jars, arranged neatly on shelves.

  Of course I didn't notice at the time, because I was staring at a dead body while trying to keep Julie calm. This means my ring wasn't there by accident, but is a key part of the investigation. Evidence. Could someone have made Crystal shoot Newt to get the ring? Then why would they leave it behind? Besides, if my memory
of Rosemary's vision is accurate, Crystal had the ring on when she went in there.

  My ring.

  My ring must have been on Crystal's hand. After the bee stung her, when she was wiping at her hands in the vision I saw of her, she must have knocked the ring off. Was it simply part of her costume, the engagement ring from a make-believe Prince Charming, or is the ring part of everything?

  I don't want to turn it in as evidence. What good would my ring do sitting in an evidence box?

  I pull up the condo development photo again, from Chinatown. The slogan reads C-Town will restore your vim.

  Who says vim? Rudy. The guy my grandmother is marrying tomorrow.

  I hear keys in the front door, and I quickly close down everything on my computer. Rudy and Gran enter the house, laughing about some corny jokes from their rehearsal dinner.

  Standing at my door, I listen as Gran tells Rudy to head on back to his house, as it'll be bad luck for him to see any more of her before the wedding. The front door closes, and I hear Rudy's footfalls on the front steps.

  I charge out of my room, past Gran, muttering something about talking to Rudy about guy stuff, and I catch up with him before he gets to his car.

  “What can I do for you, son?” he asks, his gaze on my pinkie finger, on the ring I forgot to take off.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rudy twirls his car keys around his finger and asks me again what I'd like from him.

  “It's silly,” I say, losing my nerve.

  “Girl problems?”

  “Always, but this is about something else.” I look around the dark neighborhood, desperately wishing I'd thought this out a little more. I could have phoned him at his house. Maybe I'll go back inside and do just that. “Never mind.”

  He puts his hands on my shoulders, looking me straight in the eyes. “I want you to know, I'm prepared to take good care of you and your grandmother. Very good care. Not just a cruise once a year, but much better.”

  “That's cool. How's the real estate going? Selling a lot of houses?”

  He grins. “Yes, and I have a few little business deals that are ongoing. Nothing flashy of course. Most folks don't realize this, but the money is where you least expect it, in simple things like a low-key family restaurant, or a laundromat, things like that.”