I knew they were working together to protect me, and if I hadn’t been feeling like a thief, I’d have been gratified that they were working together on something. On anything. “Monique Ravencroft,” I said. “She disappeared in the early nineteen forties. No one has seen or heard of her since.”
“Ahhh,” Jane said. “Her, yeah. Makes sense. Her house was treated as a crime scene, with signs of a struggle and blood at the scene. But there was no body, and no one was ever charged for her murder,” Jane said. When I raised my brows at her, she shrugged with the cup again and said, “I did a little research on the house. Found a cold case, a suspended investigation, at that address. No leads, and the principal investigator has been dead nearly fifty years.”
Evan and she locked gazes again and I said, “So?”
“Up to you, galumph,” Jane said.
Evan heaved a breath and said, “If it’s a bubble universe, and if we release the vampire, and if Jane kills him, and if we leave a woman’s dead body from forty years ago, and a dead child vampire—”
Jane interrupted, “If we close this, it could leave a mess. Unless we film it, it’ll be our word against, well, nothing. And whether we film it or not, I’ll have to report the killing of a supposedly sane vamp to the MOC of Asheville. And you’ll be called in to give witness.” Jane looked at Evan. “And you’ll be out of the closet. He’ll smell that you’re a witch.”
“And if we don’t close it, we don’t get paid,” I said, grumpily, finally understanding. “Which makes me sound all kinds of mercenary, but we really, really need a new fridge.”
“Suggestion?” Jane offered. When Evan nodded, Jane said, “Ask a cop to come sit in on the undoing spell. I’ll provide him with a stake and some silver ammo. I’ll make sure he takes the kill shot. He takes down the vamp. You are each other’s unimpeachable witnesses, he gets any reward from the Asheville MOC, and said vamp won’t smell Evan. By the time vamps get on scene, Evan and I will be gone and the house aired out.” Jane drained her Pepsi cup with an air rattle of cola through straw. “And if you’re up for another suggestion, also in the paper, there’s a new cop in town, out of New York, name of Paul Braxton. He’ll be used to dealing with vamps and working with witches,” she said. “My bet is that he’ll let Molly stay in the closet to have her as an informant and”—she twirled a hand, looking for a word—“occult specialist. Sorta.”
Evan gave Jane a small salute and she grinned at him, one of the rare, full-on grins I’d seen maybe ten times in our relationship. But her plan did have a certain allure. I looked at it from every side. It wasn’t perfect, but it might work.
? ? ?
At eleven a.m. the next morning, Evan—who was missing another day of work—and I met with Detective Paul Braxton, out of New York. He had retired to the Appalachian Mountains, gotten bored fast, and gone to work for the local sheriff. We had found all this out on the Internet before we met at McDonald’s, where we introduced ourselves, bought the detective a cup of coffee, and sat.
Braxton was a beefy guy—not as big as Evan, of course, no one is except a few professional NFL linebackers. He had brown hair and eyes, and wore a brown suit from the last decade. “So,” he said, “how can I help you folks?” He put both lower arms on the table and rested his weight forward, his hands cradling the cup of steaming coffee.
“I’m a witch,” I said, starting at the most important part. “But I’m not in any police database.”
“Seven Sassy Sisters’ Herb Shop and Café,” Paul said, his voice gravelly. “It’s not confirmed, but most locals think your mother was a witch. They also think your older sister, Evangeline, also called Evangelina, is a witch. The rest of you are above reproach, or were until today. Your friend over there, hidden behind the newspaper she isn’t reading, is Jane Yellowrock, a vampire hunter.” He tilted his head at Jane, who I hadn’t even noticed, and turned his attention back to us. Jane’s hands clenched tight, crinkling the paper. “So why call me in and ruin that spotless rep?”
“Jane,” I said softly. “You’re busted. You may as well get on over here.” Jane stood and moved across the room, graceful and nonchalant as any pampered house cat. She slid into the empty seat at the table and passed the detective her card. “We did not need protection,” I said. “And curiosity killed the cat.” Jane chuckled at the not-so-veiled reference to her supernatural nature, but kept her attention on the cop.
“‘Have Stakes, Will Travel,’” he read from the card. “Cute.” He tucked the card into his inner jacket pocket, including us all when he added, “Talk to me, people.”