“What exactly is she doing in there?”
“A variation of a tracking spell. Sort of an origin spell, I guess.”
He waved his hand impatiently. “No, I mean what exactly does that entail?”
“Uh, the only thing I really understand about it is that a witch doesn’t actually
create
the magic. She pulls it out of the air, out of the energy in the world. The different ingredients in a specific order—the actual spells—they help direct or guide the magic to do what she wants it to.”
“So when you’re close to witches, it’s pretty much the same thing as when you’re close to us, right? They become human within your range?”
I nodded.
“But there used to be other things, too, right? Elves and fairies and crap like that? What happens when you get close to them?” I looked at him for a beat, and he shrugged defensively. “Shut up. I know things.”
I was swaying on my feet, still exhausted, so I finally gave in and perched next to him on the swing. He moved over to make room, and I tried to relax. “I’ve heard about them, from Olivia.” Her name tasted bad in my mouth. “As far as I know, those things were spirits of magic, the Original beings, and they all died out when conduits—your ancestors—evolved.”
I looked over at him, and was surprised at the look on his face. It was...sad and far away, and I could guess what he was thinking about. “Eli...How did you change?”
This was a very personal question, like asking how someone lost their virginity, only bigger, and I regretted it right away. But Eli answered me.
“I was a paramedic, in New York,” he said matter-of-factly. “I grew up in Manhattan, my mom and dad were there, and I...I was at the Twin Towers when they fell. I was working to free this woman. She was maybe forty, and she was trapped under a concrete post. She couldn’t get an angle to get out, so I was trying to clear some debris. I knew that I wasn’t strong enough, and my radio was dead, but I couldn’t just walk away. Then the floor above us came down.”
His fingers tightened on the porch swing, and as I watched, his face just shut down. He was remembering. “A steel rod pierced me in my torso, and I was dying, right there next to this lady. The collapse had moved the concrete post, though, and she’d actually wriggled out, even with all the crap on top of us. I couldn’t believe her strength.”
I understood. “She was a werewolf.”
“Yes. She felt bad for me, I guess. She bit me, on the shoulder, and pulled out the steel rod, and she left me. I never saw her again.” He sat up suddenly in his chair, shrugging. “That’s about it.”
But it wasn’t. It takes about two days to turn into a werewolf—two days of agony. “How long were you trapped, Eli?”
He looked away. “Four days.”
“Your parents?”
He shook his head. “Gone.”
I struggled for something to say and came up with “You don’t look old enough to have been a paramedic that long ago.” He looked maybe twenty-eight.
He gave me a little smile. “I was twenty-three then. But you know we age slower than humans.”
“Yeah. Are you...” I began, then stopped. This was none of my business.
“Am I what?” he asked. “Am I sorry she bit me?”
I nodded. “I mean, I know you don’t like being a werewolf.” Werewolves age more slowly than humans—average lifetime is something like one hundred fifty years. He would be stuck this way for a long time.
He looked tired. “I don’t. But I’m not sorry to be alive, even if it’s like this. Even if it hurts.”
We were quiet for a while after that.
By the time Kirsten popped open the front door, I had nodded off on Eli’s shoulder, and a little line of drool was making its way down my chin.
“Come on in, guys,” Kirsten sang, cheerful. “I’ve got an address for you.” She turned back into the house, leaving the door open behind her.
I stood up unsteadily, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and blushing like crazy. Eli stretched his arms behind his head, smirking at me. “You’re so cute when you sleep. All innocent-like.”
“Shut up.”
He held up his hand, waving it at me, and I rolled my eyes and reached down to pull him up. He stood up inside my personal space, on purpose, to make me blush even more. God help me, it worked. I met his eyes, only four inches from my own, and he didn’t back down one bit. He looked at me, a long, searching look, until I lost my nerve and darted toward the front door.
No witch’s supply cabinet is complete without herbs, a cauldron, and...a Thomas guide. Back in her kitchen, Kirsten pulled out the book of Los Angeles street maps and opened it to a section in Van Nuys. “Okay, so the locator spell took me back to where these handcuffs were made—cast? Would we say they were cast?”
Eli and I looked up and shrugged. Not so much with the grammar.
“Okay, well, anyway, they were made here”—she pointed to a tiny pen mark—“in this little block. I copied out the address.” She passed over a perfectly formatted Post-it note.
“One more thing,” I began, “Olivia mentioned...Well, is it possible that the vampires in La Brea Park were under a spell? Is there a spell that has the same result as being around a null?”
I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I hoped she would say yes. If this were all due to some psychotic witch...But Kirsten shook her head, smiling in a patient way that I interpreted as
No hard feelings about accusing my witches of murder
.
“We can’t take away magic, Scarlett. We can move it around, funnel it into doing things, but we can’t actually take it away.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
Jesse was torn. Should he keep his nose down and dig into the grunt work that the scene reconstruction guys had given him, or go pursue leads that he knew were valid and important? Jerry Lexington, the detective in charge of recreating the scene, had given him a stack of files relating to La Brea Park: all previous complaints or crimes committed in the area, the history of the park, the history of the land before it became a park, the biography of the guy who had donated the land, and so on. The stack was three inches of printouts and photos, and Jesse was frustrated and bored just looking at it. Chewing on his lip, he flipped to the middle of the folder on top, smudging the papers around on his desk.
An hour later, Jesse knew he was in trouble the moment he heard his name. Of course, it didn’t help that when Miranda called for him, he was half-asleep, his head propped up on his hand. Not a great way to prove that he was working hard.
He took a big chug of the Mountain Dew on his desk, then stood up and trudged toward Miranda’s office, wondering how bad this was going to be.
“Sit down, Jesse,” she said briskly, waving toward the chair across from her desk.
Miranda’s iron-gray hair was a little disheveled, and tiredness and stress had seeped into her face. Jesse sat carefully on the edge
of the chair, noting the folded-up
LA Times
on her desk. The headline screamed,
Park Massacre Baffles LAPD
. He winced.
“We need to have a conversation about your work performance,” Miranda said sternly. “You know that this investigation is critical, and the pressure from the media is building every day.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He did his best to look contrite, but couldn’t help feeling a little crushed. He was actually working his ass off on this case, coming up with leads nobody else would dream of, and to everyone on the force, he looked like a slacker. Jesse considered himself a good team player, not at all a glory hound, but come on. If he got demoted over this case, he wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Miranda was just getting started. “We’re all here on a Sunday, I’ve got everyone working overtime, we’re chasing down every stray thought any one of us even has, and even though there’s plenty of exhaustion, everyone seems on top of their game—except you. You’re distracted and secretive, and the duty officer said she had trouble finding you yesterday. And is it true that you
fell asleep
during the briefing this morning?”
Jesse flinched with guilt. The department was doing twice-daily briefings on the case, and though he’d tried to pay attention, it was just hard to be all that interested when he knew that every lead the police were pursuing was a dead end. There was a mountain of forensics paperwork piling up, all of it saying nothing at all, and theory after theory was being methodically shot down. The department had spent the last two days considering the possibility of gang violence, a serial killer, a crime of passion, everything. They’d been running in circles trying to at least identify the victims and making no progress at all. Jesse, on the other hand, knew all three victims’ identities but wasn’t able to speak up. It was so
frustrating
.
“Ma’am, I—”
“Stop.” Miranda held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. Family problems, new girlfriend, new boyfriend, you have a cold, the sun was in your eyes, whatever. I don’t care. I just need to know whether or not you’re able to perform your job.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Then get your act together, stop dithering about, and do some police work.” She picked up a file on her desk, flipping over the top page. “You’re supposed to be going through old murder cases, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re trying to determine whether this killing follows the pattern of any established killers, in case it’s a repeat performance or a copycat. There’s just nothing—so far.”
Because the victims were vampires, and the killer was working with a null, and the closest thing to a witness was a werewolf who’d also been murdered. Jesse felt sluggish and stupid, as if he’d been torn in half and all the brain cells had gone to the half that was working in the Old World now. It was a good thing he’d never been chosen for undercover, he thought sourly. A suspicious drug dealer would have shot him in about three minutes.
“Nothing?” she said skeptically, as if he were pulling her leg.
“We’ve been through all the databases. I’m back to reviewing scene reconstructions and typing up interview reports.”
Miranda was silent for a moment, thinking. “Why don’t you take a closer look at the park,” she said finally. “See if there’s a pattern of violence anywhere.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood up to leave.
“And, Jesse?”
He turned back.
“If you can’t get your act together, I can’t use you.”
I needed to call Cruz and update him on the case, but I felt awkward about doing it in front of Eli. Especially since Eli was pissed about not being invited along to confront the handcuff maker. He did not like that I was going with Jesse instead.
“Who is this guy, anyway? What can he do that I can’t?” Eli said hotly.
We were driving back to Eli’s, where I would be dropping him off. Traffic had stalled on PCH, and I was working on a grating headache.
“I don’t know. Arrest people? Investigate things? How about just carrying a gun?” I didn’t mention the fact that I’d never had drunken sleepovers with Cruz, because there’s just never a great moment to bring that up.
“That’s bullshit. I may not have a badge, but I can protect you just as easily as he can.”
I pounded one fist on the steering wheel. “I don’t need to be protected, goddammit! I’m not some damsel tied to a railroad track; I can take care of myself. I’m strong and I’m fast, and nothing with claws or fangs can touch me anyway.”
“Railroad tracks?”
I threw up my hands, which would have been dangerous if we weren’t at a standstill. “Ugh! You know, those old movie serials where the evil guy with the big black mustache would tie up some
girl and leave her on the railroad tra—why am I explaining this to you? The point is, I don’t need a rescue.”
He started to argue again, and with some regret, I pulled out my werewolf card. “Look, Eli, this guy’s place is going to be full of silver. If you take one step too far away from me, you could have another horrible reaction and almost die again. Remember how fun that
wasn’t
?”
He went silent, but still looked stubborn.
I hammered in my last nail. “If I have to spend the whole time being careful of you,” I said, “you’ll just slow me down.”
Defeated, Eli turned to look out his window. “Fine,” he said quietly, to the view of the Pacific Ocean. “The last thing I wanna do is slow you down.”
We didn’t speak the whole rest of the way to his place. In the silence, I found myself thinking about the first time I’d gone home with him, three months earlier. It had been my mother’s birthday, although I never told him or anyone else that. My brother, Jack, hadn’t called, and I hadn’t gotten up the courage to call him. I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone that night, and Molly had gone hunting, so I went out drinking alone. I could have called Jack or tried to rustle up some of my old high school friends, but I hadn’t spoken to any of my friends in years, and Jack was the last person I wanted to see. I didn’t want to play the happy remembering game with him, especially considering he still didn’t know that I was responsible for her death, and my father’s.
I had just wanted to drink.
I’d gone to Hair of the Dog by myself. I could have—should have—gone to a normal human bar within cheap cab distance from Molly’s, but the truth was, I wanted to punish myself. I wanted the stares, the curiosity, the dirty or eager looks. I wanted to feel what I was, and know what it had cost me. It was a Wednesday night, but Hair of the Dog is always crowded, and it took a while to get a table. After about twenty minutes, some nervous-looking weres got
up and scooted away from me, forsaking their little booth in a dark corner of the bar. I swooped in and got it, and crooked a finger at the bartender.
He was tall and blond, with a lot of muscle that was more lean than big, like a swimmer. He was wearing jeans and a Hair of the Dog T-shirt, along with a smudged white bar towel flung over his shoulder. Despite being two whiskeys in, with no food in my stomach, I was paying close attention when he hit my radius. Sure enough, he was a were. He didn’t even slow down when he turned human, but a brief look of bliss flew across his face. Ah. One of those.
“We don’t usually do table service, Miss Bernard.”