Malediction: An Old World Story Read online

  Scarlett shook her head. “I’ll talk to the others, but I have a feeling they’ll say no.”

  He understood that “the others” meant Will, Dashiell, and Kirsten, the leaders of the respective supernatural groups in Los Angeles. “Why?”

  “They’re really big on ‘need to know basis,’ remember?” She shrugged. “It’s just how they think: the Old World gets pretty territorial, and if they believe this woman poses any kind of threat to how we do things …” She trailed off and let Jesse fill in the blanks. “Besides, it’s just not a great policy to spill secrets to every random who stumbles into town looking for them.”

  Jesse, who had seen Lex’s angst over her missing sister up close and personal, thought that was unfair, but this was something they’d been through before: Scarlett wouldn’t let other people’s pain over her job keep her from doing it. He suddenly felt exhausted. “Well, what do you want me to do if she tracks me down?”

  “Exactly what you did. She can’t prove anything. I’ll mention it to the others, but for now, we gotta stick with information embargo.”

  “Okay, fine.” Jesse stood up and drained the beer. Scarlett gave him a hopeful look.

  “Do you want to stick around for a game of pool or something?” she offered. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I’d love to hear about the new job. That actor who plays the FBI agent, does he really—”

  “Thanks,” Jesse interrupted, “but I should probably get going.”

  He left her sitting there in the office, and somehow managed to not look back.

  As he drove north back to Studio City, Jesse couldn’t help but feel like there was some aspect of the cover-up he was forgetting. Will, Kiersten, Dashiell, Dashiell’s vampire wife, Scarlett, Noah …. He shook his head, not getting it.

  It nagged at him.

  4. Lex

  I was ready to leave for LA immediately, but I had a few hoops to jump through first.

  If Jesse Cruz wouldn’t talk to me, I knew I’d have to get answers from someone else, and I figured my best chance was Petra Corbett. I wasn’t sure she even knew any details about Sam’s death, but I was betting she knew something. Her whole story about self-defense and a fake animal attack was just too weird. If there was something fishy about Sam’s death, the answer was probably with the woman who had the even fishier story. Hopefully she could give me something that I could use as leverage with Cruz.

  Of course, there was a voice in the back of my mind that kept asking why I needed to do this: what did it matter? Sam was dead, and nothing would change that. In my dream, Sam had said that I “deserved to know” what really happened, but did I want to know? What if I found out that Remus wasn’t really the killer? The evidence against him was overwhelming, and I was absolutely certain that he’d killed most of the other women he’d been accused of murdering, but was it possible that Sam wasn’t among them? What if the real killer had gotten away after blaming the friendly neighborhood serial killer? What if it was someone I knew?

  What if it was someone who could get to Charlie?

  And that thought was what convinced me that even if I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the truth, I definitely had to seek it out. If there was any chance that Charlie would be at risk because of information I didn’t have … I couldn’t allow that.

  But it turned out that the process for visiting a prisoner at the California Institution for Women was pretty complicated. I had to get Petra’s permission before I could visit her, and there were forms to be passed back and forth to the prison. While I was waiting to hear back from Corbett, I prepared for the trip. I had to arrange for my cousins to look after my animals, and for time off from both of my jobs—my new position assisting Colorado’s head vampire, Maven, and my part-time gig at a local convenience store, which was sort of my cover job. I was expecting a little resistance from Maven, particularly given how new our situation was, but to my surprise, she readily agreed to give me a couple of days off to “get my things in order,” as she put it. I wasn’t about to look the gift horse in the mouth, so I just thanked her.

  I didn’t tell my family or even Quinn, the vampire I was sort of planning on dating at some point, where I was going; I just said I’d be visiting some friends in the Los Angeles area for a couple of days. I think all of them assumed that meant I was going to see some army buddies, and I let them. It was a lot easier than saying that I had to go learn more about my sister’s murder.

  Finally, I received word Petra Corbett had agreed to see me, for whatever reason—maybe just out of boredom—and a little over a week after my conversation with Sam, I had all my ducks in a row. I wasn’t sure my wheezy Subaru could make the fifteen-hour drive, so I booked a plane ticket and a rental car instead, and found a cheap hotel in the Valley. I gritted my teeth at the expense, which was nearly half my checking account, but it wasn’t like I could put a price on the information.

  I landed in Los Angeles on the Saturday afternoon before my appointment to see Corbett. The most obvious use of my extra time was to talk to Lizzy Thompkins, the survivor who’d been with Sam the night she died. We’d never met—she and Sam weren’t close, as I understood it, and she hadn’t come to the memorials, but she would be the person who knew the most about my sister’s last hours.

  Unfortunately, when I tried to look her up from Boulder, I couldn’t find any sign of her. Lizzy seemed to have disappeared, at least from the Internet. I’d expanded my search range, messing around for hours on both Facebook and the web page for the organization where Sam, Ruanna, and Lizzy had all volunteered—but no dice. She’d just sort of vanished.

  With Lizzy ruled out, I considered visiting the actual site of the killings before deciding against it. The police had probably spent weeks picking over every last square inch of that location, so I was unlikely to learn anything new. It would stay on my list of last-resort options in case I couldn’t find answers elsewhere, though. For now, I headed down to Long Beach to visit Ruanna Martinez’s husband and kids.

  I’d met them before, in better times. On a previous trip to LA, Sam and I had picked up Ruanna for a girls’ night out. Then I’d talked to Ernesto briefly when I came to town to try and find Sam. And, of course, I’d seen him and the kids at Ruanna’s memorial service. Her youngest daughter, Gabby, had taken a brief shine to me that day, and I’d walked the toddler around and around the church courtyard in circles until it was time for her nap.

  I called ahead, and Ruanna’s husband Ernesto opened the front door before I even got out of the rental car. He was a short, barrel-shaped man with sad eyes and a look of exhaustion etched into his leathery face, but he still put on a welcoming smile as I headed up the sidewalk. “Allison,” he said, reaching out to embrace me. I’ve never liked being called Allison, but Ernesto didn’t know that, and if I said anything now he’d feel bad.

  “Hello, Ernesto,” I said, returning the hug. I’m not a hugger, either, but I have a big family, and I recognized the gesture for what it was: a sign that my presence was not just welcome—it was appreciated. Inside the little one-story house, I said hello to the three Martinez kids: Antone, Angelica, and Gabriella, who hid behind her father for a moment, darted out to throw her arms around my waist, and then raced back into the house. Ernesto and I laughed, and I noticed that his laugh sounded creaky, like he hadn’t used it in a while.

  Like in many homes, the kitchen was clearly the center of the Martinez family’s personal universe. We sat down at the big wooden table in the middle of the room, and I pretended not to notice the stacks of clutter on every surface, dirty dishes in the sink, and toys on the floor. The house was a mess, but it wasn’t that much worse than some of my cousins’ homes back in Boulder. Ernesto made coffee, and we chatted about Los Angeles weather and my flight. I gave them an update on Charlie, who was saying a lot of words now, though not always very well. After a few minutes of this, Antone and Angelica wandered off to the living room to watch TV with Gabby.

  Ernesto set a mug of coffee in front of
me and sat down. I took a sip, letting him get settled, and finally asked the question I’d been holding back—whether the police had given him any further information about the case.

  His face sank, seeming to age an extra ten years. “Not in months. I know you’re probably anxious for answers about Sam, but I’m not sure I can tell you anything you don’t already know.”

  I thought it over. “What about the night of the fundraiser? When I came here to look for her, we mostly talked about the logistics. But how did they seem that night? Happy? Worried?”

  “Happy, for sure. Sam was a little nervous about leaving Charlie for the first time, you could tell, but she seemed excited. They were all dressed up, you know. I took pictures.” Abruptly, he hauled himself off his chair and went to a stack of papers near the microwave. He fished out one of those white envelopes that holds developed photos and handed it to me. “I had ‘em printed a couple of months ago. I was afraid something might happen to the computer.”

  I opened the envelope. Inside was a glossy color shot of Ruanna and Sam, posed just a few feet away in the Martinez living room. Sam looked so beautiful, with her short curled hair in soft ringlets and her face made up. I flipped through a few other shots. There was one of Ruanna and Ernesto, which Sam had probably taken, and at the back, one of just Sam. I pulled it out and examined it. I’d bet money that Ruanna had taken it while Sam wasn’t paying attention. The angle was short, just like Rue had been, and she’d caught Sam in a moment of contemplation. My sister was leaning against the wall, patting the purse that hung from her shoulder on a thin chain. She was staring into space with a tiny smile on her face: part anticipation, part sadness. Her cell phone would have been in that front pocket. Her connection to John and Charlie. My eyes stung with sudden tears. I looked up at Ernesto, who handed me a paper towel before sitting down across from me again. “Can I keep this photo?” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “Of course you can. I should have sent you a copy ages ago; we’ve just been so busy …” he trailed off, glancing around the kitchen as if noticing the mess for the first time.

  “No problem. I set the photo on the table in front of me, thinking I should make a copy for John too. “I wish I knew how it happened,” I said softly.

  “Maybe it’s better we don’t,” Ernesto replied. “You probably heard that they found the … you know, the place where he did it,” he said, waving his hand. He was dancing around the newspapers’ favorite term, which I appreciated.

  “Yeah. Did you go there?”

  He nodded. “I … I had to …. The police had it cordoned off, but even from a distance, whenever they opened the door to go in you could see the red walls. All that blood ...” He seemed to choke on the words. “Maybe it’s better we don’t know,” he repeated.

  I suddenly felt like a monster. Why was I putting this man through hell a second time? I patted his hands where they sat folded on the table. “It’s okay, Ernesto. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s all right.” He flipped his hand over and took mine, his fingers dark with oil stains that would never wash out. Ernesto was a mechanic at one of those really expensive car dealerships—Lexus or Rolls Royce or something. He gripped my hand, seeking comfort. I didn’t think I had any to give, but I didn’t pull away, either. “It was good of you to come see me and the kids. And you deserve answers.”

  That’s exactly what Sam had said. “We all deserve answers,” I said in a low voice. Trying to change the subject to something lighter, I said, “How are the kids doing?”

  He shrugged. “Antone is adjusting okay. Angelica has her ups and downs. But Gabby … It’s been ten months, nearly a third of her life, but she still thinks Mommy’s gonna walk back through the door.” He pulled his hands back, rubbing his face. “I don’t know, I keep thinking maybe if there had been a body; if she could have said goodbye … I don’t know. She doesn’t even have a grave we can visit.” He hung his head, a man beaten down by exhaustion and grief.

  Before I left, I asked him if he’d ever heard from Lizzy Thompkins. He told me she’d left town as soon as the police had finished interviewing her.

  “Where did she go?”

  “Beats me. Someplace where she can start fresh, I’m guessing.” For a moment he looked wistful. “Can you blame her?”

  5. Lex

  When I went to bed in my crappy hotel room, I half-expected to see Sam again. I was here, following her instructions, wasn’t I? Surely she’d want to check in on my progress? But I just had regular dreams filled with tangled snatches of images: sunshine and graves and a green dress with fringe.

  By eight a.m. I was driving south toward Chino. Traffic was light this early on a Sunday morning, but I still had to pay close attention to freeway signs. I could drive the route from the airport to Sam’s neighborhood in Long Beach from memory, but I didn’t know East LA very well. It appeared to be an industrial area, filled with plenty of factories, concrete, and patches of scrubby bare land, but very few private homes. Compared to the rest of the city, this part of town seemed barren.

  The California Institute for Women was surprisingly enormous, bigger than many college campuses. I’d arrived plenty early, but it still took ages to park, go through security, and wait my turn for visitation. The other people in line were mostly families: fathers and grandparents toting small children, many of whom were dressed up, either to see their mothers or maybe for church afterwards. We were divided into groups while our inmates were summoned, and then at last it was my turn to go into the visiting room and meet Petra Corbett.

  The prison’s exterior may not have been what I was expecting, but the visiting room was: a giant, shabby space with big picnic-style tables bolted into the floor. It looked exactly like a middle-school cafeteria, with a prisoner sitting at each table. I scanned them until I found Petra Corbett, which was easier than I’d thought because most of the prisoners were Latina or black. I’d seen pictures of Petra in the paper and knew she looked like a Hitchcock blonde—slender and cold. In person, in a prison, Petra looked even more dangerous, like she was smugly hiding a weapon, secrets, or both. Probably both.

  When I arrived at the table, I reached out to shake her hand, which was allowed. I introduced myself and said, “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  She blinked for a second, as though she needed to run my words through a mental translation filter. Then she nodded. “I do not get many visitors,” she said slowly, in a French accent thick enough to put Pepé Le Pew to shame. “I have no family here and zee man in charge has made sure his people stay away from me.”

  “The man in charge?”

  She gave me a critical look. “You are not from here either, I take it.”

  “No.”

  “What are you?”

  The question was so direct, so matter-of-fact, that I had to sort of admire it. Here I’d been struggling through verbal gymnastics to get Old World creatures to reveal themselves, and she came out with a simple “what are you?” Had I been a normal human, I would probably find the phrasing a little odd, but I would have just answered with the name of my profession.

  Revealing yourself to humans is usually anathema, but I was a witch, and Simon had told me that we get a little more leeway on the whole revealing-ourselves thing. Humans just assume we’re Wiccan or delusional. “Witch,” I said quietly.

  Her eyes brightened. “As am I.” A witch. Interesting, but I wasn’t sure how it connected to anything else. “But I still do not understand why you wanted to see me,” she added.

  “I’m looking for information about my sister, Samantha Wheaton.”

  Her brow furrowed as if she were trying to place the name, then her face cleared. “She was his victim, yes? Remus?”

  “Yes,” I said, hope blooming in my chest. I showed her a small portrait photo of Sam, one she’d sent me while I was overseas. “Did you meet her?”

  She glanced at the photo for a second and shrugged. “No. I do not know zis woman. I onl
y heard zee name because of my lawyer and zee newspapers.”

  I tapped my fingers on the table, disappointed. “Okay … what about Henry Remus? What can you tell me about him?”

  Her blue eyes narrowed and crackled at the edges, and she said a few sentences very quickly in French. I didn’t know the language, but from the tone I was pretty sure she’d said some colorful things about old Henry. “He was loup-garou. It eez …” She snapped her fingers rapidly, trying to think of a word. I glanced at the guard, but if Petra’s arm waving bothered her, she didn’t show it. Frustrated, Petra raised her chin and silently made a howling motion.

  “Werewolf,” I said, suddenly understanding. “He was a werewolf?”

  “Well, yes.” She gave me a strange look, like I was a complete idiot.

  I stared at her for a long moment, while all around us people cried and laughed and said things in low meaningful tones. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane of feelings. I was too busy trying to incorporate the new information into what I already knew about werewolves, which was basically nothing. Years ago, when I was just a kid and knew nothing of magic, there had been a war in Colorado between the witches and the werewolves. Maven had helped remove the wolves from the state, and to this day they weren’t allowed in Colorado. I had no experience with them, which meant I had no context for this situation.

  But I also had no reason to think Petra was lying to me—there would be nothing for her to gain from it. “Okay, he was a werewolf. Did he really kill those women?”

  Petra shrugged, as if the deaths of four women were such an afterthought to her that she’d never gotten around to considering it. “I zink so. Somebody did.”

  “Did Remus really attack you? Try to kill you, like he did my sister?”