Chapter 10

Jack

I don’t let myself stumble until I’ve entered my apartment and closed the door behind me. Closing my eyes, I lean against the sturdy slab of oak and knock my head back against the wooden door. Goddammit. I want the dull thud in my skull to override the ringing in my ears. But it can’t. Nothing can. Because an hour ago, I had to tell a family that their eldest son wasn’t coming home.

It’s the worst part of my job.

The part that clings, that digs in at night and leaves me staring at the ceiling.

Today is going to be one of those days. The broken cry of Mrs. Allen as she crumpled to the kitchen floor will haunt me for the rest of my life. Followed by the way her husband’s face just…closed when I told him. I think part of him already knew something was wrong. I saw it in his face when he opened the door. Then I said “I’m very sorry to have to tell you” and his eyes simply shuttered, like windows boarded for a storm.

And what else could I tell them? What comfort or reassurance could I offer? There’s never any way to make the loss of a child easier, but normally I can say something. I can promise that we have the culprit in custody, or that we’ll ensure that intersection is made safer, or that we’re close to making an arrest. 

Not with this case. 

There's nothing I can offer. 

“Fuck.” I slam my fist into the wall beside the door. I have no idea why this kid died, even less as to who did it. And I won’t get one by running myself into the ground. It’s time to get some rest, and try to go at things with a fresh perspective in the morning. I straighten away from the door and kick off my boots. With a flip of my wrist, my hat lands on the counter. Crossing the main room—the kitchen plus living room of my apartment—I enter my bedroom and open the closet. 

I stare at the small gun safe on the top shelf, and slowly unstrap my weapon. I unclasp the holster and my hands freeze of their own accord.

Taking my gun off feels…dangerous. 

My fingers flex on the handle, along the black leather case. It will be safer to keep my weapon to hand, just this once. I don’t know what killed that kid—I have no idea when the killer will strike again. I should stay ready—vigilent. This case isn’t normal, and a gun at my side means…

What the hell?

I shake my head. 

Since when do I cling to a gun for emotional support? That is not me. I’m not some dickless asshole who needs a piece to feel complete. I shove my piece into the safe and slam the door before I can talk myself out of it. The soft whirr of the mechanical lock makes my throat tighten with worry. Which is ridiculous. The gun is right there, in my own safe, behind a door controlled by my passcode. 

Clearly, I need to rest. Eat. Get my head together so I can figure out what the hell happened to that kid. 

I stalk into the bathroom and splash water on my face. 

The shock of cold doesn’t shake off tension gripping the back of my neck. 

Bracing my hands on either side of the sink, I study myself in the mirror. What gazes back isn’t pretty. Red veins pierce the whites of my eyes, and dark shadows mar the skin below, creating a matching pair of bruised crescents. The hollows in my cheeks are stark against the unusual pallor of my skin. And why are my nailbeds aching? My skin feels tight and my hair tugs on my scalp.God. I look like I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours, or more, not a measly thirty-six. 

My brows pull together and I frown at my haggard reflection. 

Back in Miami, I pulled multi-day shifts with barely a wrinkle. Sure, there’s less sun here, there’s also a lot less Florida-crazy. I always figured it balanced out in the end. Besides, it hasn’t been that long since those days, has it? No. No way. I’m in my thirties, not some old man who needs a nap after an early morning. 

So why does the face staring back at me seem ten years older?

It’s like I’m sick, but I’m not running a temperature.

Maybe I need a doctor, or…

Unbidden, a striking oval face with a pair of intent moss-green eyes fills my thoughts. Concern sparks in their depths. Perfect lips, which I’ve been struggling to ignore, shape a warning: It is vital that you and your people guard yourselves against the darkness this death has called forth.

I don’t want to remember the feel of her skin.

Even as my body reacts to the memory, Mayweather’s plea from the crime scene reverberates in my head. She begged us to burn sage and scrub ourselves with salt. All part of her routine, I’m sure. Just as her extraordinary looks have to be an asset—a weapon. No matter how many times I remind myself it’s a con, an act, it’s impossible not to react when a woman that beautiful implores you to guard yourself.

I glance at the sage candle my ex-fiance left behind. It probably wouldn’t hurt to light the candle—

I let out a sharp breath. 

“No.” I tell myself. “No way.” 

I’m not letting that fake witch get in my head—not any more than she already is. There was probably some freaky pollen or weird mushroom spreading in the area around the body. It’s early enough in the summer for new growth to pop up in the hills. That has to be why everyone felt off afterward. Yeah. That makes sense. My fake Mayweather probably knows all about unique local botany, and made those claims because she knew we’d be affected and that warning us would add a layer of legitimacy to her nonsense. 

Fuck, she’s good. 

Well, too bad for her. I refuse to be brought down by a clever con and some random fungi. 

I shove myself away from the sink and stalk into the kitchen. It doesn’t matter if the thought of food makes my stomach churn, I need to eat. Sleep. Shake off whatever flora is messing with my head and get back to the case first thing in the morning. I consider nuking another of my mother’s emergency meals, then reject the notion. Her lasagna deserves my full appreciation. Instead, I crack open a can of soup, dump it in a bowl and shove it in the microwave. 

Chicken noodle. It’s good for the soul or some shit. Right? 

But I don’t want the soup. 

I want…something else? 

My vision blurs and suddenly I’m picturing a witch’s warm, willing body arching beneath mine, black hair damp with sweat. Desire floods me, leaves my knees weak and my heart pounding. I watch my hands creep around her neck, squeezing the length of smooth skin and a burst of horror shakes the image. It twists in my head, the bedroom and its tangled sheets dissolving into another kind of hunger. A clawing need for steak, barely kissed by the grill. So fresh it’s still bleeding—

Beep. 

I jolt and stare blankly at the microwave. 

What just happened? I suck in a sharp breath and try to get a hold of myself. I refuse to fantasize about violent sex with con artists, no matter how hot they are. And since when do I obsess about steak after a long day? Or, ever? Normally, I’m motivated by a ham sandwich and a cold beer. If I’m feeling particularly inspired, I’ll toss in a cheese slice and a pickle. Maybe watch a few minutes of the game. 

I do not crave a bloody steak after sweaty, nasty sex. That’s fucking weird. Also, way too much work. 

I yank the bowl out of the microwave.

Hot liquid sloshes over the sides, singing my fingertips. “Fuck!”

I fight the urge to fling the entire serving in the garbage. Nope. Not being defeated by canned soup and intrusive thoughts of raw cow. I grab a spoon and shove it into the middle of steaming noodles and broth. This soup is going to burn my mouth, and right now that feels like a good thing—

It’s barely warm. 

What the hell? 

It was just hot enough to burn me—and now it’s not? That makes zero sense. I glare at the bowl for a moment. Shrug. Continue eating. Instead of searing hot, salted water, I have luke-warm salted water, liberally populated with noodles and fake chicken. I can work with that. Loosening the collar of my shirt, I settle in, hunching over my bowl like a possessive dog. The soup tastes like wet cardboard—I eat it all. 

Then I just sit at the counter, circling the empty bowl with my spoon.

I need to sleep—I can’t face going to bed without a direction to pursue when I wake up. Which I don’t have. This case… Les and I already canvased what we know of the dead kid’s last day. We questioned my deputy’s favorite group of “hooligans” and came up with a big fat nothing. The group of kids were squirrely, but they always are. And yeah, they’re definitely hiding something—they did something they’re afraid of revealing. I’ll have to drag the details of whatever stupid shit they pulled out of them. But unlike my deputy, I know that pressuring a bunch of scared teens only makes it harder to get the information we need. Besides, none of them sported a “whoops, my parttime occult club went from playing at vampires  to brutally murdering a friend” expression. 

Call me delusional, but I’m convinced I’d pick up on that.

But I’m still missing something.

I snort. 

What am I saying? I’m missing a lot of things. Les and I patched together a lot of the kid’s last day: breakfast, school, and plans to meet his friends at the town fair. But there are hours unaccounted for—particularly, the stretch of time between leaving school and ending up dead on Battle Rise. 

I pull out my case notes and sigh. I have pages of information… and all that text has the depth of a shopping list. I flip to the last page. Glare at it. It’s just a list of questions we have yet to answer, and right now it feels as long and as impenetrable as trying to read the Dead Sea Scrolls in the middle of Midnight’s quiz night.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

There has to be something in here—

My phone rings, the slender rectangle vibrating loudly against the short jut of counter that is my kitchen peninsula. The sound stabs my ears and I wince. Since when does my phone send a spike of pain through my skull? 

I guess chicken soup can’t solve everything. 

I squint at the screen. 

“Gramps” flashes on the display and my finger hovers over the ignore icon. My head is pounding from the noise and I want to tap that sweet red circle so badly that my teeth ache from it—but I know from experience that will only send Gramps into a panic. If I send him to voicemail, he’ll decide I’m dead drunk or bleeding on the floor. Or maybe cursed by witches. He’ll call my mother, who will tell him not to worry, while worrying herself until she gives in and calls my father…

And thus begins a pain worse than any headache. 

I accept the call. “Hey, Gramps,” I say, trying to sound better than dead slightly warmed over. “I’m fine. I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now, so you’ll know it’s been a long day. Let’s chat tomorrow—”

“Tell me you didn’t let the witch go again!” 

Fuck. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Gramps—”

“Don’t you Gramps me, boy,” he barks. “You had that beast back in your cells and you let her go! Again! Do you have a death wish, boy? After everything we’ve taught you, how can you forget: Never suffer a witch to live.”

I swallow my instinctive sigh—that will only set him off further—and say dryly, “This isn’t the 1690s.”

“Those were the days.” My grandfather harumphs as if he can somehow take credit for burning witches at the stake in Salem. “A man could protect his family and his town from evil without having mobs of bleeding hearts chasing them around, wailing about stereotype-this and fairness-that.”

Fuck. I am not in the mood for this.

I run my fingers through my hair, tug hard on the ends.

“It’s all snowflake crap, and it gives those devil-kissed bitches too much power.” Great, just great. He’s really picking up steam now. 

I grunt in vague acknowledgement. When he’s this worked up, he’ll just keep going. It can be an hour or more before he demands an actual reply—and I’d love to hang up, but that will only trigger the same chain of events as not answering. I idly wonder if I should start rating his rants. Maybe make a bingo card? Anything to help weather the storm of witch-shaped conspiracy theories and fringe-fueled panic. 

“It’s bad enough we have to work around that liberal bullshit,” he says, voice rising in volume. “When I learn that my own flesh and blood has not only failed to run a witch out of town, but that he had cause to lock her away for good and instead he let her go! My God. The shame. Did I teach you nothing?” 

The question is punctuated with the sound of spittle hitting the microphone.

Frustration spikes and I crack my neck

Before I can stop myself, I snap, “She walked into a crime scene, Gramps. That’s a minor misdemeanor, not grounds for drawing and quartering. If you’re ashamed of me following the law, that’s your problem.”

His answering hiss of fury confirms that was a bad decision. 

I need to redirect this conversation—quickly. Otherwise a tidal wave of Goodnight family fury is going to land on my poor mother.

If it’s one thing all Goodnight men excel at, it’s hurting the people we love.

“I know better than to believe her, Gramps,” I say, striving for a tone that’s both soothing and firm. Pretty sure I don’t manage either, but whatever. It’s been a long day. At this point, all I can do is try and stop digging myself into an early grave. “I’m not blind. She’s got an agenda and I’m not going to let her get away with it. But I can’t lock her in a cell and throw away the key without evidence.”

Inspiration strikes and I add, “You can help with that.” 

“Bet you need my help,” he grumbles. “Goddamn young people don’t know shit.”

“Yup. That’s me. Not knowing shit,” I agree blithely. 

“Don’t you sass me, boy,” he snarls.

“No sass. Just tired.” That’s a lie, there was definitely sass. I’m not a bloody saint. However, I’m also desperate. It’s a risk to share my thoughts about Mayweather with him, but I don’t think there’s a man alive who can keep a secret better than my grandfather. Hopefully hearing my suspicions will assure him that I’m not blinding consigning our town to a fiery, witch-fueled demise. 

“This fake Mayweather knows a lot about our family. I need to know what her game is—get ahead of it. To do that, I need to figure out what part of Goodnight family history she’s planning to use next.” Dropping the spoon into the bowl, I cross to my bookshelf and retrieve the photobook. I flip to the picture of the Midnight Marshalls. “Are you certain John William Goodnight never had dealings with the original Mayweather—before she turned to the devil and tried to murder the town.”

“She always followed the devil,” Gramps snaps. “Always.”

“Right. Yeah.” I dig deep, but the picture blurs before my tired eyes. “So no dealings then?”

“Never.” He bites the word like a wolf might a deer’s leg. “Mayweather McCreedy was a devious, devil-bound whore. She used her evil powers to invite the Devil into the Reach, and it’s only through the dedication of your ancestor, John William Goodnight, that she was sent back to Hell.”

Ah yes, the “back to Hell” portion of the rant is now upon me.

For some stupid reason, I think I can still turn this conversation around. Maybe I really am running a fever? “Well, this Mayweather hasn’t come from Hell. She’s probably from LA, or maybe Atlanta. She’s done her homework, so help me out. Tell me who the Midnight Marshalls have strung up in that group picture. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a feeling this picture is tied into her plan…”

“Don’t pretend you know the right questions,.”

The voice is my grandfather’s, but it no longer sounds like it’s coming from my phone. Before my eyes, the black-and-white picture of John William moves. Like a slowly moving animation, his body shifts. Suddenly, he’s looking straight at me, his mouth forming my grandfather’s words. 

I jolt, nearly falling off my kitchen stool.

“What the…” I blink rapidly, waiting for the two-dimensional phantom to vanish. It doesn’t. It just keeps regarding me, like some terrible omen from the past. Or some avenging spirit, come to Earth to judge every single one of my sins. 

Which could take a while—

Stop it. 

No way am I going down my grandfather’s lunatic path. I have to be hallucinating. Get a grip, Goodnight. I rub my eyes—instead of banishing the image, other figures begin moving. Shit, shit, shit. What the hell kind of mushrooms did I inhale? 

I guess the kind that evokes past demons. 

John William haunted my childhood. Guess he’s decided to take a stab at my adulthood, too.

“Ah…” I gape at the image. “Gramps. I have to go.”

“The hell you do,” my grandfather says. “We’re not done.”

My grandfather says it—I hear his voice. But all I see is John William mouthing the words. 

The original Midnight Marshall is standing there in the picture, only this image is sharper than the copy of that faded black-and-white. It’s like the old frame is being run through a high definition filter as I watch. His features sharpen. His posture shifts, his thumbs hooked in his beltloops, a Colt six shooter strapped to each hip in a detailed leather holster—the exact replica like the one my grandfather claimed was passed down to him. He’s wearing a high-collared shirt, a trail-worn coat, and a fitted vest with a silver star pinned atop the breast. As I watch, he tips his derby hat at me, setting it at a rakish tilt. It’s eerie as all heck. But what really sets my teeth on edge is his expression. A half-grin shapes a mouth that’s way too close to mine for comfort, even partly hidden beneath that signature moustache. 

“We’ve got family business to discuss,” John William’s picture says with my grandfather’s voice. 

“Guess chicken soup and spores don’t mix,” I mutter, waving the soup spoon I’m apparently still holding at the phantom. “Take it elsewhere, okay? It’s been a long day and I’m not in the mood for a haunting.”

“This is serious,” the image snaps. “Focus, boy.”

The damn soup had probably expired. I really need to remember to check the labels before I eat things. “I need to lie down now,” I say, horrified by the tremor in my voice. “I can’t handle dead family reunions—”

“Listen up.” John William’s image blurs, and when it solidifies he’s drawn closer to the edge of the photo. His hands now rest on the guns at his hips. “You’re the Goodnight family’s heir. It’s up to you to protect this town—to protect our legacy.”

Why is the picture speaking with my grandfather’s voice? I might need to call the doc—or an ambulance. But I can’t seem to ask for help, can’t manage to hang up and hit the emergency call.

I grip the counter. “What’s….what’s happening?” 

“You’re being reminded of your duty—your sacred duty.” John William’s eyes seem to burn with something brighter than the monochrome of the photo. “You have a hell-kissed McCreedy witch on your hands. I need to know if you’re planning to listen to the witch? If you want to do what she says?”

“No,” I answer, before I think better of it. “And I’m not doing what you say, either.”

“Of course you are,” the image says. “You’re my blood. My legacy. My heir. It’s up to you to uphold the Goodnight name. In your hands are all the lives that depend on that legacy. Your family—this town. You need to protect them from evil.”

Protect. Yes. 

That’s what I do. I protect people. 

“Wait, what?” I shake my head, but somehow the image is all I can see, the ghost of John William watching me with a steady judgement that’s far too close to my father’s for comfort. “What evil?”

“The witch,” he says. “That’s the danger—that’s what you need to guard against. All you need to do to save people is kill the witch.”

His voice rings in my skull. 

It muddles my thoughts, leaves me feeling like my brain is stuck in a bog. I can’t make sense of it, just as I can’t stop myself from asking, “The witch? Do you mean Mayweather? You want me to do something to Mayweather?”

“That’s right, son.” A sense of approval washes over me. “Kill the witch, stop the evil.”

The words are a creed, digging deep under my skin. 

“Kill the witch,” I whisper.

Wait.

I’m not saying that, am I? I’m not my grandfather, I don’t believe in witch hunts or old time magic. But I’m thinking it—saying it. Why am I still whispering those words? How do I stop?

God, make it stop. 

I jerk my gaze away from the photo. 

The image of John William vanishes. So does my kitchen. I blink and discover I’m no longer sitting at my counter. No. I’m in my bedroom, staring at the inside of my open gun safe. My hand is already inside, reaching for the piece. 

Kill the witch…

“No.” I try to jerk my hand away. 

It doesn’t move. John William told me to kill the witch and…

I start reaching for the gun again, only to stop my hand again through sheer force of will. What the hell am I doing? I don’t murder people in cold blood, no matter how much they annoy me. I’m not my father—I don’t hurt women. 

I won’t be him. 

I won’t. 

Teeth tight, I grab my right arm with my left and pull, gradually dragging it out of the safe. It’s harder than wrestling a couch up a narrow flight of stairs. Sweat pours down my back, soaking my shirt. My hair lies damp against my face and neck. By the time my hand is free of the safe, I’m gasping as if I’ve just finished a marathon. I grip the safe door and my eyes lock onto my fingertips.

Are my nails…black? I blink. 

Still black. 

Shit.

A cry of effort escapes me as I push the safe door closed. 

Breath ragged, I stumble into the kitchen and stare at the empty bowl of soup. Beside it are my case notes and the photo album my mom made, left open to the picture of John Williams and the Midnight Marshalls. That… that has to be what happened. The people who killed that boy were using serious drugs, and those drugs got into my system. I opened the book, and dreamed my ancestor was telling me to kill Mayweather. 

Good. Fine. 

That makes sense…

But it doesn’t explain why I have this insane urge to open the safe, get my gun and hunt her down. I don’t kill people—I protect them. Even if they’re con artists pretending to be witches of the old west.

I protect them. 

I move to close the book—and freeze. 

Scrawled across my notebook in a rough, jagged script are the words, “Kill the witch.” I…don’t remember writing that. Just as I don’t remember hanging up on my grandfather. Picking up my phone with trembling fingers, I flip to the call log and discover that the call ended over an hour ago. 

And that call was only five minutes long… 

I draw in a deep breath and hold it for as long as I can. 

My pretend Mayweather might be crazy, but maybe she’s not wrong. Whatever was on or around that body, it’s doing something to me. Should I call the doc? I start to scroll for his number, then stop. What the hell is he going to say? I can’t drive to his place for a check up, and I can’t call an ambulance over random hallucinations—not if I want to keep my job and have a hope in hell of anyone taking me seriously. 

This is what I get for listening to Gramps after a long day and being way too intimate with random mushrooms. There’s only one solution I can think of—and it’s terrible. This would trigger an instant aneurysm if my grandfather ever found out.

Fuck it. 

I’ll just never tell anyone I’ve done this. 

I stagger into my bedroom, careful to give my gun safe as wide a berth as possible. I throw things off my shelf until I locate my ex Elizabeth’s discarded sage candle. Where the fuck is my lighter? It’s somewhere. Cursing, I rifle through the drawer in my bedside. Nothing. Christ, I really need to clean. 

I finally locate a pack of matches on the bookshelf in my main room. 

By the time I make it back to the bathroom and set the candle on the shelf beside the sink, my hands are shaking so bad it takes me three tries to light the stupid thing. It smells like soap and grass… and turkey seasoning? Good grief. If I’m going to be saved by a home cooked meal, I should be calling my mom. 

Even as I feel ridiculous,  I lean over and breathe in the scent. 

I cough. 

My chest kicks, as if trying to reject the odor. 

I press a palm to my heart and fight back a wave of panic. Okay. Breathe. I can handle this, right? The weird keeps coming, but I’m no quitter. Still, scented candles have never made me want to tear my skin off before. 

Don’t fight it, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. Embrace it. Kill the witch. 

My vision blurs and I catch myself on the counter. 

Nope.

No more murder thoughts. 

This stops now. I draw in another lungful of sage candle and push myself up from the sink. Enough of this…whatever this is. Hopefully my fake witch knows her fungi, because right now her pleas are all I’ve got to work with. I strip out of my sweat-soaked clothes, leaving them in a scattered trail behind me on the washroom floor. My footsteps are slow, erratic. My hands clumsy as I peel out of my boxers.

Shower. I need a shower. 

I turn on the water and step in. 

“Fuck.” I forgot the salt scrub stuff. 

Dripping wet, I lurch out the stall and crouch down to rifle through the cabinet under the sink. I swear Elizabeth left some of her woo wares… Yes, there it is. Exfoliating salt scrub. Great, it can exfoliate the weird murder urges right out of me. I’ll use some of this and then I can stop obsessing about what Mayweather said at the crime scene…

Mayweather. 

The witch has gotten under my skin, confused me with her talk of darkness and death calling things forth. This all started when she arrived. It has to be her fault. My feet want to cross the room to the safe and get my gun, to hell with the shower or any promises to serve and protect. 

But that’s my grandfather’s paranoia talking. 

Better a witch in my head than his imaginary hellfire.

I grab onto the open shower door and pull myself inside. I twist open the scrub with a level of violence that should be reserved for breaking the neck of a holiday turkey. But I don’t care. I start rubbing the salt scrub all over my body. It smells like angry roses and expired salad herbs. It stings. And it has to be my imagination, because it also silences the voice in the back of my mind, the one still demanding I kill the witch. I scrub until there’s nothing left in the pot, and then I sit in the shower until my heart stops racing and I no longer want to get my gun.