Muddy Waters (Otherwhere Book 1) Read online

  “Sometimes, she says she’s working on cultivating a new orchid species in the conservatory and doesn’t want me to interrupt her delicate work. The old books are supposed to be more informative. I don’t believe her. I don’t. I’ve known her long enough to know when she’s… Well, I know she isn’t being truthful. I know in my heart something is wrong.” He slid the check over to me. I almost gagged on all the zeroes. The second time that day someone had thrown money at me. This time, I intended to keep it.

  He was looking at me with absolute despair, wringing his hands. Like I was his last hope. I hate it when people do that. He seemed so nice, like someone’s kind uncle or father, and having never had any uncles or known my father, I wanted to help this one.

  I learned a little more about him as we talked. Dr. Bartley was close to retiring. He wanted to spend his golden years with his wife, happily touring lighthouses of the world and adding to his model train collection. And of course, the plants. They loved their plants. No kids, no pets, no family to speak of. A perfectly ordinary, self-sufficient couple.

  I picked up the check and folded it neatly in half. “I will call you to touch base.” He shrugged. “I’ll use my discretion.” I found a scrap of paper. “This is my cell number. You can call me anytime.” I passed it to him. “All work is completely confidential, though not guaranteed. I’ll need a list of places she might go.”

  He dutifully scribbled out some things. “And include on there how I reach you.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Here. This is the address of the conservatory. And this is my cell.”

  “I won’t call unless it’s absolutely necessary, but you should be ready for contact whenever I need it.” He bobbed his head again, permanently and heartbreakingly cowed.

  “Ann wouldn’t pick up that phone anyway. She has her own cell phone.”

  “And is that her name?”

  “Ann. Yes. Ann Bartley.”

  “Okay. So, the conservatory. Where else can I find her?”

  “She doesn’t work, but she does a lot of charity things. And she’s involved in several groups at church. She’s chairman of the board for Botanica. She’s always raising money, scouting donors, looking at plans. I’m usually at work most of the day and late into the evening. And here’s our address.” I took a second scrap of paper.

  As I showed him out, Charlie said, “I just want to know she’s safe.”

  I nodded.

  I hadn’t had any customers, so I closed up early.

  After I locked the store doors, I made my way upstairs to the second-floor apartment. It’s super convenient and saves tons on gas money for my broomstick. Ha.

  I kicked off my red cowboy boots and called, “Honey, I’m home.” Dorcha barreled around the corner from the bedroom and rammed my hand with her head, her purr like a motorboat. “Hey girl.” I scratched behind her ears. I think she’s afraid I’ll disappear again.

  Dorcha isn’t a regular cat. First of all, she can appear to non-Others like a plain little black housecat. But to me, and those like me, she shows her real form: a sleek, oversized panther, black with dark gray markings, impressive white fangs, the whole shebang. A midnight saber-toothed tiger. Years ago, I came into my bedroom one night and found her sleeping on the duvet as if she owned the place. Terrified, I cast a quick protective spell, but she just rolled over and showed me her belly, her feline face inviting a rub. So I gave her a raw steak I happened to have, and we’ve been besties ever since. I’m certain she came from Otherwhere and just liked it so much, she stayed.

  She even stayed while I was at Lakeland. But not here. At least, I don’t think it was here. She hasn’t offered that up to me yet. I get the sense she feels bad or guilty about something, but if it’s for the silly reason that she went back to just across the border in Otherwhere to wait me out, I have no idea. Qyll and co. found her sniffing around the back door once they started putting the shop back in order.

  After she’d had her fill of scratches, Dorcha disappeared out the window. No clue where she goes at night, but if she’s anything like a normal cat, she’s got another family somewhere who thinks she’s theirs and calls her Blackie.

  I had just settled into the couch with a Woodford Reserve (something they do NOT have at Lakeland) and a trashy true crime novel when there was an almighty bang on the back door.

  “What now?”

  “Yoooohoooo!” A singsong voice called.

  As if the day could get any weirder.

  I took a huge gulp of my bourbon and trudged to the door. On the second-floor deck dawdled Gideon, his trademark white suit in attendance. When he saw me, he flashed that ridiculously brilliant smile of his and waved, as patently affable as a world’s most dapper loan shark.

  I muttered the spell to unlock the door and let him in.

  As he stepped delicately into my kitchen, I was painfully aware of how Earthly and mundane the place was to his non-Earthly glamor.

  Before I could speak, he pushed by. “Tessa, darling, I won’t waste time. You’ve only been out of your jail for a month, and here you are, back to being a very bad girl.” He―for lack of a better word―sashayed past me and into the living room where he waved a hand and sat delicately in the white white WHITE chair he conjured on the spot. “Come. Sit. Talk to your Watcher.”

  Gideon is a Malakim, sort of a lower-caste, messenger Angel―and yes, my Watcher.

  Once I was assumed to have broken the laws of both Earth and Otherwhere, I became subject to certain punishments. As I was convicted by the Human court of not only mass murder but also declared criminally insane, I was placed at Lakeland. And was assigned a Watcher: the Other equivalent of a parole officer. Gideon took up the post last year when the previous Watcher retired, and has taken it on himself to be a royal pain in my ass. Twice he showed up at Lakeland during my interviews for potential release, shaking his head sadly from just behind the moderator’s chair.

  Needless to say, I was not, in fact, released.

  I flopped down on the couch again and pointedly picked up my book. If I ignored him, he might go away.

  “We heard there was a teeny bit of magic recently that killed a few humans and demons, and it is just so odd you are out of jail and now this happens. I know I don’t need to remind you that as a dweller of both sides of the Rift, you are subject to the laws of Earth and Otherwhere, pursuant to the fourth and fifth articles of our regulations governing the use of magic against Humans in the Human realm. Again, that is.”

  The sad part is, he’s right. And yes, I know it’s stupid. When it comes to making laws and guidelines in a post-Rift world, we’re putting the ‘moron’ back in oxymoron.

  “Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t keep the pure incredulousness out of my voice. “Yeah, kinda familiar with the laws, Gideon. But those murders are part of a larger case. I was in the hospital―jail, as you call it―when the others happened. Why on Goddess’ green earth would I pull a stunt like that and get into trouble again?”

  After the Rift, both sides scrambled to put something that looks like law and order into place around the resulting chaos. Otherwhere might look like bedlam to a Human―all fun-house mirrors and weird creatures running amok―but there are, in fact, sets of rules they live by. Strange, contradictory, sometimes unfathomable rules, but there you are nonetheless. The Arcana supposedly serves as judge, jury, and executioner for the misuses of magic by Others. And the odd Earth-born Other. Such as, say, me.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You think I did it? Doesn’t your boss see and know everything?”

  Gideon pouted. “You know that’s not how this works. I’m not privy to that.” Though from the part of Otherwhere most Humans call Heaven, Gideon’s too low on the totem pole to have gotten very close to the big guy upstairs. The purest being in all the universes doesn’t concern itself with Earth. “Besides, I don’t know if you did it. I just suspect it, say, so you could take over as the most powerful Witch in Earth. I mean, perfectly understan
dable. No one would blame you, really.”

  “Yeah, well, then you need to get your facts straight. I had nothing to do with any murders. Not the one last night. Not the ones from five years ago. So get your feathery white butt and impossibly well-moisturized skin out of here and let me relax. Surely you have other people to torment?”

  I glared at him while he smirked at me.

  “Can you prove your whereabouts last evening?” He looked smug.

  I thought about it for a minute. “I was here. I’m always here. Or downstairs. Dorcha can tell you. She was… crap. Out hunting.”

  Gideon’s smug got smugger. He stood. “Don’t worry, pet. I’m not turning you in. Yet. You’re right, I don’t know for sure. I wanted you to know I’m just, as they say, watching.”

  I stood and pointed a finger at him. “You are a sanctimonious jerk, you know that? You’re supposed to be good. One of the good guys. I didn’t have anything to do with that fire. Why won’t anybody look into that?”

  “You were tried, my dear, and found guilty. There was absolutely zero evidence anyone else had anything to do with it.”

  “No one Human, you mean? The Arcana didn’t try me!”

  “It really wasn’t necessary, was it?”

  I literally smacked my forehead with my palm, squeezing my eyes closed. “I was shipped off to a Human hospital for mentally ill. Crazy people. Because when you are found guilty of killing that many women, you are clearly not of sound mind. I got out because somebody realized the truth.”

  The look in Gideon’s ice-blue eyes was hard to read. Malakim’s default setting is justice, and he truly believed I had killed my family and was now about to get up to more evil shenanigans.

  “Just step carefully,” he said softly. “Carefully indeed.” He vanished, leaving me spitting curses at vacant air.

  AREA WOMAN DECLARED MENTALLY INCOMPETENT TO STAND TRIAL―AP, LOUISVILLE

  Late on Wednesday afternoon, federal judge Krishna Tibbs ruled that Tessa Reddick is not mentally competent to stand trial. Reddick, 31, allegedly started the fire at her family’s ancestral home on St. James Court on June 8th. The fire left thirty-seven women dead, including Reddick’s mother. The other victims were reported to be Reddick’s aunts, cousins, and other female relatives.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  n the morning, I awoke still thinking about the fire. I had made a few calls, sent out a few owls. I’d heard nothing. Not even a solid, “eff you, Reddick.” I think that’s worse, when your friends won’t even tell you off, that’s how pissed they are. I had been going down a list of people to talk to, and as the names dwindled so did my hope of learning anything from a trusted source.

  While adjusting a wind chime in the corner of the shop, I heard water running in the little half-bathroom under the stairs. Odd, since I was kind of alone. I rushed in to see the sink filling up with dirty brown water, despite there being no plug in the drain and the taps firmly turned off.

  I flipped the light switch and peered into the basin. Swimming in figure-eights was a tiny catfish. It came to the surface, its slimy whiskers fanning out beside its wide mouth. A trail of bubbles descended, hovering over the murk.

  As the bubbles popped, words whispered from them: WELCOME HOME, HUSHPUPPY.

  I smiled. The catfish slapped its tail in the water, then the whole mess slid down the drain, and in a moment, it was dry and empty.

  “Tell him I’m on my way!” I shouted after the phantom fish.

  Finally. A message from a friend.

  For as long as I could remember, Papa Myrtle lived by the river in the west end, past Portland, in a funny old hut up on stilts. He remembers the Great Flood of 1937, the race riots in 1969, and the tornado in 1974. When I was little, Mama would take me to see the Nickers: Papa Myrtle and his gaggle of children who loved to leap off the dock into the river. Although Mama forced me to be a good swimmer, Witches don’t love water―some kind of ingrained leftover from the days of the witch trials―so I sat in the shade on the banks and watched them frolic.

  Nickers can usually be found any place there’s a river and a couple of months’ worth of warm weather. They’re low-level magic users, mostly limited to being able to breathe underwater and talk with fish. Papa Myrtle came to Kentucky from Louisiana, but a huge chunk of his family was wiped out after Hurricane Katrina. My Aunt Tilly called Nickers the stewards of the rivers, the caretakers of all the slimy swimming critters.

  It took me near an hour to find the place again; it’s been two decades. The Nickers keep to themselves, living and working apart from pretty much everybody. Most Nickers I’ve heard of make their home in the Deep South bayous and rivers, having descended from German immigrants.

  I parked in the weedy yard and climbed to the door. The house was a house in the loosest sense of the word―four walls, a floor, a roof, and it sheltered those inside from some of the elements, but that’s about it. Things hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d been there.

  My knock was answered by a little girl of perhaps five. She had a wide mouth, huge pale eyes, and lank hair. Tiny gills lined her skinny neck. “Maya, come away from that door,” a woman commanded. She appeared behind the girl―her taller, older version.

  “Josie? Is that you?” I shaded my eyes with a hand to get a better look.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Shit. Shit. What the devil are you doing here? Go away. He’s not home.” She tried to slam the door on me, but I was too quick. Josie and I are about the same age. She was one of the children playing in the river when we were small.

  “He sent for me, Josie. Do you want to go tell him you sent me away? Because I don’t think he’d like that.” Nickers are clannish and aloof, and when pushed, they have terrible tempers.

  Josie pursed her lips and opened the door. Little Maya stared, wide-eyed. I stepped into the warm gloom.

  “Papa!” Without taking her eyes off me, Josie yelled “She’s here.” She kept muttering under her breath while Maya watched with interest.

  We stood glaring at each other for long moments until the familiar shuffle-shuffle-thump, shuffle-shuffle-thump neared from down the hall. Papa Myrtle and his ancient walking stick appeared, his catfish-like face breaking into a toothless grin. “As I live and breathe,” he wheezed. “Hushpuppy. Come on, girl, give ol’ Papa a hug.”

  I crossed the room in two short steps and leaned down to embrace his rounded shoulders. He patted my back with a plump hand, the webbing between the fingers damp. “Go on, sit yourself down now. Josie, where yo manners? You get some iced tea for our guest.” At the first protesting noises she made, he gave her a sharp look and stamped the walking stick against the wooden floor. “Who raised you, girl? This is an old friend. Git, now. Scoot. Maya, g’on, help your mama.”

  I sat on the edge of the couch, the plastic covering crackling under my weight. Papa Myrtle settled into a rocking chair that had to have been two hundred years old. His bulging eyes were cloudy with age behind a pair of round spectacles. The flattened nose, bald head, and gills gave him the appearance of a strange old frog.

  “Don’t mind Josie.” He waved a crooked paw at me. “She’s just scared. They all are. I’m too old to be scared.” His laugh was a croak.

  “I didn’t do it, Papa. I swear,” I blurted. My old friend Papa Myrtle, letting me in. Treating me like I wasn’t a leper. It was a relief I could barely find words for.

  He put up a hand, the palm pale and smooth. “I know you didn’t. I’ve known your family for a long, long time, and I don’t bother much with rumors.” He looked at me carefully. I knew, despite his failing vision, he could see me just fine. “Josie’s right, you’re putting us in danger being here, but it ain’t all your fault. I reckon somebody is going to come looking for you sooner rather than later. And I ‘spect you don’t have a friend to turn to now.”

  “Everyone thinks I did it, don’t they?” I try not to ask questions I don’t already know the answers to, but this one sort of slipped out.

  Papa
Myrtle shrugged and sat back. “Hard to blame ‘em. Sure do look like you killed an entire coven of your own kind and kin.”

  I frowned. “Then, why do you believe me?”

  For a long time, he was quiet, looking toward the window. Thoughtfully, he said, “Your mama was a good friend. A good friend to me and mine, and Nickers don’t forget friendship. I can’t do much for’n you, but I got something. Look in that box yonder. Go on, go get it.”

  On a rickety bookshelf, there sat a wooden box the size of a loaf of bread, carved with a pair of koi. I sat back down on the couch. Inside, there was an envelope with my name written on it in my mother’s unmistakable hand. Shaking, I tore into it and tilted the contents onto the coffee table. It was a big round locket, silver with a carved moonstone face set in front. I stared at it dumbly, trying to remember it. Then, I tried to pry it open, but no luck.

  “Okay, what gives?”

  “I was hoping you’d know.” Papa Myrtle chuckled. “She sent it to me years ago. Said to give it to you when the time comes. Said I’d know. Thought this was it.” He sat back and rocked gently.

  I rubbed some of the tarnish off with my finger. It wasn’t familiar in the least. My mother wore jewelry, of course, and preferred it to the protective tattoos I had chosen. She liked sterling silver and rose gold, moonstones and amethysts. She was hardly ever without a couple of necklaces and bracelets, and a pair of moonstone earrings dangling from her lobes. But I would remember a locket with a face on it. I know I would…

  “What is it?” I kept trying to pry it open six ways to Sunday. “Where did it come from?”

  He just rocked a little in the chair, a hint of smile on his fat face.

  “So this is it? You called me out here to give me an old necklace?” I regretted it the instant the words left my lips. It wasn’t polite, first of all, and second, this was an alliance I could not afford to lose. But Papa Myrtle didn’t even raise an eyebrow.