Blood Witch Read online

  Published by Evernight Publishing ® at Smashwords

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2015 Naomi Clark

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-377-0

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  You can’t write a book without a few important things: lots of time, high quality tea, plenty of chocolate, and family and friends who don’t mind not seeing you for weeks on end (even when they live with you). To all those things and people, thank you!

  BLOOD WITCH

  Blood Canticles, 1

  Naomi Clark

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  There was probably never a good time to have the police knock on your door, Lola reflected. But three a.m. on a September morning was definitely one of the worst. The fog outside seeped into the house with the stone-faced detectives, and the brisk chill of the night sank into Lola's bones. She'd only been home a couple of hours; only just stripped off and gone to bed. Now, huddled in her ancient rocking chair by the embers of a dying fire, she didn't feel as exhausted as she should. She felt like someone had stuck a live wire up her ass.

  “I know this can't be good news,” she addressed the female detective, who introduced herself simply as 'Hardy.' “So you'd better just get on with it.”

  Hardy, a brunette who did look exhausted, raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure it's not good news, Miss Guntram?”

  Lola tried a smile. “Do the cops ever show up after midnight with good news?”

  Her partner, Scherer, looked fresher. He sat on the edge of his seat like he might spring up any second, but he smiled back. It wasn't an entirely happy expression. “You caught us out, Miss Guntram. This isn't a social call.”

  “Then don't drag it out,” Lola said. His nervous energy was infectious.

  They exchanged a knowing look. “Where were you between ten and midnight tonight?” he asked.

  The blunt question created a knot of dread in her stomach and she had to swallow hard before she answered. “Working. I was with a client. Why?”

  Hardy fixed cold blue eyes on her. It was a searching look, penetrating. If Lola didn't know better, she'd wonder if the detective was trying to probe her psychically. But both detectives felt like nulls to her sharp senses. “Can you prove that?” she asked.

  Irritation mixed with the dread. “Yes, of course. I have a diary in my office and you can call the client – although she probably isn't going to be any happier to hear from you than I am. What's this about?”

  Scherer couldn't quite manage Hardy's gimlet gaze, but his half-smile had disappeared. “What exactly is your job, Miss Guntram?”

  Lola shifted in the rocking chair, wishing she could cover herself with the blanket she sat on. But it would make her look vulnerable and she had a distinct feeling that wouldn't do her any favors. She settled for tightening the belt on her robe and pushing her shoulders back. Three years of childhood ballet lessons had taught her that good posture always created a good impression.

  “I'm a spiritual consultant. I help clients with difficult decisions, life choices, with emotional and psychological problems.” That was an edited, socially-acceptable answer. Lola wasn't about to get into witchcraft and spellcasting. She rubbed her wrists absently, glad her robe had long sleeves that hid the scars on her arms.

  Scherer sneered at her answer, making her doubly glad she'd given the short version. “So you're a New Age guru or something? Separating the gullible from their money?”

  “Scherer,” Hardy said, “let's not get distracted.”

  “Yes, I'd love it if we could stay on track,” Lola snapped. “Maybe we can start with you telling me what this is about? It's late, I'm tired, I have an early start—”

  “Why does 'spiritual consulting' take place so late at night?” Hardy asked. “That strikes me as odd, Miss Guntram.”

  The sound of her own surname was starting to grate on Lola. “It's a new moon tonight. Very good for certain practices.” Were they ever going to get to the fucking point? She couldn't think of a single thing she'd done that would bring them to her door, and it felt like she'd never find out at this rate.

  “So if we checked with your client, they would confirm you were nowhere near the Red Lotus tonight?” Hardy asked.

  Lola blinked. “The Red Lotus? No, of course not. Why would I be there?” The idea was so laughable, she almost forgot her nerves and irritation for a second. The Red Lotus was a pretty exclusive S&M club – members only, sky-high fees, that kind of thing. It was also owned and managed by Lola's ex-girlfriend. Even if she'd been into the kink that the Red Lotus offered, Lola could never have gone there. It would have been mortifying. She felt herself blushing at the very thought.

  “Well, you tell us, Miss Guntram.” Hardy leaned forward again, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands under her chin. The movement put her face in shadow, with the room only lit by a soft peachy lamp, and Lola was struck by the thought that Hardy would be beautiful if she didn't look so tense and tired. “You see, a woman was found dead there tonight.”

  Lola's heart jumped, then plummeted. “A woman? Not Rowan?” Her voice squeaked and she covered her mouth as if she could recover the sound.

  “Ms. Morgan is fine,” Scherer said. Lola felt some of her dread drain away.

  “She is the reason we're here, however,” Hardy said. “She seems quite sure you're responsible for the killing, you see.”

  The dread vanished completely, replaced with nausea. “What?” There was a sudden rushing in her ears and the room, icy cold before, was overwhelmingly hot. “Why would she say that?”

  “You tell us,” Hardy invited again. Lola wanted to smack her.

  “I can't. I just...I can't. There's no reason. I wasn't there. I would never...Why would she say that?” Lola flexed her fingers into her palms, feeling a sting of pain. A glimmer of understanding rose through the shock. “How did the woman die?”

  Scherer answered, after glancing at Hardy for silent permission. “It appeared to be some kind of ritual. The woman had been bled.”

  “Exsanguinated,” Lola said without thinking, then bit her lip. Of course Rowan had pointed the finger at her. Bitterness welled in her and she didn't bother trying to fight it. Damn Rowan and her ignorance, her prejudice. How could she do this? Lola studied the two detectives, who seemed to be waiting for her to say something else. “I didn't do it. I have a client who can provide me with an airtight alibi and I'm happy to give you her contact details.” She rose, planning to head for her office.

  Hardy jumped up, blocking the doorway. “Why would Ms. Morgan blame you? She seemed very, very certain, Lola.”

  Oh, it was Lola now, was it? Was this the start of a good-cop, bad-cop motif? Lola looked the other woman up and down. They were about the same height, but Hardy looked athletic under her rumpled skirt suit, and Lola had no doubt she was physically stronger. Not a woman Lola wanted to antagonize.

  “I can hazard a guess,” she replied, “but you both strike me as skeptics and I'm not in the mood to be ridiculed. Being falsely accused of murder is bad enough.”

  Hardy folded her arms and frowned. “I'm a homicide detective, Lola. You'd be amazed at what I've heard over the years. You can't shock me.”

/>   Lola glanced at Scherer. “What about you?” His 'New Age guru' sneer had stung, but she figured she'd rather be ridiculed and have them gone than worry about her pride.

  He just shrugged. Lola did something she didn't normally do outside of a client consultation and checked his aura. Just a light, psychic touch – nothing he'd notice – and she found swirls of frantic energy that didn't match the poker face he was giving her. He was wired, anxious, angry, his aura flaring muddy red and black in her mind's eye. She did the same to Hardy and found the same emotions and colors, edged with a dirty gray that meant Hardy was on high alert, unconsciously guarding her spiritual self.

  But although she sensed deep anger in them both, Lola didn't think it was directed at her, at least not now. It was chaotic and unfocused. That made her feel slightly easier about telling them the truth – whatever aggression they were feeling, they weren't going to turn it on her. Probably.

  “There's another side to my business,” she said. “If you'd like to come through to the office, I'll explain.”

  The idea of letting them in made her uneasy. She never let anyone into her home office, but she couldn't think of a faster way to clear this up and send them on. As she led them down the hall to the locked room, she asked Hardy, “What did Rowan say anyway? She can't have just shrieked my name and sent you scurrying over. She must have given some reason why I'd do something so awful.”

  Hardy's lips narrowed. “I'm not at liberty to say.”

  “I don't have a right to know why I was accused of murder?” Lola already had a pretty good idea of what Rowan had said, but it would be nice to have it confirmed. Well, maybe “nice” wasn't the right word. “Vindicating,” maybe.

  She also wanted to know what Rowan might have said about magic or covens or rites, and how much the detectives believed. The scars on her wrists itched and she resisted the urge to rub them.

  “You're just not the one asking questions right now, that's all,” Hardy answered her.

  Lola frowned and unlocked the office, flipping the light on before ushering the detectives in. The warm scent of rosewood welcomed them in and Lola inhaled deeply, trying to ease the tension knotting up her muscles. She glanced around the office, trying to view it with an outsider's eyes. What did the room say about her? What secrets did it give away?

  The room was decorated in warm, earthy colors, evoking an eternal autumn. On the wall over the desk hung a photo of a raven silhouetted against a crimson and gold sunset. The desk itself was piled high with folders and papers, fighting for space with the laptop and a collection of mugs and a dish full of used teabags. Really, the only thing that marked the room as not mainstream was the bookcase. It was packed full with books on witchcraft, mythology, the occult, Wicca…The kind of books Lola just knew Scherer was going to sneer at.

  She sat at the desk and opened her diary, leafing through for this week while Hardy and Scherer wandered around the office. Predictably they both went straight to the bookcase. Lola glanced up at them and saw Hardy point to something on the shelf. Scherer let out a low whistle. Lola gritted her teeth and waited for them to switch focus back to her. Hardy pulled whatever book she’d found off the shelf and took the only other chair in the room, opposite Lola. She kept the book out of sight, smiling blandly.

  “Let’s see this diary then.”

  Lola shoved some papers aside and showed her the page. The client’s name and phone number were scribbled down neatly. Scherer leaned over Hardy’s shoulder to write them down in a small pad of his own. “What does BR stand for?” he asked.

  Lola shifted uncomfortably in the usually comfortable chair. Here we go. “Blood ritual.” The words tasted thick and bilious on her tongue, hard to say, and she hated that. She didn't need to be ashamed of what she did.

  Hardy and Scherer exchanged a pointed look. “Does that relate to this at all?” She placed the book on the desk, title facing towards Lola, who didn’t need to read it. She knew instinctively which one Hardy had taken. A plain white book with a clear black title: The Left Hand Path: Blood Rites, Occult Rituals, Demonic Entities.

  She wanted to be sick; she fought the urge. She wanted to scream a curse at Rowan; she fought that urge too. Harm none, that was the rule. She'd only broken it once. She met Hardy’s stormy eyes, saw the distrust there, the desire for Lola to be the villain. Probably nothing personal. It just made sense, that was all. It would be easy if Lola was the villain. “My client will confirm I was with her at the time of the murder,” she said, pleased her voice stayed cool and steady. “My reading material is not evidence, Detective Hardy.”

  “We’ll certainly be in touch with your client,” Hardy said. “In the meantime, I’d love to hear a little about these blood rites and how they work, Miss Guntram.”

  “Are you arresting me?” Lola asked. Hardy hesitated, then shook her head. “Then I’d prefer not to talk about it. It’s late – it’s early, in fact – and I’m exhausted. If you want to speak to me again after you’ve checked my alibi, fine. But right now, I think we’re done. Thank you,” she added, because it never hurt to be polite, especially if you really wanted to be extremely rude.

  Hardy sighed. She looked like she wanted to be gone too. “We’ll be in touch, Miss Guntram.”

  “Dawn –” Scherer began. She cut him off with a stern look as she rose.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” she said. Her partner scowled and followed her silently.

  Lola waited until she heard the front door slam before she swore. She rolled up her sleeves and scratched her scars until the newer ones opened again, dripping dark blood over the paperwork. “Fuck it.” She pushed back from the desk, slamming her chair against the wall. The scars always itched when she was stressed or angry. It was probably all just in her head, but they did, and she couldn’t help scratching, even when it hurt, even when they bled. But the sight of her blood, the sensation of energy leaking away, was oddly calming, and after a minute or two the urge to break something – or someone – faded. No wonder they used to bleed the sick in the ancient world.

  She stood, unsure for a second what she was going to do. It was nearly four a.m. and a tired, reasonable voice in the back of her head whispered that she should sleep and let the cops call her client for her alibi. She was innocent, after all. Isako Jones would confirm Lola had been with her and that would be the end of it.

  That voice was drowned out by a much more primitive voice, screaming that she should go shake some answers out of Rowan.

  She went primitive.

  Chapter Two

  The Red Lotus was a sleek, discreet building nestled in the heart of Fort Rosser's club district. From the outside, it didn't look much different from the cocktail bars or dance clubs around it. Once you got inside, that changed. Lola had no intention of going inside.

  The police were gone when she arrived, but the streetlights shone off the neon police tape running along the front of the building. Rowan leaned against one of those streetlights, holding a pair of towering high heels in one hand and a cigarette in the other. In the pre-dawn light, she looked ethereal, blonde ringlets tumbling round her porcelain-skinned face. She ought to be wearing a flowing white gown, Lola thought, and clutching dead roses to her chest. The shoes and cigarette just didn’t work with the Victorian waif look.

  Lola felt a moment of apprehension as she approached. Rowan looked wounded, her eye make-up smeared, her hands shaking. Then that primitive voice reminded Lola that Rowan had accused her of murder. If either of them deserved to look – and feel – wounded, it wasn’t Rowan.

  “Hey,” she shouted as she stalked up. She couldn’t bring herself to use Rowan’s name. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Rowan jolted as if she’d been hit, swinging her head towards Lola. Her eyes widened and she dropped her shoes to the pavement, slipping into them quickly and expertly. With the heels, Rowan was a good four inches taller than Lola. She used that height well as she walked to meet Lola, glaring down at her and blowin
g cigarette smoke into her face. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” she spat back. “How dare you –”

  “How dare you send the cops to my house with murder accusations! How could you?” Lola’s wrists itched and she dug her nails into her palms to suppress the urge to scratch. “Do you honestly think I’m capable of murder or is this just some sick coven game?”

  “The Choir doesn’t play games with people’s lives,” Rowan said. “That’s a blood witch’s work.”

  Lola felt her nails slice into her palms. The pain was grounding, just enough to keep her from screaming at Rowan. “I’ve never killed anyone. I’ve never harmed anyone. Making completely baseless, vile accusations against me—”

  “Baseless!” Rowan did scream. “I found the body, Lola! I saw what was done and I know what it meant.”

  “And you thought of me,” Lola said softly. “You saw a dead woman and your first thought was that I did it. Do you hate me, Rowan? Do you really think I’m capable of killing someone?”

  Rowan’s face softened. “I don’t hate you.”

  “You hate me enough for this.”

  “No…No. I just…” Rowan took a deep drag on her cigarette, then dropped it and stomped it out. “Swear to me, Lola. Swear you’re not responsible.”

  “I shouldn’t have to swear. You should trust me.”

  “You’re the only blood witch I know and this woman died in a blood ritual. Swear to me you weren’t involved and I’ll believe you.”

  She wanted someone to talk to, Lola thought, someone who might understand or explain. Rowan’s eyes shone with unshed tears and she was shivering. Cold, tired, scared, that was how she looked. A little of Lola’s anger melted away.