He’s faster than you, Maggie told me. He’s heading toward the highway. He’s got a book bag of clothes and a big tome. The blood tally is my guess.
I didn’t respond, directing all my energy into a sprint. Trolls are known for being strong, not for their long-distance skills. I gambled and took the next left, running toward the underpass so I didn’t have to chase Michael through highway traffic. By the time I reached the north side of I-71, I was panting hard from the effort. I could feel Maggie listening carefully in the back of my head. I already had that sinking feeling when she gave a frustrated sigh.
Lost him. He must have gone over the highway and then turned east.
“Goddamn it,” I said aloud. I waited on the street corner for several minutes, hoping that Maggie’s senses could pick up my quarry. Finally, with the shake of my head, I walked back to Father Orrock’s halfway house.
I could tell something was wrong the moment I turned onto the street. I could see my truck, but … as I drew closer, I could also see that all four of my tires had been slashed. I ran a hand across my face, feeling angry and tired and not just a little bit humiliated. I walked up to my truck and stood staring at it, hands on my hips, for several moments. On the porch were all of the runaway thralls, staring at me in that eerie silence while Father Orrock sipped his cup of tea. He raised the cup toward me when I looked toward him.
“Was this you?” I asked.
“It’s a rough neighborhood,” Father Orrock told me seriously.
“Right. I bet this is the other way you keep Jose and Karen from coming back here, hmm?”
Orrock shrugged. “As I said, it’s a rough neighborhood.”
Don’t you dare laugh, I told Maggie. I walked over to my truck and popped the hood, giving it a once-over to make sure the engine hadn’t been fiddled with as well. When I shut it, Father Orrock had come down to stand nearby, appraising my tires as if he didn’t know exactly who had slashed them.
“Would you like some help?” he asked.
I glared at him, taking out my cell phone to call the office. “No,” I told him. “No, I would not.” Once I’d asked Nadine to send someone with four new tires, I put on my flack vest and strapped my Glock to my side. I was pissed, and I wasn’t going to be caught off guard again.
“That’s wholly unnecessary,” Father Orrock told me.
“It’s a rough neighborhood,” I told him. Then I walked up onto the porch, through the small gang of runaway thralls, and into the house. I could hear Father Orrock following me.
“Excuse me, where are you going?”
I ignored him.
Where are you going? Maggie asked.
I walked upstairs and began to check every bedroom. Father Orrock ran a tight ship, and each of them, even the occupied ones, was clean and organized. I kept checking until I found a room that looked like it had been left in a hurry. It wasn’t much – the covers were tossed aside, a spare T-shirt was lying on the ground, and a couple of comic books had been discarded on the floor. I turned toward Father Orrock. “Was this Michael’s room?” I asked.
Father Orrock had set his tea down somewhere and was now watching me warily from the hallway. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You need to leave, now!” All pretense of friendliness was gone.
“Tell me where Michael slept, or I’m posting the address of this place – and what exactly it is – online. You might scare off reapers with this nonsense, but you won’t scare off a whole vampire brood.” Even as I spoke it, I knew it was a bluff. Father Orrock’s operation was clearly successful in part through secrecy. I wasn’t about to fuck that up out of spite. But I was also super pissed in the moment, and I hoped that covered for my bluff.
“How dare you,” Father Orrock snapped.
“You made this personal when you and your kids here slashed my tires. Now tell me where Michael slept.”
Father Orrock hesitated for a few more moments and then nodded. “It was that room.”
You’re not going to do what I think you are, are you? Maggie asked.
Again, I ignored her. I walked inside and stripped the pillowcase off the pillow, then turned it inside out. Carrying it in one hand, I pushed past Father Orrock and headed back out to my truck where I tossed the pillowcase inside, then turned to lean against the driver’s side door, crossing my arms and staring angrily back at the porch. No one followed me back out, but I could see Father Orrock’s face in the living room window. Staring back at him, I settled down to wait for my new tires.
Chapter 10
There are a lot of reasons that professionals don’t hire witches for scrying. Confidentiality is a big one: witches share everything with their coven. The stereotype that witches are a bunch of chatty old women – and sometimes men – who will talk about anything with literally anyone is a stereotype for a reason. Another reason involves their chain of command. While there are occasional witches with inherent power, most of them have struck a deal with a powerful Other and that Other will find out why its servant was hired.
For me, it’s trust. Collecting that debt when I was seventeen and then getting hives for my effort has given me a lifelong aversion to any witch. I’m a professional, and I want other professionals to treat me as such. Beyond my own experience, I don’t know anyone who works with the Other that doesn’t have a horror story about the witch next door or the cousin who hired a coven for some such thing.
So witches are always off the table. Or at least, they were.
Olivia Martin’s house was much the same as when I was there a little over a week ago to collect that grimoire. Only one thing had changed: there was a little sign in the window that said CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. CONSULTATIONS AVAILABLE BY APPOINTMENT.
I flinched at that sign, thinking back to how clearly pissed she’d been over the whole Cleveland Coven lawsuit. Me smashing up her kitchen had forced her to close her doors at a time she probably needed her regular income more than normal. I stood on the front step, waiting for her to open the door before I’d even knocked. No one came out to greet me. I could hear the sound of heavy metal playing through the window and someone singing along with it badly.
I’m having second thoughts, I told Maggie.
Don’t come crying to me. I told you this was stupid. Witches can’t be trusted. You’re the one who insisted on driving all the way out here.
The drive over from the west side had let me cool off a bit. I was less pissed at Father Orrock and his thrall runaways than I was with myself now, and only in the last few minutes had I really decided that I might be acting out of anger. But like Maggie said, I’d already driven all the way out here. Before I could change my mind, I knocked hard on the door.
I heard a thump, then a bunch of swearing. A few moments passed before the music turned off and footsteps pounded angrily across the living room. As the door swung open, I heard, “Goddamn it, can’t you read? I’m closed for … oh. It’s you.”
Olivia was wearing an old Jack Daniel’s T-shirt and cutoff denim short shorts. Her hair was tied back by a handkerchief and there was a splash of green paint across her nose. She glared up at me, a paint roller held off to one side. I craned my neck to look over her shoulder. In the last eight days she had disposed of the broken oven and table and all of her hanging racks. The kitchen was empty except for the fridge, the walls taped off for a paint job, everything from the counters piled in one corner of the living room.