Table of Contents
Report 00: The Beginning
Report 01: Death and Explosions
Report 02: Volatile Elements
Report 03: The Missing Employee Jamie's Additional Report 0.2
Report 04: Bad Charms
Report 05: A Dinner with Colleagues
Report 05.5: I'll Be There For You
Report 06: Intention of the Act
Report 07: Unpleasant Business
Report 07.5 No Love Lost
Report 08: The Kingsmen Arrive Jamie's Additional Report 08...ish
Report 09: Destroying Angels
Report 10: Not the Sharpest Egg in the Drawer
Report 11: Where's Alcohol When I Need It?
Report 12: I Despise Epidemics
Report 13: An Anniversary Jamie's Additional Report: FREEEEEEDOM
Report 14: My Mother, the Burglar
Report 15: The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves
Report 16: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back
Report 17: A Broken Heart Bleeds Destruction
Report 18: Gotta Catch 'em All!
Report 19: Loose Ends
Jamie's Notes to Herself:
Report X1: Author's Note
Report X: Author
Published by Raconteur House
Murfreesboro, TN
THE CASE FILES OF HENRI DAVENFORTH: Charms and Death and Explosions (oh my!)
Case File 2
A Raconteur House book/ published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2019 by Honor Raconteur
Cover by Katie Griffin
This book is a work of fiction, so please treat it like a work of fiction. Seriously. References to real people, dead people, good guys, bad guys, stupid politicians, companies, restaurants, cats with attitudes, events, products, dragons, locations, pop culture references, or wacky historical events are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Or because I wanted it in the story. Characters, names, story, location, dialogue, weird humor and strange incidents all come from the author’s very fertile imagination and are not to be construed as real. No, I don’t believe in killing off main characters. Villains are a totally different story.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
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For information address: www.raconteurhouse.com
I had unfortunately reached that state in which I’d utterly stopped paying attention, so I tried to focus. Then found myself focusing so hard on focusing that I still wasn’t paying attention to Seaton’s musings.
“—should work, don’t you think?” Seaton finished thoughtfully, his finger tracing some spell design in the book on his lap. Unfortunately, he had the book tilted just so, and it blocked me from being able to glance down and actually discern what he might be discussing.
Fortunately, I had a catch phrase to use for situations like this. “Seaton. I’m not sure if I can agree.”
Sighing, he pushed the book off his lap, letting it thump to his desk. “Yes, well, I must admit the math didn’t total out as it should have done. I just hoped you’d see something I hadn’t.”
“Afraid I didn’t, old chap,” I responded noncommittally. There, see? It hadn’t been necessary for me to pay attention anyway. Even he didn’t think it was a good idea, whatever the idea had been.
Normally I’d feel bad about wool gathering, but Seaton and I had been closeted away in this office for nearly six hours, and that was after my shift had ended. I was tired, famished, and wanted nothing more than a hearty snack and the softness of my bed. We’d normally not meet like this on a work day, but both of our schedules had been so heinous in the past month that we’d not met up as promised, and we’d forcefully made time for it today.
Not that it had done much good in the end. We still had no answer on how to incorporate any healing spells, revival spells, or anything of that ilk into Jamie’s system. And despite the fact that two registered geniuses had bent their considerable intellect unto the problem, we still hadn’t found a permanent way to sort out Jamie’s fluctuating magical core either. Belladonna’s madness was not just that—it had been ingenious and crafty as well. I had faith we’d find some means around it, but the solution would not come quickly or easily.
The mantel clock chimed the eleventh hour and I grimaced. Just as well I had the weekend stretching ahead of me. I’d dearly like to have a sleep-in tomorrow. “Seaton. Our eyes are crossing and our minds fatigued. We’ll make no more progress tonight.”
“We barely made any progress,” Seaton growled, vexed. Then he wearily lifted a hand in either acknowledgement or apology. Perhaps both. “I do like your thought of mixing potion ingredients without magic influence. If nothing else, putting the correct healing mixture of herbs into her system will help—even if her own magical defenses don’t use them as a healing potion.”
“We’ll need to test the theory, of course, but I strongly believe that Belladonna was not stupid. Mad as a hatter, perhaps, but not without cunning. If she’d so safeguarded Jamie against every possible attack, but left her open to nature? There had to be a reason for it. I can only theorize that she has a signal lying dormant in Jamie’s system that can turn potion ingredients into an active potion when properly introduced.” I shrugged, as I had hypothesized the theory but didn’t have complete faith in it.
“We’ll ask Jamie to do something harmless, perhaps some peppermint leaves, to see how her body reacts.” Seaton shifted forward, as if to rise, then paused. “Davenforth. There is one more thing I want you to be aware of.”
Wearily, I asked, “Now what?”
“The anniversary is coming up.”
Anniversary? What in the devil could he—oh. Struck with sudden understanding, I glanced to the hanging wall calendar behind his desk, checking the date. I didn’t know the exact day that Jamie had fought her way out of Belladonna’s cave, only the date the newspapers reported it, the day we all celebrated the mad witch’s demise. I was not sure if I’d ever heard the exact date.
That point was not important at this moment. What Seaton meant was something else entirely—how this anniversary would affect Jamie. People track and acknowledge anniversaries for a reason. They have an emotional impact on us, for good or ill. We celebrate or mourn them, depending on their significance. In this case, I didn’t know which way my friend’s emotions would fall. Would she mourn her lost world? Would she celebrate her survival?
“I don’t anticipate she’ll take this well,” Seaton continued, his words delivered in a weary and sad rasp. “The events of those months still haunt her dreams. I’m afraid that with the reminder of it—because you know well the paper will run an anniversary article at the least—she’ll suffer for it.”
Grimly, I nodded, as I agreed with him. I feared something else, too. Jamie’s likeness would also be printed in the paper, the savior that killed the witch. People would celebrate, would likely thank her, but no matter how good their intentions, they would draw attention to her. Jamie already noticeably stood out from the rest of us—she didn’t look like anyone else on this planet. Her skin was noticeably a different shade, a duskier golden tone that didn’t exist in this world, her stature and bone structure noticeably slimmer and more angled, just different enough to set her apart. People already looked at her askance, wondering where she came from. With this visible reminder, they wouldn’t just wonder—they’d know.
“
Jamie hates spectacles,” I groaned.
“That she does. And while most of it, I think, will be positive, some of it won’t. There will always be those who will fear her, and what people fear, they scorn. Just…keep an eye on her, Henri. Kingston will not be a comfortable place for her in the next month or so.”
Whether I could be of any assistance, I did not know. But I’d certainly try to be a support to her. “I’ll do my best.”
“And keep me updated, won’t you?” Seaton requested—well, it was more of a demand really.
“Same to you.”
Sweat dotted along my forehead as I stood outside on the sidewalk. The oppressiveness could have been due to the early summer weather but I blamed the crime scene as the source. Heat radiated from the area, clinging along the pavement and brick walls. Quite the crowd had gathered around us on all sides, most of them fairly alarmed by the wreckage, and they murmured about it to their neighbors.
I must admit, I well understood their morbid fascination.
Gerring stood nearby with a hand covering his mouth and a green cast to his skin, which was no mean feat for the dark-skinned Svartalfár. His elongated ears lay flat against his head in silent dismay. Or perhaps it was the smell that bothered him. I certainly found it offensive. No human should smell as if they had been turned into crispy bacon. The churning of my stomach made me suddenly grateful I had not had anything pork for breakfast.
As a Magical Examiner, I often found myself called to disturbing scenes, and after so many years on the police force, I had thought myself largely immune to things of this ilk. Humanity, however, seemed quite enthralled with discovering ever more creative methods of killing each other off. This method, specifically, I had never seen before.
I hoped not to ever see it again, for that matter. I’d paused on top of the wagon, using the superior vantage point for an overall bird’s eye view. The grimness of the scene was stomach-turning, and I wished for a peppermint or candied ginger to settle my stomach before wading into that black patch of scorched earth and death. Alas, I had nothing of that sort on me. Resigned, I gathered up my black bag and descended lightly to the ground. Clutching it with a white-knuckled grip, I strode grimly toward the epicenter of the blast, my eyes searching for my colleague. With a body on scene (what was left of the poor sod) there had to be a coroner. Ah, as expected. “Weber!”
Weber poked his head up above the ruined top of the car, blinking behind his thick glasses. Smoot already smudged his milk chocolate skin, turning his coloring into something that resembled a char boy’s. “Davenforth, excellent. Do come and help me make sense of this. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I stepped very gingerly around the charred remains of the car—what seemed to be the latest model with its red paint job—taking it in as I moved around the rear bumper. It looked as if someone had put an explosive element inside the interior and then blown it up, killing, of course, the poor driver. If I hadn’t known the model of the car, I wouldn’t have been able to put a name to it, the frame of it twisted past all recognition. The hood remained intact, somehow, but warped, as if a giant had driven a fist upwards into it. The doors were both twisted open, barely hanging on their hinges, and scarcely anything was left of the engine block. All the windows had been blown out, the tires half-melted against the cement. I found it amazing that nothing large had come away from the frame, but although debris lay scattered about, nothing was larger than my forearm. It was incredibly tidy, all things considered.
This close, the scent of well-done bacon and scorched metal turned even more overpowering, and I started breathing through my mouth to ward off nausea. There was a very good reason why I had not sought any degree in the medical line. “Morning, Weber. What do we have?”
Making a face, Weber responded, “An utter mess, that’s what. I’d say it in stronger terms if there wasn’t a reporter dead behind me.”
The reporter in question snorted amusement and got off another shot with his camera. He’d stayed behind the police line, but the distance was a bare ten feet, so he could both clearly hear us and get a good shot for his article without strain.
I shot the man a quelling look, not that it did much good, and focused on Weber again. “The…that is a man, correct?”
“Correct,” Weber confirmed, rattling off, “Human male, possibly thirty or forty, and according to the little paperwork that survived the blast, I believe he was the owner of the business right in this building.”
I glanced up at the sign, now marred with flames and smoke, but readable despite that: Charm-A-Way. “A charm company? Is that why I was called out here?”
“He’s at least some sort of magician,” Weber answered with a blasé shrug. “That, and this exploding car beats me. It’s not my line.”
Weber was young for his profession, only two years out of school, and the newest coroner to join us at Fourth Precinct. In the two weeks he’d been with us, however, I’d found him to be intelligent and competent. I didn’t question his findings like I did with some of my other colleagues. “Indeed not. Anything else you can tell me?”
“Explosion point was likely the engine,” he reported, pointing a pencil illustratively in the right direction. “I say that because of the way it impacted the body. The steering wheel, some of the engine parts, and the glass all shot out at an angle and upwards. The man didn’t die instantly; it took him a few minutes, and it was internal damage that did him in. That, more than blood loss, as the heat and fire of the explosion seared all of the wounds.”
A ghastly way to go. The remains of the body in the front seat looked like a prop from one of those third-rate haunted houses—nothing but a burned-up husk with trace amounts of blood and oozing wounds. I shuddered in sympathy for the poor victim. “A horrendous way to kill someone.”
“I quite agree.” Weber sighed, taking a step back, allowing me more room to observe with. “Not much else I can tell you until I cut him open. I might not find anything else to contribute, actually. The explosion would do a good job at destroying evidence.”
“Unfortunately true. This I can say, however: It wasn’t magically done.” I let my eyes rove over the car from front to back. Magic has its own aura, a presence of light and shades of color, like a visible spectrum. The intensity of the light and saturation of the colors could tell any magician worth their salt a great deal about the potency of the charm, hex, or spell itself. I saw no trace of magic anywhere about the engine but a faint residue of white light swirled up visibly from the back seat. Charms, no doubt—the cheap versions people liked to buy and paste onto their walls to ward off sickness, fire, and things of that ilk. From the nature of the aura, I judged this to be an anti-sickness charm. “The only magic I see is from the mangled briefcase in the back seat.”
Weber blinked at me, brown eyes wide behind his glasses. “You don’t say. Well, I didn’t expect that. What else could cause an explosion like this?”
Lips pursed, I didn’t answer him, as I had no answer to give. Even though this was not in my line of expertise either, I had the notion it would fall on me to solve the mystery regardless. Especially since the victim was a magician. A niggling memory teased the back of my mind, and I focused for a moment on it rather than the sight in front of me. This type of explosion wasn’t familiar to me, but I’d heard about it somewhat recently. Where…?
The memory came back to me all at once. Jamie and I had been lingering over an excellent meal of something she called lasagna, trading stories about the craziest cases we’d investigated. She’d mentioned something about a car bomb. I stared at the car in front of me with new eyes, matching up her description with what I observed. There were too many similarities to dismiss it.
Taking out my ‘texting pad’ as Jamie called it, I scribbled a note: Jamie. Are you free?
Almost a month ago, Ellie Warner, the inventor of the texting pad, had come up with a breakthrough of sorts. She’d devised a magical battery to attach to the back of the pad, serving as a so
urce of energy. Unfortunately, the battery only lasted a week at a time, but still, it allowed normal citizens to use the device, and Jamie adored it. She always had it on hand, usually in a pocket, and it had proven the best means to reach her. I kept it charged religiously for that reason.
I am, why? she scrawled back.
For her sake, I used simple words, as she was still learning Velars. Although, all of the texting was improving her vocabulary by leaps and bounds. I need you. Corner of Maple and King Street.
Coming.
Weber leaned his head over my shoulder to peer owlishly at the texting pad. “I say, isn’t that the instant communication device that Ellie Warner designed?”
“Indeed. Detective Edwards and I are two of the field testers.” I tilted the screen so he could get a better look at it. “Guildmaster Warner is still tweaking the design so that normal citizens can use it, but currently a non-magical person can operate it for a week before it must be magically charged again.”
“That is brilliant. And convenient. If she needs another person to field test, let me know,” Weber volunteered eagerly.
Almost everyone who saw it said the same thing, so I gave him an indulgent smile. “Of course.”
“But, if you don’t mind my asking, why call for Detective Edwards? I know that she’s your partner, but this isn’t exactly your case, is it? Detective Berghetta is over this area.”
It was a valid question, so I lowered my voice to explain, as I didn’t want the reporters gathered behind the crime scene rope to overhear. “I believe she’s seen something like this before.”
Weber blinked at me. “Has she? Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll stick around a little longer and see what she has to say. Might help me figure things out later during my own examination.”
I saw no issue with that and learning on the job was something a smart man did. “Not at all. Help me keep everyone back while I take a recording of the scene, will you? That way she can move things as she likes when she arrives.”
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