Dead Witch on a Bridge Page 3

  I walked over, watching the dog’s dark eyes for any sign of intelligence or malice—too often the same thing—and picked up the staff. It warmed in my hand and vibrated slightly as it recognized its owner. I moved the staff behind my back, blocking its radiating power from the dog with my body.

  The howl sank to a whimper, and then it was quiet.

  The dog jumped up, tail wagging, tongue lolling, and bounded over to me, no sign of either intelligence or malice.

  I reached out a hand, holding the staff behind me with the other one. “What are you doing here?”

  Panting, he smiled a doggy smile.

  “Are you going to eat me?” I asked.

  He continued to smile.

  I saw a collar around his neck, buried in the black fur, but I couldn’t find any tags.

  I held the dog’s head between both hands and looked into his eyes. His fur was soft, clean, freshly brushed. “Did the Protector send you to me?”

  Too quickly for me to stop him, the dog’s tongue shot out and licked my face, penetrating a nostril as it swiped past.

  I wiped my face and used a quick spell to see if I could feel any hint of a human or magical fingerprint but sensed none. That didn’t mean there wasn’t any. I’d been kicked out of the Protectorate, after all—my powers were unreliable.

  “So. Dog. We have a problem.” The staff was awkward behind my back, so I set it to one side, silently commanding it to relax for now. “You can’t stay here.”

  He looked at me with the biggest, saddest eyes I’d ever seen and then tilted his head to one side. I felt actual pain in my chest, as if the needles I used to thread my beads were using my aorta as a pincushion.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” I said. “I’ve got to go out, probably for the rest of the day.” The shock of the night before was flooding back into my body, compelling me to take some kind of action. I wasn’t sure what, which bothered me even more.

  He trotted away from me and began exploring the house, his scraggly black tail wagging. I heard the sound of dog toenails against porcelain and hurried into the bathroom to find him in the tub, eagerly licking the dripping faucet.

  Nurturing instincts kicked in. Whoever or whatever he was, I had to give him a proper drink. In the kitchen, I filled a bowl with water and set it on the floor. He loped in and immediately began lapping it up. Water droplets flew around his face and made a puddle on the tile. His pleasure was extreme, obvious, sincere.

  I had been trained to identify the evil in demons and magic, both as a descendant of an ancient witch family and as an agent of the Protectorate, and I could sense nothing dangerous about the dog other than his thirst.

  He finished drinking and sat back, panting and smiling.

  I opened the back door and shooed him outside. Then I turned away from his sad eyes and went to the bathroom to take a shower. When I was dressed and ready to go out, I grabbed a can of cold coffee out of the fridge (the drink of the damned, Tristan had called it) and opened the back door. The dog was still there, right where I’d put him, acting thrilled to see me.

  I rested my forehead on the door. If I let him back into the house, I wouldn’t be here to let him out. And under the circumstances, I couldn’t leave the door open, even with a few spells. Too risky.

  “You can’t stay inside,” I said.

  He stared up at me.

  I stared back. I thought about the forces gathering, the unknown ones that had already broken through. What else could I do? I stepped out, closed the door behind me, and jerked my head. “All right, come with me.” He jumped up and trotted beside me to my Jeep in the driveway.

  “I hope you don’t get carsick,” I said as I opened the back seat.

  He jumped in and immediately scrambled forward into the passenger seat, where he sat upright and stared straight ahead. Tongue lolling out, obviously ready to rumble.

  He seemed more sure of himself than I was. Once again, I put a hand on my necklace, buried the other in his fur, and stared at the dog with my third eye, the gift that even my father thought was a crock of sparkling fae scat.

  My third eye didn’t see anything but canis familiaris. The eagerness to please me and love me forever was indeed magic, but the kind of magic that all good dogs had.

  So maybe… sometimes… a dog was just a dog.

  But why me? Why today?

  “You’re so random,” I said.

  I got into the driver’s seat and decided to find the one man left in Silverpool who might be able to help. Jasper was a fellow outsider, a witch who didn’t work for the Protectorate. And he was the closest thing I had to a friend.

  And if something was in town killing witches, he might need help looking after himself. I’d been kicked out of the Protectorate, but at least I’d been trained to kill.

  Hadn’t been able to do it, but killing was overrated.

  As Tristan would surely agree.

  Ten feet past my driveway, a dark-haired, twentysomething woman in a cropped purple sweater and skinny jeans jumped out from behind the shrubs and ran in front of my Jeep, her arms flapping.

  “Wait! Wait!”

  I slammed on the brakes and flung out a hand to stop the dog from flying through the windshield. Although I hadn’t been going very fast, it would’ve been fast enough to crush the legs of a nonmagical store clerk in her flip-flops.

  “Birdie.” It was my neighbor from across the street, Elizabeth Crow. Nickname, Birdie. I let out my breath, closed my eyes, and released my grip on Random’s fur.

  “Did you hear?” Birdie came around to the driver’s side, her brown eyes wide with concern. “Tristan Price… on the bridge…”

  “I heard,” I said.

  “Poor guy. So, so sad. I hope you’re all right? Hi there, dog. Why do you have a dog in your car? Is that your dog? Or is it Tristan’s? Somebody mentioned he was getting a dog. Not that I knew him, even though he came into the store a lot. Was in yesterday, actually, can you believe it? Now he’s gone. Poor baby, your human is in heaven now, but don’t worry, Alma will take care of you.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, could you give me a ride to Livia’s? My car battery is dead. I must’ve left the dome lights on or something. I’ll find another ride back. Can you wait while I get my purse?”

  I’d learned not to interrupt Birdie’s flow of words. Talking only encouraged her, like shouting at a barking dog.

  Speaking of dogs, Random was ignoring Birdie completely, staring straight ahead as if she weren’t there. If I had to guess his mood, it was impatience. I could relate.

  “I don’t know, Birdie,” I said. “Livia—”

  But Birdie was already jogging away, looking over her shoulder and holding up an index finger. She wasn’t a witch, but somehow that index finger had the power to keep me from driving away. I kept to myself, especially since I’d moved to Silverpool, and never got too close to normal people. But Birdie was a force of nature. There was no stopping her—not even with magic, and I was ashamed to admit I’d been tempted. We were about the same age, and she was painfully sweet; I felt guilty for not being more sociable with her.

  “There! Thank you so much.” Birdie climbed into the back seat behind Random, reaching forward to stroke and pat him. “Aren’t you beautiful. What’s your name?” She stroked his neck. “Nice collar. Did Tristan die before he had a chance to get him tags? No, he’s not Tristan’s dog, is he? Sorry, I got carried away. Everything makes me think of Tristan Price today.”

  “I know,” I said. “Me too.”

  “He’s a rescue, right? They say nobody likes to adopt black dogs from shelters, especially mixed breeds, because they’re sinister or something, like bad luck in a fairy tale. Beast from hell,” she said. “As if this sweet guy would ever hurt anyone. He’s as gentle as a therapy dog. Will your cat have a problem with him? Obviously not or you wouldn’t have gotten him. What’s his name?”

  I waited for a moment to make sure she was going to give me time to answer. “I think I’ll c
all him Random.”

  “Great name! Do you like hiking, Random? I could take him hiking sometimes if you’re not afraid of ticks. They were terrible last spring because we had so much rain over the winter. I got those clothes with the organic chemical stuff in it that is supposed to keep them away. I’m not sure it works, but I don’t seem to attract ticks anyway. I think it’s because I’m a vegetarian? Does that make sense?”

  “Got your seat belt on?” I asked, hitting the gas.

  Birdie yelped, laughing, and scooted back into her seat to put on the seat belt. The Jeep didn’t have the smoothest ride, but it got me over the roads near the river when they flooded every winter.

  The car fell silent as we drove down the hill into Silverpool’s business district, which consisted of three quiet blocks of retail shops and small industry, and then up another road that led to the larger, wealthier homes overlooking the river.

  People who didn’t get to know Birdie—which, unfortunately for the socially starved Birdie, was most—never learned that the torrent of words faded away after the first few minutes of her company. It was as if the stress of first meeting triggered the word explosion, but as she relaxed, the talking slowed to a steady stream rather than a flash flood. I’d learned to let it flow before attempting a conversation.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Birdie said, reaching forward to pet Random. “I just couldn’t deal with my car this morning. It’s usually so reliable, you know? That’s why I got a Toyota.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I was a little worried about having to talk to Livia.

  “Oh! I didn’t realize! Livia is going to want you to tell her everything. You should’ve told me to find another ride.”

  I smiled faintly.

  “You’re right,” Birdie said. “I would’ve blabbed on anyway. I get carried away and I just use words to hold on.” Birdie sighed and turned her face to the window. “There I go again.”

  This was the time with Birdie that I dreaded—when she was beating herself up. Her shoulders slumped, the corners of her mouth turned down, the sparkle went out of her eyes.

  After my rough night, I wasn’t in the best place to cheer anyone up. Distraction might work though. “How did you hear about Tristan?”

  Birdie reached forward to sink her fingers into Random’s fur again. “On my run. The bridge was blocked off with police tape. I stopped and asked why. I can’t believe anyone would run someone over and then just drive away. Didn’t even call 911. I guess they figured it could be traced and they’d get in trouble.” Some of the animation came back into her voice. “Cute cop though. I don’t remember seeing him before.”

  The idea of a new, young cop made me nervous. The older ones tended to stay away from Silverpool or keep their visits short. Tristan had encouraged (and magically enhanced) that attitude.

  “Lots of hotties out this morning, come to think of it,” Birdie continued. “There was another cute guy selling apples out of his truck near Taco Perdido on Main Street. Gravensteins. I wanted to get some before they got mushy. You know how they’re only crunchy for a week or two and then they get all waxy on the outside and they’re like sourdough bread inside? I hate that. Anyway, these were good. He said to say hi.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “Who did?”

  “The apple guy. He mentioned you by name.”

  Chapter Five

  Birdie didn’t seem to notice how her casual comment had upset me. Witches had ways of limiting any gossip about them. Too much casual chitchat about the woman with the messy garden or the guy with the chunky silver necklace could lead to disaster. That is, death.

  “I figured you knew each other,” Birdie said. “He didn’t seem at all like a guy who’d be selling apples out of his truck.”

  That’s because he hadn’t been a guy selling apples out of his truck. More than one kind of magical being could’ve sensed Birdie’s desire for apples and made it happen. Who was he?

  “Describe the guy,” I said.

  “Cop or apple?”

  “Apple.”

  “Agreed. Both were cute, but apple guy was cuter.” Birdie smiled. “Dark hair, blue eyes, six foot one with lots of muscle, long nose with skinny nostrils, dimple in his chin, scar on his right cheek, pierced eyebrow, tattoo under his collar. The ink was orange. Fire maybe.”

  On the road outside Livia’s house, I braked and stared at Birdie. She’d just described Seth Dumont perfectly. What was he up to? “Do you have a photographic memory?” I asked.

  Birdie smiled. “I do if I want to take a picture of what I’m looking at.”

  With renewed appreciation, I asked, “How about the cop?”

  “More like Luke than Han, you know what I mean? Blondish, boyish, guardian of goodness.” Birdie leaned back into her seat and unfastened the seat belt. “We didn’t talk. He was busy with the scene of the accident. Drivers were yelling at him to open the bridge. Looks like he did. It was open when we drove by just now, did you notice?”

  “I noticed.” When the bridge was closed, getting out of Silverpool meant a two-hour detour—out to the ocean, down to Highway 1, and then back east on a winding two-lane road through redwood forest, rolling grassland, orchards, off-the-grid homesteads, remote B & Bs, and dairy farms. Even with the bridge open, nonmagicals often had trouble finding Silverpool unless they’d been born there or were escorted by a resident. It was a spell Protectors had worked hard to maintain. With Tristan dead, not only supernatural threats but more and more human strangers, innocent and not-so-innocent, might start showing up.

  “I hope it was quick,” Birdie said. “I hate to think of him lying there.”

  “Me too.” My voice wavered.

  Birdie put a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. “I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “I know. Me neither.”

  I parked in the narrow circular driveway positioned below Livia’s house, a luxury vacation-style home on a steep hill.

  Right after moving in last year, Livia had cut down the original cedar, fir, and redwood around it to provide a panoramic view of the valley below from her wraparound deck. She’d pressured her neighbor downhill to do the same to improve her view. The neighbor, an elderly, irritable male witch, had refused.

  Her next step had been to write him a letter on legal stationery, claiming the trees were a hazard. Soon after the letter, a family of skunks moved in under the planks of her deck, directly below the yoga mat where she did her sun salutations every morning. And then something annoyed the skunks, and her deck became unusable for months.

  The trees were still there. It was a bad idea to make a witch your enemy. Even if you didn’t believe in them.

  “I’d rather drop you off,” I muttered. “But I’d better say hi. She might see my car and be offended I didn’t come in.” I got out of the Jeep and went over to the passenger side.

  Birdie climbed out next to me. “I forgot it would be awkward with you being Tristan’s ex and Livia being in love with him.”

  Yes, it was always awkward. “I’ll make it quick.” I reached in and cracked the window. “I don’t have a leash, so I’m going to have to leave him in the car.” Even though he wasn’t my dog, I felt responsible for him. With so many blind corners and hills, a dog could easily get run over.

  I followed Birdie up the two dozen steep wooden steps that led to the deck and front door. Livia herself used a short driveway at the top of the hill behind the house, saving herself the climb she imposed on her guests.

  When I got to the top, I looked back. Random sat rigidly in the front seat, watching me as if I’d commanded him to stand guard.

  I watched the dog, and the dog watched me. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

  Was he protecting me from someone? Or protecting someone else from me?

  The door flung open. “Birdie, how nice of you to come,” Livia said. Her tone cooled. “And you brought Alma.”

  Livia was the wealthy granddaught
er of a boutique winemaker in Napa. She’d only moved to Silverpool last year after meeting Tristan at a wine festival. In her late thirties and tall, dark, and beautiful, Livia wore the kind of clothes you’d see in a magazine feature about the wealthy granddaughter of a famous winemaker living in a luxury home in a rural Californian redwood forest. Lots of pale earth tones, silk scarves, handmade jewelry, expensive jeans that had been artificially distressed. Her white sneakers were as spotless as pillowcases at the Ritz.

  “Alma brought me,” Birdie said. “I asked her for a ride because…”

  The gush of words began to flow. Birdie rambled on about her car battery and ticks and the cute guy selling apples, while Livia waited patiently for her to finish. When Birdie finally paused for breath, Livia turned to me.

  “Why was he walking across the bridge in the middle of the night?” she demanded.

  “He loved going for walks along there,” I said. “Especially around harvest time.”

  Like other nonmagicals, Livia had known Tristan only as a rich guy with a winery. Who for some bizarre reason had befriended and briefly dated the broke, artsy nobody Alma Bellrose.

  “It was a beautiful night,” Birdie said.

  Livia usually gave an impression of businesslike superiority, but now she crumpled, tears beginning to flow as she held out her arms to Birdie.

  “Life is so unfair,” Livia said, her voice hitching on a sob.

  Birdie didn’t hesitate to fling open her own arms. “It is,” she said. Maybe the shortest sentence she’d ever spoken.

  The two women embraced briefly. Livia sniffed, pulled back, and wiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands.

  “Come on in.” She opened the door. Just inside, three cats of various colors and sizes sat watching us.

  Cats.

  My skin began to itch. I’d never been inside Livia’s house before. Becoming friends had never been on either one of our agendas.

  “I didn’t realize you had cats,” I said.