The Voodoo Killings (23 page)

To be honest, I’d thought about that, but not nearly as much as I should have with Nate egging me on. Aaron was right, I’d have ghost binders looking for Nate in no time.

“What the hell has gotten into you? Three months ago you’d never have even considered doing something like this.” He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as that last part left his mouth.

Before I could explode, he rushed to say, “I don’t want to fight with you. That’s not what I came for. I just wish you’d thought this through. You already had a target on your back.”

“Causing more problems for you.”

“What’s tonight got to do with me?”

I probably should have stopped there, but three months’ worth of pent-up anger was not to be restrained. “Aaron, listen real good before I throw you out.”

“I said I was sorry—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. I lost my job—a job I
loved
—where I was able to make a difference. All gone overnight because of some lousy new boss of yours who hates practitioners. And you have the gall to criticize me for how I make ends meet now?”

“I’m not blaming you—”

“But you have no problem judging my choices. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

Aaron did something I didn’t expect. His face softened and he leaned against the wall, letting out a sigh. “Kincaid, you’re not listening to me—”

Because I didn’t want to. I didn’t have to.

“I know I haven’t handled things as well as I should. God knows I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying to talk to you the last three months and you won’t let me—”

“You really want to know why I didn’t call you tonight? Why I try never to call you? Because you can’t get it through your thick skull that I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Aaron was staring at the almost-empty beer bottle now, not me. “You don’t mean that.”

“You want to know something else? I knew that concert was a stupid idea. I stuck around because that is the only work I can get right now, and now it looks like you’re going to make sure I can’t even do that either—”

Aaron put the bottle on the counter. His eyes were calm and there was no trace of answering frustration. “You could move out of here and come stay with me,” he said.

“What—?”

“It’s better than you killing yourself trying to pay your bills. If I thought for a minute you were in this kind of a situation—”

I froze. “What kind of situation?”

“Forget it.”

“
No
. What kind of situation?”

Aaron glanced down at the linoleum floor and ran a hand through his hair before meeting my eyes. “Take a good look at yourself in the mirror. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks.”

I pulled my sweater tight around me. Son of a bitch. He felt sorry for me—
me
. That’s why he was asking me to move in with him—he felt responsible. “So do you.”

Aaron’s face contorted in anger again. “That’s because I
haven’t
slept. None of us have, because of Captain Marks’s stupid policies. Our paranormal response has become a joke.” His voice rose. “The difference between you and me is I can admit there’s a problem. You? You can’t bring yourself to say you might need help because then you’d be admitting you weren’t in control of every facet of your life.”

I walked out of the kitchen, eyes on the floor.

Aaron followed me into the living room. “Kincaid, please. I really didn’t come over to fight. There’s been another murder—” He stopped mid-sentence. “Who the hell are you?”

I glanced over my shoulder. The spare bedroom door was open
and all six feet of Cameron leaned against the doorway, relaxed and composed. The exact opposite of Aaron as he sized Cameron up.

“Aaron, it’s not what you think—” How many people had uttered those exact words over the centuries, and they sounded just as idiotic every time. But why the hell was I defending myself? It wasn’t any of Aaron’s business if there was a man in my apartment.

Cameron extended his hand, seemingly oblivious to the tension between me and Aaron. “I’m Cameron Wight. And you are?”

Aaron just stared at him standing there…in Aaron’s clothes.

Cameron put both his hands back in Aaron’s sweatshirt pockets. Either he had the best timing in the world or the worst.

I cleared my throat. “Cameron, meet Detective Baal, a friend of mine. Aaron, Cameron is—”

“The artist. I know.” Aaron continued to size Cameron up.

Come on, brain, work out a reason for Cameron to be here. “Cameron is a client of mine, Max’s actually—”

“Sober companion,” Cameron interrupted.

Sober companion? I did my best not to make eye contact with Aaron, but shot Cameron a look meant to convey that if he weren’t already dead I’d kill him.

Aaron wasn’t buying it either. The man knew me.

Cameron trudged deeper into the lie. “Maximillian Odu has been treating me for the last few months. I’m just in the last stretch, getting back to my day-to-day life, that sort of thing.”

Aaron gave me a sideways glance.

Oh, what the hell. “Uh, yeah. Max suggested it as a way to pay my bills and branch out. Voodoo seems to work as an alternative for treating addiction. That’s legal, isn’t it?”

“But why is he dressed in my track suit?” Aaron said.

Cameron jumped in before I ruined the tentative verbal ceasefire. “It was pouring earlier tonight. I was having a rough time, so I headed over, but I wasn’t thinking straight and didn’t grab an umbrella or rain gear.” Cameron nodded to the spare bedroom. “My clothes are still in the dryer and this was all that Kincaid had available in my size.”

An awkward silence fell. Cameron broke it with, “I’m sleeping in the spare.”

I almost laughed out loud at the blunt statement, but chimed in. “Cameron’s having trouble disassociating his apartment and his art from his addiction. Max had another case to work this weekend, so he asked me to fill in and provide a place for him to stay if he needed it.”

Aaron’s jaw was still tight. “I would think you’d need a more experienced companion,” he said to Cameron.

“Maximillian highly recommended Kincaid. I’m mostly on the mend.”

Aaron turned back to me. “But you don’t have any experience with counselling or addiction.”

“You could count wrangling Nathan.”

“And you aren’t exactly patient with people.”

“So sue me for trying something new.”

“Kincaid, can we talk in private?” Aaron said, glancing at Cameron.

“Sure thing.” I shot Cameron a relieved look and grabbed Aaron by the sleeve of his coat and led him out into the apartment hallway.

The hallway was deserted. I closed the door and leaned against the opposite wall, a few feet from Aaron, ignoring the chipped blue paint. I wasn’t worried about anyone hearing us; on a Saturday night, most people wouldn’t start stumbling back for another few hours. Dear god, I’m twenty-seven and live in a dorm….

“A sober companion?” Aaron asked.

I nodded. “Max is working on a—system.” The best lies are grounded in truth. “Aaron, I don’t want to fight with you anymore.” What was I supposed to say? I was too hurt? I was too pissed off? I still cared? All of the above? I settled for changing the topic. “What about this murder you mentioned? Another zombie?”

He shook his head. “Ah, no, a practitioner this time.”

“Who was it?” I said.

“Her name was Rachel McCay. Did you know her? Early thirties, single, no children, lived in a house in Northgate.”

“Aaron, you just described half the hobby practitioners in Seattle.” Georgetown was a popular hangout for the artistically
inclined hobbyists, Capitol Hill and Fremont for the richer variety. “I don’t keep track of hobbyists, though Max might.”

“It happened this morning. The scene was the same as in the café—no physical marks, no obvious signs of forced entry except an overturned chair in her kitchen.”

“That in itself doesn’t link this murder to Marjorie’s. How do you know she didn’t just have a heart attack?”

“Come out and take a look at the scene tomorrow and I’ll tell you.”

Lee had vetoed an open sharing of information, but she hadn’t said anything about trading. “You want to trade? My eyes on the scene for your coroner’s reports?”

Aaron nodded. “I’ll do one better. I’ll get you in to see the bodies.”

“All right.”

He let out a breath.

“You guys must be really desperate for a practitioner,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it.” His phone buzzed, and he frowned as he checked the message. “I have to get back to the crime scene. I’ll have Sarah pick you up tomorrow and bring you out. Do you still have her number?”

I nodded.

Aaron started towards the elevator. I was about to head back inside the apartment when he turned around and covered the distance between us in three steps. He leaned in close, close enough I could feel his breath on my face and pick up traces of the cologne that smelled like amber.

Shit. I’d forgotten about that.

He placed a warm hand on the side of my face, which, considering how damn cold I still was…

So I did something stupid.

I kissed him.

He slid his arms around me and pulled me closer. My hands found their way to the back of his neck….

And then I pushed him away, gently. I stepped back, keeping my eyes on the worn blue hallway carpet.

We stood for a long moment.

“Kincaid?”

I glanced up.

“Please don’t push me away out of spite,” he said.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to myself that I missed him, and this.

“I need more time,” I said.

“Why?”

“To be angry, to get my life back on track, to be angry.” I took a step towards my door.

“You said ‘angry’ twice.”

“It bears mentioning twice.”

“You’re the one who kissed me.”

“But this isn’t something we can fix with a kiss, Aaron.”

He forced a smile. “Friends for now, then?”

I nodded. “Friends.”

He headed for the elevator and I turned back to my apartment door and all the fantastic, messed-up problems that were looming behind it. I turned the doorknob.

“By the way?”

I glanced back. Aaron was standing in the freight elevator, but the door hadn’t shut yet.

“You eventually have to return those library books.” He winked. The elevator gate closed.

I leaned against the door and pinched the bridge of my nose. Of course Aaron had noticed the books.

Cameron was leaning in the spare room doorway again.

“When I say don’t come out, you know I mean it, right?”

Cameron inclined his head towards the front door. “Your boyfriend is a cop?”

“Ummm, not the answer to my question. Homicide detective, actually. He’s just a friend—sort of. We used to work together.
And
I was handling it.”

He shrugged. “You weren’t defusing the situation, you were throwing lighter fluid on it.”

“Funny,” I said, and headed past him into the kitchen to boil water for more tea.

“Seriously, if I was a hostage and you were the negotiator, I’d throw myself at the guys with the guns. Better survival rate,” Cameron called after me. “And get on Nathan’s case, not mine. He was the one who told me to intervene.”

I filled the kettle for a second time and turned it on.

“Look, Cameron, I appreciate the thought. And I hate to throw this at you, but Nate and I have a minor problem with a ghost.”

“He already filled me in. It doesn’t sound minor.”

“I’m handling it.”

“Like you handled him?” Cameron shook his head. “Somehow that doesn’t give me much comfort.”

“Look, if I decide I need a zombie’s help with my love life, you’ll be the first one I ask.”

He raised both hands in defence. “Not my fault you’re fighting with your boyfriend. Just a zombie, remember?”

I ducked past him into the spare bedroom and grabbed the compact mirror.

Nate, do you think you can watch the place for a couple hours?
I scrawled onto the glass.

SURE K BUT I’M OUT OF GAS TIL TOMORROW AT LEAST. WON’T BE ABLE TO DO MUCH EXCEPT WATCH. SORRY
, Nate scrolled back.

Just keep your eyes out
.

I dug through my backpack for the plastic bag I kept the sage in. I had four bundles left. I couldn’t pull a globe, but I could put up a smokescreen—literally.

I grabbed four metal plates from the kitchen and placed one on the stove, one in the living room, one on the office desk and lastly one on my bedroom dresser, lighting a bundle of sage in each.

“Cameron, if anything happens—blinds start blowing, footsteps—”

He nodded. “I’ll yell. Loud,” he said, and closed the door.

I turned the deadbolt. “Good night, Cameron.”

—

I was still freezing. It was time for that shower. I grabbed a pair of clean pyjamas and turned the hot water up. I tossed a towel over the shower door and waited until the steam poured out of the stall before peeling off my clothes. I stepped in and let the water run over me until the heat reached my bones. It must have been ten minutes before the scale between cold and fatigue finally tipped in exhaustion’s favour. With a big yawn, I reached for the towel I’d hung over the door.

It wasn’t there.

I could have sworn I’d put it there before stepping in. I’d picked out that exact one because it was the thickest towel I owned.

I opened the shower door and peeked around the steam-filled bathroom. “Nate?” I said. No answer. I reached for my pyjamas on the stool and wrapped the top tight around me before stepping out of the shower. I felt something hard underneath my feet where the bath mat should have been.

I reached down and picked up my hair dryer. What the hell was it doing out of the drawer? I hadn’t left it out….

As I remembered the dragonfly lights and the bruises still fresh around my neck, the black hair dryer flared to life in my hands, shooting out cold air instead of hot. I dropped it and jumped back. It wasn’t plugged in.

Shit. The steam from my shower had created a stress point in the sage….

Otherside hit me like a bucket of ice water. I slipped on the floor and smacked my chin on the sink. I fell and the side of my face hit the floor, and I stayed down while my brain reorganized itself through the ringing. I tested my jaw. It wasn’t broken, as far as I could tell.