Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(85)
Margot and I watched as he made his way by the light of a small flashlight down the steps, which seemed to be slippery and filthy, to the shore below. He kicked the grayish rocks out of the way and kicked at the feral cats as well. They jumped in the way of cats, spinning in midair, and raced away so that none of Hamilton’s kicks landed, but it didn’t appear that he tried very hard to miss them. Hamilton had some serious anger and self-control issues.
I didn’t like people who were cruel to animals, and I felt the bloodlust start to rise. Margot flashed me a look, one that was oddly familiar, enough so that it helped the desire to feed the land to wither. “You’re part empath,” I said. “That would explain your gift.”
“No empaths in the family tree. Just Gramma the witch.”
I nodded, but she was wrong. Empathy was a rare gift. Somewhere in her family tree an empath had hidden, and if Margot had the proper stimulation, that gift would roar to the surface. There wasn’t time to suss out the genetic trait. Footsteps rang, dull and muted, on the stairs. “I’ll get a reading from Hamilton when he reaches the top.” I pointed to some heavy shadows. “I’ll be there. Make sure he walks alone.”
Margot moved toward the small deck. “What did you find?” she called to her probationary agent.
“Fish dinner,” he said as he reached the top of the stairs. Hamilton was filthy, his suit grubby, soiled in streaks, his pants and shirt cuffs and the senator’s waders smeared with slime and crusted with sand, his hands grubby. He didn’t mention his clothing, but held out a fish, its white belly exposed, where a cat had bitten deep and torn through. “The fish are half-stewed. All the white parts, the bellies, are cooked.”
I thought about the hot water boiling toward the surface on the hills near DNAKeys. What if the magma was still reaching toward the surface, heating even the river water? I had a feeling that I had done something dreadful.
“I used to fish with my dad,” he added. “This is cooked flesh, not raw.”
Margot said, “Take them to my SUV. Make sure the COCs are properly filled out. And set one aside for the PsyLED agent.”
“You’re going to— Never mind. Yes, ma’am.”
Hamilton headed my way and I woke the psy-meter 2.0, quickly checked the ambient readings, and aimed the reader wand at my cousin. It lit up on psysitope one. A perfect reading for a witch. Hamilton hated paranormals, yet he carried a witch gene himself. He had to know, on some level, that he was gifted. Fear or training at the knee of a witch hater had taught him to loathe what he was, to bury it so deep that only fear and hatred were left. He passed me in the dark without seeing me, the stink of spoiled fish dank on the air, and he disappeared into the shadows near the pools.
In my hands, the machine lit up again, a dim glow. I still had the reader rod out and it was picking up something. Psysitope number four redlined. Something was here. And then, in an instant, before I could find its direction by turning in a circle, changing my position in the yard, it was gone. I spotted P. Simon in the shadows again and I turned the wand to him. And got a full human reading. Humans everywhere.
Frustrated, I walked back and forth, trying to pick it up again, before giving up and closing the device. As I worked, Margot came up in the night. Margot who wanted to know what Hamilton was. Margot who would know if I lied. “Don’t ask,” I said. “I can’t answer.”
“Which means he’s a paranormal.”
And because his being one of the rare male witches meant he was a PsyLED problem, and I had to report to Rick before I told anyone else, even his immediate supervisor. “Don’t. Ask.” I moved through the dark, back to my truck. I loaded up and drove off into the night.
FOURTEEN
It was later than late when I got back to the office, trudging up the stairs, keying in my code to enter. Half the lights were off, in nighttime mode, and I didn’t bother turning on my cubicle lights while I unpacked and repacked my gobag, thinking. T. Laine and Tandy would be airborne by now, and the remaining day team—JoJo—would be sleeping somewhere, leaving only the night-shifters on duty, only our cars in the parking area: Rick and me. I didn’t know if I was delighted by Occam’s absence or something else.
I took off my weapon, letting my belly relax when the waist strap slid away. Too many pizzas and not enough greens had put a few pounds of weight on me. I hadn’t liked being beanpole thin, but I wasn’t thrilled with the small muffin top I was developing. I locked away my weapon and was about to leave the office when I caught a glimpse of the plants in the small window box. They looked slightly wilted. I stuck my fingers into the soil and yelped, leaping back. Almost instantly I heard footsteps approaching at a run.
“Nell!” Rick rounded the corner, weapon first. “What?” he demanded.
I shook my head, trying to piece together what I had just sensed.
“I’m okay. No intruders. I’m not in trouble or hurt. Not exactly.”
“What does not exactly mean?” Rick growled, holstering his service weapon.
“The plants,” I said. “They’re all sick.” I stepped back to the planter and ran a rosemary stem through my fingers. “Dying,” I amended softly as several of the small stiff leaves popped away from the green stem.
“And that means?” Rick asked.