Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(51)
By night, Kirsten Harms-Dickerson is the most powerful known witch in Los Angeles, but by day, she’s a chirpy, polite-but-firm receptionist at one of the bigger talent agencies. Well, technically, she’s a receptionist, but really, she’s more of a gatekeeper, keeping the crazies out and the beautiful people in. She was out for a run when I called, but she picked up the phone anyway. Kirsten always answers. I explained the problem—without mentioning my impending execution—and she said she could easily go into work a few hours late.
Breathless and panting, she said, “Does this have anything to do with that La Brea Park...thing?” That was surprising. Someone was keeping Kirsten in the loop, for once.
“Actually, yeah.”
“No problem. I already told Dashiell I would help however I could. Give me half an hour, and come on over.”
Eli volunteered his truck, but we took my van, because you never know when you’re gonna get called to a crime scene, and because it has GPS. Kirsten’s neighborhood is beautiful, if you go for that charming fifties suburbia thing. The lawns are manicured, children run from house to house with a secure sense of joint ownership, and cute medium-sized dogs bark playfully from behind honest-to-goodness white picket fences. We drove with the windows down, and I could hear a sharp metallic crack coming from the community ballpark on the next street. It’s all very Kirsten, who makes Elizabeth Montgomery look like an evil hag.
When Eli and I arrived, I didn’t have to do ding-dong-ditch. (There’s a Wizard of Oz joke in there somewhere.) I only inhibit Kirsten when she’s actively opened her connection to magic, so if she’s not using it, being near me won’t bother her. Although, for whatever reason, I can still feel an inactive witch in my radius, like a soft white noise that’s always buzzing.
Kirsten opened the door still in her spotless Nike running clothes, her white-blonde hair pulled into a bun. “Hello, Scarlett. It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Glendon. I believe we met at one of the Trials two years ago, but of course, it’s been so long.”
She held out her hand, and Eli took it, glancing uncertainly at me. I smiled sweetly. Oh, this was going to be fun.
“Please come in, of course.” She led us through a Pottery Barn living room and into her spacious kitchen, which was probably the only place in the house that gave away Kirsten’s secret identity. Pots of every size and metal hung from a rack on the ceiling, more pots than any TV chef could dream of, and there was an enormous open pantry, a dozen feet high, that was devoted to herbs, preserved in identical spotless Tupperware jars with printed labels. I was tempted to look for the Big Three, but if Kirsten did have any, she wouldn’t put them right out in the open.
She did have not one, but two different stone mortar-and-pestle sets on the large granite counter, and there was a small bookshelf above the sink that was crammed with books that had no titles. “Paul, my husband, is playing golf this morning, which leaves the house open for us. May I see the object, please?”
Eli glanced at me and, at my nod, handed over the insulated lunch bag where he’d stashed the cuffs. Given his “allergy,” I’d offered to carry them, but he’d insisted on doing it himself. Probably thought I’d ditch him and go see Kirsten alone.
Probably right.
Kirsten peeked inside and bit her lip thoughtfully. “I see what you mean, Scarlett. I’ve certainly never seen anything like this, although you know we don’t have much contact with the wolves.” She smiled diplomatically at Eli, who looked as if he’d just taken a bite of a completely new and spicy food. I probably should have told him more about Kirsten, but come on, this was entertaining.
“Can you trace them?” I asked her. “Do you have a spell that will work?”
“I think so.” Her eyes drifted to the books above the sink. “It won’t go to the last owner, unfortunately, because Eli has had them for too long. But I can get you to their maker. It should take no more than a half hour, I believe, and of course, I’ll have to ask you to step outside. Will your friend be staying in here or joining you outside?”
Her eyes looked directly into mine, and I understood the weight behind the question. This was the moment when I had to decide whether or not there was a chance that Kirsten was involved in this mess somehow. If she were on the bad guys’ team, she couldn’t hit either of us with a spell, not while Eli was close to me, but she could do any number of other things—lie about the cuffs’ origins, pull out a gun and shoot us, call some co–bad guys to come kill us. If I said Eli would come with me, it was leaving us vulnerable. But if I left Eli with Kirsten, it was like saying that I didn’t trust her, that I thought she was involved. Kirsten would not take that lightly, and she would not forget it.
I hate Old World politics, but I depend on them for my livelihood, so either way, the wrong choice could be terrible. I thought about the crime, about the violence and the use of a null, and I made my decision. “He’ll come outside with me, thank you. We’ll just wait on the porch.”
She nodded as if nothing had happened and started to set out her spell things, which were still mystifying to me. In an effort to curb my ignorance, Kirsten once spent a whole afternoon talking to me about contagion magic and sympathetic magics and hermeticism, and we both finally had to conclude that I have absolutely no aptitude for understanding even the most basic witchcraft. Which makes sense, I guess, since nulls couldn’t perform a spell if the Fantasia sorcerer himself jumped out of the TV and begged.