Page 10 of Deadly Lineage
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 mergedwith 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’ssoul…” 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’twantit 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.
Boone 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 coloreda 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.”
