Midnight Curse (Disrupted Magic Book 1)

by Melissa F. Olson

  I saw this out of the corner of my eye as I went to the target and yanked out the knives I’d left last time, tossing them into the bucket with a satisfying clunk. These weren’t tipped in silver—I only had one of those, though I trained with it regularly—or particularly pretty, but they were great for practice. And for letting off steam. I counted off twenty paces, the bucket clutched in my hand.

  Before I turned around, though, I found myself contemplating the little house. I had moved a number of times since coming to LA, but the guest cottage was the first place I’d lived in this city that felt like home. Maybe because I had chosen it, instead of having it foisted on me when I had no time and few options, or maybe because I had personally painted the walls and helped move in the furniture. I had made choices on this house, and I’d been happy here. After nearly three years, it felt more like my own than any place I’d ever been.

  And yet I suddenly felt like I was seeing it for the first time. It was strange, realizing how different everything had become in a few short years. Maybe I was just noticing it because Jesse was in my life again, but that didn’t make the differences any less valid.

  Was Eli right? Had Dashiell and the others sent me on a useless hunt for clues just to keep me busy until the Trials began? Had they already decided to drop the whole thing and let the bad guys get away with framing Molly? I could see Dashiell doing that. And Will would probably go along with it—he wasn’t passive, our alpha werewolf, but he was pragmatic when it came to safety.

  I didn’t want to think that of Kirsten, though. But Molly had killed a Friend of the Witches. Did Kirsten want justice badly enough to overlook the nuances?

  I whirled around, fast as I could, and threw the first knife. People think knives spin around in the air, but that’s a cute party trick, the kind of thing they do at circuses and magic shows. If you want to hurt someone with a throwing knife, I’m a big fan of the quarter-turn method, which lets the blade bury itself further into the target.

  The first knife hit the bullseye. And the second. And the third. When the bullseye circle was too crowded for more blades, I went over to the target and began pulling them out again.

  This thing with Eli was becoming a problem. I loved him so much, but it felt like we were heading toward some kind of point of no return. He treated me as an equal romantically, but when it came to anything outside of our relationship, he acted like I was a porcelain doll. Wait, I thought, my hand frozen on the handle of one of the embedded knives. That wasn’t quite right. It was more that he treated me like the Scarlett he had met four years ago, the broken, guilt-stricken girl who blamed herself for her parents’ deaths. My head and insides had gotten all twisted up by my psycho “mentor,” Olivia, and I’d started experimenting with self-destructive misadventures. My relationship with Eli had started out as one of those misadventures, and now I was beginning to think this was how he still saw me. Someone to be protected. To be saved. He loved me in a way that was uncomplicated, and his love came without strings. He didn’t want me to be any more than I already was. He loved me broken.

  But what if I wasn’t so broken anymore?

  On her bench, Shadow lifted her head to watch me closely. I’d been standing there too long without moving. I shot her a reassuring smile and picked up my bucket, taking it back to my starting point.

  Eli wanted me to keep my head down, do my job to the letter only, and I couldn’t blame him for expecting that, because that’s what the old Scarlett would have done. The Scarlett who’d been going through the motions, allowing herself to be herded through choices. I’d never chosen my job, for example—I’d been manipulated into it by Olivia, and then I’d kept doing it after her death because I didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t like I’d ever dreamed of mopping up blood or spinning lies to cops.

  I hadn’t picked the job, but it had crept up on me, bit by bit, and now I—well, if not loved it, at least mostly enjoyed it. It was interesting, and challenging, and most important, I felt like the things I’d done had helped some people, even if it was just stopping werewolf bar fights and taking vampires to occasional daytime business meetings. Oh, I wasn’t a born do-gooder, like Jesse. I’d never been one of those people who’d come out of the womb wanting to make the world a better place. What I’d wanted was to have a place in the world.

  But now that I had that, I found myself oddly grateful that part of my job seemed to involve helping others. Keeping a balance. After what Olivia had done to me, and what several others had tried to do since then, it felt good to right wrongs.

  I thought about Molly, and the way she’d looked crumpled on those kitchen tiles, crying and shaking over what she’d been forced to do. And then I remembered what she’d said about Alonzo, and the things he’d done to young women like Molly, for centuries. Someone wanted to do that again. Someone was trying to pick up his mantle.

  In my town.

  And then I smiled. Maybe Eli was right. Maybe Dashiell and the others hadn’t actually wanted me to help Molly. But so fucking what?

  They weren’t stopping me, either.

  Chapter 25

  Forty-five minutes after he left Scarlett’s place, Jesse was sitting down with Jimmy’s confidential informant.

  Coming up with a meeting place had been a challenge—it had to be somewhere that none of the other Kings would visit, but where a biker wouldn’t look so completely discordant that everyone remembered him later. In the end, Jesse suggested the viewing platform at Echo Park, right in front of the pond. At least it was close to his apartment, so he was able to stop at home for a shower and clean clothes.

  It was late afternoon, but there were plenty of people walking dogs, jogging, or strolling while they talked on cell phones. There were also several lumpy islands of dirty blankets—homeless people, buried under layers to avoid both stares and the cool wind.

  When Jesse reached the viewing platform, the CI was already sitting on the bench, picking at a soupy cup of ice cream he’d brought with him. He was a lean, rat-faced white man with a lackluster goatee who went by the name Rod, though Jesse didn’t know if that was his actual name or an MC moniker. Rod seemed jittery, which Jesse sort of expected in a CI, but there was some excitement in his eyes, too. As soon as Jesse sat down, he figured out why.

  “Hey, man, Wunderkind, is like, my favorite book ever,” the guy said right away, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead of them, where a family of ducks was sailing around the pond. “I didn’t want to do this meet, you know, but I couldn’t resist the chance to have you sign my copy.” He pulled a battered hardcover out of the equally battered knapsack at his feet and slid it over to Jesse.

  Jesse had to make an effort not to cringe. The book had come out months ago, but the fandom still caught him off guard, especially from this greasy-looking biker who couldn’t lace his work boots without missing eyelets. Rod also didn’t look like much of a reader, but that was probably unfair.

  Jesse left the book on the bench between them, though he flipped it over so his face wasn’t showing. “In a minute,” he said. “First I’d like to know what happened this afternoon at the condo in Sylmar.”

  Rod scrunched up his face, his eyes darting to Jesse and then back to the ducks. “I wasn’t there, man. I just heard about it later from Carl, okay? He was the only one who made it.”

  Greasy Beard. “What did you hear?” Jesse asked.

  “Some of the guys were asked to do a little freelance muscle for a guy Lee used to know,” Rod said. Lee Harrison was the president of the motorcycle club. “He helped Lee get into business back in the day, and figured the prez still owed him one. We were all kind of surprised when Lee agreed, though.” Rod gave a little shrug. “Then again, they don’t tell me everything. I’m just a grunt.”

  Jesse made an effort not to let the surprise show on his face. The vampire running this show—Scarlett’s Count Asshat—had known Lee Harrison? Or had he just pressed Lee into thinking that? But no, Jesse had a hard time imagining a scenar
io in which the Count just knocked on Lee’s door and magically pressed him. The MC president would be insulated.

  “This guy got a name?”

  “If he does, they never told me.”

  “It was definitely a man, though?”

  Rod nodded, and Jesse felt a little rush of relief. At least Molly hadn’t been betrayed by one of her sisters, on top of everything else. “Which business did he help Lee get into?” Jesse asked. From what Jimmy had told him, the Kings rated pretty low on the crime spectrum these days, but “back in the day” could have been when they were still fairly violent.

  “Whores, man,” Rod said, keeping his voice low. He stirred idly at the ice cream, now just a pool of liquid with a few slimy gummy bears beached at the bottom. “Before my time.”

  Jesse felt excitement climb up his spine. This kept coming back to prostitution. “Street girls? Call girls?”

  “Nah, like, a cathouse. What’s the word?” Rod paused, tilting his head. “Brothel!” he said triumphantly. And a little too loudly. A young white couple with two Yorkshire terriers glanced nervously toward their bench, then hurried along the path. “He was kind of like Lee’s silent partner at the time, but Lee got sick of running girls and decided to film them instead. They must have been friendly about it, because Lee said yes when the guy asked for this favor.”

  “That’s a pretty big favor,” Jesse remarked. “Was the guy paying Lee?”

  Rod shook his head, but then hesitated. “I got the sense—this is just a feeling, you understand—that maybe Lee and this guy are thinking about getting back into business together, here in the Valley. Lee seemed excited, like he does when he’s got something in the works.”

  Jesse felt a chill. Another brothel? No, that might be too big a leap: for all he knew, Count Asshat just wanted to keep paying Lee for muscle. He pushed Rod for more details, but the other man was adamant that he was just speculating. “Anyway,” Rod went on, “who knows where that stands now, since it all went FUBAR today. I knew them guys, Ricky and Santos, and they was both good with a gun. They weren’t expecting that bitch to have a gunslinger with her.”

  Jesse saw no reason to mention that he was, in fact, said gunslinger. “What were they expecting?”

  “Like, a girl in her midtwenties might show up, and they were supposed to scare her. Tie her up and give her to the scary Russian chick. That was it.”

  “Katia?”

  “Yeah.” Rod shook his head mournfully. “Lee is pissed, man. If he ever figures out who shot up his guys, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Jesse thought that over for a moment. “What about the silent partner? Is Lee pissed at him?”

  Rod’s brow furrowed as if the question had never occurred to him. “You know, now that you mention it,” he said slowly, “Lee didn’t seem real upset with him. Ordinarily, a guy gets two of the Kings killed, Lee would have his balls on a pool stick. But he didn’t want to retaliate.”

  “Maybe Lee’s scared,” Jesse suggested, just to see what the other man would do.

  Rod shifted uneasily on the bench. “If that’s true, man . . . God help whoever goes against that guy.”

  Jesse had a few more questions, but before he could ask, Rod jumped in his seat, and Jesse realized the guy’s cell phone was buzzing.

  “Gotta get this. Don’t talk,” Rod said anxiously, answering the phone. “Yeah, it’s me.” The guy glanced down at his cup. “Just getting some ice cream. What’s going on?” He listened for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth to Jesse. “I’m on it.”

  He hung up the phone and shoved it into his knapsack, along with the book. “You don’t want me to sign that?” Jesse asked mildly.

  “No time. Boss has a job like, right now.” Rod stood and slung the knapsack over one shoulder. “Jimmy said this was confidential,” he said nervously.

  Jesse nodded. “Just getting some background.”

  “Right. Look, don’t call me again, okay? Your face is a little too”—he flapped a hand—“out there. If you got another question, go through Jimmy.”

  Without waiting for Jesse’s response, the man turned and hurried away. Jesse counted to twenty and followed him.

  Chapter 26

  When I went back into the house, Eli was in the kitchen, probably sulking. I already knew why: I’d heard him arguing with Will through the open kitchen window. Will had agreed that Eli needed to stay at the cottage and keep an eye on Katia.

  I could have gone in there to talk it out with him, but I just . . . didn’t want to. Neither of us were going to change our minds, and I needed to get ready to go. So I bypassed the kitchen, taking a wide berth around Shadow’s cell, with the recovering boundary witch, and went into the bedroom to change. Most people seriously dressed up for the Trials, my partners included. Think somewhere between a nice cocktail party and the Oscars. It was, however, generally understood that I might need to get dirty or maybe it was just understood that I didn’t much care for dressing up—so I could get away with business casual. I stood in front of the closet for a few minutes, considering, and ended up pulling out a pair of dressy charcoal pants that I could move in and a purple T-shirt. I went outside and grabbed the bulletproof vest from where Jesse had left it leaning against the van door. Back in the bedroom, I put it on over the T-shirt, tightened the Velcro straps, and dug through a drawer until I found the knife belt Eli had bought me for my birthday. He’d gotten it at some kind of science fiction convention where people dressed up in steampunk or whatever, but it was real leather and surprisingly comfortable, as long as I kept it high on my waist so the knives wouldn’t dig into my thighs when I sat down. I had brought the bucket of throwing knives inside with me, too, and after I strapped on the belt I fitted eight small throwing knives into the leather slots.

  On top of that, I pulled on a long-sleeved black top in a soft jersey material. It was tunic-style and very drapey, designed for women to throw on over yoga clothes while they went out for post-workout smoothies. But it was dressy-ish, washed easily, and covered up the knives and vest. I put on a little makeup so it looked like I’d made an effort and twisted my hair up into a ballerina bun. Then I dug into a box at the top of my closet until I found a thick plastic tub, about the size of a shoebox. These were the things I’d inherited from my mother. I didn’t ordinarily wear much jewelry—I had a recurring nightmare where an angry werewolf ripped earrings right out of my lobes—but I picked out a thick, ropelike gold necklace that sat right at the hollow of my throat. It was too short to be much of a liability, unless my attacker was right in my face, and I figured my Taser would dissuade anyone from grabbing at my mother’s necklace.

  I put my Taser and phone in the discreet pocket on one side of the black top, which was probably designed to hold your keys and wallet on your way to yoga, and checked the mirror. My clothes were a little bulky, and I would overheat easily, considering I was wearing five different layers plus a bra. From the outside, though, I looked okay. I put my two best knives into my boot holsters and started for the van with Shadow following just behind me.

  But I halted in the doorway. Any normal dog would probably have bumped into the back of my legs, but Shadow flowed around them in a graceful, snakelike move, lifting her head so she could study my face. I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to Eli . . . but I also didn’t have enough time to get into another fight. Or to spend ten minutes letting him check my vest and my knives to make sure I’d put everything on correctly. “Bye! Love you!” I called over my shoulder, as though I were heading to the drugstore or going for a run. I didn’t wait for him to reply.

  Outside, I spent a few minutes crawling around underneath the van, checking for listening devices—or, God forbid, explosives. This was one of those times when the security training from Hayne came in handy. But there was nothing there. Either Katia and her pal hadn’t thought to track me, or they hadn’t been able to find my van to do it. I wiggled out, brushed off my pants and top, and climbed into the van to head dow
ntown.

  Before I could even turn the key, however, my eyes caught a bright pink item in the footwell of the passenger seat. My hand froze on the ignition. Molly’s backpack. I had completely forgotten about it, and whoever had moved the van for Dashiell hadn’t touched it.

  I reached down and pulled the pack onto the passenger seat. Every vampire I knew kept a “go-bag” handy, a habit left over from the time when it had been a legitimate possibility that villagers might show up with pitchforks and torches. But I’d never actually looked inside one before. The back compartment held a laptop, and I checked that first, but of course it was password protected. I have many skills, but breaking into a MacBook Air isn’t one of them. Abigail might be able to do it, but there wasn’t going to be time tonight, and even if I could convince Dashiell’s security team to let me talk to Molly, I didn’t want to raise too many alarms. We still didn’t know who might be working with the bad guys.

  I unzipped the backpack’s main compartment. The first thing I found was a change of clothes and a pair of shoes. Beneath that, a brick of cash and a passport with Molly’s photo and current ID: Molly Arwen Greene. I dropped those on the seat next to the bag and kept digging. There were a few other items that would give Molly’s name to the police: her school ID, a lease agreement for her basement apartment, and a few receipts. A cosmetics bag with makeup and a small bottle of hair dye. There were also two small but high-quality pocketknives, probably what she used to cut the people she fed from—vampires could feed with their teeth, but the practice had fallen out of favor decades ago, after the police learned to distinguish between human and animal bites. I unfolded the blades and checked them. I didn’t see any blood, but Molly was probably careful enough to clean them, at least to the naked eye.