A Little Street Magic (2 page)

“Makes two of us.”

“It was weird you could see the ancestors, not being a shifter. Now it’s beyond weird that one has set up shop in you. And not just any ancestor, but her.”

I moved around enough to look at him. “My life has been weird from the second the Melding began. As weird goes, this is on the ‘Cool Weird’ list.”

“The ‘Cool Weird’ list?”

“Yeah, it’s the list of stuff that’s not trying to kill me.”

He laughed. “What’s the other list?”

“It’s the ‘Not Cool Weird’ list.” I shrugged. “I’m not always original when it comes to naming lists.”

“I think it does the job. We’re almost there.” Logan hesitated. “Do you feel different?”

“I don’t think so. She’s been in me for nearly a month now. Didn’t know she was there for sure, until tonight. It did feel strange when she moved.”

“She moved?”

We could see the flashing red and blue lights now. “Tell you about it after we’re done here, if you want coffee later?”

“Sure.” He frowned. “There’s a crowd.”

“Ugh.”

I
’d never figured out why crowds gathered at crime scenes. Especially one on a late Sunday evening, on a street of business buildings, all of which had been closed for hours, if not all day.

Yet there were a few dozen gawkers crowded around the three strips of yellow crime scene tape stretching out from a shop front. Pettigrew’s Curiosity Shoppe, read the sign over the door in a decorative, old-fashioned script.

The three uniformed officers watching the line weren’t there just to make certain no one crossed. They were also studying faces, because some criminals got a kick out of sticking around the scenes of their crime.

A few feet from the crowd of onlookers, I stopped. Logan checked his next step, head turning and one eyebrow rising. “What?”

I kept my voice low. “I’m going to eavesdrop.”

He nodded and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The air was chilly enough that I wished I’d thought to bring my gloves. Since I hadn’t, I followed suit and found a peppermint in one pocket of my dark blue pea coat. Then I closed my eyes.

My telepathic ability was one of those that was always on. I’d first learned to mute the noise of other people’s thoughts to a dull, tolerable buzz in the back of my mind. Thanks to a suggestion from my fairy godfather, Sal—who was actually a real god—I’d recently learned to quiet the buzz even more. I’d built a maze in my mind, and had given each ability I was aware of its own room.

Since it was my maze, I could take the straight route to open those imaginary doors, but I was beginning to practice visualizing the process. Some of my abilities were pretty scary, so it was my way of increasing my control over them. Once I opened the door, I could hear whispers. I allowed them to grow stronger.

Poor old man. He was so nice.

Wonder if the building will be up for sale soon?

I scowled at the back of the blonde head that thought had come out of. “And they say women are the gentler sex.”

“What?” Logan edged closer.

“Nothing important.” I went back to listening. Yup, people were awful. Most of them wanted to see a little gore to liven up their dull lives. They wanted to be able to tell others “I was there. I saw it.”

If that’s what they wanted, they should spend time in the Barrows before the vampire carnival closed down.

None of them were thinking guilty thoughts, or satisfied, murderous ones. I sighed and visualized closing the door to my telepathy’s room. “It was worth a shot. Let’s go.”

We excused ourselves through the crowd until we were at the yellow tape. I dug out my license for the cop. “Discord Jones. Detective Herde called me in.”

“Yeah. Who’s he?”

Logan produced his wallet, showing his license. I introduced him. “Logan Sayer, one of my partners.”

“He didn’t mention two were coming. Hang on.” The cop used his phone to send a text, instead of the mic attached to his uniformed shoulder.

“I could’ve done that.”

He shrugged. “Beat you to it.”

We put our licenses away. A man a few feet down the line was staring at me. Too intently for my comfort, but all the other gawkers were curious about us as well. A ding signaled the reply on the cop’s cell.

“Okay, you’re both cleared to enter. Someone will meet you just inside the door.”

“Thanks.” I ducked under the tape as he lifted it, and hurried across the sidewalk to the shop’s door with Logan a step behind. A bell hanging on the door announced our arrival, and as it shut, Schumacher shoved a box of rubber gloves under my nose.

“Put these on. Got some cute little booties to go over your shoes too.”

“Oh, I’ve been fine,” I said, picking out two gloves.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, same here. Wish we weren’t always meeting at places like this though.”

I began pulling the gloves on. “That bad?”

“Did you bring a barf bag?” He put the box on a shelf after Logan took a pair. “You’re going to need it.”

“No.” The last bit of my rubbery, warm relaxation tucked tail and crawled away whimpering. I looked around, noting the shelves seemed to hold junk, not anything curious. “Man, and it’s been such a great day.”

“Welcome to my life.” Schumacher grunted, holding out another box. “Booties, kids. It was a back entry job, so no one goes behind the counter without them.”

I checked the aisle we were on, and saw the waist-high swinging door blocking the break between two glass-fronted counters at its end. About five feet past it, a black curtain hung inside the framed edges of a doorway. “Why did I answer my phone?”

“You’re an idiot?” Schumacher finally cracked a weary grin. “I answered mine too.”

“I’m about to add to my nightmare collection, aren’t I?”

Logan said, “I’ll sit up with you, if you can’t sleep tonight.”

“Remember you said that.” Shoe coverings in hand, I trudged down the aisle, hoping I didn’t end up vomiting on something important.

“There’s a wastebasket with a clean liner right behind the counter. It’s on the left. I even threw in some paper towels for you,” Schumacher said.

“You’re too good to me.”

“Only the best for my favorite societal menace.”

He wasn’t following us. I stopped and looked back. “You’re not coming?”

“Up close and personal once was enough for me, thanks. I’ll be sticking to the photos.” The burly detective waved us on. “Don’t forget your vomit bucket.”

Turning around, I hesitated, so not wanting to walk through the curtained doorway. But since I kind of had to, in order to be of assistance, I started walking again. Logan followed suit, and we paused to put the shoe coverings on before going through the swinging door.

He grabbed the wastebasket and handed it to me. “Here you go.”

“Water?”

He pulled the bottle from inside his jacket. “Got it.”

This close, even with the curtain, I could smell the tang of blood in the rather musty air. I flipped my hair over my shoulders and hugged the little wastebasket to my chest. “Here we go.”

Logan nodded and pulled the curtain aside. Two men standing directly beyond it stepped apart and turned to look at us.

I saw the thing dangling at the end of the rope, felt my forehead wrinkle for puzzled second, and then realized the thing had once been a human.

Chunk blowing promptly followed.

“B
etter?” Logan finished wiping my face. I was sitting on the floor behind the counters, after coming close to passing out from the violence of my vomiting.

“Not really.” My face was burning with embarrassment, thanks to being laughed at by the newest member of the detective division, one Frank Dodson.

Dodson was seven feet tall and solid as a mountain, with pale blue eyes and light brown hair cut in a close buzz. No one looks good throwing up, but none of Santo Trueno’s finest had ever laughed at my weak stomach before.

Damian had come damn close to punching the much larger man before Schumacher had intervened and said something that shut down Dodson’s roaring hilarity.

“Want some water?” Logan offered the open bottle. I couldn’t even meet his eyes, though he’d spent a good ten minutes wiping away pressure induced tears and streamers of drooling vomit.

Accepting the bottle, I took a mouthful to swish around, and winced at the tiny leftovers it loosened. I spat the water out, wiped my mouth with a paper towel, and swallowed a much smaller sip. My throat burned, and my entire torso hurt. The stink of puke was plastered in my nasal passages. At least, I hoped it was just the smell.

It had been that kind of pukefest.

“Cordi.”

I forced myself to look up and meet Damian’s eyes. My warlock friend smiled. “Can you try again?”

“Considering the volcano of vomit she spewed, she should be dry for a year.” Dodson snorted. He sounded like a horse. “Thought she was supposed to be a badass.”

Damian’s smile disappeared, and he aimed a narrow-eyed glare upward, being a foot shorter than Dodson. “You’re going to step back now.”

“Or what?”

“Or I call Stannett and tell him the new guy’s a jerkoff,” Schumacher said from behind the counter I was sitting against. “Then again, Jones could complain. It’s not like that was professional behavior, Detective.”

I could do that? Hm. I took another sip of water, letting its coolness soothe my throat.

Dodson lumbered out of the counter area, muttering “Bunch of losers” as he went.

“Maybe we should think of creating a chart,” Logan said. “Because that is not what I’d call ‘messy’ in there.”

“Hey, I tried to warn her. Did you really say ‘messy’?” Schumacher asked.

Damian grimaced, but didn’t get the chance to reply because Dodson broke in. “Do you people do any actual work? Or do you sit around scenes, playing nurse to the delicate little psychic?”

Logan stood up, looking over the counter. “She doesn’t like seeing the aftermath of people being killed. That’s not delicate, it’s human.”

“You didn’t spew your dinner everywhere.”

“I’m not human.”

Dodson sniffed. “So seeing a torn apart body doesn’t bother you?”

“It bothers me. Doesn’t seem to bother you much though. You laughed.” Logan’s voice had developed that soft, scary tone.

Which meant the testosterone level was rising too fast for comfort. I quickly climbed to my feet before Dodson could reply, and said, “I’m ready to take another look.”

All four men looked at me, and disappointment flashed across Damian’s face. Suspicious, I ‘pathed him,
Do you want Logan to beat him up?

Well...kind of.

And get arrested for assaulting an officer of the law?

He had the grace to look embarrassed.

Argh. Fricking men. I stomped over to the curtain. “Logan, come on.”

My summons put a halt to the stare off he’d begun having with Dodson. He joined me at the curtain, where I took a deep breath and lowered my eyes to the floor before pulling the material aside. The floor was bad enough, splattered with blood and bits of...stuff. Yeah, “stuff” worked for me.

I picked a way through it to a clear spot behind a big wooden crate to the right of the doorway, Logan following. He was sniffing the air. I breathed through my mouth, hoping not to smell anything. Damian stayed just inside the doorway.

“You smell anything weird?” I asked.

Logan wrinkled his nose. “Blood and cooked meat.”

Ugh. Why did I ask? “Not magic?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“I guess that’s good, or we might have more bodies.”

“Victim’s name is Arthur Pettigrew. Seventy-three, white male, owner of this shop. Body was discovered by one Brian Fogbottom, who’d arranged to meet the vic at eight.” Damian paused. “Pettigrew is a widower, lived alone except possibly for his dog. I’m sending men over to his house.”

“How do you know he has a dog?”

Damian pointed to a desk on the other side of the doorway. “Photo.”

“Oh.” I frowned at the top of the crate, thinking about the junk out on the shelves. “Why would anyone meet a junk dealer by appointment?”

“He wasn’t just a junk dealer. He dealt with antiques and other specialty items.”

“Special? Do you mean stolen?”