Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4)

“I’m tired of killing, little yinehi,” she said. “Take what you can get. And if you want a job with Clan Yellowrock, ask for it. I could always use a … a gardener.” Her tone suggested that she knew I was far more lethal than an ordinary gardener. The call ended.

“Was that the vampire hunter?” Mud asked, her eyes still wide. “The demon one what killed a demon from hell and that old vampire? On the TV?”

“Yes. And no. That was Jane Yellowrock, but she isn’t a demon. Demons don’t fight demons. Remember your scripture.”

“A house divided against itself will not stand, meaning demons don’t fight demons. But Sam said—”

“Sam’s wrong,” I interrupted. “Jane is a shape-shifter. And that old vampire she killed on TV was the emperor of the European vampires, and he was gonna kill a lot of innocent humans just for spite. Killing him made Jane queen of all the vamps, one of the most powerful people among the vampires everywhere.”

“She don’t seem to think so.”

“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. But, you know how the church is dividing into factions? Well, the vampires are even worse. She’s also Mr. LaFleur’s ex-girlfriend. Things are complicated.”

“I’m’a be a townie girl. Townies like complicated.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

My cell dinged again and Mud arched her neck to read the screen. I read the text, holding the cell so my nosy true sib couldn’t see it. The text was from T. Laine. I might be able to break the black-magic calling Rick, but I can’t do it alone. Rick tried again to get the local coven to help. Copied is their reply: NO!.

The cell dinged again with a text from JoJo: Heard from Alex Younger of Yellowrock Securities. He sent info and offered to provide assistance tracking the fangheads who attacked Ming. TY.

“That was fast,” I said. I texted back with an acknowledgment to both agents and laid the cell facedown.

“You got to go into work tonight, don’tcha?” Mud asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll stay with Mama and Daddy tonight, okay? I got greenhouse stuff to do.”

At which point I realized I hadn’t discussed child care with Mama and Daddy while I was at the church. The threat of violence had driven it out of my mind. “Okay. I’ll take you on the way in to work.”

“I’ll be working on my tablet. I think I’m gonna need me some tutoring in math. Okay if I look for one online?”

I grinned at her. “Female, with her own transportation and excellent references.”

Mud grinned back.

I tugged my laptop to me and began to run a search for Isleen and Loriann, vampire and witch, last names unknown.

? ? ?

I was driving along Main Street in Oliver Springs at about five thirty, merging onto East Tri County Boulevard—officially Tennessee Highway 61—on my way into HQ when the cell dinged with a text. By feel, I found the cell and hit a button to have the phone read it to me. “Text from Jo Jones,” the androgynous voice said. “Call to FBI tip line. Witness saw teenaged girl snatched out of her front yard. Caller said attack was inhumanly fast. Racer took call for FBI and PsyLED. Sending GPS and address. Get there ASAP.”

I turned onto Strutt Street and into the parking lot of an empty building just as the cell dinged again with the information. I input the address, slapped the lights on top of the truck, engaged the siren, and pulled back into rush hour traffic, guided by the cell.

? ? ?

The address took me to an older, updated house on Panama Drive, in a well-established middle-class neighborhood. I whipped the wheel, turned off the lights and siren, put them away, reseated my weapon, and clipped my ID and badge in place as I looked the land over. It had likely been farmland once upon a time. Now it was detached housing with big lots, houses built in the seventies, older trees, outbuildings, trucks, manicured lawns, a news van, five police cars, and neighbors everywhere, milling around, some crying.

I studied the land, which looked tired, overfertilized, and underloved, showing a distinct lack of organic matter, companion plants, or complementary plantings. It was drab and not as green as it should have been this time of year. I shook my head at the sad state of the landscaping, and secured my hair in an elastic.

I drove back onto the street and up to the armed uniformed officer, showed him my ID, and parked where he pointed. It was after six and still hot as blue blazes when I exited the Chevy C10. The heat radiating off the blacktopped road, the stink of old tar, and the muggy temp still in the nineties slapped me in the face. The officer pointed at a two-story house. I lifted a hand in thanks and trudged beside the concrete drive, my field boots on the springy, too-long grass. It needed cutting and had browned slightly in the heat. The storm had missed this area and it needed rain. But it was okay. It was grass. It would survive. The oak trees in the yard were twenty-five or so years old and needed rain too, but there was nothing I could do about that.

Crime scene tape marked off the entire front yard and there was an additional square of tape about fifteen by fifteen near the mailbox. The place where the girl had been taken, I presumed. A crime scene tech was placing markers in the brittle grass.

“Ingram!”

The sound of my name shook me from my contemplation of the grass and trees and I spotted Margot on the porch. “What do we have?” I asked.

“FBI has lead on this one. A missing girl and a witness who gives me the creeps, the five minutes I spent with him in the victim’s house. I want you to check him out, see if your church-dar sets you off.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Church-dar. Like radar but for creepy old men.” She pointed at the house across the street. “His name is Jim Paton, fifty-six, white, single. Talk. Then find me.”

I was still confused, but maybe Margot wanted me that way. I had learned that probies were often sent into situations where they could see things with a fresh eye, or learn things the hard way. I went back across the too-hot asphalt and walked around the witness’s one-story house. The front plantings—aged boxwoods and thirsty azaleas—were dry and sere, if neatly trimmed. The back was enclosed with a six-foot brick wall and secured with a sturdy padlocked wood gate. I leaned into the gate and put an eye to a crack to see a wonderland of raised beds and lush plantings, masculine garden furniture, a small garden house, a lovely fountain of a naked nymph pouring water from a jar on her shoulder, and a water feature that mimicked a mountain stream. It looked like upscale commercial work, far too pretty for this neighborhood.

Back around front, a uniformed officer let me in and I chatted him up, taking in the front room. The house had been built in the seventies and not painted or updated since. The living room walls were a brownish gold, the trampled-down shag carpet a deeper version of the same shade. Matching couch and chairs were upholstered in floral fabric with big gold roses on each cushion. Matching vases of faded yellow roses rested beside matching lamps on matching end tables. A big-screen TV and a newish recliner sat front and center. A heavy layer of dust covered everything except the recliner. The place smelled of mold. There were cobwebs in the corners. Dry-rotted draperies covered the front windows, a paler gold than the walls, and were ruffled along all the seams and the hem. The room looked as if it had been decorated by two very different people, a woman who liked roses and, much later, a man who liked TV. I texted JoJo to see if Jim Paton was the original owner or if he was a newcomer, and if he’d been married or had a significant other in the past.

I followed voices to the kitchen, standing in the doorway, taking everything in before I was spotted. The kitchen was neat as a pin, gold-painted walls, gold-painted cabinets. No dust. No dirty dishes. Everything in its place, though way too much gold. Gold flooring, the kind that came in long rolls and was designed to remind people of tile but was really plasticized stuff. Gold stove and fridge. Gold tablecloth. At the small table was a uniformed officer and a man who did not fit the house. He was neither a decorator who liked roses nor a man who belonged in the comfortable recliner. Jim Paton was middle-aged, fit, with khakis and a dress shirt that had started out the day starched and pressed and still looked fresh. His hair was combed and neat, his shoes polished to a shine. Despite his athletic physique, he had plump cheeks, blue eyes, and what I mentally described as a benevolent face. When he smiled, his cheeks formed little cherubic balls of joy, his eyes twinkled, and the uniformed officer smiled with him. “Anything I can do,” Paton said. “Raynay is such a sweet child. This breaks my heart. The world is so full of horrible people and our young are no longer cherished and protected.”