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  I raised an eyebrow and let my skepticism show.

  “Pay is ten times what you’d make as a bartender. And I’ll help you find your man. If he’s in the Barrows, I will locate him.” The smooth confidence returned.

  “Right. I’ll relax and let you do everything.” It sounded like a bit of a ploy. I like you, so let me take over your mission, your life.

  “No. No. I mean if you need time off to search, you can have it.” He sounded flustered. How could such a magnificent man become so unsettled? Surely it could not be my doing.

  I turned away and promptly rationalized. I could use the money. And I could insist on wearing proper clothes.

  Damn. I hated that I had to hold down a job while I was here. They shouldn’t have sent me from Justice almost broke. Of course, I foolishly spent the last of what they did give me on a flying mini-dragon that had immediately deserted me.

  I faced him. “I’ll take the job. No promises on how long I’ll stay, though.”

  Michael grinned. “Good. Now, will you let me show you around the Barrows? I think there are things you need to know, things Hildy hasn’t told you yet.”

  I nodded. It seemed like a good deal. Too good. Work as a bouncer and see my new world from the comfort of a Jag. But could I trust him? He’d given me a bit of information about the Barrows, but none about himself or the event that Cassandra referred to. No, I wouldn’t trust him yet. I’d have to rely on myself for the mission. With a little luck and a little searching, I might come across the third murderer, or even the Portal.

  Chapter 11

  The sun was directly overhead as Michael drove north on River Street, away from the Barrows but still within that magical barrier of the ward. Summer stood poised to bless everything in the city. More prosperous businesses flourished here. Auto parts stores, gas stations, a small discount store—commerce far more benign than the sex and liquor trade farther to the south. I’d traveled, searching for the killers, but I’d never been to a place like Duivel and the Barrows.

  Michael turned into the almost full parking lot of a restaurant called the River House Café, into a spot marked RESERVED—TOW AWAY ZONE. He turned off the engine but didn’t move to get out.

  “I want you to meet Oonagh,” he said.

  “Who?” It sounded like he was clearing his throat.

  “She’s the owner of this place.” He saw the look of skepticism on my face. “Just trust me.”

  I didn’t, but I’d go along with it for now.

  “How good of an actress are you?” he asked.

  “Fair. Depends on how observant the audience is.” After six years, I’d managed to occasionally fool a few Sisters. Not a small achievement.

  “She’s sharp, but I’m going to try to keep her focused on me. Meanwhile, I need you to be the observant one.”

  I frowned at him. “You need to stop being so cryptic and explain yourself.” How irritating. He appeared to think everyone accepted what he said at face value, not to be questioned.

  He stared at me and I stared back. Obviously, he wasn’t used to being challenged. He smiled, but it quickly faded. His voice became more ominous. “Oonagh will probably have learned what happened the other night. I spent all day yesterday raving about your heroism and fighting ability. She’s probably heard that, too.”

  “So?”

  “I need to send a message that you can take care of yourself. Oonagh can be . . . dangerous.” He climbed out and I followed him. I hated how he left me hanging, teasing me with his words but never quite explaining himself.

  River House Café was an unimposing structure on the outside, a rectangular box with windows, but we walked into a most pleasant place decorated in the Mediterranean style my mother loved. Terra-cotta floors, lots of plants in clay pots, ambience galore. The soft whirr of overhead fans stirred air filled with the scent of delicious things.

  “Is Oonagh available?” Michael asked the host at the front podium.

  The man nodded at the woman strolling toward us.

  Tall and slender, Oonagh was an attractive, sophisticated woman in a beautifully draped gray silk dress. She looked to be about forty. She had a strong square jaw and rich dark hair that accentuated green eyes. And she was a witch. I could feel her presence as I had Abigail’s, though she was most certainly not as powerful as Abigail. Abigail burned with magic like a giant bonfire. Oonagh burned like a candle—a very small candle. I felt something else, too. Oonagh desired Michael. She longed for Michael and projected that longing with the ferocity of a swelling tidal wave that would flatten everything in its path.

  Michael grasped the hand she extended, leaned forward, and kissed her cheek.

  “This is Madeline.” Michael flipped a hand at me but kept his eyes on her.

  Oonagh nodded, haughty, imperious. I bet she hated me on the spot. I had arrived with him, ridden in the same car with him, and breathed the same air.

  If Michael saw Oonagh’s adoration, he didn’t acknowledge it. He was kind, spoke softly, smiled and laughed, graceful and lithe as a swan. I suppressed a sudden spike of jealousy. Even though I knew it was probably an act, I wondered if he would ever do that for me.

  Oonagh led us to a table in an alcove. At Michael’s invitation, she sat with us. Michael pulled out a chair for Oonagh like a gentleman. I was his employee. Playing the role of bouncer, the muscle, I briefly scanned the room, then seated myself in the chair that kept my back to the wall.

  A waiter quickly came and brought crystal glasses of water with no ice and wedges of lemons on the rims. Michael insisted that I order. “All the food here is wonderful,” Michael said to me.

  I glanced down at the menu. No prices. I kept a straight face. The Barrows wasn’t a place for that kind of exclusivity. My father had run an expensive gourmet restaurant and I had worked there all through my teens. Believing that people should know what they were going to pay for, he always put down the prices, no matter how high.

  I ordered a salad, though they did have one of my favorites, crab cakes, on the menu. I needed to observe, not eat. I also didn’t need to be spoiled and eat food I couldn’t afford on a regular basis.

  I started to remove my jacket, then stopped. I would have to show the knives if I did. Michael lifted an eyebrow. I was his bouncer. I removed the jacket.

  Oonagh froze.

  “There’s been some trouble at the Den,” Michael said, as if his words totally explained everything. “Madeline is my new bouncer. She’s quite good at defending my property.” He reached out to grasp Oonagh’s hand. She instantly relaxed.

  I wondered what she would have done if the Sisters’ tattoos were on my arms instead of my ass. A witch’s power should never be dismissed. Even the weaker ones were capable of wreaking havoc—especially when they felt threatened.

  Michael and Oonagh spoke of things I had no interest in. Business, the weather, the coming summer. I tuned out the words to watch her body language. Oonagh spoke to Michael as if he were the only person in the world. Her eyes focused on him and she cocked her head toward him, absorbing every word, every nuance, desperate for a sign of affection. He did not speak to me. She would try to tear my heart out if Michael offered me one scrap of personal consideration in her presence. I wondered exactly how far her obsession would go. Far enough to destroy him if she couldn’t possess him? Maybe.

  Observe, he had said. The waiters and waitresses were immaculately dressed, with fresh pressed white shirts and black pants. Not happy though. All their smiles were tight and forced. One suddenly met my eyes. He quickly turned away, but not before I saw the fear. Four men lounged at a table in a back corner, men that would make any Godfather proud. They stared at me as if they perceived a threat. They seemed casual, but their body language, tight mouths, and narrow eyes spoke of menace. I lowered my eyes, but I memorized their faces.

  A painting nearby was a magnificent floral still life. I’d never seen colors so rich and vibrant—but it looked off, not quite real. Little prickles ran along
my arms, and I shivered. I studied the painting. Something shimmered around it, some slight movement of air. Magic? I forced myself to be still, to relax. I lowered my eyes and drew a slow breath. When I opened them, I could see through the spell surrounding the painting. The underlying painting was nice, but nothing special. The rich colors faded and ran together in places.

  Something was different about this magic. Caustic and hollow, it bubbled rather than flowed like my mother’s earth magic. Though I had no facts to base the fright upon, I was terrified. The fear closed around me and all else disappeared. I stared at the table, squeezed my hands into fists, and silently recited the words I’d learned from the Sisters. Fear is a gift. Fear is a weapon. I will accept fear and I will not allow it to cripple me.

  After the third recitation, calm returned. The clink of glasses, gentle conversation, and laughter, sometimes strained, sometimes genuine, flowed over me. Inevitably, curiosity rose. Why would a witch waste magic on a painting? Even my mother wasn’t that vain.

  I raised my eyes.

  Another spell swirled around Oonagh, a powerful glamour made of the alien magic that surrounded the painting. The dress she wore, the graceful, pale gray silk, hung on her like a shroud. She wasn’t disfigured like me, but she looked as if she was dying. Some atrocious disease wasted her and left her a pitiful old woman. Hideous mottled skin draped over her thin arms, and her eyes burned with a feverish glow. The rich dark hair was gray, and patches of scalp peeked through in places. It was all I could do to keep my eyes averted from her. I also managed to keep my hand from the knife. Something was dreadfully wrong here, and eventually I’d have to find the source of the problem.

  I finished the salad, wishing I had more. Michael barely touched his. They stood and said their good-byes. The waiter never brought a bill, and when Michael asked for it, Oonagh refused to let him pay. Both ignored me, and I stayed as far from them as possible without making it obvious. I did not want to take a chance on physical contact with her.

  As the daughter of a witch, partially trained in the hope that I would actually grow into power, I knew that what Oonagh was doing might technically be black magic. It seemed harmless, but earth magic should never be used for personal reasons, especially vanity. I doubted that anyone would care, but if she was willing to use power for personal reasons, what else would she do? Most important, where did she find such an unfamiliar power?

  My mission was greater than the mystery of a strange witch and her strange brand of magic. But right then, I couldn’t think of anything else.

  Chapter 12

  “What do you think?” Michael asked as the car rolled out of the parking lot. “Could you see? She’s quite ill.”

  I nodded, a bit surprised at his sight. “You can see through spells?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what a spell looks like. I see her. The real her. It confused me at first. People kept telling me how attractive she is. They believed it. They didn’t see what I did. Just as many people don’t see the ruins.” He started the car. “She’s a witch. Like Abigail.”

  “A witch. But not like Abigail.”

  “Dying?”

  “Probably soon.”

  Michael turned to face me, his eyes intense. “What else did you see?”

  “Her waiters are miserable and frightened. There were four gangster-type thugs sitting in the corner who probably work for her.”

  “Do you now understand why I wanted you to go there?” He laughed softly.

  “To show me that she’s powerful, dangerous, and insanely in love with you. She probably has you followed. If she sees me with you now, she’ll see me as an employee, rather than a rival. Might save me some trouble.”

  “Yes. I don’t think she would do anything drastic.” He reached over and patted my arm as if to reassure me of my safety. I knew better than that.

  “Michael, she’d hire a professional hit man if you adopted a puppy. What does she do that she needs so much muscle?”

  “I don’t know, but the Barrows is and has always been a dangerous place. She may have dealings outside. I simply don’t care enough to investigate. I just don’t want her attacking you.”

  I wanted to ask why, but I let it pass. Whatever was between Michael and me required a bit more diplomacy—and I had a mission to accomplish. I dared not lose sight of that because of a strange attraction to an unusual man.

  I could call the Sisters, let them look into Oonagh. Mother Evelyn had told me that was their job. But she’d also said they acted only at the Earth Mother’s command. I didn’t think they, or the Earth Mother, would care enough about a dying witch to investigate. As long as Oonagh didn’t sic her thugs on me—or Michael—I’d let it be.

  Michael dropped me off at Harry’s. He said he’d meet me at the Den later. I wanted different clothes to fit my new job description. The shiny handkerchief that covered my breasts wouldn’t work, but Cassandra had given me some nice black jeans. Since I hadn’t received the promised “ten times the money” yet, I headed for the secondhand store again. I bought a pair of black lace-up boots with thick soles. A soft blue conservative knit shirt would go with the jeans, as would the dark gray tailored jacket. Bouncer I might be, but I didn’t have to look like one.

  Later that afternoon, after a good bit of twisting and adjusting, I had the gun holster fitted across my shoulders and the gun in an easy draw position. The rune knife was at my waist, and I had Lillian’s smaller knife hooked to my belt against the small of my back. The jacket had inside pockets for extra magazines. I watched my image in the mirror as I turned. The jacket added some class and covered the weapons. At least I didn’t look like a walking armory.

  I drew the blade I’d acquired from Hildy and tried to decipher the runes. I recognized them. I dug the amulet Eunice had given me out of my shirt. Instinct told me that the blade and amulet belonged together. The runes, cut with precision like the writing on ancient Babylonian tablets, were like none I’d ever seen before. I ran my fingers over the runes, feeling the slash mark indentations. For an instant, they vibrated under my fingers. The pair had to be objects of power, even though they were in no way spelled. I would have seen a spell right away. Why had they both come to me?

  I rode the bus down to the Goblin Den rather than walked. The bus wasn’t crowded, only a couple of older women and a woman holding a baby. A little boy sat on the seat beside her. I sat behind them on a worn brown vinyl seat with bits of foam thrusting from the separating seams.

  I watched the passing shops as they began the decline into blight and wondered what it would be like to live here. A miserable foul-smelling jail cell in New York and the silent halls of Justice had been forced upon me by my own carelessness. But my original home was suburbia, a bright sunny house behind the shop where my mother practiced her gentle magic and sold handmade soaps, oils, and earth-centered jewelry. Daddy’s restaurant was next door. I could picture living nowhere else, at least not by choice.

  The little boy turned to watch me. Children often stare at me, at the scar. They are usually guileless little creatures, innocent of the tyranny of good manners. This boy was different. Something troubled him, and his face was as solemn as a mourner at a funeral. His dark eyes held questions. He slipped out of the seat and came toward me. I judged him to be about six. His clothes were clean but worn. He stood in the aisle and leaned toward me like a conspirator.

  “Did your daddy hurt you?” he asked softly. “Your face.”

  “My daddy?” I hid my surprise with a smile. “No. It was an accident.”

  His eyes darted around. “My daddy hurt me.”

  He lifted his shirt. My mouth dropped open. Burns. Round cigarette burns, and . . . shit, the monster had heated a knife blade and laid it to this innocent child’s tender skin. I touched it gently with my fingers as if I could smooth it away. It felt hot and fevered, as if had occurred only moments ago.

  The woman holding the baby realized the boy had left her. She turned to face me. I guess s
he saw the horror on my face.

  “I left the bastard,” she said. Desperation filled her voice. I think she felt the need to explain that she was a good mother. “They arrested him,” she went on, “but he made bail. I have a restraining order, but I think he has people watching me. I shouldn’t be down here where he is, but I want to see my mother. She’s been sick.”

  I nodded. I grasped the boy’s shirt and slid it down to cover the scars. I’d seen some of the girls at Justice who had been brutalized like him before they arrived. I kissed him on the forehead. He smiled and went back to his mother.

  The bus stopped for another passenger. I didn’t pay attention until the little boy rushed by me toward the back of the bus. The high-pitched keening sound coming from him was of purest terror. He tripped and scrabbled along the floor to crawl under one of the seats behind me, still wailing in mindless panic.

  The source of that panic stalked down the aisle toward us, grinning like a demon that had found something to kill. He wore a dirty white T-shirt over low-cut jeans. Several chains hung around his neck, and one thick set of links held a devil’s head—obviously some gang affiliation.

  He stopped and towered over the woman. He snatched at the baby. She tried to turn and hunch over it to protect it.

  “What are you doing here?” she screamed. I guessed he’d been following her since she boarded the bus. Probably had his friends keeping tabs on her.

  “Gimme that little bastard. It ain’t mine, so it belongs in the trash.”

  Oh, no. This wouldn’t happen on my watch. I hadn’t spent years training to ignore a bloodthirsty animal like this one. Excitement rose in me. Only two days from Justice and I’d missed my daily exercise in violence. I wanted to do this.

  I stood.

  “Hey, asshole.” I got his attention in my usual delicate way.

  He glanced at me. As most did, he fixated on the scar. “Go fuck yourself, bitch.”