Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Franklin
I figured death warmed over looked better than me when I walked into the precinct three hours after crawling into bed. I wish I could say I’d at least gotten those precious hours of sleep. I hadn’t. I lay there, tossing and turning. Boone’s haunted green eyes stared back at me every time I closed mine. I’d hurt him. Why that bothered me was a mystery I didn’t want to delve into. I had too many damn unknowns eroding my life to endlessly worry over that one. And yet that’s all my brain wanted to do. It was fucking frustrating.
“O’Hare! My office.”
I’d barely placed my coffee mug on my cluttered desk when Captain Cicely’s voice echoed over the din of the bullpen. Slipping out of my dress jacket left me in a short-sleeved, pressed shirt and purple paisley tie.
“Not the best way to start the morning,” Becks said, her deep-brown eyes peeking over the top of her computer screen. “Captain was here before me. Good luck,” she offered before going back to her work, dismissing me.
Knowing Ebony Becks was typically the first one into the office, that did not bode well. Offering a quick, “Thanks, Becks,” I received a thumbs up while her head remained buried behind a nondescript screen.
Running my hand over my tie, I straightened my appearance. The summer heat was in full swing, humidity high and already stretching my deodorant to the limits. My dress shoes tapped hollowly along the linoleum floor as I made my way down a small hall to Captain Cicely’s office. I didn’t fear the woman, but I did have a healthy respect for her. I’d be the ultimate fool not to.
Knocking on the doorframe, I asked, “Okay to come in?”
The captain waved me forward while sitting in a chair that was at least two sizes too large for her smaller frame. “Sit down, O’Hare.”
Doing as I was told, I eased my tired frame into the cracked pleather seat and leaned back. A heavy, reluctant sigh slipped past my lips and drew Captain Cicely’s attention.
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned my appearance clinically. “You need another cup or twelve of coffee.”
Despite the circumstances, I managed a chuckle. “I’ll continue working on that.”
Captain Cicely glanced at her computer screen, running through the report I’d hastily typed up early this morning. It was preliminary, but it was enough to get Captain Cicely’s attention.
She tapped the screen. “I’ve read this report half a dozen times and I still don’t think I understand. What the hell happened out there?” She gave me her full attention, pulling off her readers and tossing them onto a nearby pile of papers.
“I wish I knew.” And that was the honest to God truth. “And before you ask, Boone’s not sure either.”
Captain Cicely’s mouth twisted. “Well, that’s…unfortunate. And more than a little disturbing.”
“Understatement, but yes, that’s the crux’s of it.”
She tapped the screen again. “And Erasmus has no idea who—or maybe what—could do something like this?”
The words were on the tip of my tongue. Boone hadn’t made it seem like what he’d told me was in confidence, and yet I was reluctant to pass that knowledge on. I had no idea why, but it felt like a betrayal.
That was the only reason I could give for my answer of, “We’re working on it.” That wasn’t a total lie. I didn’t think Boone was responsible for what happened to Rebecca Mosely’s soul. Could it have been another necromancer? Maybe. From what I understood, Erasmus Boone was something of an anomaly. Then again, how much did we really know about necromancers? Most stayed under the radar. As a general rule, I understood why. They were shunned by nearly everyone. That shunning began with their warlock fathers but extended to the community at large.
Captain Cicely leaned back, rocking her chair slightly. Fingers steepled beneath her chin, the deep-brown skin around her eyes crinkled as they narrowed. “Well, at least we’ve got a name. That’s something.”
“It is. I’m sorry, Captain, but I haven’t had time yet to—”
Captain Cicely cut me off. “I’ve already sent out the notification. You’re right. Rebecca Mosely was a witch. I had to leave a message with her coven leader. I didn’t go into details, just asked if she could call at her earliest convenience.” Captain Cicely winced ever so slightly. “I’m not looking forward to that conversation, but I want to be the one to tell her.”
Captain Cicely wasn’t the leader of a coven, but she was part of one. Witches didn’t often participate in human law enforcement. They had their own Magical Usage Council for that kind of thing, and I had no doubt Captain Cicely had already alerted them to Rebecca Mosely’s death. Witches and warlocks were close enough to humanity that they sometimes merged with our world. I, for one, was thankful. Loretta Cicely and I had worked together since I moved to Mississippi. I’d gotten one hell of an education from her and continued learning new topics daily. She was just as capable, if not more so, than any human I’d worked under.
Interlacing her fingers, Captain Cicely’s rings tapped out a metallic musical note against each other. “I’ve read Dr. McCallister’s preliminary report also.” She frowned. “Not much there. No obvious cause of death.”
“Something magical?” I asked. Given the lack of obvious marks or any sign of cause of death made that the logical next step. “Rebecca certainly didn’t bury herself.” That pretty much ruled out suicide. Besides, suicides within the witch community were beyond rare.
“No, that much is perfectly clear. I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet, but I think we have to explore that path, especially considering the state of Rebecca’s soul.”
I had to ask, “Can witchcraft tear apart a soul?”
Captain Cicely shook her head. “No. That’s destructive magic and not in a witch’s wheelhouse. Maybe a warlock, although I’ve never heard of it. You should ask Erasmus. If he doesn’t know, then maybe he can ask his father.”
I swallowed hard. “Nikodemus Holland.”
“The one and only,” Captain Cicely answered. “Bit of advice, leave the questioning to Erasmus. I’ve had the displeasure of speaking with Warlock Holland before, and trust me, once was definitely enough. He’s an ass.”
I’d never had the displeasure myself, but I’d heard stories, and the captain’s verbal backup didn’t entice me to challenge those tales.
“I can contact Boone later today if that’s okay. It was a late morning. I kept him at the gravesite longer than I’d typically keep a civilian. And considering what happened with the victim’s soul…” I spread out my hands, palms turned upward. “Boone needs some rest.”
“So do you, but that didn’t stop you from hauling your ass out of bed and crawling into the precinct.” When I started to protest, Captain Cicely held up a halting hand. “I get it, and I don’t mind waiting until a little later. That said, I don’t like this, O’Hare. I don’t like it at all, and it’s not just because the victim is a witch. This bit about tattered souls and screaming corpses is a bad business. This case doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies. In fact, my skin feels like it’s crawling with ants.”
I knew the feeling. I just didn’t need the visual to go along with it.
“I’ll call Boone,” I answered, all too eager to comply. I needed to apologize, although I still wasn’t completely sure what to apologize for, or how to make Boone believe my sincerity. I’d reacted poorly yesterday—or maybe more accurately, I’d responded in a typical, reactive human way. Most likely Boone had enough of that shit in his life. He didn’t need it coming from me. And, more importantly, I didn’t want it coming from me. I might not fully understand why, but regardless, it was important to go against the expected grain where Erasmus Boone was concerned.
B oone lived in a quaint little neighborhood surrounded by typical southern architecture. Wide, inviting porches welcomed people from the street, enticing them to come up and sit for a spell. Boone’s house fit right in.
White-painted clapboards covered the exterior walls. The porch floor was old, painted pine, and the ceiling was colored a light blue. A swing hung from hooks and was situated to the right of the door.
The walkway was old brick, patches of moss growing up between the spaces, showing the path’s age. Bright pink azaleas were finishing their blooming season, but still appeared magnificent as they crowded and skirted the house.
The place was quaintly beautiful, and yet it appeared pale next to the man sitting on that swing. One of his legs was bent while the other, bare of shoes and socks, pushed against the weathered floor, gently swinging him back and forth. Boone’s loose cargo shorts hung on his smaller body, and his threadbare t-shirt looked like it might have been new about a decade ago. He was freshly washed, his hair still damp from the shower.
“Detective O’Hare.” Boone managed a tight smile, far removed from his typical grin. “Care for some iced sweet tea? I’ll warn you, I learned how to make it from my momma and it’ll probably give you a cavity or three. If you don’t like that, I’ve got lemonade or water. You’re probably still on the clock, so a beer is out of the question.”
A cold beer sounded heavenly, but Boone was right. I was still working. “The tea will be fine.” I’d lived in the South long enough to understand iced tea meant something different here than it did in northern Illinois.
“It’s on the table.” Boone nodded at a small table with a glass of iced tea and several melting ice cubes.
“Thank you.” I grabbed the glass, downing half its contents. My suit jacket stuck to my sweaty skin and pulled when I brought the glass to my lips.
“For Gaia’s sake, take that jacket off before you melt. You can toss it over the railing.”
Considering Boone’s casual dress, I took him up on the offer, slipping out of my jacket none too gracefully. The humidity didn’t make it much cooler without the jacket, but the overhead fan helped.
There was room on the swing. I didn’t take the available seat. Instead, I leaned heavily on the railing. Thankfully, it was strong and in good repair. Boone’s carefully masked expression didn’t tell me if he was offended or not. My choice of seat wasn’t meant to be offensive or to hint I was uncomfortable being close to him. I simply liked looking people in the eyes when having a conversation. And Boone’s eyes were particularly interesting to look into. I didn’t want to waste an opportunity by sitting next to him.
“Thanks for the drink,” I offered, holding up my nearly-empty glass.
“There’s more where that came from.”
I tilted my glass and nodded. “I just might take you up on that.”
Boone relaxed, if only marginally.
We stayed like that for a few precious seconds before I said, “I owe you an apology.” I’d been itching to say those words all day. They crowded my head and wouldn’t let anything else in. They needed to be set free.
“For what?” Boone appeared genuinely confused. His head tilted to the side, his shaggy, damp hair flopping over his forehead. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers through that tumble, pushing it off his face. His eyes were still beautifully visible. They were the perfect shade of green. Their deep glow was a memory I held against all the ugly the world constantly threw in my face.
“For the way I reacted earlier.” I inhaled, setting my nearly-empty glass on the railing. “I made you uncomfortable. Or maybe I seemed uncomfortable, which put you on edge.” I shrugged. “I’m not sure which, only that I reacted badly.”
Instead of appearing relieved, Boone’s smile was wistfully sad. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. It wasn’t anything I didn’t expect. It—”
“Dammit, that’s the point. You shouldn’t have to expect that kind of a reaction, especially from me. I was tired, Boone. I know that’s not much of an excuse, but I was tired, worn thin, and hellishly surprised. Fuck, I can still hear Rebecca’s screams.” I ran my fingers through my hair. It was a lot shorter than Boone’s. Cut close to the scalp, I had just enough strawberry-blond hair with deeper ginger hints to color the top of my head. “It was disturbing.”
Boone’s eyebrows shot up, and the first hint of his typical grin slid across his face. “It was that. If it helps, I can still hear her screams too.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know that it does.” I didn’t like the thought of Boone hurting.
“I know. I just wanted to let you know that you weren’t the only one still affected. I’ll bet everyone who was there early this morning is having trouble sleeping.”
Boone was right. I should probably bring that up with the captain. The precinct had therapists who could be utilized.
Boone’s gaze drifted toward the street. A couple of kids rode their bikes past. The sidewalk was old and cracked in places, giant oaks spreading their limbs above and roots below.
“I can’t get the feel of her soul off me.” Boone’s voice drifted, so soft I had to lean forward to hear it. “It was just so…wrong. It physically hurt. I wish”—he visibly swallowed—“I wish I could have done something to help her. But that’s not how my abilities work.” Placing both feet on the porch flooring, Boone spread his hands, palms up as he stared at them. “I’m not a warlock, but I’m the product of one. I can’t create. I can only destroy.” His hands fisted, knuckles white.
Unknowingly, Boone had led me into the conversation I’d come for. “That’s what Captain Cicely said—not about necromancers’ abilities, but about warlocks and witches. I asked if shredding a soul is something a witch could do. She told me it’s not, but that perhaps a warlock could.”
Boone tilted his head while he thought. “I’m not sure. I can tell you that witches—or, at least, witches centuries ago—could remove a soul from a body.”
My inhale whistled through my clenched teeth. “Fucking hell.”
He glanced at me. “I don’t think that’s common knowledge. My guess is that your captain doesn’t even know. I wouldn’t know if I hadn’t met a djinn.”
Blood drained from my face. I was glad the porch railing was there to support my weight. “A djinn? They’re myth. Or at least they don’t exist any longer.”
Boone’s callous chuckle didn’t soothe my nerves. “Oh no, Detective, I assure you, they’re more than myth. You’ve actually been in the presence of one recently.”
“W-what?” Now my limbs were shaking.
“Mm-hmm. This very morning. Although to be fair, Aurelia split pretty soon after you arrived. It’s a move she’s regretting now.” Boone sounded half exasperated.
“Aurelia?” My voice was fragile, as if it might shatter while leaving my lips.
“She’s a djinn. Although I don’t think a very dangerous one, as far as djinn are concerned. The jury’s still out on that one. She seems enamored with me recently. I’m not sure why, but she keeps popping up here and there. Of course, she’s not here now, and even if she were, you wouldn’t see her unless she wanted you to. Aurelia’s ornery enough she might just decide to remain hidden for shits and giggles.”
“Christ,” I muttered. “You’re not messing with me, are you?”
“Ha! You wish.” Boone gave me a flirty wink. “Get it, you wish .”
Oh, I got it. “Are you her”—I waved a hand in the air, hating the word but finding no other—“master?”
“Oh no. That’s not me.” Boone pushed against the floor, setting a lazy pace with the swing. “It’s not as bad as it all seems. I know others find it difficult trusting necromancers, but you’ll just have to have a little faith and go with this one.”
The words, “I trust you” spilled from my mouth. I didn’t regret saying them, not when Boone’s surprised expression morphed into satisfied ease.
“Okay. I believe you.”
Those few words shouldn’t have warmed me as much as they did. Thoughts of an active djinn cooled my joy. “Could this djinn do that? Tear a soul to shreds?”
Boone’s deep-green eyes blinked, and his mouth slanted open. “I don’t know. I feel confident saying it wasn’t Aurelia, but she’s not the only djinn out there. I think the chances of it being a djinn are extremely low, but I suppose I can’t count it out completely. I can ask Aurelia the next time she pops up.”
“That would be appreciated.” Christ, was I really having this conversation? Was Erasmus Boone really acquainted with a djinn? I said I trusted the man and meant it.
Clearing my throat, I asked, “And what about another necromancer? You said you would be able to tear apart a soul.”
Boone stopped swinging and his eyes became distant again. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but I’m not sure. All of us are different. I’d say it’s completely possible, although if there is another necromancer out there with my abilities, I don’t know him.”
“Fair enough. What about a warlock?”
Boone twisted, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t think so. Not like what I can do anyway. I’ve never asked Pops directly, but he knows what I can do and never mentioned it being something warlocks are capable of. I can call him if you’d like.”
“Do you mind?” I really needed that information, but I didn’t like the idea of asking Boone to do something he wasn’t comfortable with.
He shook his head. “I don’t mind.”
I thought he might call later, but Boone surprised me by pulling out his phone and hitting the call button. As it rang, he said, “Pops might be busy with a customer. It’s about three hours earlier in California, but he’s usually up by now. He typically tries to answer when I— Hey, Pops.”
I couldn’t hear Nikodemus Holland’s answer, but Boone’s soft smile let me know he’d been greeted kindly.
“Yeah, I’m doing okay. No, nothing like that. I’ve just had a few more headaches recently. Weird corpse and even odder soul.” Boone became silent and I figured he was listening to something his father said. “Of course Momma called you.” Boone placed his forehead in his hand. When he lifted his head again, his deep-green eyes rolled heavenward. “I’m okay. I promise.”
Boone covered the phone with his hand and whispered, “He’s a bit of a worrywart,” before uncovering the phone again and saying, “Again, I promise. Not gonna lie, it was awful, but no permanent damage done.” Boone did a bit more nodding and his feet kicked the swing into motion once more.
“I’ve actually got a question relating to what happened earlier this morning,” Boone said, voice a little stronger. “Detective O’Hare is here and—” Boone’s eyes flashed my direction and his cheeks colored. “Yes, that detective.”
I raised an eyebrow, but Boone waved me off. “I’m going to put you on speakerphone. Be nice,” Boone admonished before he pulled the phone away from his ear and placed it on speaker. My brain seemed to be on a ten-second delay—too long for me to stop the motion and tell Boone that speakerphone wasn’t needed.
“You still there, Pops?” Boone asked.
“Of course,” Warlock Nikodemus Holland answered, his voice a deep baritone that rattled its way through my core. “Detective O’Hare, my son tells me you require my expertise.”
Boone’s eyes rolled again. “He’s just got a general question about warlocks, Pops.”
“Thus, he requires my expertise,” Holland repeated. The response should have sounded arrogant, but the matter-of-fact tone removed the sting.
Clearing my throat, I leaned a little closer and said, “I appreciate your time, Warlock Holland.”
“Nonsense. Interacting with my son is never a waste of my time. Now, what is it you wish to know?”
Holland’s message was clear. He was gracing me with his expertise as a favor for his son, and nothing more. “I’ll get straight to the point. Can a warlock damage a soul?”
“Shred,” Boone corrected. “It was more than damaged.”
Silence filled the air, and I worried the call had been dropped until Holland’s deep voice answered, “It might be possible, though why anyone would attempt such an atrocity is beyond me. I doubt any warlock has ever tried to know for certain. I can envision the mechanics of it, but a necromancer of some ability would still need to be involved.”
I asked the obvious question. “Why?”
“Holding a soul once it has left the body is beyond a warlock’s ability. Only a necromancer may do that.”
I rolled that information over before asking, “What about a priest or priestess?”
I could hear the sneer in Holland’s voice. “Impossible. Priests and priestesses cannot harness the soul. They reanimate the flesh, nothing more. Gaia, what are they teaching humans these days?”
“Pops,” Boone admonished. “I asked you to be nice. Detective O’Hare is one of the good ones. He’s trying to learn. Making humans feel ignorant when asking questions is what makes them stop asking.”
Another moment of silence reigned before Holland unexpectedly conceded the point. “Apologies, Detective. My son, as usual, is annoyingly correct.”
Boone’s grin lit up his face. “It’s okay, Pops. We’re all learning how to get along.”
“Yes… I suppose…” Holland didn’t sound nearly as certain as his son. Boone only laughed.
“Thank you for the information, Warlock Holland. As I said earlier, I appreciate your time.” Being polite rarely hurt, and for a multitude of reasons, I did not want to make an enemy of Warlock Nikodemus Holland.
“You are welcome, Detective. Now, if I may be so bold, my son is very precious to me. I would be most distressed if something were to happen to him while in your care. Do you understand?”
My back stiffened, shoulders thrown back and jaw locked down tight. Oh, I understood the threat all right. It should have scared me more than it did. Fear of Warlock Holland wasn’t the cause of my unease. It was the thought of something happening to Boone—whether under my watch or not.
Before Boone could chastise his father, I answered, “I assure you, my distress would equal yours. You can entrust your son to my care.” It was a strange answer, and I wasn’t at all certain what prompted me to say those words. Regardless, they seemed sufficient.
“That is excellent news, Detective. Excellent news indeed.”
I barely heard Boone’s goodbyes and could hardly remember grabbing my jacket and turning toward the steps and brick path leading to my car. I do remember Boone standing on his porch, hands gripping the railing as I drove away.