[Anthology] Close to the Bones Read online

  “So, this won’t be like I Dream of Jeanie. Okay, either I sit here or try driving,” she said starting the car. “Always did love a challenge. Steady as she goes, brain. Let’s see if we can get home in one piece.”

  She pulled the Mustang onto the one-way street, tightening her grip on the wheel, turning up the music.

  “I am not my mother, I am not my mother.”

  Damn headaches.

  From behind her there was a hum and a pop. A pinhole appeared between the cars in the first row, widening until it was large enough for the two tall elves to step through. Swirls of light surrounded them, making them invisible to the few people parking their cars or walking through the parking lot.

  “She can see us,” said the older of the two Elves. An elven crown held down his straight, silver hair that was tucked behind pointed ears, and flowed past his shoulders. His words sounded like a stream of music floating on the air.

  “It would appear so,” the younger Elf replied. He raised a long, slender arm, trailing thin streams of colored light with every movement and traced a half circle in the air with his right hand. A baseball-sized orb of violet light with a glowing yellow center bounced in the air in front of them.

  “Go,” sang the Elf.

  The violet ball zipped down the street in the direction of the Mustang that was turning a corner a few blocks away. The light slipped under the back fender and stayed there, glowing softly as the car drove out of sight.

  “She’s well suited to our needs. A detective, right?” asked the royal Elf.

  “They call her a homicide detective.”

  “You know what it means, don’t you? That she can see us? The energy within her is strong. Stronger than it should be in a human being. Stronger than it’s been in this world for thousands of years.”

  “Thirteen millennia ago.” There was a short pause. “That could prove to be a problem,” the older Elf mused, looking around at the buildings and vehicles lined up on the street.

  “First the murder, now this girl can see us. Something is not right,” said the younger Elf.

  “One thing at a time. Be glad she can see us. We need her help.” His face spasmed with anguish. “My son is dead long before his time. Someone will need to pay for it.”

  “Time is running short for answers I fear, your majesty.”

  “Then let’s get on with it.”

  The younger Elf sang a single loud note. The hole widened again and they stepped back into the glowing portal in the middle of a parking lot.

  No one in the lot noticed, but they all suddenly thought of the same song.

  “La, da, da, da,” sang an orderly on his way into work. “Ode to Joy, beautiful symphony. Wonder what made me think of that?”

  “Ode to Joy? Nah, man, that’s the theme to Die Hard, dude,” said his friend, humming the same tune. “Best Christmas movie ever. Was thinking about the same song. Weird, huh? Coincidences. Gotta love ‘em.”

  “Yeah, you and me,” the orderly smirked, “we’re like twins.”

  A low hum behind them went undetected as the hole disappeared and a last spray of gold flashed and sparkled on the dark pavement.

  To Read More in Waking Magic and The Leira Chronicles…Go Here… The series is exclusively from Amazon and in KU

  Two

  The Dark Imprint

  By Lee Hayton

  Bretta Ariel flinched as a branch flicked off Detective Inspector Able’s shoulder and headed straight for her face. A reflex catapulted her arm into the air a second too slow to protect herself. The green leaves scraped what felt like a cold, wet tongue along her cheek before dumping a bounty from the recent rain down the front of her blouse.

  The late afternoon light sagged low, heading for the shelter of the horizon. Shadows grew in size and strength, spreading like inky fingers over the forest floor. Add to that the misty drizzle and Bretta could barely see the path straight ahead. Her steps grew hesitant as the twisting roots and natural hollows merged together.

  A thick layer of pine needles lay strewn across the trail. The fragrant cover deadened every footstep, so the small group walked in silence. DC Williams leading, DS Ivy, Bretta’s police contact and champion, DI Able, while she brought up the rear.

  The burial site must be nearby now. Although Bretta didn’t know the location, DI Able’s steps grew jauntier with each stride. Her stomach gave an anxious lurch. It was only two days since she’d last channeled an imprint. To perform another so soon was either courageous or ridiculous. Time would tell.

  “Heads up,” the DI called back over his shoulder.

  Too late. A second branch smacked Bretta in the face. Another waterfall of drops dripped down her chest. It soaked through the thin fabric of her blouse, making it cling and rub. If they’d been at a bar, she could have stepped onstage for the wet T-shirt contest. For now, she had to settle for pulling her flapping coat more tightly closed over the offensively transparent top.

  If her hopes came true and the police took her on full-time, Bretta planned to spend her first paycheck on a wardrobe upgrade. Well, make that the first check after she cleared her overdue rent. She already dealt with derisive sniffs at the choice of her line of work. There was no need to invite more based on her standard of dress. The sooner she could discard the chiffon gypsy blouses for a smart cotton shirt, the better.

  DI Able turned to look at her, and the anxiety snaked through her stomach again. His stare held an equal mixture of pity and contempt. Bretta tipped her head forward to avoid the play of expressions on his face. There was work to be done here. A job that she took pride in, even where nobody else would.

  “This is the spot,” Able said gently, waving his arm in a wide arc. The sweep encompassed an old, excavated hole in the sodden earth framed by a row of trampled bushes. A parade of careless boots had trodden the low branches into the slippery mud.

  How many other channelers have come through here today?

  Bretta blinked and shook her head, tossing the thought away like an empty fast food wrapper. Although aware she faced competition in her struggle for a contract with the police, she mostly ignored the fact. Yes, there were far more applicants than roles available. Sure, her chances were slim. Despite the overwhelming evidence, she rejected logic to believe instead in her father’s old reassurance. Try your best, darling. That’s all anyone can ask.

  This afternoon was strangely different, though. All the policemen were tense, holding their backs ramrod straight. The job felt more like a final exam than a genuine search for information. The confusing sensation wasn’t helped by the fact it was Bretta’s third official assignment. This was the last one the department could offer her on spec. After today, either they signed her onto the permanent payroll, or she went home unemployed.

  Bretta turned on her heels to peer around the scene. Her shoulder hunched in an instinctive gesture of protection, even as she sought the location of the imprint. There it was. The fluorescent markers had dulled with age, but the fading orange still offered a contrast against the dark green foliage. Pushing aside her reluctance, she picked a careful path toward the warning tape. With one hand stretched out, close to touching, she hesitated and turned to the DI.

  “You have my kit ready?”

  He nodded and held up the insignificant parcel. Every item was secured inside a plastic baggie to keep it safe from the rain. From the corner of her eye, Bretta made out a smirk on the face of the DS accompanying the team. Shame darted in, catching her off-guard. In an instant, her cheeks flushed bright crimson before she could stifle the reaction.

  Angry at herself for caring, Bretta stepped into the imprint, and her mind was washed away.

  I can’t breathe. In the darkness of the trunk, I gasp and choke, cough and struggle. Although I hitch in short, sharp breaths, my lungs still scream for air. Each inhalation feels thick. Almost solid enough to chew on. It’s like I’m breathing cotton wool instead of oxygen.

  Sharp heat burns along the sides of my mouth. Eac
h swallow feels like acid sizzling down the back of my throat. When the spit hits my stomach, it explodes into flame, burning me from the inside out.

  Stop it!

  I want to slap myself. The sting would be short and sharp, a shock to startle me back to normality. My hands itch with the desire. This is a fucking panic attack. The signs are as familiar as my face in the mirror. I don’t have time for this. I’m in trouble. My life is in genuine danger. I can’t indulge in this stupidity, not now.

  Turning, I press my mouth close to my shoulder. I concentrate on the warmth of my exhalation. I’m not burning up. My mind is just doing a crazy dance. As soon as I get my breath into a regular rhythm, I’ll get back control. After that, I can straighten out my mind, let my frantic pulse descend into a steady beat, and calm myself the fuck down.

  But I’m struggling, my hands frantically pulling against the ropes that bind them across my back. I chew frantically at the soaked cloth the man tied across my mouth. My efforts feed the fire of my panic with the freshly chopped kindling of terror. Oh, I can hear the flames crackle and roar.

  The gag didn’t start off wet. Each exhalation dampened it further. Every time I opened my mouth in a fruitless scream, my spit rolled out to drench it.

  The stifling blackness inside the car trunk is a scuttling presence, eager to stuff itself into my body through any exposed orifice. It pokes its alien head into my nostrils, only stopping when it hits against the wall of my sinuses. I don’t dare to open my eyes. Instead, I squeeze them shut like a toddler caught mid-tantrum. If an eyelid slides up, the darkness will pierce its way into my soul.

  My thighs squeeze together, the familiar Kegels I’d practiced a thousand times over while reading the morning paper, finally getting a true workout. A chance to flex the muscles and show the insidious blackness who is the boss. My vagina snaps shut so tightly that even the daintiest little finger can’t be inserted. It’s as though my daughter had never exited and stretched my playground into a saggy tube of displeasure.

  Sabrina. I chose to name my plump, brown baby after a teenage witch, attracted by the similarity in our ages. Oh, the fights I’d had—with my parents, my teachers, and a hundred bedraggled social workers just to keep her close. A year ago, she moved into a college dorm far away, and now she never remembers to call.

  Resentment wells up and my eyes fill with self-pitying tears. Good. Use that outrage and get yourself the hell out of this mess.

  Again, I wriggle and jiggle, trying to work my wrist out of the scratching rope binds. There is no give, no flex, nothing to indicate even the slightest hint of progress.

  I scream again, spit drooling out of my mouth to soak the rag. My breathing is heavy and hot. Panic claims me as its bitch again.

  The car jostles and bounces over a stretch of bumpy road. The motion knocks my head against the carpeted floor. It bounces on the exact same spot where blood already matts my hair. The pain drives the panic away. For a moment shards of bright light blind me, daggers stab into my skull, neck, and spine. Outrageous agony. It lingers so long the line between consciousness and unconsciousness blurs and mingles.

  The image of a car mechanic flickers into my head. He’s holding a wrench in one hand, streaked with the same dark grease that coats his fingernails. He makes a joke, and I laugh while the older half of me insists he’s much too young. I’ll make a fool of myself. The younger half just has fun and flirts outrageously with him despite his age. The heavy tool in his fist swings back and forth, the clean portions gleaming silver—reflecting the light.

  You’ll die here.

  The startling thought snaps me out of my dreamy daze. As shocking as a bucket of ice water. I can’t leave now, there are too many scores to settle. My shit list is a million miles long and growing every day.

  I stamp my feet hard into the side of the trunk, sending a shockwave ricocheting back up my body. Ignoring the pain, I slam my shoulder into the rear of the car, trying to pop the lid. A feeble effort that fails to set me free. Even so, the action soothes me for a few minutes until I noticed the sparks dancing in my closed eyes are growing larger. Now they’re spiraling in loopy patterns.

  You’re fainting.

  I stop moving and gulp in a desperate breath of air. It’s too thin, lacking oxygen. The damn stuff isn’t doing its job. The damp cloth has threads matting into an ever-thickening barrier. Between that, and the length of my confinement, my chance at escape has come and gone. Where the darkness was once an intrusive presence, now it opens its arms and holds me close.

  A thousand snapshots from my life spiral through my dying brain. Polaroids too slippery to catch and hold. My impossible hair that my mother braided so tightly the water couldn’t penetrate. A girl as white as sugar crystals staring in open fascination at my dark skin. My beautiful baby, screaming her bright-red indignation at the world.

  “What have you done?” My mother’s voice, so distraught. I feel like weeping. In one hand, I hold the sharp metallic glint of scissors while the other is closed around a tight curl of my orange hair. “You have school tomorrow. The hairdressers are all shut. Why do you do these things?”

  My freckled face glows crimson with the shame of my crime. The horrendous act of making Mom cry, not my impromptu haircut. I hate my hair, hate it. The kids all call me ginga, pronouncing it with malicious emphasis on the hard Gs. Ginga rhymes with ringer. They may as well chant that I have cooties.

  “How could you?”

  Bretta gasped and staggered back. Her feet skidded on the slippery mud and began to slide out from under her, then a strong hand reached out and held her steady.

  “Bretta?” Fingers snapped in her face, once, twice. An arm gently encircled her shoulder and led her to a tree trunk, pressing until she sat down.

  She stared down at her empty hands, expecting to see one still grasping the sharp scissors. She blinked and the memory departed. Rain drizzled a sprinkle of cooling drops onto the skin of her cheeks. Each one was fresh, restorative. She tilted her head back and stuck her tongue out to catch some drips directly on its dry surface.

  “What did you see?”

  Bretta stared at the face, shoved too far forward into her personal space.

  “Did you get a look at the killer?” a man shouted at her, his fingertips digging a nasty bite into her upper arm.

  What have you done? Something is wrong!

  “Back off, Frank. You know the protocol.”

  The strong voice sounded familiar, but Bretta couldn’t place it together with a name. Still, she felt the relaxation of relief that a grownup was taking over.

  “Give her a chance to catch her breath.”

  A man squatted before her, smiling, and giving her a nod of encouragement. Bretta’s lips curled in a coy response. A friend? A lover? The man pinched a photograph between two fingers and held it up for her to see.

  A young girl was sitting on a swing, her toes pointing straight out in front of her to pierce through the air and travel faster and higher. The man standing behind her looked familiar. Short auburn hair, so dark in places it was closer to black. The sun caught the two figures and lit them in a seventies style glow.

  “Do you remember this day, Bretta. This is you at the park with your daddy.”

  He held it out, and she raised her eyebrows, asking for permission. When he nodded, she took it from his hand, careful to hold the shiny rectangle, so the rain didn’t fall upon the image.

  “Your name is Bretta Ariel,” the man said, briefly touching her knee. “You’re twenty-four years old, and you’re working as a channeler for the police today. It’s Thursday night, the twelfth of April, and I’m DI Able. Do you remember?”

  Bretta stared at him with careful eyes. There was a test here, she could sense it. If she failed, then she’d disappoint somebody. Maybe the father in the picture, perhaps the nice man in front of her, or just herself.

  “Look here,” he said, holding a small keyring out to her. She took it and turned it over in her hands. A plas
ticine figurine shaped like a pony hung from the end. Fashioned by a clumsy modeler, the details were muted—the legs too thick, the tail too blunt. The flanks of the animal were scored with the ridges and whorls of tiny fingerprints. Even the obvious years of handling hadn’t been enough to dull the shocking pink color of the clay.

  “Princess,” Bretta mumbled. The words appeared on her lips, issued from her mouth, but forged no deeper connection.

  Another photograph waved in front of her. This time it showed the same man from the first, but with graying hair, his skin sagging with the exhaustion of age. Even though the image was fixed in place, the man’s eyes seemed to skitter from side to side. Looking for trouble, for an impending attack, an enemy drawing closer.

  “Dad,” Bretta whispered, then all her memories slammed home at once. She stood in shock, the muscles in her hands retracting in a spasm that tossed the pictures and keyring into the air.

  DI Able caught them and tucked them safely away in their baggie before he rose to his feet beside her. “Welcome back,” he said, while behind him DS Frank Ivy issued a derisive snort.

  “Question time, yet?” the DS asked, shouldering into their closed circle. “Did you see who killed her?”

  Bretta raised a hand to her head. She expected to find tight ginger curls but encountered the smooth helmet of her strawberry blond hair. It had been tamed from a frizzy tangle to sleek and straight that morning, only to be carelessly tied into a ponytail.

  “Back off,” DI Able whispered. His voice was quiet but firm. “I won’t tell you again.”

  Although Bretta caught the curl of Frank’s lip, he didn’t say anything further. Instead, he walked to stand with DC Williams, guarding the collapsing dugout of an old grave, a few yards away.

  “Take me through the memories,” the DI said. “What did you see?”

  Bretta blinked rapidly. As her mind more firmly placed itself into her body, she sorted through the drift of emotions and sensations. A ghostly imprint left behind by a departing soul, months, or years before.