Magic Possessed By Jaime Rush
CHAPTER 1
The scream tore through the cypress trees and gripped Violet Castanega’s heart like a strangler fig’s roots. She dropped the amethyst and silver necklace on her worktable and ran out the open doorway of her workshop. Chumley, her tan hound, ran up beside her, his brow wrinkled as she stared in the direction of the sound.
It wasn’t good when a man screamed like that. That was not the sound of horseplay or a foot being run over by a swamp buggy, but of life being torn from a body. Her brothers and cousins flashed through her mind as she ran barefoot across the muddy ground. She’d spent thirty years roaming the acres of her family’s land, most of them without shoes. Rocks and roots dug in, but she knew instinctively how to shift her weight to soften the impact. Chumley ran beside her, his paws slapping the ground.
Another sound, lower and more guttural, squeezed her heart, and damn it, she was already having a hard time breathing. She thought it came from the southern edge of their land. The stitch she usually felt when running pinched her side like two sharp claws.
She emerged from the thicket of pine trees into the more open area of the palm farm, running between the low rows of bushy sago palms and through the outer edge of thicker areca palms. Her pace slowed as she searched for whoever had screamed. She heard shouting. Others were coming, too. She tried to pick out the identity of the voices that were filled with the same fear she felt, but they were too far away.
Her foot hit something. Grabbing on to a feathery palm frond didn’t stop her momentum. She pitched forward, her hands sinking into the soft ground. Before she’d even scrambled to her feet, she found him, bloody and motionless on the muddy ground. Gods, not mud—blood. It soaked the ground around the naked body. Her gaze zeroed in on the source, a gash on a man’s chest. Then it moved to his face.
“No, no, no.” She dropped down beside him, clamping her hands on his cheeks. “Arlo!”
He was warm. Not cold, not stiff. But he didn’t respond. She searched for a pulse point at his throat, but her finger slid in his blood. His clothing lay shredded nearby. That meant he’d Catalyzed, turning Dragon so quickly that he didn’t have time to disrobe. Which meant he’d been attacked. Her Dragon tingled with awareness, the threat of danger rolling through her cells like a wave of energy.
Two people ran closer, smashing through palm fronds. She opened her mouth to call for help but stopped. Maybe those footsteps belonged to her family and maybe not.
“I thought I heard Vee,” a man said.
“But that scream…it wasn’t her.”
“I’m here!” she called, hearing her voice falter.
Her brothers burst into view, their wide-eyed gazes taking her in as they rushed forward.
Ryan and Jessup took in the blood, and Arlo, and both went into defense mode, spinning around, their bodies rigid and ready to fight.
“Are you all right, Vee?” Jessup asked, sliding his wary gaze toward her.
“I…yes. But Arlo…”
“Keep watch,” Jessup told Ryan, dropping down beside her. He assessed her with light green eyes that usually sparkled with mischief or flared with ire. Crescent Dragons had flames in their eyes, visible only to other Crescents, and Jessup’s blazed with anger and shock. “What happened?”
“I…don’t know. I heard the scream and came running, probably like you did. He was already…dead.”
Jessup felt for his pulse, too, with a hand much steadier than hers. He spit out an expletive, his mouth tightening. His voice was a growl as he again surveyed their surroundings. “Someone came onto our land and killed him. Ambushed him, no doubt. How the hell did they sneak up on Arlo?”
Arlo was the oldest of her siblings and had seen the most action during the centuries-old feuds between the Dragon clans.
“He was drinking,” she said. “I smell booze on him.”
He’d struggled with alcohol and drugs the last few decades, a dangerous combination when you were a Crescent. You couldn’t afford to be out of control when your DNA held the essence of a god, especially when you were a Crescent Dragon. The Dragon part took advantage of weakness, eager to manifest and play. Or kill. Arlo’s very human addictions gave control to a magick beast that lived by its baser instincts.
Jessup lifted Arlo’s body slightly. “Someone killed him for his power.”
Violet sucked in a breath. The blue Dragon tattoo sprawled across his chest was gone. “He’s been Breathed.” Her Amethyst Dragon, wrapped all the way around her like a belt, vibrated in fear and anger.
Every adult Dragon wore their Dragon’s essence on their body, a magnificent image that manifested during their Awakening ceremony when they turned thirteen. The fact that it moved and kept watch over its person was hidden from Mundane humans, who saw only a regular tattoo. When one Dragon Breathed in the power of another, their Dragon disappeared.
Ryan stepped closer, still watching but taking in his brother’s still form. “It’s got to be one of the Fringe clans.”
The Fringe consisted of the marshy land along the outskirts of Florida City and Homestead, where several Dragon clans had settled.
Violet came slowly to her feet. “It doesn’t make sense. We haven’t had any clashes or encroachments lately.”
“The Murphys started an alligator farm, damned copycats. That’s an encroachment. And the Augusts copied our tourist show.”
“Both were years ago. And they copied us, so why would they come onto our land and attack?”
The fire in her brothers’ eyes scared her. There had been relative peace—okay, more like the Cold War kind—for the last ten years. Nothing more than a few broken bones and torn flesh. She craved that peace, being able to wander their land without fear of being attacked.
Jessup laid Arlo back down. “We need to kill someone.” Heat radiated off him as his Dragon pushed to Catalyze.
“We don’t even know who did it,” she said. “Let me do some snooping, find out who’s behind this.”
Ryan shook his head. “No, I think we need to kill someone.”
“Stop.” Her own impulsive nature, along with her Dragon, pushed hard to join in. “Give me some time to figure this out. If someone’s got a vendetta against us, I can find out who it is. No doubt, he’s been talking, bragging, or bitching down at Ernie’s.”
Jessup’s eyes flared in his bossy, big-brother way. “You’re not going to Ernie’s by yourself. I—”
She pressed her finger to his collarbone. “You are not coming with me.” She shifted her gaze to Ryan. “You’ll both barge in, banging heads together. And then you’ll end up in the Conference Room, and it won’t even be with Arlo’s murderer. I can take care of myself. Haven’t I had the best teachers?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Let me approach this logically. Once I get a lead, I’ll let you know. Then—”
“We kill someone,” Jessup said.
“Yes, we kill them.” Violet met Ryan’s gaze. “We’ll scrape out his or her eyeballs and feed them to the gators.” The old Violet reared her head and bared her fangs. The one who jumped into a fight without thinking, who’d attacked an officer of the Hidden to defend Arlo, even when he was in the wrong. The Violet who used to be as hot-headed as the rest of her family. She took a breath. “But if you go off half-cocked and kill the wrong person, it’ll start a war again. Dad died because of this damned feud business. So did Grandpa and Great-Uncle Hank and…the list goes on. I don’t want to lose you two. I’ll find out who’s behind this. I promise.”
Ryan looked at Jessup. “She is good at ferreting out information. She figured out which of the cousins was stealing our oranges. And the idjits who were digging up the royal palms at the nursery.”
Jessup was still taking in the desperation in her eyes. She let him see all the hurt, just for a second. Any longer and he’d chide her for it. Castanegas didn’t cry; they got revenge. That was their motto. But that motto would get them killed.
Jessup made a grunting sound. “All right, cupcake. You’ve got a day.”
“Give me two.”
He shook his head but said, “Then we start digging around ourselves.”
Violet knew exactly what kind of digging he meant.
The sign on the roof of the ramshackle building read THE FRINGE. Couldn’t get clearer than that who belonged, at least to the Crescent community. Ernie couldn’t hang a MUNDANES NOT WELCOME sign, because regular humans didn’t know they were called Mundanes by Crescents. They didn’t even know there were Crescents, or a facet of their world called the Hidden that contained people who turned to Dragons, sorcerers called Deuces, and descendants of fallen angels called Caidos. Not to mention demons, Elementals, and other creatures from which nightmares were made.
The bar sat on the outer edge of Florida City, tucked in a grove of oaks dripping with Spanish moss. Only four other vehicles were in the lot, as she’d expect at midday.
Ernie had owned the place for a hundred and eighty years. He belonged to none of the Fringe clans, which made him neutral—a status he held on to with calloused hands.
Her boots crunched on peanut shells as she walked into the gloomy interior. The large space was divided up into separate areas to accommodate clutches of clan groups. Ernie demanded civility in the public space, banishing those who participated in fights.
“Violet, a surprise to see you in here.” Ernie, with a face that looked as though he’d been crunched in a vise from top to bottom, set a bowl of peanuts on the bar as she approached. “None of your people are here.”
She’d had to drag home a drunk brother and even her father a time or two. Sometimes they needed assistance, not because they’d had too much to drink but due to the activities in the Conference Room, where disagreements were settled in a way that required no civility. All of her brothers had fought in there at one time or another, coming out broken and bloody. And that’s when they’d won.
She glanced at the four men playing darts over in the corner and fought not to roll her eyes. Augusts. She clenched her fists at the sight of Bren, who was already giving her a lascivious smile. As he always did, he made a V with his fingers and waggled his tongue suggestively in the crotch.
She stuffed her disgust, refusing to give him the satisfaction, and turned back to Ernie. “I’m here to see you.”
His wiry eyebrows bobbed in surprise. “You know you’re a bit young for me.”
“You’re hundreds of years too old for me. So stop flirting and give me an AmberBock draft.”
“You break my heart, you do.” But he wore a smile as he pulled the draft.
Because of their god essence, Crescents lived longer than Mundanes—and aged very slowly. Ernie looked to be in his sixties. At thirty-four, she was a mere babe in Crescent terms. She idly cracked a shell and lined up the peanuts side by side on the bar.
He set the frosty mug on the shellacked bar top. “What’re you after then, if not my buff, brawny body or rapier wit?”
So not in the mood for humor, such as it was, she swallowed back the grief that wanted to bubble out. “Arlo’s been murdered.”
Ernie digested that, his wide mouth flattening even more. “Damn. What happened?” After she told him, he shook his head but didn’t look shocked.
“There’s been talk, hasn’t there? If something’s going on, it usually starts here. Nothing gets past you.”
He soaked in her ego strokes, his shoulders widening. “I pick up tidbits here and there.” Then he caught on to her, and his proud expression hardened. “But I stay out of it. Switzerland and all.”
“Ernie, I’m not asking you to take sides. Just pass on the gossip.”
His gaze flicked to the men. “Fringers have been edgy lately. Restless and downright ornery. I heard there’s a big solar storm erupting, and we’re already getting the effects of the flares.”
“We’ve felt the effects of solar storms before, and it didn’t make people kill.”
He hesitated, then relented. “There’s been murmurings, but not about your clan.”
She took a draw of her ice-cold beer, feeling it tingle across her tongue and down her throat. Damn. Clan problems again. “What about then?”
“Defensive, not offensive.” He leaned across the bar, as casual as could be, and flicked off the peanuts. “Arlo’s not the first Fringer to be whacked lately.”
This was getting worse. “Who?”
Ernie held out his squat fist and flipped out one finger. “Liam Peregrine, killed a week or so ago.” Another finger straightened. “They found something at the scene that pointed to the Wolfrums. So no surprise that Peter Wolfrum was Breathed two days later.”
She pulled out her phone and put in the names. She had a photographic memory, but hearing information didn’t imprint worth a damn.
He shifted his gaze to the men by the dartboard, and his voice lowered. “Larry’s grandmother, Shirley, six days ago. I don’t know what they found, if anything, but two days later, Bobby Spears turns up dead.”
No, she didn’t want to be in this place again of tension, hatred, and constant fear. “Bobby is—was—a kid!” she hissed. “What, seventeen?”
Ernie nodded, his expression somber. “Good kid, too, for a Fringer, anyway.”
She fought not to look at the Augusts and clue them in that they were talking about them. Another blunt finger on Ernie’s hand flicked out. Gods, no more.
“Dan Murphy, killed two days ago.”
“Breathed?”
“Every one of ’em.”
Her stomach cramped, like a demon had reached right into her insides and twisted it.
“With the history between your clans, could be they thought you did it. Arlo’s death was probably an act of revenge, like some of the others.”
“Did they find evidence?” She would not believe someone in her family was involved.
Ernie shrugged. “Haven’t heard one way or the other.”
She was cold all over but tried to reveal nothing of what she felt. “We wouldn’t attack another clan unprovoked.” Fringers always had a reason, or at least they believed they had one. “Six murders in ten days. That’s crazy. And scary as hell.” She finished half her beer and set a twenty on the bar.
As she strode over to the Augusts, they snapped to attention. The oldest son scanned her, clearly trying to assess her intent. Come on, like I’m dumb enough to confront four of you?
She kept a table between them and gave Larry, the oldest member present, her attention. “I heard about your grandma. I’m sorry to hear that.”
Larry narrowed his eyes. “How’d you know?”
The second oldest stepped forward. “Ernie told you, didn’t he?”
“I heard it through the grapevine and was trying to get him to confirm it before I approached you. The way that he tried to pretend ignorance told me it was true.”
Larry stuck a wad of chew between his teeth and gum. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”
“I know we didn’t do it. And that she’s not the only one.” The Fringers didn’t go around advertising when they’d lost one of their own. It revealed that your family was now a little weaker. “Sounds like trouble’s brewing again.” She curled her hands over the back of a chair. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Bobby Spears’s death, would you?”
Dragon energy crackled off them. Bren, the youngest and, unfortunately, the one she knew best, stepped forward. “Not a thing, sweetheart. Kid was a jerk. Probably into something or other.” He came around the table and stopped too close for her comfort.
She didn’t back away. “Why would someone kill Shirley?” The August matriarch was one of the few of their clan who didn’t cause trouble. “I’m not being nosy,” she said when no one spoke up. “We’ve had peace in the Fringe for years now. Six murders in ten days…someone’s trying to stir things up. I want to find out who.”
That got her a chorus of low chuckles. Bren placed his hands on her shoulders, angling his hips closer. “Aw, Vee, you gonna make things right for all us Fringers? Get justice?”
She pushed him back. “You don’t get to touch me.”
He gave her a contrite look. “You liked when I touched you before. You used to sigh…”
She slugged him, which slammed his head to the side. The others stepped closer, their fists tightening as Bren caught his balance.
He laughed it off, even as his eyes still swam. “Damn, Vee, you still got a hard-on for me, don’t you?”
“Stop calling me Vee, and I couldn’t care less about you.” She narrowed her eyes. “You do know women don’t get hard-ons, right? Or are you getting the genders of your lovers confused?”
She wouldn’t admit how much she wanted to cut off his balls and feed them to the raccoons, because that would reveal how much he’d affected her. He’d wooed her, saying all the right things. Not how beautiful or clever or sexy she was, but how their getting together would heal the rift between their families. She’d let down her defenses and bought it.
Eventually all his questions about their alligator operation, cleverly coated in mild curiosity, burrowed down to her cynical self. He was using her to get information about their farm and shows. Not long after, they opened up their own alligator wrestling tourist attraction. She’d been so mad at herself, but not because her heart had been broken. She hadn’t given it to him. Her pride had taken a big hit, even to this day, and that was nine years ago.
She turned to the oldest brother. “Did the Spearses kill Shirley?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yeah.”
“How do you know?” She’d seen enough retaliatory murders based on nothing more than speculation.
Bren’s expression changed to fierce. “We found that stupid skull handkerchief Bobby wears all the time about twenty yards from her body.”
None of this felt right to her. Not that Fringe justice ever felt right. The Spearses would rear up and strike back. And the wars would start once more.