Hell Fire (17 page)

My ex stood and went rummaging in the house. I heard him looking for something heavy enough to function as a doorstop. He returned with a rusty cast-iron skillet.

Chance propped open the door. Night air rushed in, cool, clammy, and somehow ominous. “If we’re doing this, we shouldn’t let it get any later.”

I hoped he wouldn’t make stupid jokes about the witching hour. I tended to take them personally.

I blew out a breath. “What the hell, right?”

 

 

 

 

Thunder boomed a third time, a ghost storm threatening noise and nothing else.

I noticed a prickle as I passed out of the house, beyond the protection of the wards. Out there, I felt defenseless, and not just because I was barefoot. I sensed the thing in the forest watching from the shadow of the trees, darkness beyond mere night, beyond mere absence of light.

It had a particular smell, thick and cloying, like a stagnant pond grown black and green with dying things. With it came that sense of pressure, as if we were miles beneath the ocean. The thing watched us, listened, but it did nothing. I didn’t understand its passivity, and that bothered me.

As we arranged ourselves in a circle, keeping on our feet in case we had to move fast, I had the ill-timed thought that between Jesse and Shannon, we now qualified as a Scooby-Doo unit. Butch watched us from the doorway. Whatever foolishness we were about, he wasn’t dumb enough to step outside the house for it. That should have sent us all back inside, I guess, but sometimes necessity outweighed wisdom.

“Call him,” Chance said to Shannon.

She cast an imploring look at me. “I don’t know how.”

“There are no real magick words,” I said, quoting my mother. “Any old words will do, if you put your will behind them.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try.” She closed her eyes as if she meant to pray. “Mr. McGee, I’m really sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye to you. We both knew things were bad here, but I reckon we didn’t know
how
bad. If you can hear me, if you’d come and talk with me a minute, I’d sure appreciate it.”

For a moment, nothing happened, and then I felt it in the wind rustling the bushes beside the porch. It picked up speed and curled around us like a small, unearthly cold cyclone. I just hoped Mr. McGee didn’t blame us for what had happened to him. We had been talking to him when he died, after all.

“Well done,” Jesse told her. “He’s here.”

Shannon gulped a little. I guessed the certainty of the strange was more intimidating than the idea of it. Things usually sounded cooler in theory than they were in practice.

She didn’t hesitate, though. I gave her credit for that. Instead, she fiddled with the knobs, trying to find his frequency. It took a little while for her to tune in; she found him on the AM side of the dial this time.

And then McGee’s voice crackled from the speakers, tinny and full of impossible distance. “Can you hear me?”

The eeriness of the moment went beyond anything I could articulate. There were no stars; just a brooding wood beyond, and the heavy feel of a storm that wouldn’t come. He’d stopped raging, and sounded more or less coherent—for an angry, vengeful spirit.

It seemed right for Shannon to greet him. She’d known him best. We motioned her onward, so she said uncertainly, “Mr. McGee? It’s me. What happened to you?”

I thought that was a singularly unhelpful question, but then, we
had
yielded the lead to an eighteen-year-old girl. What did we expect?

McGee answered, “I died, fool girl. They killed me.”

“How?” Chance cut in.

Shannon repeated the question because he didn’t seem to hear anyone but her.

The radio speakers popped. “How should I know? Something choked me while two fools stood there, worthless as tits on a bull. But I do know damn well that wasn’t natural.”

It hadn’t seemed so to me, either. It stank of summoning. I’d heard of dark stalkers, malicious energy given purpose by a wicked practitioner’s will. Maybe we’d hoped for too much in thinking he’d be able to give us information about his death. Dying didn’t give you all the answers, apparently.

“You were trying to tell us something,” Chance prompted. “Can you remember what it was?”

The girl passed the question along.

“Yes.” The radio cut out, and I glanced at Shannon, who was looking pale. Snowy static replaced McGee’s voice. The radio cut back in. “—and Augustus England.”

I had the feeling we’d missed some important bits, but the girl didn’t look good. Her skin had gone from pale to ash gray. Not good—maybe we shouldn’t push further. We didn’t know anything about her gift or what it took from her

“Are you okay?” I put my hand on her shoulder because she looked like she might collapse.

“My head feels funny,” she whispered.

I touched her cheek and found it clammy. Tremors shook her like an apartment above an overpass. Chance plucked the radio from her hands, probably figuring it was draining her somehow, and Jesse swung her up in his arms.

“Let’s get her back inside,” I said.

The threat from the woods never manifested. I found that strange—and disturbing. Evil rarely practiced anything so subtle as restraint; I didn’t want the thing watching us, learning. I didn’t
want
a clever, refined enemy. That might prove more than we could handle. I shuddered, remembering how it had said my name. It had called me “precious child,” like Mr. McGee. It had claimed to know my mother. With a final look down the dark gravel drive, I shut the door behind me. Inside, I found Shannon sprawled on the couch. The radio sat beside her on the table, but I wouldn’t ask her to do that again until I knew something more about her gift.

“I think she’s hypoglycemic,” Jesse said. “She has all the preliminary symptoms: nausea, clammy skin, shakes. I’m going to get her some raisins and make a cup of sweet tea for her to drink. If that doesn’t help, she might need a hospital.”

I nodded as I sat down beside her. “Get the raisins. Quick.”

Shannon tried to protest, mumbling she hated raisins, but I ignored the complaint. She ate a handful at my insistence, and then muttered, “If I hurl, you’re cleaning it up.”

Recognizing her need for bravado and attitude, I gave her that. “Yeah, of course.”

By the time Jesse returned with the hot tea, she looked a little better. Her face had some color again, and she was no longer shivering. She took the mug gratefully and cupped her hands around it.

“Well, that was weird,” she said at last.

The guys had given up hovering and dialed back to merely looking worried. In retrospect, this wasn’t the brightest thing we’d ever done. If any harm had come to this kid with us, I didn’t like to consider the consequences, especially not after Mr. McGee died in our presence. I had no doubt Sheriff Robinson could manufacture enough evidence to see us receive life in the state penitentiary if he felt so inclined—or received orders to do so. We needed to keep our noses extra clean from here on out.

“Weird how?” Jesse asked.

“Well, I’ve done that before,” she told him. “That never happened, at least, not that bad. I’d feel a little light-headed, and then I’d have a candy bar and it would be fine.”

“Sounds like your gift converts sugars to energy that lets you power the radio like you do,” Chance said. “Do you have to be touching it?”

She nodded. “Never thought of it like that, but yeah. Sounds about right.”

Interesting.
I made a mental note. Kilmer appeared predisposed to breeding girls who had some special gift in their touch. Even if Shannon and I were the only ones, two people in a town this size seemed remarkable.

I followed Chance’s idea to its natural conclusion. “If it took tons more energy to hear Mr. McGee than it usually does, that implies resistance.”

Jesse took up the thread as I paused. “Which means somebody is trying to keep that from happening.”

“Not a warlock,” I said. “Not spirit wrack like we saw with Maris. More like a spell that puts barriers in place.”

Shannon regarded us, wide-eyed. “Y’all know . . . warlocks? For real? You aren’t messing around?”

I smiled at that, though it felt grim and wry. “Not even close. The one we were talking about is dead, but there are others like him out there. I just don’t think we’re dealing with one here in Kilmer.”

“The magick seems clumsy,” Chance agreed. “I don’t think whoever we’re dealing with really knows what they’re doing, but I’d give a lot to get a
good
witch out here and see what she thinks.”

“Good, like, powerful, or good, like, not evil?” Shannon asked.

Jesse grinned. “Both?”

I was glad to see she was feeling better. “I’m sorry we put you at risk. We won’t do that again.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, ducking her head. “I wanted to. It’s nice to feel like people don’t think you’re nuts, you know?”

I could relate.

“So, I’m going to make something to eat.” I stood up. It had been ages since I had the peanut butter sandwich in the SUV, and Chance had to be starving. It had been an unbelievably long day.

Jesse came to his feet, earning a dark look from Chance. “I’ll help.”

As we went toward the kitchen, I heard Chance ask Shannon, “Do you know anything about powder lining the doorways outside our room at the inn?”

I wanted to hear the end of that conversation, but Jesse clearly had something on his mind. So I figured I’d get the scoop later, if Chance felt inclined to tell me. Given his current mood, he might not.

“What are we going to do about her?” he asked without preamble. “We need to talk to her about being Gifted. According to precedent, since you found her, you should be her mentor, but you hardly know enough to get your feet wet.” He raked a hand through his hair. “And I’m not sure I can handle both of you.”

My lips curled up into a slightly mocking smile. “Too many women for Jesse Saldana? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Funny.” He glared while I made sandwiches.

More peanut butter. They’d go well with the apples I was slicing up.

“It’s more that I’ve never been a mentor before,” he went on. “I learned everything I know from my dad.”

Now that intrigued me. “You did? What’s his gift?”

Saldana mumbled something.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

He regarded me in exasperation. “
Growing
things. He focuses on giant squash and pumpkins mainly. He wins the blue ribbon at the county fair every year.”

Laughter bubbled out of me, delightful and cleansing. “That doesn’t sound too supernatural. Maybe he just has a green thumb.”

“He can do it
overnight
,” Jesse told me. “He just doesn’t, not often, anyway.”

“Does your mom know?”

“She knows he has a green thumb. I think he married her because she makes such good pumpkin pie.” Real affection laced his words. “They’re a perfect match.”

I tried to imagine the Norman Rockwell sort of upbringing he must have had and failed. It sounded sweet, though. “Does she know about
you
?”

“She thinks I’m too sensitive,” he answered with a grimace.

“To answer you,” I said then, “we don’t
do
anything with her. She’s eighteen. Shannon can make up her own mind.”

Other people might say we couldn’t take her with us because she hadn’t graduated high school yet, but I had too much sympathy for her plight to leave her stranded here. If she was determined to go, she’d find someone to take her—and that person might be less than interested in her long-term well-being.

“I’ll have a talk with her before we leave about the whole Gifted thing,” I went on. “And she’s mine, not yours. Maybe that violates some protocol I’m not aware of because I’m not ‘fully trained,’ but I promise I won’t let my Padawan go over to the dark side.”

He smiled with reluctant appreciation. “Right. She’s your worry then, not mine.”

“Like that would stop you.” I grinned back. “You’ll be riding to her rescue before you know it. No wonder your relationships never last. You can’t focus the caring.”

Genuine pain flickered in his eyes. “I know. No matter how hard I try, the women I love always say they don’t come first with me . . . just before they walk out.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Take the food to the parlor,” he said, not looking at me. He busied himself with the kettle. “I’ll make tea for everyone and follow in a bit.”

I set my palm on his cheek and forced him to meet my gaze. “All cops have relationship problems. A lot of women can’t handle knowing their men are in danger, and it makes them shift the blame elsewhere, so they don’t have to acknowledge the real reason they can’t deal. If anyone says it’s wrong of you to care about people, they’re full of shit. There’s a difference between being compassionate and falling in love with everybody you save.” I paused. “You don’t, do you? Fall in love with everyone you save?”

He nuzzled his face against my hand. “No. If I’m in a relationship, I assume I’m being overwhelmed by the other person’s feelings and that when I walk away, it will pass.”

“And you don’t act on it?” I watched his face.

“Never, if I’m with someone. If a woman I meet on the job is overcome by grateful desire and it gets me all charged up, I just go home that way.”

“Which means you rip your girlfriend’s clothes off as soon as you see her.”

A long breath escaped him. “Yeah. Sometimes it happens like that.”

“Well, you know what they say: It doesn’t matter where you prime the pump, as long as you quench your thirst at home.”

“So it wouldn’t bother you?” He’d lost his haunted air, thank God, and his mouth was doing some interesting things to my palm. Pleasurable chills ran through me.

“Offhand, I’d have to say no.” It was a trust issue to be sure, but not the kind that came from secrets, and there was undeniable appeal in knowing your desire would ratchet up your lover’s need.