White Witch, Black CurseKim Harrison
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper Voyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
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First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins, 2009
Copyright © Kim Harrison 2009
Kim Harrison asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780007311279
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2010 ISBN: 9780007372539
Version: 2019-01-15
To the guy who finishes my sentences and gets my jokes. Even the lame ones.
Contents
One
The bloody handprint was gone, wiped from Kistens window but not from my memory, and it ticked me off that someone had cleaned it, as if they were trying to steal what little recollection I retained about the night hed died. The anger was misplaced fear if I was honest with myself. But I wasnt. Most days it was better that way.
Stifling a shiver from the December chill that had taken the abandoned cruiser, now in dry dock rather than floating on the river, I stood in the tiny kitchen and stared at the milky plastic as if willing the smeared mark back into existence. In the near distance came the overindulgent, powerful huff of a diesel train crossing the Ohio River. The scrape of Fords shoes on the metallic boarding ladder was harsh, and worry pinched my brow.
The Federal Inderland Bureau had officially closed the investigation into Kistens murderInderland Security hadnt even opened onebut the FIB wouldnt let me into their impound yard without an official presence. That meant intelligent, awkward Ford, since Edden thought I needed more psychiatric evaluation and I wouldnt come in anymore. Not since I fell asleep on the couch and everyone in the FIBs Cincinnati office had heard me snoring. I didnt need evaluation. What I needed was somethinganythingto rebuild my memory. If it was a bloody handprint, then so be it.
Rachel? Wait for me, the FIBs psychiatrist called, shifting my worry to annoyance. Like I cant handle this? Im a big girl. Besides, there wasnt anything left to see; the FIB had cleaned everything up. Ford had obviously been out here earliergiven the ladder and the unlocked doormaking sure everything was sufficiently tidy before our appointment.
The clatter of dress shoes on teak pushed me forward, and I untangled my arms from themselves and reached for the tiny galley table for balance as I headed to the living room. The floor was still, which felt weird. Beyond the short curtains framing the now-clean window were the dirty gray and brilliant blue tarps of boats at dry dock, the ground a good six feet below us.
Will you hold up? Ford asked again, the light eclipsing as he entered. I cant help if youre a room away.
Im waiting, I grumbled, coming to a halt and tugging my shoulder bag up. Though hed tried to hide it, Ford had some difficulty getting his butt up the ladder. I thought the idea of a psychiatrist afraid of heights was hilarious, until the amulet he wore around his neck turned a bright pink when I mentioned it and Ford went red with embarrassment. He was a good man with his own demons to circle. He didnt deserve my razzing.
Fords breathing slowed in the chill silence. Wan but determined, he gripped the table, his face whiter than usual, which made his short black hair stand out and his brown eyes soulful. Listening in on my feelings was draining, and I appreciated his wading through my emotional crap to help me piece together what had happened.
I gave him a thin smile, and Ford undid the top few buttons of his coat to reveal a professional cotton shirt and the amulet he wore while working. The metallic ley line charm was a visual display of the emotions he was picking up. He felt the emotions whether he was wearing the charm or not, but those around him had at least the illusion of privacy when he took it off. Ivy, my roommate and business partner, thought it stupid to try to break witch magic with human psychology in order to recover my memory, but I was desperate. Her efforts to find out who had killed Kisten were getting nowhere.
Fords relief at being surrounded by walls was almost palpable, and seeing him release his death grip on the table, I headed for the narrow door to the living room and the rest of the boat. The faint scent of vampire and pasta brushed against meimagination stoked by a memory. It had been five months.
My jaw clenched, and I kept my eyes on the floor, not wanting to see the broken door frame. There were smudges of dirt on the low-mat carpet that hadnt been there before, marks left by careless people who didnt know Kisten, had never known his smile, the way he laughed, or the way his eyes crinkled up when he surprised me. Technically an Inderland death without human involvement was out of the FIBs jurisdiction, but since the I.S. didnt care that my boyfriend had been turned into a blood gift, the FIB had made an effort just for me.
Murder was never taken off the books, but the investigation had been officially shelved. This was the first chance Id had to come out here to try to rekindle my memory. Someone had nicked the inside of my lip trying to bind me to them. Someone had murdered my boyfriend twice. Someone was going to be in a world of hurt when I found out who they were.
Stomach fluttering, I looked past Ford to the window where the bloody handprint had been, left like a signpost to mock my pain without giving any prints to follow. Coward.
The amulet around Fords neck flashed to an angry black. His eyes met mine as his eyebrows rose, and I forced my emotions to slow. I couldnt remember crap. Jenks, my backup and other business partner, had dosed me into forgetting so I wouldnt go after Kistens murderer. I couldnt blame him. The pixy was only four inches tall, and it had been his only option to keep me from killing myself on a suicide run. I was a witch with an unclaimed vampire bite, and that couldnt stand up to an undead vampire no matter how you sliced it.
You sure youre up to this? Ford asked, and I forced my hand down from my upper arm. Again. It throbbed with a pain long since gone as a memory tried to surface. Fear stirred in me. The recollection of being on the other side of the door and trying to break it down was an old one. It was nearly the only memory I had of that night.
I want to know, I said, but my voice sounded wobbly even to me. I had kicked the freaking door open. I had used my foot because my arm had hurt too much to move. Id been crying at the time, and my hair had been in my eyes and mouth. I had kicked the door down.
A memory sifted from what I knew, and my pulse hammered as something was added, the recollection of me falling backward, hitting a wall. My head hit a wall. Breath held, I looked across the living room, staring at the featureless paneling. Right there. I remember.
Ford came unusually close. You dont have to do it this way.
Pity was in his eyes. I didnt like it there, directed at me, and his amulet turned silver as I gathered my will and passed through the door frame. I do, I said boldly. Even if I dont remember anything, the FIB guys might have missed something.
The FIB was fantastic at gathering information, even better than the I.S. It had to be since the human-run institution had to rely on finding evidence, not sweeping the room for emotions or using witch charms to discover who committed the crime and why. Everyone was capable of missing something, though, and that was one of the reasons I was out here. The other was to remember. Now that I was, I was scared. My head hit the walljust over there.
Ford came in behind me, watching as I scanned the low-ceilinged living room that stretched from one side of the boat to the other. It looked normal here, apart from the unmoving Cincy skyline visible through the narrow windows. My hand went to my middle as my stomach cramped. I had to do this, no matter what I remembered.
I meant, Ford said as he put his hands in his pockets, Ive other ways to trigger memories.
Meditation? I said, embarrassed for having fallen asleep in his office. Feeling the beginnings of a stress headache, I strode past the couch where Kisten and I had eaten dinner, past the TV that got lousy reception, not that we ever really watched it, and past the wet bar. Inches from the undamaged wall, my jaw began to ache. Slowly I put a hand to the paneling where my head had hit, curling my fingers under when they started to tremble. My head had hit the wall. Who shoved me? Kisten? His killer? But the memory was fragmented. There was no more.
Turning away, I shoved my hand in my pocket to hide the slight shaking. My breath slipped from me in an almostvisible cloud, and I tugged my coat closer. The train was long gone. Nothing moved past the curtains but a flapping blue tarp. Instinct told me Kisten hadnt died in this room. I had to go deeper.
Ford said nothing as I walked into the dark, narrow hallway, blind until my eyes adjusted. My pulse quickened as I passed the tiny bathroom where Id tried on the sharp caps Kisten had given me for my birthday, and I slowed, listening to my body and realizing I was rubbing my fingertips together as they silently burned.
My skin tingled, and I halted, staring at my fingers, recognizing the memory of feeling carpet under my fingers, hot from friction. I held my breath as a new thought surfaced, born from the long-gone sensation. Terror, helplessness. I had been dragged down this hall.
A flash of remembered panic rose, and I squelched it, forcing my breath out in a slow exhalation. The lines Id made in the carpet had been erased by the FIB vacuuming for evidence, erased from my memory by a spell. Only my body had remembered, and now me.
Ford stood silently behind me. He knew something was trickling through my brain. Ahead was the door to the bedroom, and my fear thickened. That was where it had happened. That was where Kisten had lain, his body torn and savaged, slumped against the bed, his eyes silvered and truly dead. What if I remember it all? Right here in front of Ford and break down?
Rachel.
I jumped, startled, and Ford winced. We can do this another way, he coaxed. The meditation didnt work, but hypnosis might. Its less stressful.
Shaking my head, I moved forward and reached for the handle of Kistens room. My fingers were pale and cold, looking like mine but not. Hypnosis was a false calm that would put off the panic until the middle of the night when Id be alone. Im fine, I said, then pushed the door open. Taking a slow breath, I went in.
The large room was cold, the wide windows that let in the light doing little to keep out the chill. Arm clutched against me, I looked to where Kisten had been propped up against the bed. Kisten. There was nothing. My heart ached as I missed him. Behind me, Ford started to breathe with an odd regularity, working to keep my emotions from overwhelming him.
Someone had cleaned the carpet where Kisten had died for the second and final time. Not that there had been much blood. The fingerprint powder was gone, but the only prints they had found were from me, Ivy, and Kistenscattered like signposts. Thered been none from his murderer. Not even on Kistens body. The I.S. had probably cleaned his corpse between when Id left to kick some vampire ass and my bewildered return with the FIB after Id forgotten everything.
The I.S. didnt want the murder solved, a courtesy to whoever Kistens last blood had been given as a thank-you. Inderland tradition came before societys laws, apparently. The same people Id actually once worked for were covering it up, and that pissed me off.
My thoughts vacillated between rage and a debilitating heartache. Ford panted, and I tried to relax, for him if nothing else. Blinking back the threatened tears, I stared at the ceiling, breathing in the cold, quiet air and counting backward from ten, running through the useless exercise Ford had given me to find a light state of meditation.
At least Kisten had been spared the sordidness of being drained for someones pleasure. He had died twice in quick succession, both times probably trying to save me from the vampire hed been given to. His necropsy had been no help at all. Whatever had killed him the first time had been repaired by the vampire virus before he died again. And if what Id told Jenks before losing my memory was true, hed died his second death by biting his attacker, mixing their undead blood to kill them both. Unfortunately, Kisten hadnt been dead for long. It might only have left his much older attacker simply wounded. I just didnt know.
I mentally reached zero, and calmer, I moved toward the dresser. There was a shirt box on it, and I almost bent double in heartache when I recognized it.
Oh God, I whispered. My hand went out, turning to a fist before my fingers slowly uncurled and I touched it. It was the lace teddy Kisten had given me for my birthday. Id forgotten it was here.
Im sorry, Ford rasped, and my gaze blurring from tears, I saw him slumped in the threshold.
My eyes squinted shut to make the tears leak out, and I held my breath. My head pounded, and I took a gasping breath only to hold it again, struggling for control. Damn it, he had loved me, and I had loved him. It wasnt fair. It wasnt right. And it was probably my fault.
A soft sound from the threshold told me Ford was struggling, and I forced myself to breathe. I had to get control of myself. I was hurting Ford. He was feeling everything I was, and I owed him a lot. Ford was the reason I hadnt been hauled in for questioning by the FIB despite my working for them occasionally. He was human, but his curse of being able to feel anothers emotions was better than a polygraph or truth charm. He knew Id loved Kisten and was terrified of what had happened here. You okay? I asked when his breathing evened out.
Fine. Yourself? he said in a wispy voice.
Peachy keen, I said, gripping the top of the dresser. Im sorry. I didnt know it was going to be this bad.
I knew what I was in for when I agreed to bring you out here, he said, wiping a tear from his eye that I no longer would cry for myself. I can take anything you dish out, Rachel.
I turned away, guilty. Ford stayed where he was, the distance helping him cope with the overload. He never touched anyone except by accident. It had to be a crappy way to live. But as I rocked away from the dresser, there was a soft pull as my fingertips left the underside of the dresser top. Sticky. Sniffing my fingertips, I found the faint bite of propellant.
Sticky web. Someone had used sticky web and smeared it off on the underside of the dresser top. Me? Kistens murderer? Sticky web worked only on fairies and pixies. It was little more than an irritant to anyone else, like a spiderweb. Jenks had begged off coming out here on the excuse of it being too cold, which it was, but maybe he knew more than he was saying.
My heartache eased from the distraction, and kneeling, I dug in my bag for a penlight and shined it on the underside of the lip of the dresser. Id be willing to bet no one had dusted it. Ford came close, and I snapped the light off and stood. I didnt want FIB justice. I wanted my own. Ivy and I would come out later and do our own recon. Test the ceiling for evidence of hydrocarbons, too. Shake Jenks down to find out just how long hed been with me that night.
Fords disapproval was almost palpable, and I knew if I looked, his amulet would be a bright red from picking up my anger. I didnt care. I was angry, and that was better than falling apart. With a new feeling of purpose, I faced the rest of the room. Ford had seen the smeared mess.
The FIB would reopen the case if they found one good printother than the one Id just made, that is. This might be the last time I was allowed in here.
Leaning back against the dresser, I closed my eyes and crossed my arms, trying to remember. Nothing. I needed more. Wheres the stuff? I asked, both dreading and eager to realize what else lay hidden in my mind, ready to surface.
There was the sound of sliding plastic, and Ford reluctantly handed me a packet of evidence bags and a stack of photos. Rachel, we should leave if theres a viable print.
The FIB has had five months, I said, nervous as I took them. Its my turn. And dont give me any crap about disturbing evidence. The entire department has been through here. If theres a print, its probably one of theirs.
He sighed as I turned to the dresser and arranged the plastic bags, print side down. I took up the photos first, my gaze rising to the reflection of the room behind me.
I moved the picture of the smeared, bloody handprint on the kitchen window to the back of the stack, and tidied the pile with several businesslike taps. I got nothing from the handprint apart from the feeling that it wasnt mine or Kistens.
The picture of Kisten was absent, thank God, and I crossed the room with a photo of a dent in the wall. Ford was silent as I touched the paneling, and I decided by the lack of phantom pain that I hadnt made it. Thered been a fight here other than mine. Over me, probably.
I slid the photo behind the stack. Under it was a close-up of a shoe imprint taken under the bank of windows. My head started to throb, and with that as a warning, I knew something was here, lurking in my thoughts. Jaw tight, I forced myself to the window, kneeling to run a hand over the smooth carpet, trying to spark a memory even as I feared it. The print was of a mans dress shoe. Not Kistens. It was too mundane for that. Kisten had kept only the latest fashions in his closet. Had the shoe been black or brown? I thought, willing something to surface.
Nothing. Frustrated, I closed my eyes. In my thoughts, the scent of vampire incense mixed with an unfamiliar aftershave. A quiver rose through me, and not caring what Ford thought, I put my face on the carpet to breathe in the smell of fibers. SomethinganythingPlease
Panic fluttered at the edge of my thoughts, and I forced myself to breathe more deeply, not caring that my butt was in the air as primitive switches in my brain fired and scents were given names. Musky shadows that never saw the sun. The cloying scent of decayed water. Earth. Silk. Candlescented dust. They added up to the undead. If Id been a vampire, I might have been able to find Kistens killer by scent alone, but I was a witch.
Tense, I breathed again, searching my thoughts and finding nothing. Slowly the feeling of panic subsided and my headache retreated. I exhaled in relief. Id been mistaken. There was nothing here. It was just carpet, and my mind had been inventing smells as it tried to fulfill my need for answers. Nothing, I murmured into the carpet, inhaling deeply one last time before I sat up.
A pulse of terror washed through me as I breathed in the scent of vampire. Shocked, I awkwardly scrambled to my feet, staring down at the carpet as if having been betrayed. Damn it.
In a cold sweat, I turned away and tugged my coat straight. Ivy. Ill ask her to come out and smell the carpet, I thought, then almost laughed. Catching it back in a harsh gurgle, I pretended to cough, fingers cold as I shifted to the next photo.
Oh, even better, I thought sarcastically. Scratch marks on the paneling. My breath came fast and my gaze shot straight to the wall by the tiny closet as my fingertips started to throb. Almost panting, I stared, refusing to go look and confirm that my finger span matched the marks, afraid I might remember something even as I wanted to. I didnt recall making the marks on the wall, but it was obvious my body did.
Id seen fear before. Id seen fear bright and shiny when death comes at you in an instant and you can only react. I knew the nauseating mix of fear and hope when death comes slow and you frantically try to find a way to escape it. Id grown up with old fear, the kind that stalks you from a distance, death lurking on the horizon, so inevitable and inescapable that it loses its power. But this outright panic with no visible reason was new, and I trembled as I tried to find a way to deal with it. Maybe I can ignore it. That works for Ivy.
Clearing my throat, I tried for an air of nonchalance as I set the remaining pictures on the dresser and spread them out, but I wasnt fooling anyone.
Smears of bloodnot splattered, but smeared. Kistens, according to the FIB guys. A picture of a split drawer that had been slid back out of sight. Another useless bloody handprint on the deck where Kistens killer had vaulted over the side. None of them hit me like the scratches or carpet, and I struggled with wanting to know, but was afraid to remember.
Slowly my pulse eased and my shoulders lost their stiffness. I set the pictures down, bypassing the bags of dust and lint the FIB had vacuumed up, seeing my strands of red curls among the carpet fuzz and sock fluff. I watched myself in the mirror as my fingers touched the hair band in a clear evidence bag. It was one of mine, and it had held my braid together that night. A dull throb in my scalp lifted through my awareness, and Ford shifted uneasily.
Shit, the band meant something.
Talk to me, Ford said, and I pressed my thumb into the rubber cord through the plastic, trying to keep the fear from gaining control again. Evidence pointed at me to be Kistens killer, hence the not-quite-hidden mistrust I now felt at the FIB, but I hadnt done it. Id been here, but I hadnt done it. At least Ford believed me. Someone had left the stinking bloody handprints.
This is mine, I said softly so my voice wouldnt quaver. I thinksomeone undid my hair. Feeling unreal, I turned the bag over to see that it had been found in the bedroom, and a surge of panic rose from out of nowhere. My heart hammered, but I forced my breathing to steady. Memory trickled back, pieces, and nothing of use. Fingers in my hair. My face against a wall. Kistens killer taking my hair out of its braid. No wonder I hadnt let Jenkss kids touch my hair much the last five months or why Id freaked when Marshal had tucked my hair behind my ear.
Queasy, I dropped the bag, dizzy when the edges of my sight dimmed. If I passed out, Ford would call someone, and that would be that. I wanted to know. I had to.
The last piece of evidence was damning, and turning to rest my backside against the dresser, I shook a small, unbroken blue pellet to the corner of its bag. It was filled with a now-defunct sleepy-time charm. It was the only thing in my arsenal that would drop a dead vampire.
A faint prickling of the hair on the back of my neck grew as a new thought lifted through me and a whisper of memory clenched my heart. My breath came out in a pained rush, and my head bowed. I was crying, swearing. Pointing my splat gun, I pulled the trigger. And laughing, he caught the spell.
He caught it, I whispered, closing my eyes so they wouldnt fill. I tried to shoot him, and he caught it without breaking it. My wrist pulsed in pain and another memory surfaced. Thin fingers gripped my wrist. My hand went numb. A thump when my gun hit the floor.