Barbed Wire Heart

by Alexes Razevich

  I took a breath, held it a moment and let it out.

  “I think that your John Broadhurst, the missing Aunt Mich, and Sudie’s murder are all tied together.”

  He took that in. I had his full attention now. “Logic, or special knowledge?”

  “Psychic knowledge.” I said. “I have no real proof or even a logical chain to connect them, but I know the three are related somehow. I feel it too strongly for it not to be true.”

  He thought about that, but said, “What did you go to see Sudie about?”

  Someone is stalking me, and I wanted a strong personal protection spell. Dee was the kind of man who felt it was his job to protect those he cared about. I was the kind of woman who didn’t like people hovering.

  There was no getting around it, though. Tyron had already told him I’d called the office and yelled about the box I’d thought D&P had sent me. He knew I’d asked Maurice for information and advice. Might as well go all in. I told him about the two silver boxes, that someone was taking a weird interest in me and knew where I lived, and that I’d gone to Sudie for a personal protection spell.

  I didn’t tell him that my name was written in blood next to Sudie’s body. I shuddered even thinking about that.

  Dee listened the way he always did, leaning forward, his hands tucked between his knees, his eyes on my face.

  “Why me?” I said, honestly perplexed. “First the klim wanted me dead because my grandparents had banished it to the Brume. Now someone has tracked me to my house and sent the charmed silver box so that I know he knows where I live. I don’t like it.”

  Dee blew out a breath. “You do seem to attract the weirdoes.”

  “Weirdoes?” I repeated.

  “Yep.”

  I tsked my tongue and then laughed under my breath. Dee was good at lightening my dark moods.

  “But what are we going to do about it?” I said.

  He was quiet another long moment, thinking. I wanted to pop into his head and see what thoughts were rumbling around in there, but I’d promised him privacy and was keeping my word—mostly. I didn’t think he understood how much faster we could decide things and get things done if he’d let me listen to his thought process.

  Not that it would have made a difference this time, since he said, “We need to talk to The Gate. Lay this all out and see what he has to say.”

  10

  The Gate had been Dee’s mentor when he’d left home and come to Hermosa Beach. A handsome man who looked to be in his early sixties, The Gate probably had a regular name on a birth certificate, but no one seemed to know what it was. His apprentice, Gil, ran Merlin Tattoo further down Hermosa Ave. Anyone could get a tattoo there, but for the ‘special’ kind, the ones with magic in the ink, a person had to pass The Gate first. He could be quite intimidating even while being friendly. At least he intimidated me.

  The Gate and a tall, pale woman with shoulder-length white-blonde hair were walking on the sidewalk heading toward Pier Avenue when we pulled up.

  “This is lucky,” Dee said half under his breath.

  He’d done his traffic trick and a girl barely old enough to drive hurried out of a clothing shop, jumped into her car, and vacated a parking spot directly in front of where The Gate and the woman were.

  I’d seen him do this trick dozens of times but this was the first instance where I wondered if Dee actually controlled the other person’s actions—had he looked at the car, magically found the person who was driving it and somehow made her come out and leave so we could have her spot—which was scary to contemplate—or did he send out a more general sort of spell that anyone around could respond to? If he controlled these miscellaneous strangers, manipulated their free will, how would I ever know if what I thought or felt around and about him was of my own volition? It was a question that needed an answer, but not now. Not with so much else of immediate concern.

  Dee pulled his car into the spot and powered down the window on the rider’s side.

  The Gate saw us and grinned. He walked the few steps over and leaned into the open window on my side. I could feel the magic that surrounded him like a frizz of electricity on my skin.

  “Are you looking for me?” he said. “I certainly hope so.”

  Why? Was it a general sort of ‘nice to see friends’ thing, or did he know something?

  Dee stretched toward him, leaning on the center armrest.

  “I wondered if you could do a divination for us, Sir?”

  The Gate’s smile widened. He hoped Dee and I were planning a long-term future together and wanted a divination for that. I kind of loved The Gate for a moment.

  “Well,” Dee said, “for Oona, really.”

  The Gate’s smile faded. His hope was replaced with worry that I felt as a small, sharp pain in my tensing shoulders.

  “Of course,” he said. “Perhaps at Oona’s house?”

  Dee glanced at me. He knew I disliked having strangers in my house. I’d met The Gate, but I didn’t know the woman at all. Still, I nodded that my house was fine.

  Dee shifted his gaze past The Gate to his companion. “If Bridget wanted to help—”

  The woman inclined her head.

  Dee straightened up and popped the car locks open. The Gate and Bridget got into the back seat and we pulled away.

  Since Dee had given me some of his magic, I’d become a better housekeeper. I’d suspected that the reason he was such a neat-freak was in response to the roiling energy of the magic inside him. Now that more magic flowed through me, I understood the need to control your outer life when your inner life was so energetic. Which meant that as I unlocked the front door and ushered in my guests, I didn’t give more than a moment’s thought to the state of my house. Neat, clean, and tidy.

  “Can I offer you anything,” I said as I lead them into the parlor. “Coffee? Tea? Water? Beer?”

  “Do you have loose-leaf tea?” Bridget said, speaking for the first time. Her voice was a rolling contralto, each word almost sung rather than spoken.

  “I do,” I said.

  Bridget nodded. “If you would brew a pot and leave the leaves in the water, please.”

  Both Dee and The Gate has shaken their heads, indicating that they didn’t want anything.

  I went to the kitchen and plugged in the electric kettle. When the water was hot, I poured it over loose-leaf green tea in a white porcelain teapot with a dance of violets around the pot’s middle. The teapot had been my great-great grandmother’s and I rarely had occasion to use it. It seemed right to use it now.

  I poured the tea through a strainer into the only remaining teacup from the original eight-piece set and put the cup and its matching saucer on a bamboo tray. I tapped the leaves in the strainer back into the pot. I didn’t know how she took her tea, so I added a small sugar bowl, honey pot, a tiny porcelain pitcher of milk, a small sterling silver spoon, and a linen napkin to the tray—all of them family items from down through the years—and carried it back to the parlor.

  “I’ve explained to The Gate and Bridget about the silver boxes and that you’re worried someone is stalking you,” Dee said as I set the tea tray down in front of Bridget on the coffee table. “I’ve told them about the murdered John Broadhurst and the missing Aunt Mich. And that you think Sudie’s death might be tied into it all.”

  “I was very sorry to hear about Sudie,” Bridget said, lifting the teacup. “We’d been friends for a long time. I’m happy to do anything I can to help find her killer.”

  She drank a bit of tea and set the cup down.

  “The leaves are still in the teapot?” she said, patting her lips with the linen napkin.

  I nodded.

  “Would you drain out the water, please, and bring me the pot?”

  I went back to the kitchen and did as she’d asked.

  I’d thought she’d turn the leaves out onto the teacup’s plate, but when I brought her the pot she removed the lid and peered inside.

  She turned her gaze to The Gate. �
��Shall we divine in tandem?”

  The Gate stood and pulled a small brown cloth bag from his pocket. I wondered if he carried it on his person all the time or if he’d conjured the bag and whatever was in it for this occasion. He opened the bag and poured maybe a couple dozen small metal stars of various colors into his hand. He looked at Bridget, nodded, and let the stars fall from his hand onto the coffee table. At the same moment, Bridget turned the pot over, spilling the leaves onto the saucer.

  She gasped low and turned her eyes to The Gate. He’d been peering at the pattern of colors the fallen stars had made, the way the greens, blues, purples, yellows, and silvers flowed like colors in an oil slick. He looked up, frowned at Bridget, and nodded.

  “Lock your doors tight and set your wards high,” Bridget said to me. “A messenger is coming but do not let it in.”

  That was creepy. A thrill of nerves ran up my breastbone. Dee laid a protective hand on my leg.

  “Does the messenger bring an important message?”

  Bridget nodded. “Oh, yes.

  I licked my dry lips. “So, the message is something I should pay attention to?”

  She peered again at the leaves. “How you react will determine your future and the outcome of this matter.”

  Oh, great. Nothing like an enigmatic answer. This divination seemed very Oracle of Delphi, with pronouncements that would be right no matter what happened. And yet—

  “When is the messenger coming?”

  The Gate gently swirled his fingers through the fallen stars. Some stars turned over, displaying different colors now within the overall pattern they formed.

  “Soon,” he said, then looked up at me. “Before tomorrow.”

  It was 3:30 now. Eight and a half hours to worry and fret through until midnight brought a new day.

  I already knew that Dee was going north to a wedding and we wouldn’t be staying together tonight. I’d rather I wasn’t alone when this messenger arrived.

  I huffed out a breath, annoyed with the thought. How many times had I insisted I could take care of myself? Besides, all I had to do was not let the messenger into my house. The wards here were strong. If I didn’t open the door, nothing could get inside.

  The Gate and Bridget stood, evidently deciding their work was done and it was time to go.

  As we were walking toward the door, Bridget grabbed my arm as if a new realization had struck her.

  “The messenger brings a lesson,” she said. “Trust it. Learn it well.”

  Yeah, that was vague.

  “What kind of lesson?” I said.

  “You will have to determine that yourself.”

  I would have rolled my eyes if I hadn’t been raised to show my guests courtesy.

  Dee had walked with me to the door to see them out.

  “I can stay tonight, if you want,” he said, after they’d left.

  “What about your sister? The wedding?”

  He shrugged as if his already made plans were of no matter. “It’s not until tomorrow afternoon. I can fly up in the morning instead. And you’re still welcome to come.”

  He wanted me to attend the wedding with him and meet his family, but I wasn’t ready for that yet. My family lived only a few miles away and I hadn’t even told them I was seeing anyone. Only my two best women friends knew about me and Dee. I was private like that. And, wards or not, I wasn’t going to leave my house on the night when it seemed important that no strangers get inside.

  I shot him a look that held all the fear, frustration, and annoyance in me. “You need to learn to trust me, Dee. I can keep my door shut all by myself.”

  He gave a quick, low sigh. “I know you can take care of yourself.”

  “I can. It’s your sister’s wedding. Think how terrible I would feel if you gave that up just to make sure I don’t open my front door and invite in some goblin or whatever.”

  I slipped my arms around his waist and pulled him tight to me. He felt good. Solid.

  “Oona the fearless,” he whispered in my ear. “Oona the capable.”

  “That’s right, Mister,” I said softly. “But I’ll miss you terribly anyway.”

  “Good,” he said and kissed my forehead. “But I’m still willing to stay.”

  I backed off arm’s length. “Not necessary. But tell me about Bridget. Who is she? What is she?”

  “A sea witch,” he said. “A far-seer and an old companion of The Gate’s. Like you, she draws her power from the ocean. It was lucky for us that she was with Gate today. He’s good at divination, but she is a master. With their powers combined—listen hard to what she said. Don’t take it lightly.”

  “It was mostly gobbledygook,” I said. “Don’t let the messenger in but how I react to the message determines the final outcome of some unnamed matter. Unless the message and the lesson help us find who killed Sudie and John Broadhurst or where Aunt Mich is, it’s just hooha.”

  “I don’t know if the divination will help us or not,” he said. “But I suspect that by tomorrow, you will.”

  11

  I’d taken Dee to the airport and dropped him off for his 10 p.m. flight. I hated driving into LAX and he knew it. He’d said he’d take Lyft, but I was feeling a bit guilty about not going to the wedding and had insisted on driving him.

  The airport had been as crowded and miserable as ever. I breathed a sigh of tired relief when I finally got back home—except that something weird was going on with my house. I held my breath, listening. The house had been creaking for the last five minutes or so. Maybe longer. I’d been in the shower. I might not have heard.

  It’s an old wooden house. It often creaked at night, but not nearly steadily like this. The sound was different, too—less like wood stretching and shrinking and more like a large sheet of ice cracking. I reached out to feel for anyone close by. There were people on the Strand, of course. Even this late, almost one a.m. folks were out strolling bundled up on this cool April night or heading home from the bars. I felt someone’s attention focused on the house, on me.

  The messenger.

  I pulled my robe close around me and walked slowly down the hallway toward the front door, listening. Feeling. Reminding myself all I had to do was not let the messenger in the house. Simple.

  Something small but heavy thudded against the front door, and I jumped. My heart hammered like stampeding horses.

  The ice cracking sound changed to something more like the rattle of heavy rain, but my windows were dry.

  Don’t let the messenger into your house.

  The ice cracking sound stopped.

  I stood for a long moment, listening to hear if the sound started again. Minutes passed. My racing heartbeat didn’t slow. The prickle between my shoulder blades that said someone had their attention on me didn’t lessen.

  I wanted—needed—to see what had hit my front door.

  Dee had set the wards on my house so no one and nothing could cross my threshold without invitation. Even if whatever was out there looked like Dee himself, they weren’t going to be invited inside.

  I eased the door open until it was cracked just enough to see out.

  A large dead crow lay on the porch, its neck broken, and its wings splayed out. Black feathers and smears of red blood lay all over the recently painted white wood. My stomach lurched.

  Adrenaline pumping in my blood, I felt around for the wards. They had held. There were a few cracks, but they hadn’t failed. Even now the wards were busy mending the tiny cracks and weaving a new layer over the old. If they hadn’t held, the crow now dead on my porch might have broken through the milk glass window on the door.

  Was the crow the messenger? If it were, it wouldn’t be delivering any sage words from that crushed beak.

  I looked down at the dead thing and sighed. I couldn’t leave it there. It would creep me out all night to know it was lying on my porch, but I wasn’t in any hurry to step outside.

  I’d need to fetch the broom and dustpan and clean up this bloody mess.
The crow was dead, but I felt uneasy about turning my back on it. A spell that let me call the tools to me would be nice. Too bad I didn’t know one. Or having telekinesis in my bag of tricks. That would be useful. Just send a thought and the broom would come to me.

  A noise in the kitchen startled me—a creak of hinges. I pulled my arms close to my body, my hands balled into fists, and slowly turned to look down the hall toward the kitchen, then focused again on the crow. Something was in the house. In the kitchen. A dead crow lay on the porch. I stood frozen between them, my heart pounding.

  Something hit my back.

  I spun, ready to fight.

  The broom lay at my feet.

  The dustpan followed, flying a few feet off the ground, headed straight toward me at a fast clip. I jumped sideways, and it missed me, landing on the porch just shy of the dead crow.

  I stood, staring at the implements. Whoever had sent the crow hadn’t sent the broom and dustpan, I was sure of that.

  I’d called them to me.

  A power I didn’t have but now somehow did—and it scared me.

  Still inside the doorway, I bent my knees, my eyes back on the crow, and stooped to pick up the broom.

  The crow’s eyes flew open.

  “Do not pursue this hunt, Oona Goodlight,” the bird said, its voice little different from a caw. “You are warned.”

  Its beak and eyes snapped shut.

  My heart flipped in my chest. The crow was as dead as dead could be and had been since it smashed into my door. I was sure of that. I was just as sure it had spoken to me—and delivered its message.

  It was barely dawn when Dee showed up bearing coffee and yogurt cups.

  “You didn’t go to Palo Alto?” I said.

  He shrugged. “I tried. The flight was cancelled. Fog. I’m booked on a flight this afternoon. It’ll be tight, but I should make it in time for the wedding.”

  I’d hardly slept, but in the light of day, thin as it was this early, and with him under my roof, the tension and fear that had agitated me through the night slowly began to drop away.