by Sharon Joss
CHAPTER 22
I walked through the open back door of Mystic Properties; the tension in the room thick as butter. Rhys and Porter seemed to be in the middle of a disagreement, and stopped talking as soon as I entered the room.
“What did I miss?”
“The FBI declined to pursue the demon-as-the-killer theory,” Rhys said. “They’re convinced the correct strategy is to focus their efforts on a human suspect.”
I glared at Porter. “So they’re going after my brother? You’re making a big mistake. And who leaked his name to the newspapers? Lance has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Look, I carry no weight with the taskforce. First of all, I’m here on special assignment.” Porter ticked off the points on his fingers as he spoke. “I’m an outsider. Second, no physical evidence exists which proves an animal made any of the marks found on any of the victims. The only demons in the flesh we can compare bite radii against are much too small. Third, no saliva or other DNA evidence was found which would allow us conclude the marks are bites and not some strange tool which hasn’t been identified yet. And fourth, and I’m sorry to tell you this Mattie, the only people who can see these so-called djinn are a senile old woman and you. Neither one of you ever tested positive for psychic ability, and you both share a family history of mental illness. The taskforce thinks I’m a kook. Gimme a break guys, I shouldn’t believe you either.”
My face burned. “But you do.” I wondered if Oneiri had a big enough bite radius.
Porter glanced at Rhys and then turned to face me. “Only because I trust Rhys. He’s got a nose for this stuff. He tells me you’re related to that crazy old woman.”
“I know I’m not crazy.” Maybe my Mom wasn’t either; she might have been messed up, but I now believed she’d been misdiagnosed. “Rhys and I went down into those caves. I saw thousands of them, and they weren’t locked up like they were supposed to be; and at least two were materialized, named djemons. And I saw signs that someone had been inside.”
“The FBI doesn’t make arrests based on imaginary creatures. We need hard evidence.”
“These things aren’t alive,” Rhys explained. “They don’t have DNA. A demon master must be directing these djemons. It’s happened before. Check the newspapers. Madame Coumlie said it happened in 1930. Find the master, and you’ll have your Night Shark.”
“Yeah, well we’ve gotten a lot of complaints about the old woman being a demon master herself. I’d be willing to believe it, based on her looks alone, but the fact is, I’ve tested her a half-dozen times. The old girl doesn’t show up as anything special on the radar. Maybe you and your brother are related to her, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m more inclined to agree with the profilers who believe the family mental history points to serial killer tendencies, not paranormal ability. From what I hear, the task force has accumulated a stack of evidence against the brother.”
“You don’t even know my brother.”
“Mattie and I are on our way over to Madame Coumlie’s. Why don’t you come with us? I think if she tells us how she rounded up the djinn back then, Mattie and I can do the same thing. She might even be able to shed some light on your killer.”
Rhys was all business now, and I liked being included as part of the team. Sirens sounded in the distance. A fire in the Shore would be dangerous. Streets in Shore Haven were narrow; the wooden cottages had been built close together.
“Lance promised me he’ll turn himself in on Monday. You’ll see, he has nothing to do with these murders. You guys are wrong about him.”
“Are you in contact with him?” Porter asked.
I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.
“I may not be directly involved in the investigation, but things would go better for Lance if he turned himself in sooner. Some guy with a bounty-hunter complex might decide to take justice into his own hands. Who knows what might happen.”
The idea of someone hunting Lance scared me. The approaching sirens drowned out further conversation. We moved to the windows, and two fire trucks raced by. Porter got a page. He checked his phone and started for the front door.
“There’s a three-alarm fire at Madame Coumlie’s over on Empress.”
I hopped into the truck with Rhys and we raced Porter to the scene. Barricades were already in place, preventing us from getting any closer, so Rhys parked the truck and we ran toward the house.
Fire crews had the hoses out, but I saw no sign of smoke or flames. By the time we made our way through the crowd to the perimeter barricade, the engine teams were already standing down and starting to roll the hoses. Someone said false alarm, and I felt relieved, until the paramedics brought out Madame Coumlie on a stretcher.
My great-grandmother, I reminded myself. In spite of my fear of her, my heart squeezed tight at the sight of her tiny form swathed in blankets. Her eyes were closed. Fearfully, I slipped through the barricade and reached her side as they prepared to load her into the ambulance.
“Sorry miss, only family in the ambulance.”
“It’s all right.” I reached under the blanket, found her tiny hand, and squeezed. She squeezed me back; she was aware of everything going on. “I’m family.”
“Are you Mattie?”
The voice came from behind me, and I turned to face a white-haired gentleman in a two thousand dollar suit. By the way he wore his receding hairline, Florida tan, and Botox, I guessed lawyer.
“Gerard Fontaigne.” He handed me his card. Yep. A lawyer.
“If you’re coming with us, you better get in.” The paramedics were waiting. I still had hold of Madame Coumlie’s hand.
“Sorry.” I shoved the card into my pocket and climbed into the back of the ambulance. They let me sit next to her. The doors slammed behind us, and through the rear windows, Rhys and Fontaigne made identical ‘I’ll follow you to the hospital’ gestures.
The medics kept assuring us everything would be fine. They put an oxygen mask over Madame Coumlie’s nose and mouth, and adjusted the airflow.
“We’ll be at the hospital in two shakes. Your Gran’s lungs sound pretty congested. Is she taking any medications?”
“I don’t know.” I realized we were headed to St. Agrippa’s. I shuddered, as I remembered the loose djemons Rhys and I had seen in the basement. The idea of one of those things coming after this tiny woman while she slept horrified me. “Can’t we go someplace else? What about St Lukes?”
“Sorry, there’s been an explosion at the Brewery. Their emergency room is closed. Besides, St. Agrippa’s closer; we’re already here.”
He was right. We were less than a block away from the entrance. I decided to stay with her all night if that’s what it took to keep her safe. I had to. At any rate, with the grip she had on my hand, I doubted I would be able to leave her, even if I wanted to.
“It’s okay, Gran,” I whispered. The word felt unfamiliar but pleasant. “I’m not going to leave you.”
She coughed in acknowledgement, and I cringed at the phlegmy sound. The medics raised the back of the stretcher to make her more comfortable, and we pulled up to the emergency entrance.
“Here we go.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of admission forms as we got my great-grandmother settled. The lawyer, Fontaigne, eased me through the paperwork and surprised me with his efficiency. Gran had no immediate physical concerns, but she had several ongoing health issues, and coupled with her age, the emergency room doctor decided to keep her overnight for observation. They’d given her something to help clear up her lungs, and she was breathing better, but clearly exhausted. The lawyer had insisted on the private room, but knowing what was in the basement, I didn’t want to leave her alone. The nurses told me I could stay as long as I liked.
As she slept, her grip on me loosened, but I didn’t try to take back my hand. Asleep, she appeared so very frail. I wondered what she had been like in her younger days. The tattoos and scars
would have been fresh then, bright and shocking; those odd eyes of hers truly frightening. She reminded me of a child’s withered apple doll, awash in a sea of hospital linen. My heart opened to her vulnerability.
Gently, I opened her hand and studied her dry, leathered palm. I made a mental note to bring her some hand lotion. She had the exact same crescent mark as mine, but hers stood pale against the darkly marked skin. The stain appeared to be old scorch marks stretching halfway to her elbows. I wondered what her life had been like. She probably had amazing stories to tell.
It hit me then. The Hand of Fate was my great-grandmother. Somehow, this scary old witch had become my Gran. I guess love isn’t always where you expect to find it.
“Gran,” I whispered, trying out the sound. I liked the sound of it.
She’d said she had searched for us a long time. Knowing that tugged at my heart. If she’d found us earlier, things would have been different. She would have loved all of us; Mom, Lance, and me. She was part of us, too; part of me. That made her more real to me, somehow. I wanted to connect with her, to know her, to understand her. To make her part of my life.
