Muddy Waters (Otherwhere Book 1) Read online

  “I can get you out of this hospital, released on your own recognizance, but ultimately under the protective wing of SI. We’ve pulled a few strings. Many strings, in fact. Someone above me, and my boss, in fact, really wants you working with us. In return, you will stay on with SI for a minimum of seven years and one day. During such time, you will have a job, a modest paycheck, and a secure place to live. We were also able to re-establish the shop you owned with your mother, including the apartment and its accompanying chattel. It will afford you a home and additional income, beyond what we are able to pay you, which isn’t terribly much, I’m afraid. Although, you will have decent benefits should our arrangement work well and you stay on with the FBI. Perhaps you will also regain some of the social standing lost during your stay here. We even found your, erm, cat.”

  Dorcha! My mouth fell open. Just the thought of that ball of fur made my atrial mechanics stutter.

  I stared at Agent Toutant for what felt like hours, waiting for him to dissolve into mist. Magic wasn’t allowed in the hospital, strictly speaking, but some bored demi-god could have managed this as a practical joke if he really put his mind to it.

  “Should SI decide to terminate your employment at any time before your 2,556 days are up, you may still enjoy the protection until your seven years are through. Should you decide to terminate the contract, our agreement will become null and void. In short, we will have no way to protect you.”

  I smirked. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse, Godfather.”

  A quick puzzled look appeared on his face. Then recognition. “The film. Yes. I should think you would be quite open to this arrangement.”

  “So, I come out and work for you, you protect me. If you decide I’m not working out, and you fire me, I’m still safe. But if I decide I’m no FBI agent, I’m on my own?”

  “This order has come down from the Assistant Director in Charge. I admit this is a peculiar plan of action, but I have been informed that more information than what I have shared is not available to me.”

  I looked out the window. Cleared my throat. Wondered if this was worth it.

  He checked his watch and his manner became a little brisker. “The other item I’d like to discuss is linked. We have reason to believe you are currently being targeted by whomever made the previous attempts at eliminating your family. Finishing the job, so to speak. The sooner we remove you from this place the better.”

  “Oh? And how do you know that?”

  “Miss Reddick, the FBI is not completely incompetent. While you may have been held out of our grasp during your trial, we have been keeping tabs on you here. There is a facility staff member who has arranged for the delivery of a weapon, the express purpose of which is to execute a certain Witch.”

  Witch. The word brought me up short. It sort of implied doing magic again. But did I want to? Look where it had gotten me. Maybe I should just let him shoot me, whoever it is. Lakeland’s no party. Would death be that much worse?

  I shook my head. “No. I’m not going with you. I don’t want to get involved. I’m in deep enough, thanks very much. I just want to do my time, get out, and disappear.”

  Toutant’s look sharpened considerably. “Miss Reddick, I know of no way to illustrate to you how important you are to our organization.” His voiced dropped as he pinned me to my seat with his gaze. “I will speak as plainly as I can. You will die here. The odds are nearly one hundred percent likely that it will be today. Soon. Unless you come with me. Now.”

  I leaned forward and matched his tone. “No. I told you. No more magic. No more spells. It can’t save me. It won’t protect me. It didn’t protect my family. Besides, I’m not afraid of dying.”

  He looked irritated, but also somehow empathetic. “No. I understand that. But Miss Reddick, I must inform you again that if you do not come with me, chances are, death may be the least of your worries. Not only that, I believe you are the one person who can help stop these murders. Further still, I believe you are also the one person who can help us stave off what’s coming. There are indeed things worse than death, I assure you. I have seen it.” He leaned on the table, gripping the edge.

  “I do not mean to sound dramatic, Miss Reddick. I also do not know how else to convince you. There will be an attempt on your life today, and you will not survive it; and if you do, you will wish you had not.”

  It was as though the very air in the room congealed around me. The way he spoke, the way his eyes bore into mine. He was not kidding or lying or overstating.

  I sat back down.

  For half a heartbeat, we locked eyes.

  Then I nodded.

  “OK. I’ll go.” He appeared visibly relieved. “Besides”―I leaned toward him again, grinning―“I almost never say no to handsome strangers.”

  As we raced through the sun-bright streets, I pelted Qyll with questions.

  “Where are we going? What else do you know about me? What’s going on? Where’s Dorcha?”

  He ignored me, and we drove in silence for perhaps fifteen minutes.

  Finally, he said, “We learned someone on the hospital staff was going to make an attempt on your life today. Not by magical means this time, as you may have noticed. Most likely with a gun to your head. Or the heart. Thankfully, we also had some on the inside working with us.”

  “Who? Was it Tina?” It had to have been. Nobody else was close enough to have access.

  He inclined his head. “Well-spotted. She is part of a small but diehard group that believes in your innocence. She has been biding her time, watching over you. And when she learned of this attempt, she called me. I’m taking you to your shop, but you must not go anywhere for several days.” He looked at me. “It won’t be safe.”

  My shop. My life. Even confined to my apartment, no more restraints or medications or people ignoring me and afraid of me because I came here ranting about being framed with magic. No more crappy hospital food or locks on the doors. I could have shoes with laces and drink bourbon and shoot a gun if I wanted. I don’t typically shoot guns, but the point was that I could. Maybe I should get a gun just so I could shoot it.

  “Wait, what about the Arcana?” The rising hope in me paused. “They assigned me a Watcher. They still think I did it.”

  “Ah.” His eyebrow rose. “Your Otherwhere liaison. We freed you from Human imprisonment, but at the moment we have little jurisdiction over the Other half of your punishment. You will retain your Watcher for the time being. That might not be a bad thing, an extra pair of eyes on you if someone intends you harm. And as far and we can tell, you remain persona non grata with most of the supernormal community.”

  My Watcher, Gideon. White suits, white teeth, white-blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. He’s exactly what you envision when you think of an Angel. The Judeo-Christian Dolce and Gabbana parole officer version of an Angel. Luckily for my composure, he wasn’t allowed to just pop in at Lakeland; he had to schedule meetings via Tina.

  I hissed through my teeth. “So whoever framed me was pretty thorough. I knew it was too good to be true.” I banged a palm on the dashboard. But still, it beat staying at Lakeland, especially given the assassination attempt I had apparently missed.

  On the sidewalk, as we stopped on a light, a big group of Humans, maybe forty or fifty in all, stood swaying, wearing what looked like linen robes in shades of brown and green.

  I rolled the window down to hear them chanting.

  “What are they doing? Who are they?”

  Without looking, Qyll hissed through his teeth, “Roll up the window. They are called ‘the Fervor.’ Roll up the window now.”

  No, seriously, that stick up his ass had to go! “They can’t hurt us, Q. Look, they’re slower than my over-medicated ex-neighbors at Lakeland. Who are they?”

  “They claim to have reached a higher spiritual plane than everybody else. If you believe them, they are as close to what they call ‘God’ as it is possible for a born-Human to get. Without having died, of course. They speak ridicu
lous prophecy and all manner of gibberish. Roll up the window, Miss Reddick.”

  The people had shaved heads and blank eyes. As we sat waiting for the light, one of them looked directly at me then ambled out into the street toward the car, pointing and mumbling.

  “Roll up the window,” Qyll said, with this deliberate evenness you’d use with a toddler.

  “What’s she saying?” I leaned out toward the woman. The closer she got, the easier it was to see her pink-rimmed eyes were nearly colorless, as were her lips. Her mouth worked to say words I couldn’t hear. She was death-pale, the skin on her face dry and flaky.

  “Hey!” I screeched. Qyll used the electric window button. The woman’s hand almost got caught, but she froze at the last minute, palms pressed on the glass, odd eyes burning holes into me. Her lifeless lips droned on, inaudible over the traffic and chanting. We set off, leaving her in the road, the cars behind us honking and swerving.

  “Was that necessary?” I demanded.

  “They say the Fervor is really an illness of the body as well as the mind.” He glanced at me. “Those people don’t live anymore, they don’t sleep. They have left behind jobs, families, children, pets. They simply… walk away. A Fervor faithful has never been brought back to their normal state once they have been fully converted. They just chant their meaningless garbage in the streets, all as gaunt as you saw, because they rarely eat. Once in a while, they become violent,” Qyll said, almost sadly. “It’s best to stay as far from them as possible. No one is entirely sure how one becomes stricken. The recent research now points to a communicable state.”

  A couple more loitered on the sidewalk, shuffling along.

  “What will happen to them?”

  He sighed. “There are shelters. At best, they can be coaxed indoors during inclement weather, rather like cattle.”

  “How long has this been going on? The Fervor?”

  “A few years, on this scale. They used to be small enough in number that their families would take care of them, thinking it was some sort of depression. Until they died of starvation or wandered into traffic and were hit by cars. These days, it’s becoming a public health problem. There are so many of them and at some point, they began to, well―organize it too strong a word. Congregate? Like the group back there. They are taken to hospitals when they become too weak or badly injured.”

  He glanced out the window.

  “Some say it’s a reaction to the Rift. That when the Humans saw their reality dissolve, their beliefs dismantle, their religions crumble…” He paused. “They’ve seen the edge of the universe, and they’ve all gone totally mad.”

  “Before the Rift, the word ‘ecumenical’ referred to something that represented various Christian religions. Now we understand ‘ecumenical’ as meaning the Earth-bound religions, including Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. Although, we are finding that they have their roots in Other and Otherworldly traditions.”

  ―Dr. Jania Smith, president of the Society for an Ecumenical Earth, in 2010

  CHAPTER TWO

  he months after the hospital were hard for reasons I hadn’t even thought to be worried about. Special Agent in Charge Constance Pryam sent me to Quantico, Virginia, for a sort of a crash course in FBI field training. It was pretty much everything you’ve seen in movies or on TV about boot camp combined with graduate school, all crammed into six weeks. In other words, pure hell. But it was nice to be someplace where nobody really knew who I was.

  Back home in Louisville, I was still getting accustomed to real life, which meant remembering how to run the Broom Closet. The shop had been shuttered when Lakeland called, left to collect dust and a couple of really late notices about water shut-off. Even though the FBI had gotten all the accounts back in good standing, with the power and water restored, there waited for me about three feet of grime and a couple pounds of cobwebs. Plus, all the normal grownup stuff like laundry and buying groceries. Not to mention Qyll, who occasionally checked in or stopped by, mostly to dump more paperwork or case files.

  All of this was singularly worth it, because every morning when I woke up, I got to remember this was my own bed, and I was out of Lakeland―a free(ish) woman―and not yet accosted by an angry mob as I obediently stayed inside, ordered takeout, snuggled with Dorcha, binged on TV, and fielded a surprising number of shoppers at the Closet.

  One of the first things I had done in those quiet few weeks was dig into an old suitcase for a purple bag that held my grimoire, a gift from Mama when I turned thirteen. The black leather cover featured the image of a crow worked in silver. The velvet bag had done a good job of warding off the tarnish. The pages were thick, creamy ivory, the kind that begs you to use your blackest ink and your very best handwriting. The first few sheets were covered in spells I had copied religiously from plain lined paper. Eventually, the spells got more sophisticated and the illustrations more elaborate.

  What stayed constant for years was my special ritual for working in my grimoire. A cup of very hot lavender tea sweetened with honey. White candles. I wore a long white sundress, with a shawl if it was cold. I would send a prayer to the universe and wash my hands with salt water for purity. It made me feel like a grown-up Witch doing “real” magic. Bits of the ritual dropped off as I got older, but still a sense of reverence washed over me whenever I pulled my book out. This time, it also felt like seeing a long-lost friend.

  The grimoire is a Witch’s diary, spell book, experiment record, and guide―all in one. It is as personal as heartbeats, as breath, as skin. It’s a Witch’s whole life, from the time she comes into her powers until the time she is released into the Ether, to whatever comes next.

  My own book of spells didn’t yield much information yet. It was missing half a decade of practice and experience, and I wanted to start writing down everything that had happened in the last few years. But it would wait for another time. I needed to get back into the habit of using my grimoire, writing down all the events of the last few years, teasing out details that left me upset and crying. I wanted my book to be the best record of my life, and it meant being totally honest. After my family died, and many of their grimoires were destroyed, it was up to me to keep the history of what was left of the once-great Reddick clan.

  Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. So did my quiet days.

  Eventually, the old-fashioned scare tactics started up, presumably from those in the Other community still convinced of my guilt, or the Humans who saw the shop has reopened. Notes tacked to trees around the shop and the apartment with burning arrows. A cauldron full of water with a Barbie doll Witch dangling over it, a charming little reminder of the dunking days for us Witches. Dead rodents on the windowsills and doormats. Not especially dangerous, just people not-so-politely telling me they knew I was back and they weren’t too happy about it.

  Which, in a knee-jerk reaction, made me question if opening my shop back up was anywhere in the ballpark of a good idea. Then again, I wouldn’t be exactly embraced anywhere I went, and Qyll did get as much security on the place as he could. Not to mention, I had started putting up my own protection spells. So, no, I was mostly safe. Most of the time.

  It was so strange, using magic again after so long without it―almost illicit. My hands remembered the motions; my voice remembered the words. But it was like putting on clothes I hadn’t worn in decades or speaking a long-disused language. The first spell I did when I got home was to make ice for a drink, and it was days later before I felt like trying something again.

  Not that I had had much time to re-hone those skills. The shoppers kept coming. I suspect that was from a little flyer circulated with envelopes full of mass-mailer coupons. A woman brought one in: GRAND RE-OPENING! CELEBRATE LOCAL MERCHANTS AT THE BROOM CLOSET! FINE PURVEYORS OF SPIRITUAL SUPPLIES―BOOKS, JEWELRY, STONES, AND MORE!

  I asked Qyll, and he shrugged. “I didn’t know about this, but if it was to make your store seem more legitimate, I think it succeeded? Looks like one of our interns’ work
. I’ll have a word with the team that set up your shop.” He glanced down at me with a crooked grin. “You do want me to thank them?”

  One sunny morning in July found me in my shop doing inventory on a collection of moonstone and carnelian jewelry. The front bell jangled, and a young girl sauntered up to the counter. She looked about sixteen and wore a short green-and-blue plaid skirt and white polo top. Over her arm was a purse that cost more than my (gently used) car. It all marked her as a student at a local girls’ Catholic school. In the weeks I’d been free of Lakeland and back at my little shop, I’d seen several of her kind. They were curious and brazen, had a lot of money, and were uniformly annoying. They treated magic like a service they were entitled to, like a massage or a car wash, instead of a very dangerous gift they had not been given and thought they could just buy.

  There always have been, always are, and always will be, THESE kind of girls. I spent a few years in a Catholic school myself. Mama always said Catholics are a Pope and a patriarch away from witchcraft anyway, so why not send me to St. Brigid?

  “Welcome to the Broom Closet. Can I help you?” I tried to sound polite. I failed.

  She pushed her messy blond hair behind her ears with expensively manicured fingers. A sly smile crept over her face, as if we were part of some secret together. “I need a spell.” She whispered it as if it were a dirty word and we were at a slumber party.

  My eyes narrowed, but I tried to keep my voice light. “I have lots of books on many new age and mystical subjects on those shelves. Have a look if you like.”

  “No!” She lowered her voice a little more as she leaned over the counter. “You’re a Witch. A real one. I saw you in the papers.”

  I gave in and rolled my eyes. These kinds of kids have been coming in since my mom opened the shop. Can you show me how to do magic? Can you give me a spell to get me a boyfriend? Can you make me lose weight? More often than not, they just need a healthy dose of confidence or a few more hours of study time. Even before the Rift, there have always been strict laws among Others against performing magic for or on a Human, and post-Rift, there were even more and even stricter. The rules are sticky even if you have explicit consent and stickier still when the Human is underage. Mom was really good at saying just the right thing to convince them to go home and start lifting weights or using a different soap or whatever it was they really needed.