Tall and slim, she wore a long-sleeved blouse and a full skirt, reminiscent of an Apache woman in the early twentieth century.
She was in her midtwenties, Olivia surmised. A stunningly beautiful shape-shifter, a witch from the past.
Drawn to the other woman, Olivia moved even closer. She reminded herself that this was the same entity who’d hurt West’s reflection in the motel-room mirror. Yet somehow, she seemed too compelling to be evil.
“Who are you?” Olivia asked.
The shape-shifter didn’t speak. Instead, she pressed her hand against the glass, inviting Olivia to touch the mirror, to enter the realm in which she lived.
“What will happen if I go with you?” Tempted, so very tempted, she gazed at the witch, wanting to know her, wanting to feel her touch.
The beads around her neck dazzled, like stars that refused to sleep.
“We’re connected,” Olivia said to her. “I can feel your blood in my veins. I can feel—”
The merry-go-round changed direction, spinning forward again, making Derek’s mutilated body roll at Olivia’s feet.
The shape-shifter smiled.
Oh, God. Olivia swayed, knowing she was being bewitched.
Fighting the feeling, the overpowering seduction, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. But the need was still there. She hungered to step inside the glass, to become part of the magic.
Laughter ripped through the air.
The shape-shifter was winning.
Olivia opened her eyes and glanced down at Derek’s body, which was reflected in the funhouse mirrors that surrounded her, magnifying his mutilated flesh, making it look even more distorted.
Help me, his voice whispered in her head.
Stunned, she backed into a carousel horse. Olivia wasn’t a medium. Aside from her father’s ghost, she’d never conversed with the dead. Yet Derek was communicating with her.
“I can’t,” she told him.
Yes, you can. Deny her. Don’t let her take your soul.
“Who is she?” Olivia asked.
He didn’t respond.
The entity in the mirror beckoned.
Once again, a sensation of kinship overpowered her. A haunting affection. A twisted bond.
But a bond just the same.
With her heart pounding like a Native drum, Olivia lifted her gun, aimed it at the mirror and pulled the trigger.
The glass didn’t shatter. Instead the bullet ricocheted, coming back at Olivia. She dived to the ground, landing on top of Derek’s mangled body. Even when she’d fired, she’d known the bullet wouldn’t harm the shape-shifter or damage her protective shield. But it was a symbolic gesture, a denial.
Olivia intended to keep her soul.
She crawled away from Derek and drew her knees to her chest. Holy Mother of God. His brain started squirming back into his head, the stuff that had been sticking to the soles of Olivia’s boots squiggling like worms to catch up. Wide-eyed, she watched fragments of his skull snap into place, like pieces in a puzzle. The rest of him, the parts that were missing, reappeared, completing the process, restoring his body.
The entity in the mirror finally made a sound, screeching like an owl, becoming a human-size raptor once again.
An angry raptor, its yellow eyes flashing like embers.
“Run!” Olivia told Derek. “Run!”
He jumped to his feet, then wobbled like Dorothy’s scarecrow and grinned at her.
Stupid male witch, she thought, shoving past him.
The merry-go-round picked up speed, moving a little faster, the carousel horses bobbing like pogo sticks.
Olivia ignored the disturbing motion. Somewhere in the distance, the robotic tiger growled, its mechanical footsteps echoing behind them.
“That damn thing wants to chomp on me again,” Derek said, stopping to look over his shoulder.
“Then quit stalling.” Every time Olivia bumped into a mirror, she kicked it, shattering it with her boot, grateful the funhouse glass was breakable, unlike the shield that protected the shape-shifter.
Derek followed her lead, and together they smashed their way out of the maze, determined to find the edge of the merry-go-round.
But when they did, the ride spun so fast, Derek insisted he was going to vomit.
Too bad, she thought, pushing him over the side. A second later, Olivia jumped, too, landing on the grass with a painful, wrenching thud.
For a while, the world kept moving, turning in a dizzying circle. She spied Derek from the corner of her eye. He was, indeed, vomiting. Hunched over, regurgitating whatever he’d eaten for breakfast that morning.
Finally Olivia stood up and looked around. The merry-go-round was no longer moving. No music, no funhouse mirrors. The owl and her magic had vanished.
Derek stumbled over to a water fountain and rinsed his mouth, spitting onto the ground. When he approached Olivia, he looked pale.
Like death warmed over.
Which was exactly what he was.
“I brought you back to life,” she said. “Could I have done that if you weren’t a witch?”
He shook his head. “It was both of our powers that did it.”
Suspicious, she crossed her arms. “How?”
“My soul was hovering over my body, so my spirit was still functioning. And your soul—” he paused to blow out a windy breath “—was hovering, too, on the verge of being taken. Together we were strong enough to fight the owl, to reverse her spell.”
“Is she an ancestor of mine?”
“Probably.” He sniffed the air. “Dead witches are the worst.”
“You and your damn carnival.” She glanced at the colorful rides, the concession stands, an atmosphere that was supposed to be fun.
“How did I know that she-bitch was going to show up?” He took a step back. “I’m not helping you with this investigation anymore.”
“Helping me? For all I know you’re responsible for that whole merry-go-round thing.”
“Yeah, right. I killed myself.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe your mutilated body was an illusion. Maybe you were alive the entire time, hiding behind a spell.”
“And the owl? You think I conjured her, too?”
“It’s possible.”
“That’s bull and you know it. I’m not the Slasher, Olivia. I’m not the witch who murdered your mother.”
“Then who is?”
“Ask Agent West,” he said. “He’s the FBI profiler. The guy who’s supposed to figure this out.”
Later that day Olivia sat beside Detective Riggs at a conference table at the Los Angeles Street Station. Detective Muncy was there, too, wolfing down an early dinner, the fried aroma of take-out chicken scenting the air.
West, the ringleader, had called this meeting. He stood at the front of the room, dressed in one of his dark suits.
Riggs leaned toward Olivia. “He looks pissed.”
Olivia nodded, and West spun around to glare at them.
“If you ladies have something to say, I suggest you share it with the rest of us.”
Unimpressed, Riggs squared her shoulders. “I told her that you looked pissed.”
“Really?” He put his hands on the table. “Well, let me clarify that for you. I’m beyond pissed. Olivia had no business gallivanting off to see Moon without telling me.”
“I did tell you,” she protested.
“Yeah, after the fact.”
Muncy cut in. “At least Moon gave her some accurate information.” He picked at the crispy coating on his chicken, wiping his hands on his pants before reaching for the report he’d prepared. “Yvonne was in Ireland with Taylor Campbell for the past twelve years. And Campbell did die from an illness. An unidentifiable virus of some kind.”
Olivia frowned. “What about the money? Did she rip him off?”
“Not exactly, no. She disappeared with a bundle, but it was from an account that he’d set up for her.”
“What was her alias?”
Olivia asked. “What name was she using in Ireland?”
“Coyote. Yvonne Coyote.” Muncy turned to look at her. “Is that significant?”
“It could be. Coyote is a trickster. He can’t be trusted.”
“And neither can you,” West said.
Olivia lifted her chin. “I was trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need your goddamn protection.”
“The hell you don’t.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re the belle of the witch’s ball.” He leaned on the table, pinning her with his gaze, nailing her right to her seat. “You put Moon’s mutilated head back together.”
“He said we both did it.”
“Which means what? That you won’t be able to do it for me?” He practically crammed his face next to hers, stealing her oxygen. “I’d rather be dead anyway. I don’t want the daughter of a witch messing with my mind.”
“You mean your heart?” Riggs asked.
He rounded on her. “What?”
“Your heart,” the female detective reiterated. “You’re so in love with her, you can’t even see straight.”
Olivia caught her breath.
And so did West. Before he told Riggs to go straight to hell.
Muncy cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension. “Can we get back to the case?”
“You mean the case I’m going to solve?” West dragged his hand through his hair, spiking the straight, dark strands. “At the moment I don’t really give a damn.”
That wasn’t true, Olivia thought. He cared. But that didn’t mean she could save him. She could still feel the danger that awaited him.
“I don’t understand why your ancestor is involved in this,” Muncy said to Olivia, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “What does the owl lady want? Besides your soul?”
She gave him a hard stare. “Isn’t that enough?”
He fumbled with his chicken. “Yes, of course, but it doesn’t explain how she ties into this case.”
“Maybe she doesn’t,” Riggs put in. “Maybe she’s a separate issue.”
“What do you think?” Olivia asked West.
“I don’t know.” He smoothed the hair he’d spiked, then sat in a wooden chair and scraped his booted feet on the linoleum.
He looked restless, troubled. A man with too many disturbances on his mind. Olivia wanted to place her hands on his shoulders, to offer comfort, companionship, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch him.
“Where did Yvonne go when she left Ireland?” West asked Muncy.
The detective didn’t need to glance at his notes. He had a ready answer. “Here. She came to L.A.”
The special agent frowned. “How long ago?”
“A few months before the first murder.”
West clasped his hands behind his neck and stared at the wall. Olivia stared, too. Her mother had come home, yet she hadn’t contacted her or Allie.
“Is Moon still a suspect?” she asked.
“He is as far as I’m concerned.” This came from Muncy, who resumed eating the greasy chicken. “If he’s the killer, then the owl lady going after him makes sense.”
Olivia sighed. “Why? To punish him for killing my mom?”
Muncy nodded, his mouth full of fowl.
Riggs shifted in her seat. “It’s a pretty good theory. It explains why the owl lady would want Olivia’s soul, too. All the females in her family were witches, and now Yvonne, the last witch, is dead. They need someone to carry on the tradition.”
“Me,” Olivia said.
West still stared at the wall. “That’s all fine and dandy, but why does the owl lady want to hurt me? If I’m going to solve this case and discover who killed Yvonne, then why am I a threat?”
For a moment no one answered. Then Riggs pursed her lips and looked at Olivia.
“Don’t say it,” Olivia said.
West rose from his chair. “Don’t say what?”
Silence.
“What?” he pressed, snaring Olivia’s gaze.
She drew a deep breath, noticed his eyes were glowing. “My ancestors think you’re a threat because you’re in love with me. That the women in my family will have a better chance of taking my soul if you’re not involved in my life.”
“Why would that matter?” He gave her cynical smile. “Unless you’re in love with me, too.”
“But I’m not,” she told him.
“Neither am I,” he said.
Riggs looked at Muncy and they both shook their heads.
The meeting went downhill from there. But it didn’t matter because Olivia knew West wouldn’t rest until he solved the case.
Until his life was hanging by a thread.
The man she didn’t love.
“I can’t believe you won’t admit that you love him,” Allie said.
Olivia blew out a weary breath. It was after midnight and West still wasn’t home. “I care about him. He means a lot to me. But that’s not the same thing.”
“You’re so full of it your eyes are turning brown.”
She gave her sister an exasperated look. They sat in the living room, waiting for a man who might not show up. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, wasn’t responding to his pages. “My eyes are already brown.”
“And his are gray.”
“So?”
“So every time those eyes connect with yours, you get all fluttery.”
“I do not. And fluttery is a stupid word.”
“If the shoe fits.”
“Enough with the phrases. They’re annoying.”
Allie reached for a pillow. She was curled up on the couch, wearing a gypsy-style nightgown, the satiny fabric embroidered with blue and yellow flowers. “I know why you won’t admit how you feel.”
“Please, spare me your psychological evaluation. I’m edgy as it is.” She glanced out the window, where rain drizzled from the heavens. The weatherman had predicted clear skies and, to Olivia, that was a bad sign.
Was this a witch-driven rain? Had the owl lady killed a horned toad? Or snake, placing the animal on its back?
At this point, too much rain in California made her suspicious. And soon, she thought, it would start pouring, water flooding the earth.
Allie fluffed her pillow. “You’re afraid of admitting that you love him because of your premonitions. Your fear that he’s going to die.”
A shiver drilled its way through Olivia’s bones, nearly rattling her teeth. She didn’t want to think about West’s impending doom. “I told you to spare me, Dr. Addle-brain.”
“Addle-brain, my butt. I even figured out why West is denying that he loves you.”
Much too curious, Olivia reached for her tea, an herbal blend of oranges and mint, a hot drink to ease the chill. “Okay, smarty-pants. Let’s hear it.”
“Pride.” Her sister tucked her hair behind her ears. “If you would have told him that you loved him, he would have admitted it, too. But he wasn’t about to say anything after you shot him down.”
“And you know this because?”
“Of the way he looks at you. Even Samantha can tell.”
Olivia clutched her tea and glanced at the cat. The feline napped on top of the DVD player, her front paws draped over the machine, her hindquarters scooped into a little ball.
“Right, Sam?” Allie said.
At the mention of her nickname, the cat lifted her head, gave both women a sleepy-eyed expression and went back to sleep.
Olivia sighed. “I can see that she knows exactly what’s going on.” Frustrated, she glanced out the window again. Where was West? The rain was starting to pick up speed, falling a bit more heavily. “This is driving me crazy.”
“Maybe we should try his cell phone again,” Allie said. “Or check with the station one more time. Maybe he’s there now.”
“He isn’t. I asked the desk sergeant to call if he showed up.” West had left the cop shop hours ago, disappearing into the night.
“What about the FBI fiel
d office?”
“He isn’t there, either.”
“Then we’ll wait. Do you want to play Monopoly or something?”
Olivia smiled. Trust Allie to come up with a time-consuming diversion. “No. But thanks, anyway.” She listened to the rain, praying the owl lady hadn’t hurt West. “I wish we had an Ouija board.”
“What for?” Her sister made a perplexed face. “You’re already psychic.”
“I was thinking that maybe Dad could help.” The conversation hearts were still on the counter, but the dialogue on those stale candies was limited, making communicating with their father difficult. “I’m not a very strong medium. I’ve only had a few experiences in that realm. If we had an Ouija board—”
“We can make one.” Allie hopped up. “We can use a wineglass for the pointer. Or whatever it’s called.”
“It’s called a planchette. Or an indicator. And it’s worth a try.” Olivia carried her tea into the kitchen and poured the rest of it down the sink.
Allie searched for a cardboard box, found one and cut out a flat piece. Sitting at the table, Olivia wrote the letters of the alphabet across the center, arranged in two lines. Below that, she inscribed the words Yes and No in each corner. Then she added numbers.
“It looks pretty good,” her sister said.
“Yes, but it’s supposed to be smooth. This is a bit bumpy. We should place it under a glass surface.”
“I can tape it under the table.”
“Sure. That will work.”
Allie retrieved a roll of package-sealing tape and attached their makeshift device, faceup, to the underside of the glass-topped table, close enough to their chairs that they would both have access to it.
“The man who invented the Ouija board was a cabinet maker,” Olivia said. “But he made coffins, too.”
Her sister looked up. “Really?”
She nodded. “He sold his invention to a friend, who marketed it. But later that man took his own life.”
“Like Dad.” Allie secured the tape. “I haven’t finished the painting of him, but he won’t be ready to travel the Ghost Road until all of this is over.”
They took their seats. “Are you ready to talk to him?”
Always Look Twice Page 16
