Page 11 of Wicche Hunt

Osso, Declan, and I went ahead, but the doctor held Hernández back for a hissed conversation. I didn’t have Declan or Osso’s superior hearing, but I got enough to know a friendship was going down the drain right now. I would have felt guilty about that, but since Osso hated her too, it took some of the weight off me.

Detective Osso opened the door and the overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life. No gurneys in this room. Just a wall of metal drawers holding dead bodies. Osso walked over and checked the information on each door, looking for the identifiers for his victim.

Halfway down the row, he grabbed the handle and pulled the drawer out. The overwhelming medicinal scent of the facility couldn’t mask the stench of death. And again, it was probably much worse for the other two, as they both had a shifter’s excellent sense of smell.

Osso lifted the sheet to see her face and then replaced it, nodding to me. I glanced around for a chair and then saw Declan carrying one toward me. He sat down and waited.

“You’re right,” I said, sitting on his knee. “It was nice not coming to on the floor last time.”

“I really hate seeing you hurting and then crumpling on the ground,” he grumbled. “We need to figure out ways to make this easier on you.”

My back went up a little, as I wasn’t his problem to fix, but then I relaxed back into him. I’d been dealing with this on my own for a very long time. Everyone just took it as normal that I dropped to the ground, often hitting my head. No one, Mother included, ever said,We need a new plan. Arwyn shouldn’t be getting hurt like this. Having someone care about me and not just what I could do was strange. Not unheard of—Aunt Sylvia loved me for me—but it was unusual. I was, consequently, having a hard time adjusting to and trusting Declan’s desire to help.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Grabbing my glove, I looked over my shoulder. “If the smell is getting to me, it must be horrible for you guys.”

Both men nodded, their faces strained. Osso moved the sheet so part of her foot was accessible. Touching dead bodies was officially my least favorite thing to do. Nevertheless, I blew out a breath, pulled my glove off, and thought,Show me what I need to know to find your killer. I didn’t like seeing the parts of people’s lives that shouldn’t have been open to me. With that thought in mind, I touched a finger to the side of her foot.

FIVE

Entomophobia (a fear of insects. Don’t say I never taught you anything)

Early morning. Her car is the first in the parking lot. She enjoys having the school mostly to herself. Archie, the head custodian, is here. He’s the one who unlocks the doors and turns off the alarms, but she rarely sees him. He’s off doing his own beginning-of-day rituals.

A petite Latina in her late fifties—who doesn’t look a day over thirty-two—she wears a dress with sensible heels and a warm cardigan sweater. Her classroom temperature can swing twenty degrees during the school day. Old building, temperamental HVAC unit. Her shoulder-length hair is kept tidy in a bun.

She walks down the dark, quiet halls, thinking about what she needs to get done before the few summer session students begin arriving. She has some copies to make, far fewer than during the regular school year. She’s been teaching long enough to remember what it was like before every student pulled out their laptops when they sat down. She’s transitioned most of her curriculum to a digital format, but she still has some sheets she likes them to keep in their binders for quick reference when doing their homework. New unit, new sheet. She’ll get that done first.

Even though most of what she teaches is on the projector, she still prefers posting key pieces of information, including due dates, on the white board. That needs to be updated too. Then she’ll start slogging through the grading, by far the worst part of teaching as far as she’s concerned.

Flicking on her classroom lights, she sees hundreds of dark forms scurry under desks and into dark corners. Fear overwhelms her. She’d scream if she could move. When a cockroach darts directly at her, she shakes off the paralysis and runs back down the hall, calling for Archie. The image goes dark and then…

Same day, same outfit. She’s walking to her car, feeling around in her bag for her keys. She finds them, presses the button on her key fob, reaches for the door, and then snatches her hand back like she’s touched an open flame. The paralysis again. Her door handle is covered in webbing and fly carcasses; a huge spider stands on the dead flies, watching her.

Heart racing, throat closing, she can’t scream. A colleague calls goodbye, breaking the stasis. She shouts and the other teacher turns, hurrying over. The image goes dark and then…

Another early morning at school, the halls are darker than usual as a freak summer storm rages outside, causing washouts. The parking lot is still mostly empty. She and her family live close to the academy and so she rarely needs to concern herself with traffic and weather issues.

Yesterday was horrible. The headmaster brought in an exterminator while she met with her classes in the library. It’s fine now, she keeps telling herself. Fine. She turns down her hall and wonders why Archie hasn’t turned on the overhead lights yet. Yes, it’s early, but it’s also so dark. She’s a grown woman, a grandmother for goodness’ sake, and yet she’s now afraid of the dark. It’s embarrassing.

She’s close to her door when she hears footsteps echo in the empty hall.

“Archie?”

The footsteps slow to a stop.

She can’t see anyone. “Archie?” she calls louder.

Nothing. “Hello?”

A high-pitched falsetto mocks, “Hello?”

Spooked, she walks faster and so do the steps behind her. When she hears them running, pounding down the dark hall, she sprints. Her hand trembles as she tries to get the key in the lock. Footsteps race closer. She gets the key in, unlocks the door, dives in her classroom, and then slams the door shut, snapping the lock back in place a moment before fists hammer it. She steps back. Waiting.

The false voice whispers her name over and over. Frozen, she cries silently. The overhead lights in the hall turn on, light appearing under the door. The shadow appears to rock back and forth before it disappears, the footsteps moving away. The image goes dark and then…

After work, still shaken by the strange things happening on campus, she’s at a country club, working at a table near the entrance, checking in guests. The school does this every year. It’s a fundraiser with a silent auction. Dinner is a thousand dollars per plate. There is a dance floor and a jazz trio. They used to have students serve as waiters, which everyone enjoyed. Parents loved having their children wait on them. Students loved the big tips that ostensibly went to their clubs on campus, though she knew most stayed in the students’ pockets at the end of the evening. The only ones who didn’t like this practice were the police, who had issues with under-age kids serving alcohol.

She checks her watch. The headmaster doesn’t allow the faculty to leave until after eleven. Most of the parents are lovely people. Some of them, though… A man, the father of one of her Government students, is trying to sneak in an extra guest. He contends there are empty chairs. No need for them to go to waste. And he promises he and his guest will bid on at least three high-ticket items.

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