“The date of his wife’s death?”
“Yep. Worst part was, he had dreamed about fire for decades. He thought it was some kind of vision quest. He used to chase fires, looking for the vision. Turned out the dream was a premonition, not something he was supposed to chase.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah. And to keep him from knowing Jo was digging into his sealed files, we have to go on treating him like he’s an ass. Which he still is, but at least we can understand some of it.”
“So FireWind causing trouble and making threats was all tied up with him trying to run people’s romantic lives, including ours? And him losing his wife? Grief and him having a stick up his rear end?”
“Pretty much.”
“This is gonna be hard,” I said.
“What? Keeping secrets?”
“No. Being nice to him whenever I want to kick that stick farther up his backside.”
Occam chuffed with laughter. “You know? I dated a woman before I joined Unit Eighteen, a non-cop civilian. There was almost nothing we could talk about that wasn’t off-limits on my part or considered gruesome on her part. The relationship didn’t last.”
“Good,” I murmured.
Occam chuffed again, cat-like. “I’m glad we both work law enforcement because we can talk about anything.” He extended his hand and I placed mine into it. Warmth spread from the point of contact, from the way our fingers laced together and tightened.
This. This was all the goodness I had ever wanted.
My cell rang. It was Mud. I let it go to voice mail. I was not letting my little sister spoil this moment.
***
It was close to midnight when we got to Stella Mae’s farm and, now that the late news was over, the road out front was clear of media vans and roving reporters and cars and music fans. Except for the flowers and stuffed animals piled along the fence and the armed security guard at the end of the drive, I’d have never known a crime or a death had taken place.
Occam whirled the steering wheel and braked the sports car to show our IDs. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe he knew our faces, but the guard let us pass through without the hassle I’d experienced earlier. Even at night the house and grounds were amazing, the buildings and plantings well lit, the security lights providing visibility of anyone approaching, if not actual protection. There were still vehicles parked out front and I recognized PsyCSI vans and the witch cars. The crime scene techs (who had their own unis) were likely at work inside, trying to collect evidence, while the witches were in the backyard at their circle trying to figure out how to rein indeath and decay. There was crime scene tape all around the house, where there had been none before, but there was an opening that led to the side door.
We got out and Occam popped the trunk. I locked my weapon in the gun safe in the floor of the small vehicle. Occam was still armed and, in his off hand, lifted out my vampire tree, a flashlight, and the faded pink blanket I used in my readings. He had a sharp steel knife strapped at one thigh and was dressed in jeans and field boots, like me. He made a fist, working his fingers free of the stiffness he still experienced from being burned. Against the evening’s chill we both wore dark wind jackets printed withPsyLEDon the front and back, our IDs clipped near the collars.
“Something I can do for you folks?” a voice asked out of the darkness.
Occam didn’t go for his weapon, so I figured he recognized the man in the dark with his cat vision or by scent. Having spent twenty years in cat form in a silver-lined cage had given him more access to his cat abilities while in human shape than mostwere-creatures, and his eyes were glowing with a faint gold sheen. “PsyLED business, Deputy Stanhope,” Occam said. “We’d appreciate it if you could turn off the outside lights and the security lights for a bit. We need to measure the energies of the house and the grounds in the dark.”
“Can do. You catch the witchy-woman who did this and I’ll help you burn her at the stake.”
I flinched, a motion too tiny to be noticed by anyone but Occam.
“You talking about burning women, Officer?” Occam said, both conversational and warning.
“Joke, my man. Joke.”
“Uh-huh. Lights, please.”
Footsteps crunched away. One by one, the lights went out. In a nearby pasture a horse snorted. I heard the sound of hooves as animals moved in the gloom. Slowly, the moon and the stars brightened in the sky and the reflected moonlight illuminated the white-painted house and the white four-board fencing, visible even to my human eyes. Plant-people didn’t have better-than-human night vision.
“Ground, near the front door,” I said softly.
Without turning on the flash, Occam led the way to the front, one hand on my elbow to help me. He stopped twenty feet from the door. “Here okay?” he asked. When I agreed that it was fine, he released my arm and spread the frayed pink blanket on the grass.
I sat on the blanket and he placed the vampire tree in front of me. I rubbed a few grass leaves between the fingers of both hands. Happy. Content. Well-nourished grass. Gently, I wormed my index fingers through the blades and the roots until I touched soil. “Nodeathenergies,” I said. “Nothing that feels likedeath and decay. Nothing that feels like witch magic of any kind. Just the utter self-satisfaction of grass that isn’t getting eaten, gets cut with sharp blades, and has plenty of nutrients.”
“House lawn grass is self-satisfied?” Occam asked. “What about pasture grass?”
