“You won’t think so when I tell you why I’ve called,” he replies
“What’s up?”
“I need your help with something. We have a new vic. He was dumped in the street in front of Café Amelie last night. I’d like to run some things by you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I take it something’s wrong with his blood?”
“Yeah. As in, there isn’t any.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hang up my lab coat and close down my lab, stowing my tools and specimens away before locking up and hurrying over to the police department.
Cash has brought me in on a few cases lately, all of them dealing with some kind of blood concern.
Blood is my job, after all. I’ve known since I was a small boy that working with blood would be important.
I’m lucky that I also enjoy it, find it fascinating, and it provides a good living.
When I arrive at the station, Cash is waiting for me.
“We’re headed down to the morgue,” he informs me. “Unless you have a problem with that.”
I shake my head and walk with him to the elevator. Once in the basement, we follow a hallway to the morgue where the medical examiner is waiting.
A corpse lies on a slab in the middle of the room, the body completely covered in slashes and cuts.
“That’s a shitty way to die,” I say as I approach. Some of the cuts have already formed scabs. “He was tortured.”
“Mercilessly,” the ME agrees. “Bled slowly for a while, and then was drained completely.”
My eyes find Cash’s. “Why am I here?”
“Because we also found this.” Cash passes me a plastic bag containing a stone.
“It’s a bloodstone,” I reply, looking carefully at the smooth rock, big enough to almost fill the palm of my hand. “A big one. And it’s covered, coincidentally, in blood.”
“Not the victim’s blood,” the ME says, and my eyes shoot up to his. “The blood type on the stone, which we found in the victim’s throat, doesn’t match what we were able to collect from the body. And trust me, there wasn’t much left.”
I stare down at the rock in my hand and let myself open up to it, trying to read what happened to it before it came to be in its final resting place.
But a powerful spell has been cast on it, preventing me from seeing anything.
In fact, even trying nauseates me.
“We need an analysis on that blood,” Cash insists. “I need DNA to see if it matches anyone else who might be missing. Or if I’m lucky, the killer’s.”
“It won’t be the killer’s blood,” I reply without thinking.
Cash tilts his head to the side and watches me. “Why do you say that?”
“Just a hunch,” I lie easily. “Can I take this with me?”
“Of course,” Cash says. “I’ll write you a chain of custody receipt for it.”
I nod and turn away but look back at him. “Who’s the vic?”
“We don’t know,” Cash answers with a sigh. “He doesn’t match any missing persons’ reports.”
“Daphne might be able to help with that,” I remind him. Daphne has the gift of psychometry, touching objects and people and knowing everything about it or them. I don’t envy that gift.
“I’d rather not bring her in if I don’t have to.” Cash’s face is lined with concern, and his eyes look tired.
“What aren’t you telling me, Cash?”
“The girls found him.” He points to the body.
I tip my head to the side. “Which girls?”
His green eyes find mine. “All three of them. He was dumped outside the restaurant where they were having dinner.”
I don’t like this coincidence. I don’t like it at all.
“Has Brielle seen anything new since then?”
“Not that she’s said.”
I nod, new determination taking root in my gut.
“I’m going to drop this off at the lab and then pay Millicent a visit.”
“Good luck with that.”
The bell above her door rings as I enter the café. Her employee, Esme, is behind the counter, filling orders with a smile.
Esme is a young but powerful witch. She’s also completely flighty and goofy, with messy hair and tons of jewelry draped over her wrists and neck. She’s a fun addition to Witches Brew.
Millie employs mostly witches because they understand the importance of the potions added to the drinks, and because Millie doesn’t have to deal with any of her employees mocking her or making fun of her.
“Hey, Lucien,” Esme greets with a flirty smile. She’s never made it a secret that she has a little crush on me. And I’ve never made it a secret that I’m not interested.
Esme isn’t for me.
“Hi, Esme. Is Millie around?”
“Yeah, she’s reading tarot in the back.”
“Thanks.” I shove my hands into my pockets and wander to her little book area, then stand and grin as I watch the woman I’ve loved for millennia read her cards.
“Lots of Minor Arcana Cups,” Millie says, tapping the table thoughtfully. “Well, this makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“How so?” the woman sitting before her asks, leaning in closer.
“Because the Cups cards always deal with emotion. You’re leading with your heart instead of your head, and that’s certainly clear in every card we’ve drawn today—and based on what you told me.”
“I only told you that I was getting a divorce,” the woman says, her voice heavy with awe.
I smile wider. Yes, Millicent is damn impressive when it comes to tarot. It’s not something I ever had any interest in, but with Millie’s psychic abilities and her flair for the dramatic, watching her read for people is entertaining.
“You’re a Cancer,” Millie points out, as if that explains it all. “You’re artistic and sometimes a little dramatic. Could it be that your decision to ask for a divorce is based on a knee-jerk reaction to something that hurt you?”
“I’ve felt so disengaged from him,” the other woman admits. “There’s no passion anymore, you know?”
“I’m no therapist, nor an attorney, but I can tell you based on these cards, you should have a conversation with your husband. One that is calm and honest. Because this indicates you’re being hasty.”
“Maybe I am,” the client admits with a sigh. “Thank you, Millie. You always help me so much.”
“You’re welcome, sugar,” Millie says with a wink. She gathers her cards and presses her hand over the deck as the other woman leaves, whispering a little incantation to recharge and reset them before setting them aside.
When she glances up and sees me, her brown eyes darken. Whether in pleasure or disappointment, I’m not sure.
“Good afternoon,” I say as I approach.
“Are you here to get your cards read?” she asks.
“No.” I know what my future holds. It’s just how we get there that’s a little hard to see. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Okay.”