Death and Relaxation (Ordinary Magic #1)(2)

I believed in a lot of things. I had to. Not only to keep the peace between the mortals and creatures who lived here full time, but also to deal with the gods, goddesses, and deities who used the town as their official getaway vacation destination.

Growing up here, I had played spin the bottle with werewolves, crabbed the bay with Poseidon, and smoked my first (and last) cigar with Shiva.

But I had yet to see a true miracle.

I poured coffee and took it to the little kitchen table in the nook by the window that looked out over the Pacific Ocean. It was hours from dawn, the landscape bathed in ink. But sitting at this table with coffee was one of my favorite quiet places. And I’d need all the quiet I could get if I were going to survive this week.

A wash of ice prickled up the back of my T-shirt.

I held my breath, my body taut, instinct clamoring. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

A flash of orange cut through the darkness, burning my vision. Thunder blasted hard, close, loud, rattling the windows and setting off car alarms.

“Holy crap.”

I ran to the bedroom, shoved on jeans, boots, and jacket, my mind spinning through possibilities.

It wasn’t a god thing. Those powers were carefully locked away while the gods vacationed here. It wasn’t a creature thing either. No creature in town could light up half the sky.

Gas main break? Bomb? Aliens?

I grabbed for my phone and keys. My cell rang.

“Delaney?” It was my sister, Jean. “Explosion. Southeast.”

“Got it.” I jogged out the door, not bothering to lock it. “Injuries?” I ran down the thirty steps to my Jeep at the bottom of the hill.

“Calls coming in. Hold on.”

I ducked into the Jeep. Started the engine.

The house lights flashed on at the other three occupied houses tucked against the hill on this dead end overlooking the Pacific.

No one could have slept through that.

“Delaney?”

“Here.” I thumbed on the speaker and dropped my phone in the coffee holder.

“It’s Dan Perkin’s place. Every neighbor within four blocks says the explosion went off in the field behind his shed.”

“Fire? Anyone hurt?”

“Fire’s on the way. Pearl said Dan is fine. Angry as a snake in a knot, but uninjured. No other injuries reported.”

“Copy.”

“Delaney? I have a bad feeling about this.” Jean didn’t bring it up much, but her gut instincts were usually dead-on. “Be careful.”

“Copy that, sister.” I flipped on the Jeep’s light bar, followed the gravel road down to the cross street, and gunned it out to Highway 101, which cut the town into north/south.

“Just don’t anyone be dead,” I muttered as I sped down the mostly empty road. “Everybody stays breathing in my town, on my watch, in the middle of the night. Ordinary stays ordinary. No killer freak explosions.”

I got to Perkin’s place in under a minute and took half a second more to bind my long brown hair back in a ponytail as I stepped out of the Jeep. Not exactly the most professional look, since I was still wearing the Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans, but it wasn’t the clothes that made me an authority on this scene.

I crossed the gravel road to the small crowd of mortal neighbors gathered at the edge of Dan’s front yard.

One of the Rossi boys was there, because one of the Rossi boys was always first to arrive at the scene of disasters. This time it was Sven, the very pale, very blond, blue-eyed poker cheat who didn’t look a day over twenty-one in his light gray hoodie, jeans, and Converse.

“Chief Reed,” Sven said with a nod. His arms were crossed, hands tucked under his armpits. He’d only been in town for a few years, arriving as the newest “cousin” of the Rossi clan, which was a wide and varied melting pot.

Old Rossi, the patriarch of the vampire clan, never turned away a new family member looking for a better life.

Not all of the Rossis stayed in town, of course. There were rules, strict rules, and those who broke them were never seen again.

Old Rossi made sure of that.

Sven was built like he might have been a fisherman, or maybe someone who worked a farm a hundred years ago. Here, he worked the night shift at Mom’s Bar and Grill, which was more bar than it was grill.

He must have just gotten off work.

“Sven,” I said. “You here when it happened?”

He squinted and tipped his head the way his sort did when they were scenting for blood, fear, and sometimes other things they hungered for.

“Nope. I got here right after the blast. Perkin’s furious.” His smile pulled up on one side, revealing a flash of his sharp canines. “Thinks someone wants him dead.” His eyes widened. “Imagine that.”

“Yeah, well, you let me know if you hear anything.”

Dan Perkin’s voice cut through the night air. “Throw him in jail! Throw that dirty, lying, cowardly, thieving scrap of garbage in jail!”

“Sounds like he’s singing your song, chief,” Sven said.

“I mean it. You hear anything…”

He nodded. “We’ll bring it to you. Rossi word.”

“Good.”

Fire, but not ambulance—must have called them off—took the corner, lights flashing, sirens off.