Taurus and Taurus

Our First Interview!

2011-09-29T00:16:00.000-05:00

Please join us at Sweet 'N Sexy Divas for our first-ever interview! (It was lots of fun to participate in their blog, and to be interviewed!)

Release Day is Coming!

2011-09-12T00:01:00.001-05:00

BURNING BRIGHT is out this Tuesday! Launch partay in da howse!!

It's two days to go until Release Day (technically only one, since it's so late on Sunday...). I have so many mixed feelings! I feel excited, a little scared, and don't know what to expect. Excited because it's our first book, scared that I won't do 'it' right (not sure what 'it' is, but the worry is still there), and I don't know what to expect for Tuesday. Will I feel different once the book is out and available?

It feels strange to have a book published. It doesn't feel like something is done, and over; it feels like the work has only just begun. We are hard at work finishing the sequel, as well as working on a couple other projects and researching publishers for them. We've learned so much over the past year and a half and aren't the same writers we were when we started. We are closer as friends, inside each others' heads a lot more than we were even when writing BURNING BRIGHT. I've met some amazing folks in the business, launched a non-profit, and really think of myself as an author now instead of only a writer.

It's been an amazing journey and we are now waiting to watch our little baby make its first steps into the world. Cigar and champagne, anyone?

When In Doubt, Knit

2011-09-09T21:03:00.000-05:00

I'm blogging over at the Samhain Publishing blog, "When In Doubt, Knit." I'm super excited; it's my first post for our publisher's blog. I hope you enjoy!

We are featured on the Nine Naughty Novelists!

2011-09-03T12:48:00.002-05:00

Greetings, readers! We are grateful to report that Rachel and I are featured on the Nine Naughty Novelists blog, where they kindly allowed us to write a guest post. We decided to talk about writing m/m romance as women, and hope that you enjoy! Visit their blog, here.

The Cover!

2011-08-04T21:28:00.001-05:00

Take a look! This is our first-ever real, live cover!

Visiting July 19 through July 27

2011-07-19T06:00:00.001-05:00

The Taurus Twins are visiting July 19 through July 27, and going through the Author Review Copy (ARC) of BURNING BRIGHT. While that delays the next chapter of NEW WORLD ORDER, we are so excited to report that...

WE HAVE A PUBLICATION DATE!

BURNING BRIGHT is available for pre-order now, and will be out Tuesday, 09/13/2011. We've made it through the editing process and can see the finish line. Once the author review copy is turned in, it's a matter of biting off all our nails in a show of calm anticipation.

Riight.

~squee~

Guest Blog Post at Delilah Devlin's Blog!

2011-07-17T07:00:00.001-05:00

Wow. We have great news! The amazing Delilah Devlin has graciously given us space on her blog for a guest post, WHEN BETA RELATIONSHIPS BECOME SERIOUS; or “How To Use a Catcher’s Mitt”. Please stop by and let her know you're visiting.

While you're there, check out her new releases and her awesome backlist (over 80 titles and counting); and if you're a writer, notice that she has two open anthology calls.

Thanks for the support, Delilah! We really appreciate it!

New World Order, Chapter 20: Cross-Cultural Interactions (Belinda)

2011-07-04T15:01:00.000-05:00

Their guide, Sandeep Singh, met them in the hallway of the hospital. “Did you find what you needed?” His voice had a faint British-Indian accent.

“Yes,” Belinda told him. “I released the spell keeping him in a coma.”

Sandeep’s dark brown eyes, so dark as to be indistinguishable from black onyx, bored into hers. “You have power.”

“Yes.” She held his gaze, but waited. He seemed to expect her to do something, so she obliged by doing nothing.

His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t what I expected.”

“What, ten feet tall and fire-breathing?” Jon snapped from next to them. “The dancing’s getting old, Sergeant.”

Sandeep transferred his gaze to her partner. Jon outstripped him by several inches of height and at least fifty pounds of solid muscle, but Sandeep looked as though he wanted to test him in a boxing ring or something.

“Gentlemen,” Belinda soothed. “Let’s not fight. We’re on the same side.”

“Are we?” Sandeep asked.

“Yes!” Belinda frowned. “What would make you ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The first time in living memory that a Gary comes out of Madison, she’s after a dangerous artifact. The only victim in Milwaukee is taken by a sorcerer and left in a magically-induced coma that you just happen to remove when you get what you need from the victim.”

Jon stepped closer, menacing suddenly. “I don’t like your tone, or the implication.”

Sandeep swallowed but resisted stepping back. “I don’t like your partner in my city, Mr. Taylor.”

“It’s Detective, Sergeant, and she can go anywhere she damn well pleases. You’ve got something to accuse her of, then do it. Otherwise, back the fuck down before you and I have a problem.”

Belinda eyed her partner in shock. He defended her with no self-consciousness, radiating sincere outrage. She had to admit, it felt good.

Of course, if they got into a real fight this far from Madison…

“Please. Let’s not fight. Let’s share tea, and have no lies between us.” Belinda stepped closer. “Please.”

Sandeep flicked his gaze to hers and back and then nodded. “Fine.”

Of course, finding tea in this hospital wasn’t exactly what one would call a simple matter. They ended up in the cafeteria, which did have a large selection of tea packets. She grimaced and picked out a Blackberry leaf tea and went to pay.

“Allow me,” Sandeep put in, handing the cashier a twenty. “You are in my town.”

She hoped she only imagined the slight emphasis on ‘my,’ but Jon’s glower let her know she probably wasn’t the only one to do so.

Sandeep led the way to a table. Even here, the odor of disinfectant permeated the place. She lifted the cup of tea and let the steam wreath around her face, trying to ignore the depressed feeling the room evoked. Hospitals weren’t places where healthy people went.

They all sat down, and Sandeep jumped right in. “Why don’t you explain to me, Detective, why you’ve come to my town and interrogate a sick man?”

Okay, this time she knew she didn’t imagine the superior tone. Jon shifted in his chair and drew breath to speak, but she shook her head slightly. The big man subsided, but the glare on his face endeared him to her.

“We are following a string of burglaries turned homicides. When we heard one of the daggers was here, we came to check it out.”

Sandeep sat back, playing with his paper cup with long fingers. The water’s surface trembled slightly with the vibrations of his hand, and she wondered if he’d knock it over.

“Does Ashara know you’re here?” The Sergeant’s black eyes snared hers and he gazed at her with such intensity, it sent chills down her spine.

“What does the High Priestess of the Temple of Bast have to do with this?” Belinda frowned. Part of the Protective Circles of Madison, Ashara Kendrick wasn’t a Gary herself but Belinda knew her from childhood. “I’m not here on her behalf, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s well known the Garys do not travel beyond their borders. Yet here you are, Miss Gary.”

“Detective,” Jon snarled.

Sandeep bared his teeth and waved his palm in Jon’s direction, but didn’t look away from Belinda. “I think that Ashara would have much to say if she knew you came here without Mathilda Gary’s permission.”

Belinda blinked. Hearing Gran called by her first name, and by someone with such an urbane accent, made her want to laugh.

Yeah, that would be appropriate...

Instead, she allowed herself a small, sardonic, smile. “You want me to believe that you know her so well personally? Then you know that anything that annoys my grandmother she would support, as long as it does not bring danger.”

Sandeep snorted. “Perhaps.”

“Look, Sandeep. I’m not trying to do anything wrong. I’m trying to solve a murder. Please, help me.”

Jon cleared his throat. “All of this is wasting time. Why are we indulging this man’s crap?”

Belinda winced. Subtle, Jon. Subtle. She turned to him. “Jon, we need his help. His and the unit’s.”

“How?”

“When I leave, the victim needs police protection.”

“Why?” Jon demanded at the same moment that Sandeep rumbled, “How?”

“Police protection as well as magical.”

Jon and Sandeep gazed at each other as though trying to decide how to best take each other apart. Oh, dear. This was not going well, dammit!

“Gentleman, please. Let’s start over.”

Sandeep glared at her, but she sensed a slight softening of his manner. She wished she dared go deeper into his thoughts, but knew he’d sense it.

“You think the killer will come back.” Sandeep eyed her and then Jon, and it wasn’t a question. “Why?”

“To finish their work,” Jon responded. “But we disagree on that.”

Sandeep studied the big man. “Oh?”

Jon shrugged. “Belinda thinks it’s two perps. I think it’s one.”

“Explain.”

A flush crawled up Jon’s throat at the order, but he answered readily enough. “They’re devolving. Started out organized but getting steadily more desperate.”

“If that is the case,” Sandeep mused, “then they know what they are after.”

Belinda felt a chill walk up her back on cats’ feet. “What do you mean?”

“If the legends are even halfway true, it is an artifact of rare and frightening power.”

“You say ‘it.’ There is more than one dagger.” Jon studied Sandeep like the man had finally done something interesting. “Why?”

“The Year Sword can be reformed from the daggers.”

Belinda felt like the air went out of the room. “You can’t be serious!”

Jon looked back and forth between them, his nostrils flared. “Will one of you please explain what you're talking about?”

“You can’t be serious!” Belinda leaned forward, fear growing in her belly. “They’re daggers! How can they make the sword? I thought the legends told of the daggers being formed from the sword!”

“The daggers are the sword.” Sandeep sat back. “And now, I think I believe you when you tell me that you are here for nothing more than to find a dagger.” He paused. “You are a fool to leave your protections like this.”

“You go too far!” Jon shouted.

Several people nearby glanced over, startled.

“Jon, keep your voice down!” Belinda hissed.

Sandeep chuckled. “If you have collected all the information from the victim that you need, I suggest you come back to the station with me and then leave Milwaukee with all possible speed.”

Belinda gaped at him, the fear that started in her belly now out to her arms and chilled even her fingers. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good. You should be scared. Forewarned is forearmed, and you have been treating this like a teenager sneaking out of her room at night.” He leaned forward so suddenly it stopped her breath. “And the monsters out at night really can hurt you, Miss Gary.”

“Detective,” Jon growled.

They stared at each other for another couple moments and then Sandeep stood. He finished his tea in one swift swig and crumbled the cup. “Come.”

Jon rose. “Are we done with the victim?” He asked it of Belinda, ignoring Sandeep entirely.

“I guess so.” She frowned, trying to think. She finished the rest of her tea and stood. “I think so.”

Jon narrowed his eyes and glared up at Sandeep, still seated. “You really want a pissing contest? To act like her self -appointed curfew officer? Have her running home scared like she’s ‘all alone’ out here in scary Milwaukee?”

Sandeep smirked. “And how can you protect her here? You are so out of your depth you only understand half of the discussion.”

“I don’t have to.” Jon flipped open his phone and punched a number. “Somebody is trying to push Belinda around here.”

Jon snapped it shut and sat back with a smug expression.

Belinda glared at him even as she took a deep breath and relaxed. She could feel it, familiar and unwelcomed. Her twin connected with her, not mentally but magically. Her aura deepened and expanded as Brock's energy flooded into her.

And though she might have distanced herself from the Gary Covens, the energy of them pulsed from him straight to her. A part deep inside her stirred and began to sing. She wanted to crush it and push it away even as her soul soaked in like parched earth waiting for the rain.

Sandeep’s eyes narrowed. “What just happened?”

Jon laughed outright. “Not so smug now, eh?”

Belinda looked across the table at Sandeep, who still stood by his chair. She might not want this power, but she certainly wasn't going to waste it. She just held his gaze without speaking.

“I sincerely hope, Miss Gary, that you do not need to use that power for anything more than your shields.” Sandeep bowed from the neck and then strode to the door without looking back.

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” Jon snarled half under his breath. “And it’s Detective!” Jon called out after the retreating cop.

Laughing, Belinda turned to follow. “Come on. We don’t want him to leave us behind.” She winked and let the grumbling detective stomp after her.

New World Order, Chapter 19: Long Distance Call (Brock)

2011-06-20T12:31:00.000-05:00

Brock parked behind Uncle Matt’s Jeep. Parker and Nelly, two of the huge Irish Wolfhounds that lived at the Gary farm but didn’t really belong to anyone specific, raced up to his SUV. Parker let out a deep bark, his tail wagging so hard Brock feared he might dislocate it. Nelly jumped up, her paws muddy.

He sidestepped so she wouldn’t plant those messy feet on his pants. “Down, Nel.”

She made a disappointed sound, not quite a bark, and lowered her front like a bow.

He laughed and scratched her ears. Parker shoved his face in his hand, pushing Nelly out of the way.

“Parker…”

“Hey, boy!” Uncle Matt called from the porch. “You’re just in time for lunch!”

Brock smirked. “All part of my plan!”

Matthias grinned, a flash of white teeth, and sipped his beer. “Where’s your sister?”

“Working, I assume.”

Matthias grunted. “She still hasn’t come out.”

“She said she’d come to dinner Thursday.”

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know. Let it be, Uncle.”

He cocked an eyebrow at Brock. “You giving me cheek?”

“Yes sir!”

“Getcher ass in this house, boy,” Matthias growled, eyes twinkling. He turned and retreated inside, leaving Brock to follow.

Brock started up the stairs but stumbled. A different room intruded on his awareness like an overlay.

~Brock~

~Bee? Jesus, you have shitty timing!~

~Why?~

~I’m gonna kill myself on these stairs, is why. What’s up?~

~You near Dr. Z?~

He felt a spurt of fear in his stomach. ~Why?~

~It’s not what you think. I need you to ‘look’ at a victim with me and tell her what you see. He’s in a coma, but I think it’s magical and not physical~

~All right. Give me a minute to get in the house, will you?~

~Sorry~

Now she’s sorry. He rolled his eyes and walked into the organized chaos of the kitchen in full swing. He saw Dr. Z. in the dining room, arguing with Ginger. As usual.

He greeted everyone on his way by, not really seeing who he talked to, and made it into the dining room. “Dr. Z?”

“Brock! About time you got here!”

“You got a minute?”

Her head swiveled around and she stared up at him. “Is everything all right?”

He pecked Ginger on the cheek and turned back. “Everything’s fine, but Belinda wants a favor.”

“Oh?” Her eyes sharpened. “Let’s go in the library.” She rose and led the way.

~Bee?~

~I’m here~

~Show me~

He sat down across from Dr. Z. on one of the white wicker chairs by the window and Dr. Z took the one across from him.

He sat back against the cushions with a sigh. He loved these chairs. “Belinda’s with a victim. She says they’re in a coma, but she thinks it’s magical.”

Dr. Z. cocked her head. “And you can see this?”

Brock nodded. “He’s male. Early thirties. Blond. They have him on an oxygen feed of some kind. His pulse is normal, regular beat.”

“Take my hand,” Dr. Z. ordered.

Brock did as she asked and felt a jolt.

~Brock?~

~Hush, children, I’m working~ Dr. Z’s mental voice sounded tart, much like her in-person voice. ~It’s not physical, you’re right about that. Look there~

Brock had the sensation of his awareness being directed by something outside his own control. Dr. Z. pointed out a faint tracery of light blue lines just over the skin of the victim, like a net.

~Disrupt those, and he should wake up~

~Thanks, Dr. Z~ Belinda sounded tired but grateful.

Dr. Z. let go of Brock and stood. “I’m going to go talk to Tilly,” she told Brock quietly. “Finish up before she finds out what you’re doing.” With that enigmatic advice, she slipped out of the library.

He got a feeling. ~Bee? Where are you?~ Brock asked.

~The hospital, I told you~

~Don’t lie to me~

He felt her spurt of anger like it was his own. ~It’s none of your business!~

~Where’s Jon?~

~He’s here with me~

~And if I called and asked him, where would he say you are?~

~I’m in Milwaukee. Are you happy now?~

Shit. No wonder Dr. Z. didn’t want to let Gran know what happened. ~Are you out of your mind?~

~I’m hunting a murderer, Brock. I had to go where the witnesses are~

~So if I go tell Gran it won’t be a big deal?~

The door opened suddenly, making him jump. “Tell me what?” Gran walked in, her hair arranged in a braided crown around her head. She wore a soft gray pantsuit that Brock’s mom designed for her; it fit her perfectly.

His heart sank. “Hey, Gran.”

“Don’t ‘Hey Gran’ me, young man. Where is your sister?”

“Working on a case.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Gran, I –”

“Now!” she snapped.

Brock sighed and pulled the phone out. Gran hit the ‘call’ button and waited. He could tell Bee picked up by the way her mind seemed to get distracted and dropped their mental connection.

“Where are you, young lady?” Gran demanded.

He didn’t hear Bee’s side of it, but he could imagine. ‘Gee, Gran, I’m out of town without permission, but you don’t care, do you, because it’s not like I’m actually in the coven anymore…’ He’d slap his sister silly if he thought it would do any good. She insisted on mourning Monica all by herself, that damned tough-cop routine she tried to hide behind…

As he predicted, Gran started shouting after less than thirty seconds on the phone. Uncle Matthias appeared in the doorway, blocking the view of anyone else who might be in the hallway, but it effectively trapped Brock. Which, come to think of it, probably played out exactly as his Uncle intended it.

Gran snapped the phone shut and glared at Brock. “How long have you known about this?”

“I didn’t, Gran! I just found out when she called me today!”

“She’s in Milwaukee!” Her fury hit him like a steam train, but under that came real fear.

His stomach dropped and a bolt of cold went through him. Her fear added to his own. “I didn’t know, Gran!”

She narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at him. “If I find out differently, young man, you are in big trouble!” She whirled and then stopped in her tracks, staring at her brother. “Do you mind?”

“Belinda isn’t a child, Tilly.”

Oh shit. Brock wondered if he could jump out the window.

“Don’t you start with me, Matt. She’s in Milwaukee, without so much as a by-your-leave –”

“Yeah, and Marjorie Bells is going to keep an eye on her. I just talked to her before you started your screaming match.”

Gran fell silent, glaring at her brother. “Madge is in Milwaukee.”

“Which you’d know, if you stopped seeing Belinda as if she’s twelve.”

“I don’t see her that way, Matt! She isn’t acting rationally. Not since Monica died. She needs to let it go, move on, and stop being such a sourpuss!”

“She’s not –” Brock started.

“No, Brock,” Matthias snapped, flicking a glance in his direction.

A glance was enough. Brock snapped his teeth closed.

The fight went on from there, modulating from a low-voiced argument to a full-on shouting match. Brock sank lower in his chair, miserable. No one else came to intervene. In fact, the whole house felt still, like everyone froze in their tracks. Then Brock heard angry footfalls approach.

“Mom, why are you fighting about this?” Heather demanded.

“You stay out of this, honey!” Gran shouted. “If you weren’t so indulgent, you’d see that!”

“Tilly!” Matt shouted.

“Mom, you don’t understand, you never have. It would be like me losing Morgan! Or when Uncle Matt's Jocelynn died!”

Brock saw Gran pale and actually sit down. He felt shocked as well, no one ever discussed the fiancé of Uncle Matt, killed the last time they sealed the gate.

“I…” Gran trailed off.

“Why do you think she stayed away?” Heather demanded. “You keep hounding her to do the Samhain ritual, to let go of Monica, and you risk pushing her away for good!”

Gran drew breath to argue and Matt stepped forward. “Enough!”

“Uncle Matt –”

“I said enough, Heather! Let it go.”

“Matt, this is ridiculous. You can’t just –”

“I can’t just what, Tilly?” Matt snarled, rounding on his sister. “She’s coming to dinner tomorrow, and you can bully her then. But now, this conversation is over!”

“Fine, Matt. We’ll talk about it with her tomorrow. When she comes to dinner.”

Matthias studied his sister, clearly not convinced, and then stepped back into the hall. She followed and then disappeared toward the kitchen. Heather stormed out and Brock heard her run upstairs.

Eddie stuck her head in and smirked at Brock. “You’re dumb enough to get in between the two o’ them fightin’, you’re lucky you still have your head.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

She cackled and disappeared toward the living room.

Old busybody. He decided to go out and see if the dogs needed food or water. Or a trip to Mexico. He rubbed his neck, a headache starting.

New World Order, Chapter 18: Making New Friends (Belinda)

2011-02-15T06:10:00.001-06:00

Thursday morning, Jon pulled onto the highway and Belinda stared out of the window, watching the city turn to fields and rolling hills. This being the first time she ever left Madison, Belinda decided to enjoy every moment of her unexpected freedom. She remembered Sandillo giving her a long look that morning before they left. Jon suggested they travel to Milwaukee to interview a possible victim and she pretended to flip though the file while waiting for her Lieutenant’s reaction. He didn’t forbid her to leave, but his look conveyed to her that he knew her family would.

What her family didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt them.

Jon slipped in a CD and she leaned back in the deep leather seats while the deep bass of Nickelback rolled around her.

She woke with a start. Dammit, she hadn’t meant to fall asleep! Then she looked up at the building Jon parked behind, still groggy from her nap. She didn’t realize they’d actually arrived in Milwaukee.

Then she craned around, confused. “This isn’t the hospital.”

“Nope, that explains the squad cars instead of ambulances. Good job, Detective.”

Bee glared at him. She’d missed the whole drive and saw nothing, dammit! Her first time out of the city and she had to fall asleep!

He just gazed back at her, impassive. “We need to talk to the local cops first. We can’t question, or even gain access, to the vic without them. And looking over their files might give us more clues.”

“Sounds good,” Bee admitted. She craned her head around, trying to see everything at once without looking like a tourist.

“Of course, it was my idea.” Jon grinned at her. “Oh, a tip. I was here for a seminar on Jeffery Dahmer, no Laverne and Shirley jokes.”

Belinda rolled her eyes as she climbed out of the car. Jon seemed in a good mood, driving on the highway and letting the Cobra gobble away the miles must have mellowed him out. They walked into the precinct together, but soon her steps lagged. While her partner strode up to the Sergeant’s desk, her shields went haywire. She tightened her magical barriers and glanced around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but it ‘felt’ odd. Distinctly odd.

Jon touching her elbow drew attention back. “Their supernatural division is handling it.”

“Huh? Why?” Belinda started following him down the hallway.

“I guess the crime scene reeked of magic, from what the Sarge said.”

“Then it sounds like our perp from the last one," Belinda told him. "Especially if there’s a physical mess to match the magical one left behind.”

He didn't argue her 'two perps' theory, just led the way to a double door with inset frosted glass windows. “It’s in here.” Jon opened the door to a larger room with more detectives than Belinda expected. Jon seemed to agree with her unspoken opinion. “Damn, why doesn’t Madison have a Supe Squad?”

A masculine voice nearby answered. “Because a roach can’t fart in Madison without their witches’ permission.”

Belinda turned her head to glare at the speaker. She might not want to be part of the coven anymore, but they were still family.

She also thanked the Goddess that she strengthened her shields in the lobby. This room reeked of some kind of strange, electric energy. The big, bearded man returned her glare. His East Indian features seemed exotic to her and he smelled like unfamiliar incense.

A trim middle-aged woman bustling towards them broke the staring contest. Her sharp gaze flicked between Belinda’s and Jon’s faces to their badges flipped to hang from their belts. “I’m Lieutenant Marjorie Bells. The front desk called back, can we help you?”

Jon smiled and offered his hand. “We hope so; it looks like our cases are overlapping.”

Belinda offered her hand next, the shake aborted when a charge passed between their palms. Bells jerked her hand away and stepped back. Filling the awkward silence, Jon continued his introduction.

“I’m Detective Jon Taylor and this is my partner, Belinda Gary.”

“Did you say… Gary?”

Belinda nodded and offered a small, hard smile. In the stillness that now filled the busy room, she bet anyone could hear a roach fart.

“Did you hear?”

“No shit!”

“She’s a lot smaller than I thought.”

“Is that her brother?”

“No, he said Taylor…”

The whispers continued in that vein until Bells cleared her throat. Absolute silence fell. “This way, please.” She spun and strode toward the glass-walled office at the back of the room.

Jon glanced at Belinda and then followed the older woman. Feeling like she was on stage, Belinda trudged along behind. Lieutenant Bells waited for her to enter and then swept the door closed. “Sit.”

Jon sat down and Bells walked behind her desk. She regarded Belinda with a raised eyebrow.

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“Sit down, Gary. I don’t want to get a crick in my neck staring at you. I’m not going to eat you, for the love of Pan.”

“Who?” Jon asked.

“Never mind,” Belinda muttered. She sat down.

“Your Gran know you’re here?” Bells demanded.

“Excuse me?”

Bells leaned forward. “I’ve been a Witch for longer than you’ve been alive, girl. And I know Mathilda Gary, I trained with her when I walked from Maiden to Warrior Circle. So don’t play stupid with me!”

Belinda swallowed. “I…”

“This is a police investigation, Lieutenant, not a personal visit,” Jon snapped.

Bells leaned back in her chair and regarded Jon with a sardonic expression on her face. She transferred that gaze to Belinda, her brown eyes thoughtful and slightly mocking. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Tell me what? I’m beginning to lose patience,” Jon growled.

“Your partner,” Bells stressed the word, “is out of Madison without permission.”

“She’s a grown –”

“From the coven,” Bells interrupted. “Which means, she’s in danger.”

Jon’s eyes widened and he swiveled around to stare at Belinda. “Is what she says true?”

Belinda waved her hand in front of her. “Let’s stay on point.”

“Is it true?”

“Jon, just focus –”

“Answer me!” he shouted.

She blinked, startled. “Yes.”

“Yes. That’s all you have to say? You drag my ass across the state after God knows what and that’s all you have to say?”

Bells chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Jon snapped.

“Think about it from her perspective, Sergeant Taylor,” Bells said. She glanced at the windows behind them and the blinds swiveled shut.

Jon whipped his head around and swallowed audibly. To his credit, though, he said nothing.

“You never played hooky?” Bells asked him.

“What?”

“Hooky, Taylor. You ever run off where you’re not supposed to, kiss someone you’re not supposed to, smoke in the bathroom?”

“I don’t smoke,” he said almost reflexively. He studied the Lieutenant. “So what you’re saying is that she’s sneaking out of town because she can?”

Bells nodded. “Not very smart, with a killer on the loose, but totally understandable.” She shifted that brown-eyed gimlet stare to Belinda. “If you get me in the middle of a family fight with your grandmother, however, and you and I will have words.” She leaned forward. “And I guarantee you, you will not like the results.”

Belinda felt a chill and her shields wavered. Bells was a crone, all right. “Yes, ma’am.”

She saw Jon’s eyebrows shoot up but couldn’t look away from Bells to say anything to him. The Lieutenant’s gaze bored into hers and Belinda could feel the edges of the older woman's power beat at her shields like an axe. She strengthened them and waited, wondering if the woman meant to attack her.

“That’s better,” Bells said then, startling her. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a small crystal decanter and a matching chalice. “Keep them that way while you’re here, Gary. There are things in this city you don’t want to meet.”

“Like what?” Jon asked.

“Like nothing you need to worry about. You’re here on a case. Do your business and get out. The less I have to explain to her family, the better. The boys outside may joke about the Garys, but the truth is, they’re strong mojo. You may be a Christian, Mr. Taylor, but that doesn’t make their power any less real. Or needed. Your partner would be a powerful tool in the hands of an enemy strong enough to use it.”

“Are you?” Jon asked.

Bells shook her head and took a sip. “No. That’s what that was just now, a pissing contest. Her shields are stronger now, thicker. I can’t do anything to her.” She passed the chalice to Belinda first. “May you never thirst.”

“Thank you.” Belinda sipped and passed it to Jon. “May you never thirst.”

“Huh?”

“Just take it and sip it,” Belinda growled. “Don’t be rude. It’s a sacrament,” she added when it looked like he’d refuse.

He hesitated and then took the glass. He sipped it and his eyes widened. “Wow! That’s really good!”

Bells smiled, a kinder, gentler version of her more ferocious expression of earlier. “It’s Barenjager. Honey liqueur.”

He took another sip and handed it back. “May you never thirst.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “We’ll make a Wiccan of you yet, Mr. Taylor.”

“Call me Jon.”

Belinda smiled to herself. She’d have him charmed in no time. “So will you help us?”

“Will it get you the Hells out of my city faster?” Bells shot back. “What are you here for?”

Belinda pulled out her case file. “A Mr. Daniel McCaffey. He owns a…” She trailed off, seeing the expression on the lieutenant’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Bells pulled a file of the stack to her left and flipped it open. “Mr. McCaffey hasn’t woken up. He’s at Aurora St. Luke’s.”

Belinda went cold all the way to her toes. “What happened to him?”

“Home invasion. The attacker probably meant to kill him. Skull fractures in four places, subdural hematoma, a bunch of unpronounceable medical crap; the usual.”

“Can we see him?”

“Belinda!” Jon protested.

“Jon, I need to see him. I may be able to help him!”

Bells picked up the telephone receiver. “Get me Sergeant Singh when he’s done with the staff meeting, Destry, please?” She hung up. “I’ll have a Sergeant take you over. He’s in a meeting for the next thirty; take a desk and look over the file.” She stood and handed the file to Jon. “Good luck, and keep me informed.”

The blinds flipped open and Jon flinched. He shook hands and turned.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Call me Marjorie, Belinda. I’ve known Tilly for years. When she forgives you, tell her hello for me.”

“I will,” Belinda promised. She followed Jon out of the room.

New World Order, Chapter 17: Banker’s Hours (Belinda)

2011-01-16T21:47:00.001-06:00

Belinda stepped off the porch, heading for her Prius, but her brother caught her arm.

“Just leave her here,” Brock ordered. “We’re going to be late. We’ll take the Pearl.”

Fury filled her and she yanked her arm free. “Don’t order me around!”

He smirked. “Touchy, touchy.”

“This is my case, Brock! Not the Coven’s!”

He grabbed her arm too fast for her to avoid and all but dragged her across the patio to the side away from where the others gathered. She saw Jon’s face as he watched them, his eyes narrowed and a frown between his brows. At least he noticed Brock was being a jackass!

“Let go of me!” she snarled, yanking free once they were out of sight. She poked his chest. “You don’t order me around!”

“Calm down, Bee,” he said in a condescending tone. “This is bigger than your case!”

“What’s going on?” Eddie’s boots thumped the slats of the porch as she came around the corner, her face blank.

“Nothing!” Belinda snapped at the same time Brock drawled, “She’s being difficult.”

Eddie glared at Brock but then transferred her gaze to Belinda’s. “We need to hurry. The bank will close before you two work out whatever’s going on.”

“Brock is demanding we take the Pearl!” Belinda protested.

Eddie shrugged, not budging. “We need to go, Belinda. You two can wrangle later. Either take your Prius or don’t, but the dagger’s going in Pearl.” She turned away to walk back to the stairs and snapped over her shoulder, “Now!”

Belinda’s lips thinned and she stalked after her adoptive aunt, not deigning to speak to Brock about his victory. She wasn’t about to let that dagger out of her sight, but she sure as Hades wasn’t going to follow him in the Prius like some hanger-on. She’d make him take her straight back to the homestead to pick it up, instead.

He said nothing, just walked up to Jon and held out his keys.

Belinda felt her eyes widen, shock chasing away her anger at her brother. “You’re letting him drive?”

“We can’t, and Eddie won’t,” Brock responded. “Take them.” He shook the keys at Jon.

Jon’s eyebrow cocked and he held Brock’s gaze without moving. Brock’s face turned a little pink but he didn’t back down. Jon finally held out his own hand, but made her brother drop the keys into it rather than take them from Brock.

That made Belinda feel a little better, at least...

She climbed into the back seat behind Jon, and Brock mirrored her on the other side. Eddie got into the passenger seat. Jon got in, making Pearl bounce a little with his weight, but he didn’t have to re-adjust the seat or the mirrors. If he felt surprise at that, he gave no sign; just started the motor and pulled out of the driveway.

“You just wanted to take Pearl to have leg room,” Belinda fumed half under her breath.

Eddie looked back over her shoulder. “Actually, it was my call. You haven’t kept up the shields on the Prius. Not like the Pearl.”

Jon looked at Brock using the mirror. “You named it?”

“No. The guys did and it just stuck.”

Belinda snorted. She ignored her brother and, instead, stared out the window at the leaves. Their autumnal splendor gleamed in the fading afternoon light. Monica would love to bake as it got colder, making their house smell like cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, and sugar. Her stomach tightened and she shoved the memory away, glaring at the trees that swooshed past.

“We may have a lead for you,” Brock said into the silence.

Belinda didn’t answer and after a moment, Jon grunted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Brock paused, clearly wanting Belinda to look at him, so she stared out the window. He sighed. “There’s a new witch in town.”

Belinda swiveled her head around. “Why didn’t Gran tell me?”

“Gran doesn’t report to you, Belinda,” Eddie growled.

Swallowing any sarcastic reply that might have shot out of her mouth at her aunt, she glared at Brock instead. “So, who is she?”

“Jade McKenzie. She’s a guest curator at the museum. Came with another dagger.”

Belinda felt a chill. “I see. You met with her?”

Brock nodded. “The coven did. She’s…” He trailed off.

In spite of herself, Belinda felt curiosity bloom. “She’s what?”

“She’s hiding something,” he murmured, though in a slow and thoughtful tone. “I just don’t know what. It may be nothing, but…”

“Who did the interview with you?”

“Naomi.”

“When was this?” Jon interjected. “When she first came or after this became a police matter?”

Brock's silence was answer enough and Bee caught Jon's glare in the rear view mirror. Now it was her brother's turn to stare out the window. Unfortunately he also stopped volunteering information.

“And?”

“And what?” Brock’s mismatched eyes glared into her own. “Just check it out, will you?”

“Because you told me to?”

“What the fuck is up with you? Why are you so pissy with me?”

She snarled and turned away, angry all over again. “Just forget it!”

Eddie chuckled. “You two remind me of Tilly and Matt.”

Belinda managed to keep the ‘shut up’ between her teeth, but only just. Something made her glance at her brother and the look in his eye told her he agreed with her. In spite of herself, she grinned and he echoed it.

“What are these daggers?” Jon asked then.

Brock turned his attention to her partner and Belinda gazed out the window again, wishing she were in bed.

“They’re part of a set,” Brock explained. “All sorts of legends about them.”

Jon grunted. “But why are people killing for them?”

“They’re valuable.”

“And dangerous.” Jon glanced at Brock in the mirror, his eyes unreadable, at least to Belinda. “Don’t pretend they’re not.”

Brock opened both hands on his lap, his face surprised. “Jon, I’m not pretending! Why do you think I got the one out of my family’s house?”

“But you’re not handing it over to the police,” Jon pointed out.

“No.” Eddie’s voice sounded sure and firm. “No, we’re not handing it over to the police.”

Jon glanced at her but focused on the road. Belinda could see the muscles in his arms ripple as he flexed his hands on the wheel.

A change in the energy of the dagger caught her attention, though, and she turned back to it at the same moment Brock did.

“What is that?” Brock whispered.

“It’s talking,” Belinda answered, her voice in the same hushed tone. “I think it’s talking.”

“Talking,” Jon scoffed. “What ab –”

“Hush!” Eddie cut in. “Let them work!”

Great. Let them work, except Belinda had no clue what to do next. The presence of the dagger in her mind seemed to grow, though, along with a sort of ringing – as though something struck a piece of metal. The bell tone increased and Brock rubbed his ear.

“That won’t help,” she muttered.

“Shut up!”

She smirked, pleased at annoying him. About time, since he’d been doing it to her for the last… well, ever. “Do you think it’s trying to talk to us? Or tell us something?”

“I have no fucking clue, Bee. It’s not like I’ve done this before!”

“Do we take it out of the wrapping?”

“No,” Eddie said before he could respond. “Matt wrapped it. Leave it be.”

“But –”

“She’s right, Bee.”

Belinda sighed. “Yeah.” She studied the cloth-wrapped bundle on the seat next to them. A square of white silk lay in neat folds around it, hiding it from view. The silk should have blocked any magic coming at the dagger. But, obviously, not anything coming out of it… “Do we need a stronger shield?”

“Um…”

Before Brock could make up his mind, it stopped. Everything: the bell tone, the sense of the dagger’s presence, all of it. Then Jon stopped the Pearl and Belinda’s head came up to stare out the windshield.

“We’re here,” Eddie said unnecessarily. “Get it and come on.”

Belinda met Brock’s gaze, unsettled. “Do you think it knew?”

He shrugged, but a frown creased his brows. “I have no idea.”

“Come on, you two, it’s nearly closing time!” Eddie called, a ‘tone’ in her voice.

Brock rolled his eyes and scooped up the dagger. “Come on.”

Belinda scrambled out of the Pearl, annoyed that he grabbed it without letting her discuss it. His long strides carried him up the steps before she even got out of the Pearl and she trotted after, seething.

Brothers!

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T15:07:00.000-06:00

Taurus and Taurus wish you and yours a truly happy and bullish new year! May you experience the true prosperity that would make any Taurus happy, and may you only have to handle the change you want to. After all, they say Tauruses hate change - we just hate change we don't initiate! ~grin~

Happy New Year! May 2011 be a year of delights and discoveries!

Halloween Blog Hop

2010-10-29T06:05:00.002-05:00

Happy Halloween! Thanks to Booknibbles.com for the wonderful tour! If you’re just coming across this post, you can catch the beginning HERE.

In celebration of Halloween and Samhain, the Celtic New Year, here is chapter one of our novel, New World Order. We hope you like what you see!

Chapter One: The Hunkman Cometh

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Belinda Gary called. She handed her sidearm through the slot to the waiting Sergeant and turned to greet the tall Latino. “You’re up late.”

“You got a minute?” Lieutenant Sandillo spoke with no trace of a Spanish accent, though she knew he was fluent.

“Yeah, let me drop my stuff at my desk. Your office?”

He nodded and pivoted on his heel. She watched him go, bemused. Least he could do is pretend he knew how to talk to other people.

She walked over to her steel desk, the light blue color faded to an indeterminate grey. The window looked out on the parking lot, but at least she got natural light. She adjusted the Venetian blinds to let in a little more of the pre-morning light. She’d been up past dawn.

Again.

She stifled a yawn and looked longingly at her car keys. Instead, she headed to Sandillo’s office.

Guillermo Sandillo wore his habitual black suit, white dress shirt, and thin black tie. He never seemed aware of the seasons, preferring to wear his suit in any situation. Occasionally, and very occasionally at that, he would consent to remove the suit jacket, but she could count the times she’d seen it on one hand. Without using her thumb.

“Hey, Lieutenant.”

“Close the door, please.”

She did so and sat on one of the hard metal chairs in front of his desk. Nothing cluttered its surface besides a phone and black laptop, closed now, its cord snaking off to the right. As she watched, he retrieved a single case file from a drawer and set it in the precise center of the desk. She glanced at it, but his hand covered the label.

“You have a new partner.”

It took her a minute to process what he said, then she shot to her feet. “Oh no. You aren’t going to foist some rooky on me, Lieutenant! Not like the last time. I work just fine –”

“Belinda.”

It wasn’t loud, but she stopped mid-sentence and stared at him, chest heaving. “What?”

He tented one long-fingered hand on the top of the folder. “He’s not a rooky.”

She chewed her bottom lip and then sat down. “Fine. So tell me about him.”

“He’s on loan from Chicago. Homicide. One of their best undercover men.”

“If he’s so good, why’d he leave?”

“Mandatory two-year rotation.”

She felt her eyes widen. Only team that had a mandatory rotation like that worked serial crimes unit. The profilers and their ilk. “He’s a profiler?”

The lieutenant inhaled and lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “Not exactly. Close enough for us. But he’s got a good record and we can use him.”

Superstition pricked her and she tamped it down. Just because the lieutenant may have implied there’d be more murders for the Investigative Unit to deal with, didn’t make it so. No matter what her brother might have to say about it.

At the thought of her brother, anger swelled in her chest. They’d argued again over the upcoming Samhain holiday. He wanted her there to celebrate with him, but she wanted no part of it. She wanted to be normal, dammit.

A light knock interrupted her reverie and she realized she’d missed the Lieutenant’s last comment. His gaze intensified in annoyance, but he said nothing and stood to greet the newcomer.

Her new partner.

She turned and looked up. And up. She finally got out of her chair, intimidated by the huge leviathan that swam in. At least six-three, maybe six-five, he was a big son-of-a-buck. Probably bigger than her brother, a part of her mind noted smugly. A thatch of silvery brown hair flowed to his shoulders in loops and waves, but his chiseled jaw saved him from being effeminate.

As though anyone that big could be ‘effeminate.’

“Lieutenant Sandillo. I’m Jon Taylor, from Homicide.”

“Good to meet you,” Sandillo responded. He moved around his desk so he could shake hands, and then turned to Belinda. “This is Sergeant Belinda Gary, your new partner.”

His eyes fell on her, a shade of brown just this side of milk chocolate. His grip, when he shook her hand, felt firm but not too strong, though his hand engulfed hers like a catcher’s mitt.

She had the irreverent thought, ‘you know what they say about a man with big hands and big feet.’ She turned to retrieve her cup of coffee and to cover the slight blush covering her cheeks. She turned back, in control of herself. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Madison coffee better than Chicago coffee?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

She laughed outright. “Doubt it.”

He grinned, teeth very white. “Sounds perfect.”

“I’ll show you where it is.”

She could feel Sandillo’s eyes on her back as she left and resisted the urge to rub the back of her neck. God damned psychism just had to flare up now. She tried to close the window in her mind but knew the Lieutenant watched her, wondering about her former partner Monica Carlyle and whether Belinda could learn to deal with this one.

The fact her last partner died a gruesome death on their last case colored his thoughts, though he didn’t bring it out to examine.

Not the way she did, every night, in her dreams.

She nearly spilled coffee on herself at that thought, but managed to get the liquid in the cup with only a quick swipe of the towel required. They’d given her two different rookies after that, to “test out” the waters. Both were abysmal failures, one even drummed out of the service entirely.

She hauled her mind back to business. “How do you like your coffee?” Belinda asked the man-mountain hulking beside her.

“Strong and bitter.”

“Like you like your women?” she quipped.

He eyed her, but said nothing. She got a sudden flash of a naked man, Chippendale dancer style, and nearly choked on her coffee.

“You all right there?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go look over our case file, shall we?”

He nodded and followed her to her desk. She pointed at Monica’s old desk standing back to back with hers, so they could sit facing each other, and tamped down the memory of Monica’s blue eyes dancing as they discussed music and men. She cleared her throat.

“You can sit there, it’ll be your desk now.”

“Thanks.” He set the coffee down. Monica’s chair creaked under his weight but didn’t collapse under him.

Shame, really.

If you like what you see, we hope you'll check out the other chapters we have posted. Chapter two is here.

New World Order, Chapter 16: Two Stronger Than One (Brock)

2010-10-18T16:04:00.006-05:00

The Prius spun into the driveway, gravel flying and hitting the porch. The sharp little sounds ricocheted like machine gun fire in the quiet afternoon air. Belinda jumped out of the car before it fully stopped, or so it seemed to Brock. Great. Last thing they needed was for his sister to add her attitude to Gran’s, but it looked like that’s exactly what was going to happen. His heart sank.

The group waiting on the front lawn made her pause. The Guardians in full gear and with tense attitudes seemed to surprise her. Jon exited more slowly, no doubt the swords strapped on backs and hips unexpected to him as well. Brock hoped that the badges pinned below the exposed gun rigs reassured him. Doug and Merrick, as part of the Sheriff’s Search and Rescue team, were allowed to wear them. Today, peace of mind, not official capacity, prompted the shields’ appearance.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner!” Belinda shouted at him.

“I can’t believe you didn’t guess Gran already had one!” Brock yelled back.

The glare she answered with told Brock it had occurred to her as well on the drive over. She bounded up the steps, Jon’s longs legs letting him keep up with her. Brock didn’t miss the man’s considering glances at the Guardians.

“What’s with the welcoming committee?” she asked, waving behind her.

“They are the ‘bodyguard while moving the dagger’ team.”

“Gran’s giving it to us? And where is it going?”

“She vetoed the station, but it’s too dangerous to remain here so I suggested our safe deposit box.”

Belinda looked shocked. “She agreed?”

It was Edith who replied loudly from the lawn. “It’s not her call. I’m in charge of coven security and safety.”

His sister appeared doubtful. “So she went along with the decision?”

“No.” Brock smiled grimly. “That’s why we’re taking it.”

She followed him into the library, practically walking on his heels. He pointed at the box across the room without speaking.

“Oh, Goddess! I can’t believe it was there all this time!” she gasped.

Afternoon sunlight filled the narrow room. At one end, the small white wicker table still sat with three chairs surrounded it. They had destroyed the fourth during a game of Fort as children. The large windows on that wall made a warm spot for anyone reading or researching. Two cozy chairs sat in the middle of the room, sharing a floor lamp.

Books, of course, lined the walls. Some were magic texts, others the spy thrillers Uncle Matt adored. Their mother’s cookbooks were scattered among them and even some colorful Richard Scarry books left over from childhood for when little ones came to visit.

And at the other end of the room waited ‘the Box.’

The elaborately carved wooden box resided on a small pedestal table for as long as Brock could remember. It had a powerful warding around it, spreading out in a semi-circle radius. Behind it, the bricks of the dining room fireplace gave warmth to the room in winter. As kids they would dare each other to run through the edge of the wards, squealing as the magic shivered through their darting bodies.

The powerful relic that someone was willing to kill for, and they had made it into a childhood game.

Belinda just sighed and shook her head, drawing nearer to it. Brock wanted to smirk, but considering he had just figured out the location an hour ago he stopped himself.

Gran sat in one of the chairs like a little queen, watching them.

Belinda addressed her. “You won’t just hand it over, will you?”

Gran shook her head, a small smile curving her lips. “If you are powerful enough to take it, you can put it someplace else. If not, then it must be safe right where it is.”

His sister glanced at him. ~You’ve already tried arguing with her? ~

~Did my best. I think she’s seeing this as some sort of test for us. If we had more time and all ganged up on her she might cave, but the bank closes soon. ~

~Oh, goody! Well, this is more your area of expertise. Any ideas? ~

“First you can take out that contact before it bugs me more,” Brock replied out loud.

She glared and stomped off to the downstairs bathroom. With his sister gone, Brock took this opportunity to flirt with Jon. The large man hovered in the doorway. Seeing Brock looking at him, he glared back.

Well, this must be my day for pissing people off, Brock thought.

“I did call.” Brock tried to look contrite.

“You knew for two days.”

“Wasn’t mine to talk about.”

“But it is to take now?”

Brock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not having my family at risk. Things changed.”

“Not proving to be very trustworthy.”

Brock bristled at that. Before he could make a rebuttal, his sister rejoined them. Jon glanced at Belinda’s mismatched eyes. Hers were the opposite of Brock’s and it eased something inside him to see them back to normal.

Brock bent and unlaced his hiking boots and Belinda copied him, sitting at the small table to shed them. Socks came off next and were tucked inside the abandoned footwear.

Uncle Matt joined them, his entrance forcing Jon further inside the room.

“Why don’t we go to the other end of the room?” he suggested to the detective. “I’m Matthias Gary, their great uncle, by the way.”

As Brock watched the two men shake hands, he realized that he neglected to make introductions to this grandmother. Well, the way he was feeling, politeness was not heading his list. He saw Uncle Matt give Belinda a hug before sitting in the chair she vacated. Jon gingerly lowered himself into one as well, not seeming to trust the sturdiness of the wicker.

Brock paused to strip off his shirt. It was not by chance that he chose to do it right in front of the other man. He got a covert inspection before Bee’s snort reminded him that they were on a time constraint.

Together they padded barefoot over the hardwood floors closer to the box, stopping at the edge of the ring of power. Brock pulled his athame from his back pocket. The dagger was more than a ceremonial blade, it held a sharp edge. He cut the pad at the base of his thumb and returned the knife to his pocket.

At his sister’s frown he explained. “Gary blood was used to make this ward. I’m hoping it recognizes like-to-like. You’re going to hold my hand and anchor me while I cross into the circle.”

“You’re using your weaker hand?”

“Less dominant, not weaker. Besides, water flows,” Brock replied, referring to the tattoo of swirling waves that covered his left forearm.

His sister stopped close to the invisible edge, one not seen, but felt by both of them. He noted with approval that she had rolled up her slack hems when removing her shoes. Belinda planted her right foot under her, slightly turned like a dancer. The delicate vine tattoo encircling her ankle grounded her for this endeavor. Her left foot stretched out and the extended toe just rested on the edge of the circle. On that ankle he had tattooed a modified compass cross years ago. Inside the compass lay the triple moon symbol with each point inked to represent an element. The North point colored green for earth, East gold for air, South red for fire and deep blue on West represented water.

On the top of her foot, the red star outlined in black for protection seemed more brilliantly scarlet, than Brock remembered.

“Are you going to remove your gun?” he asked.

“It’s a part of me, of who and what I am.”

Brock nodded at her reply. She took his right hand in her left, reaching her right back into the air behind her. Despite Gran’s refusal and her desire for this game, neither twin doubted that she would grasp that waiting hand, adding to the chain of power, if this went crazy.

Breathing evenly and deeply, Brock stepped forward. Power cascaded over him and seemed to grow thicker as he drew closer to the box. He paused, panting, in front of it. He slowly extended his arm, mentally imagining it as not solid, but fluid like the element inked on it. Sweat rolled down his back, and from far away he heard Belinda singing. His own tattoos pulsed in reaction and the effort behind lifting the lid seemed tremendous.

Brock had no idea how much time passed.

After the box sat open he removed his hand and sighed with relief as some of the pressure eased. Peering inside the metal gleamed up at him, but the depth of the container appeared more than it should be.

“Gran, is it booby trapped?”

“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t think you would get this far. I couldn’t.”

Her voice sounded closer, as if she had already left her chair and approached them. Brock didn’t look to verify that, all his attention centered on the dagger. It seemed to move, quivering on the faded red pillow, and he didn’t think the wards were the cause.

He knew it wasn’t him.

He ‘felt’ with his magic and realized that the wards surrounded the box, not attached to the dagger itself. The weapon radiated its own power, separate from the protective spells.

“Belinda, call to it.”

Her singing changed and power surged through him, using his body as a conduit to enter the circle. He held his hand above it and the dagger vibrated more violently.

He felt a snap, as if his ears popped, but throughout his entire body. The dagger flew up and landed in his waiting hand. Swiftly, he stepped back and slumped with relief when he was outside the circle.

Giving the dagger to his sister he staggered over to one of the armchairs and sank into it. She studied if for a moment before a passing it off, to their uncle and not Gran, Brock noted with amusement. She knelt in front of him, her hands on his knees and peered up into his face.

“Hey, you okay? Done showing off?”

He grinned and cuffed her rather weakly on the side of her head. He wiggled next.

“Damn, my athame doesn’t like being sat on,” he told her, pulling it free.

“The dagger didn’t like being kept in that box, either,” she noted.

“It was lonely,” Uncle Matt announced, turning it over in his hands.

“Well, now it can be lonely in a nice bank,” Brock said firmly. “Afterwards we can decide what to do with it. Maybe carry it around on field trips or something.”

They had more important things to worry about than a piece of metal’s feelings, like making his family and city safe.

New World Order, Chapter 15, Appraising a Jewel (Brock)

2010-09-14T01:41:00.003-05:00

Brock looked over at his team as the SUV glided to a smooth halt in the parking lot. Crowded with silent cars, many people were still waking and beginning their day. Not many people out and about yet. This fit perfectly with their plan.

Jon’s visit, very early that morning caused Brock to make two phone calls. One, to his Gran, infuriated him; while the other filled him with pride. He decided not to dwell on his frustration at his grandmother’s refusal to move the dagger. He’d deal with that later. The other call, to scramble the Guardians to readiness, accomplished much. The team of Guardians had readied within thirty minutes and their arrival here was within an hour from when Jon left Brock’s front door. An aura of excited tension radiated from them. They knew this visit held the potential to escalate swiftly.

Rather than waste time arguing with his grandmother, Brock switched to the other priority of discovering who was behind the disappearances. They needed to know if the ‘bad guy’s’ presence in Madison was the Coven’s fault. Magic users need permission to settle in their city. He’d hate to think one of his friends met with a murderer and couldn’t sense it and allowed them into their midst.

Brock and Eddie’s conversation on the phone determined that this time was best. Though there might be civilians around, the element of surprise would be on their side. Besides, hopefully, this would just be a calm conversation.

Chad Cadfell tapped him on the shoulder and Brock switched his attention to the muscled redhead. “A female with strong magic is in that corner unit for sure.”

“Let’s move into position,” Eddie ordered.

They moved from the vehicle, magic blurring their images. Even while watching them, Brock couldn’t follow their progress with his gaze. They seemed to melt into the early morning shadows within minutes. He felt a mental nudge from Eddie to let him know they were ready.

He straightened out his suit after climbing from the SUV. He decided on this formal wear to let his quarry know this was an official visit. Brock’s hand smoothed over his ponytail, checking its smoothness.

He decided not to wear the uniform of the Guardians, black fatigues with their name on the back. It emulated a security firm, which on paper they were. Their only client happened to be the entire city of Madison. But a suit would blend into the idea this was an official, but not intimidating, visit. Brock didn’t need to spook her into offensive tactics as soon as she opened the door.

His own shields carefully hid his magic from anyone. He looked over at Naomi Peck. The older woman nodded her readiness. Her trim figure in a navy suit and graying blonde hair in a smooth chignon, she looked prepared for a board meeting. She possessed the uncanny ability to sense the truth, so Naomi was the logical choice to accompany him.

Knocking firmly, he waited to the side of the door to meet the young woman. He sensed when a presence hovered just on the other side of the wood panel. Staring at the peephole, he sent a strong compulsion for her to open the door to them. It opened slowly, the chain still in place. Brock met the hesitant green gaze looking out at him and saw it widen.

Was it arrogance to assume that she would recognize him? That descriptions of the Gary Guardian twins preceded them to anyone magical entering Madison? According to the background he’d read, she came from the Boston area. From her reaction, it appeared that the other coven was well informed.

Brock drew himself to his full, intimidating height. “We need to talk.”

Her blonde hair, cut in a chin-length wavy bob, swung as she nodded. Unhooking the chain, she stepped back and waved them in and at the loveseat.

“Coffee, tea?” she politely asked.

They shook their heads.

“Then what can I do for the Madison Guardians?”

“Just to answer some questions, Miss McKenzie,” Brock replied as he seated himself.

Naomi sat next to him and the young lady claimed one of the armchairs facing them. Jade McKenzie smoothed her grey pleated skirt over her long legs.

They were fantastic legs, Brock noted. After all, he was still bi; but it stirred nothing deeper. He knew it wasn’t because this visit was ‘official’, nobility didn’t cling to him. Was the lack of interest due to his recent acquaintance with a certain large handsome detective or something else?

Brock wished his empathy was better developed.

Naomi ‘accidently’ jarred him as she shifted. A pale blue Gary gaze eyed him, reminding him why they were here. Many coven members shared the pale blue eye color, all related, however distantly, to him.

He turned back to his quarry. “Miss McKenzie, I’m Brock Gary and this is Naomi Peck.”

She cocked her head, giving every appearance of excited interested. “Peck, another founding family of the region, isn’t it? It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She paused, and then appeared regretful. “I’m on my way to work, though, so if you don’t mind…”

“Understood.” Before Brock could continue, they were interrupted.

A pale, slender shape skittered into the room from the bedroom of the suite. Brock watched the odd, humping run as the ferret drew closer. It clambered onto the coffee table so it could face them. Rearing up on its hind legs it sat, folding its little paws and studying them with every appearance of intelligence.

Jade smiled, appearing more relaxed. “And this is Kiki, my familiar.”

Brock nodded and made the introductions again, this time to Kiki. The degree of intelligence that familiars possessed varied; but it was best, and polite, to assume it was high. Kiki’s robust appearance reassured him. Though a practitioner might hide the affects of using dark magic from others, it usually showed on their familiars that were used as conduits. Kiki’s friendliness, teamed with her shiny and healthy coat, made this less likely.

Naomi spoke next to him, getting them back on track. “When you previously contacted a Coven member to receive permission to live within the city limits you stated it was for your job.”

Jade nodded, her blonde bob swinging and brushing her jaw.

“You work on the Madison campus for the University of Wisconsin, is that correct?” Naomi seemed calm and friendly, all ‘good cop.’

“Yes.”

“With one of the daggers,” Naomi added.

A crease appeared between Jade’s eyebrows. “Yes…”

“Did you steal them?” Brock demanded. Guess he got to be ‘bad cop.’

“Did I… No!” Jade met his gaze with no prevarication. “I did not!”

Brock ‘felt’ Naomi’s slight confusion, thought she outwardly hid it. Hmm… “You know they were stolen, though?” He continued.

She nodded. “That’s why I had them take it off display. A man in town kept calling, trying to pressure us to let him see the piece…”

“You wrote to our historian concerning the dagger prior to coming here.”

“Of course. I’m a researcher and it’s a prominent piece of my exhibit.”

Brock only sense calm professionalism radiating from her now. Any discomfort fled now that the topic turned to the firm footing of her job. He exhaled, frustrated.

Naomi glanced at him and back at Jade. “Why Madison, Miss McKenzie? You told our Coven in your letter that you wished to come here to study and work at the University. But you’re from Boston; surely there are more interesting cities to visit?”

“Madison is one of the few cities in the country with no détente. Your covens rule the area with iron control. This area has also preserved the Celtic customs of old Wales. Only the Appalachian mountain region shows similarities and that is because of its isolated nature. You don’t find that fascinating?”

The young woman’s gaze now shined with interest as she leaned forward, excited. If it was an act, it was a good one.

Though Brock didn’t like feeling like a butterfly in a scientist’s case.

“This is our home, Miss McKenzie, not an experiment,” he growled, annoyed.

She flushed and glanced at him. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Have you watched the news?” Naomi put in. “This is getting darker and more serious as more time goes on.”

Jade nodded. “We’ve talked about it quite a bit at work, actually.”

Brock heard a light scratching against his chair and looked down. The other two women continued to talk as Kiki climbed up the side of the loveseat, laboriously trying to get closer to the top. He reached down to help her and Jade laughed.

“She’s faking it,” Jade told him. “She doesn’t need help, she just wants to get close to you.”

Kiki swung her tail around Brock’s wrist and clung with all four paws to him instead of letting him deposit her on the arm of the short couch. He sat back with her in his lap and stroked her back with his free hand, amazed at her light fresh scent. He sniffed. She didn’t smell at all like ferret musk, if anything, she smelled like sage and rosemary…

“I bathe her a lot,” Jade said then. “I make a soap from rosemary herb and sage leaves. She loves it, the dear.”

Kiki grinned at him, showing her little fangs, and then crawled along the couch arm to try and root behind his back. “That tickles,” he murmured.

The ferret pulled back and looked up at him with bright black eyes as he watched her over his shoulder. She then crawled up the back of the loveseat to go along and curl up behind Brock’s head.

Distracting little creature, he noted. He had the distinct feeling that the little familiar could answer all of their questions. Naomi, thankfully, didn’t lose her focus as she continued to question Jade on the exhibit. Kiki, meanwhile, attempted to unhook his ponytail holder and play with his hair, so he finally lifted her bodily off the couch and set her on the table. She regarded him with large sad eyes over one shoulder as she flounced over to her mistress. .

Great, a guilt trip from a creature smaller than his cats.

He gazed around the apartment as his mobile buzzed the ‘all clear.’ He felt his muscles unclench, but Jade looked up at that moment and met his gaze. She held Kiki in her lap now, and the ferret looked out the front window.

“Am I in trouble with the Coven?” Jade asked, her tone of voice much more afraid than before.

Brock cocked his head. “Why would you ask that? Have you done something I should know about?”

Jade paled. “No... I just... There's a lot of you out there...”

Brock gazed at her, trying to read her. “You’re not in trouble. But we would be foolish not to be on our guard.”

“But I’m not going to harm anyone!” Jade cried.

Naomi shifted in her seat, but Brock couldn’t spare the attention to look at her. He let his gaze bore into Jade’s eyes. If he got to be ‘bad cop,’ might as well play it all the way. “I’m not saying you are, Miss McKenzie. But this is a serious matter, you have to agree.”

“I think we’ve said all we can,” Naomi declared, standing. “You know that we’re aware you’re here, Miss McKenzie. The daggers are valuable, and to more than just the historians among us.”

Jade’s expression appeared pinched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“How did you know it was more than just the two of us?” Brock asked.

Jade gave him a strained smile. “You shielded yourselves, not the vehicles you drove that magic clings to. And I can feel four of those, so I’m guessing a dozen arrived with you. Should I be flattered or scared shitless?”

Brock smirked. “A little of both, maybe.”

Naomi made an odd noise, soft, but audible. He glanced at her and saw her trying not to laugh.

Jade smiled again, eyes still tight. “I appreciate the distinction.” Her eyes flicked to the adjoining bedroom that Brock could see as he stood.

“Are you alone?” he asked sharply. He knew he would have ‘felt’ anyone else. Just as he cold have ‘felt’ the presence of the daggers. But there was an odd lingering impression of ‘something.’ It ebbed through the wards the young witch erected in her temporary home that Brock breached by being invited inside them.

Kiki hissed and jumped out of Jade’s grasp. “Yes, why?” Jade asked.

Brock watched the little ferret, wishing his ex-boyfriend were there. Doc Soskoff could have ‘read’ the little ferret, since he was an animal empath, and just told Brock outright what he wanted – needed – to know. “Mind if I check out the kitchenette?”

He headed over that direction without waiting for an answer and Jade followed, nervous all over again. Two bowls sat in the strainer, along with two spoons and a coffee mug. No other clues jumped out to bite him, but he wished they would. His sister was probably better suited to this part of the work, as much as he hated admitting that – even to himself.

“I told you,” Jade insisted, “it’s just Kiki and me!”

Kiki hissed again, and waddle-humped over to the bedroom. Brock followed and Kiki looked up at him, her little face screwed up into an angry scowl. She glared at the bed and the feeling Brock sensed earlier seemed stronger here.

Jade got a can opener and caught the little creature’s full attention, giving her some wet food. Frustrated, Brock walked back to where Naomi waited. “All right, we’ve taken enough of your time,” Brock decided. “Have a good day, Miss McKenzie.”

“Thank you,” Jade answered, coming out of the kitchen with a spoon in her hand.

A bowl for Kiki sat on the floor, just like the two cereal bowls in the strainer. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

On the other hand, maybe his sister and Jon ought to check her out anyway. He sighed, knowing the upheaval his revealing, after not sharing this information, would cause between him and his twin. Not to mention the oh-so-serious detective. He followed Naomi out into the sunlight, annoyed that the answers weren’t clearer.

New World Order, Chapter 14: No More Games, Mr. Balistreri (Belinda)

2010-07-25T18:57:00.000-05:00

A half hour after barging into Sandillo’s office, Belinda found herself back at her desk. The day planner sat there like an accusation. Balistreri refused to speak to them, then refused to even talk to Sandillo. He relented, finally, and agreed to see them – but later, not right that moment. He had ‘important business to attend to.’ She wanted to snarl with frustration.

“You hungry?” Jon asked.

Belinda blinked. “I could eat. Why?”

He stood. “Come on. I’m buying.” He walked toward the door without waiting for her.

Scrambling out of her chair, she snatched her shoulder bag and stuffed the case file and day planner into it. Her fingers lingered on the carved wooden button that she’d added to it after getting it last Yule. Her palm smoothed the soft leather flap down and she saw Jon glance over his shoulder at her. By this time, her partner had surged halfway down the hall so she jogged to catch up.

“What do you have a taste for?” she asked after climbing into the car. His car surprised her. The Cobra, crouched and waiting in the reserved lot, seemed out of place surrounded by dark, four-door sedans.

She watched as Jon folded himself into the low seat with the ease of long practice. His large hands gripped the steering wheel of the sports car and she realized how well her new partner and the car ‘fit.’ It highlighted how much she still needed to learn about him.

“Burgers. I was going to try a new place I saw… Why? You have a suggestion?”

“Brocach Pub has the best burgers in town. We’re kind of regulars there. It’s one of Brock’s favorite places.”

He blinked and shot a glance at her, but didn’t comment. He pulled to the entrance of the parking lot and then looked at her.

“What?”

“Directions?” he drawled.

“Oh!” She gave him the headings and he set out for the pub. She liked that he’d asked her rather than reaching for the fancy GPS unit perched on his dashboard.

“So. Explain something to me.” His tone sounded firm, authoritative.

“What?”

“What exactly can you do?”

“Huh?”

“You can talk to Brock without a telephone. What the fuck is up with that?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah, that.” He glared at her. “Exactly. Weird shit, you ask me.”

“You’re the one who transferred to Madison,” she retorted, stung.

The light turned green and he focused on the road again.

“You never saw magic in Chicago?”

He shrugged. “Not up close and personal. There’s a unit of practitioners, but I didn’t do much with them.” His tone seemed to indicate he thought that just as well.

“And what, you think it’s odd?”

“No, I wouldn’t use the word odd.”

“Creepy, then.” She felt bitterness well up inside her. It figured that she’d lose her third partner over something as stupid as her natural abilities.

“No, not creepy. But you’ve got to admit, if you’ve never seen it before, it’s pretty fucking weird.”

She felt a bolt of anger surge through her that it left her trembling. ~It’s not that weird~ she said into his mind.

He hit the brakes so fast it threw her against the seat belt hard enough that her ribs creaked.

“Fuck!” He stared at her, eyes wild. “What the bleeding hell was that?”

She wanted to laugh. “You want weird, fine.” ~I give you weird~

He stared at her. The car behind them honked but he ignored it. They honked again and he started moving, both hands gripping the wheel so tight she could hear his skin creak.

She glared out the passenger side window. “It’s not weird, Jon. It’s just natural ability, like running fast or a good singing voice.”

The Brocach appeared and he pulled into a parking spot but didn’t turn the car off, just stared out the windshield. He inhaled and blew air out, as though frustrated. “So you can speak into my mind?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“I don’t know how, Jon! How do you walk?” She snapped her belt loose and reached for the door handle.

He caught her arm. “Wait. Please. I’m trying to get my head around this. Jesus, Belinda! It’s not like you broke it to me easy or something!”

She grudgingly conceded he had a point and sat back in her seat. “Sorry,” she grunted finally. “I probably should have picked a better way to show you.”

“Yeah. You sure are touchy!” He rubbed his face. “Okay. We’re parked and I’m not going to hit someone. Do it again.”

“Do what again? I’m not a trained dog, Jon!”

His eyes met hers, shocked. “I didn’t mean…”

She frowned. No malice showed in his eyes. “You really didn’t, did you?”

“No! I’m trying to understand this shit. I’m a profiler, Belinda! I deal with serial murderers, not weird magic daggers and brownies and shit!”

She digested that. Was it possible she’d misread him? Brock sure seemed to think he fit the bill…

~All right. This is what it’s like to talk without talking~

He jumped when she started talking and stared at her with huge eyes. ~Like this?~ His ‘voice’ sounded gravelly, but clear.

She nodded and felt herself smile. ~Exactly~

“And you and Brock can talk like this?”

“I can. Brock can only do it if I start. Otherwise, he has to be touching me for it to work.”

“Oh.” Jon seemed disappointed. “I thought…”

“His skills are more physical than mine. I can borrow his strength, but he’s an elemental mage. My skills are more in the mind. I’m psychic and a precog. He’s a telekinetic and empath. He can talk to people mind-to-mind if he’s touching them.”

“What’s a precog?”

“I can get echoes of future events. It doesn’t always happen, but when it does it can help me.” She looked away, memories of Monica welling up despite iron control. “It doesn’t always work.”

“Can you, uh, read my mind?” She didn’t need to be psychic to see the faint hesitation in his expression.

“Nope, not that good. Wouldn’t want to if those magazines articles are true and you guys think of sex every three minutes.”

Relief flooded her when Jon’s bark of laughter echoed in the confines of the car. “You hungry?”

She laughed. “You think with your stomach?”

“Yeah, why?” he retorted, but his eyes twinkled. “Come on. I’ll buy you lunch and you can pick my mind.”

“I’ll starve,” she quipped.

He snorted. “You wish. Besides, it’s more like every five minutes.” He got out of the car, grinning.

She rolled her eyes and followed.

They’d hardly ordered when Jon got the call that Mr. Balistreri would see them in ninety minutes at his shop.

“We have time to eat,” Belinda told him.

“Good. I’d’ve done it anyway. This guy pisses me off.”

She laughed. “Yeah.” She decided to change the subject. “Shame my uncle’s not here, you could meet him.”

“Oh?”

“This is his hangout when he’s not at the dojo.”

“Dojo?”

“He owns a jiu-jitsu dojo a couple doors down.”

“Jiu-jitsu, huh?” Jon seemed impressed. “I suppose you and Brock studied?”

“Yeah. He’s had other training as well so he doesn’t compete, but I still hold a couple titles.”

“You don’t say!”

She smirked at him. “State Champion two years in a row in my age and weight class.”

She saw curiosity on his face and ‘felt’ that it concerned her brother, but Jon asked no further questions. Kelly brought their food and the big cop took an enormous bite out of his burger.

“Kelly, this is my new partner, Jon Taylor. Kelly’s an old family friend,” she added to Jon so he didn’t have to speak with his mouth full of burger.

“Nice to meet you,” Kelly said warmly. “You work with Belinda?”

He nodded and swallowed. “I just transferred from Chicago.”

Kelly cocked her head. “Welcome to Madison. How do you like it so far?”

“A lot,” Jon answered, not putting the burger down.

Kelly took the hint. “I’ll let you guys eat. Hope to see you again,” she told Jon, then moved to another table.

They finished and Kelly took their cash. “We can walk,” Belinda proposed.

“Sure,” Jon agreed, following her out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

The antique shop had a brass bell hanging from a hook at the top of the door and clattered as they entered. Mr. Balistreri, whom Belinda had seen multiple times, appeared in his habitual suit, this time a dark grey. As usual not a hair appeared out of place. Belinda would bet money that he touched up his hair coloring to keep the distinguished white wings in the still-dark hair.

“Miss Gary. Mr. Taylor. I was given to understand that Guillermo would join you?”

Sure you were, you pompous pig-head, Belinda thought. “He’s on his way.”

“Parking,” Jon added.

“Ah. If you’ll come this way, I have coffee prepared.”

Sandillo appeared at the door and stepped in. “Good afternoon.”

“Ah, Guillermo! Good of you to stop by,” Gilberto gushed, coming forward to shake the lanky Latino’s hand.

Belinda wondered what Sandillo thought of being called by his first name. His expression gave nothing away. They followed the dapper shopkeeper through the immaculate display area and into the office at the back.

Well appointed, with natural light from three large windows, the office fairly screamed opulence. A thick rug lay on top of the already wall-to-wall carpet, its black outline and jewel-bright colors setting off the furniture well. The desk stood diagonally to the room, heavy walnut with brass hardware. A matching glass-front cabinet stood on the left with two small spotlights inside, showcasing a gorgeous collection of decorated eggs and what looked to Belinda’s inexperienced eye like actual Faberge. Two heavy chairs sat in front of the desk, and Balistreri pulled another one out to set next to it before going to his credenza and pouring coffee.

He handed cups and saucers to each of them and she recognized the Havilland china without turning it over. Jon cocked an eyebrow at her but said nothing.

The coffee, predictably, smelled decadent.

Balistreri sat down. “So how can I help you?”

“What is your relationship with Thomas Evans?” Sandillo asked in his quiet voice.

“A client, nothing more. Why?”

The coffee tasted even better than it smelled and she sat there a moment, blissed-out.

“What kind of client?” Jon asked.

Balistreri waved a hand and the diamond in his pinky ring flashed. “He had an item he wished to sell. He didn’t come to his meeting, and I assume he’s changed his mind.”

“You’ve had no contact with him after scheduling the meeting?” Sandillo asked.

“No. Nor prior.”

“So you have no knowledge of his whereabouts?” Jon pressed.

“This is getting tedious, gentlemen.” He glanced at Belinda as though to say, ‘Men.’

“He’s dead, Mr. Balistreri,” Belinda told him while she had his gaze.

His eyes widened and he paled slightly. “Beg pardon?”

She leaned forward and she watched him fight to not look at her bosom. “He’s been murdered, Mr. Balistreri. For the dagger.”

That hit home, she could see it. She felt his flash of shock and then he broke eye contact. “This is very unexpected,” he murmured, but without his usual urbane tone.

“Frieda’s was taken too,” Belinda continued, suddenly angry. “They’re being collected and there’s a killer on the loose.”

“Surely you don’t think that I had anything to do with –”

“Then stop withholding information and help us do our jobs!” Belinda shouted.

“Belinda,” Sandillo murmured.

“No, Lieutenant, your detective is right,” Balistreri said. He sighed. “I have been… less than forthright in my dealings with you.” He looked up at Sandillo and Belinda could read the pain in his eyes. “But you have to understand my perspective! The daggers are priceless!”

“Enough to steal them?” Jon purred.

“No!” Balistreri swallowed. “No, I didn’t mean that. I mean…”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Sandillo coaxed.

Most of it, they knew already. Balistreri kept his dagger hidden, not part of the insurance policy. He knew about Wilfrieda Kincaid’s dagger, but she refused to sell it. “But the other two…” He trailed off and sat back. “I was trying to strike a deal!”

“Two,” Jon echoed sharply. “What other two?”

“The one at the museum and the one in Milwaukee,” Balistreri said impatiently.

“The museum.” Jon rubbed his cheek. “What museum?”

“The Chazen Museum of Art at U-W Madison,” he answered. “It’s been taken out of public view by the Guest Curator, though, according to the museum staff. They won’t set up an appointment for me, either, but I’ll keep trying.”

“Who?” Belinda asked.

“A graduate student named Jade McKenzie. She’s finishing up her doctoral thesis, I’m given to understand.”

“And the one in Milwaukee?”

“It was the first one stolen,” Balistreri said. “That’s why I brought mine to the store, to keep it safe. I don’t know how they knew I moved it!”

“Can I look around?” Belinda asked. “Maybe get an echo of something?”

Balistreri hesitated. “Very well. Just be careful, please. This is my place of business.”

She smiled, but knew it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Belinda slipped out of the office. No one occupied the store and she saw the reason: the “Be Back Soon” sign hung in the front door. She smirked. Must not interrupt the police, Mr. Balistreri. More like, he didn’t want anyone to know he was slumming.

She walked around the perimeter of the store. The echoes she felt didn’t seem like the ones at Mr. Evans’ house. She got the impression of a very orderly individual, methodical and careful. She didn’t disturb any of the other items in the store…

Belinda froze. “She.” The perpetrator was a woman? She got no such feeling from the murder scene. But here… She closed her eyes. Faint traces, like golden filaments, appeared in her mind. She opened her eyes enough so she could walk without running into anything, then traced the trail from the back door, through the store to the front. A detour to one of the étagère confused her for a moment and then she headed for a cabinet at the back of the store, beyond the office. Another presence, this time of a powerful object, intruded on her mind.

“That’s where it lay before it was taken,” Balistreri said.

She jumped. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed you knew. But that’s where I had the dagger, locked in that cabinet. How did you know?”

She glanced at him. “The thief toured the shop. They left very little traces and touched nothing. They knew what they wanted, walked through the entire place and paused up front, then came straight here. Very neat and surgically precise. A woman,” she added.

“Impressive,” Balistreri noted. “You see much. How long have you trained?” He stepped closer, invading her space a bit.

She stepped back. “My whole life. Why?”

“I’ve never met an ancestral Witch of your power before,” he noted.

~He’s lying~ she told Jon.

The big man jolted, but since he stood behind Balistreri the shop owner missed it.

~How can you tell?~

~He knows Gran. He’s flirted with two members of the crone’s coven, and they’re both ancestral Witches~

Sandillo stepped out from behind Jon and regarded her with his large, dark eyes. ~Ask him about them~

She blinked, startled. ~Sir?~

He smirked, but said nothing. Figured, he’d pull a stunt like that and not explain.

“Do you know Ginger Hopkins?” Belinda asked the shop owner.

“The City Councilwoman? Of course, we’ve met.”

~He’s head blind~ Sandillo put in.

Belinda covered her surprise by turning away to examine the cabinet. She decided to take a different tack. “Nothing else from this cabinet was disturbed?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“No. Nothing.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about the man in Milwaukee?” Jon interjected.

“I didn’t think it was pertinent! I gave you the address!” Balistreri protested, the picture of offended innocence. It was a good act.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Balistreri. We’ve disturbed your business long enough,” Sandillo said. He collected Belinda and Jon by gaze.

She followed them out of the store. As she left, she could feel the shop owner behind them, watching them with a bemused expression on his face. Head blind or no, he gave her the creeps.

New World Order, Chapter 13: You Can Pick Your Friends… (Belinda)

2010-07-05T12:35:00.002-05:00

Belinda Gary spread the file out on her desk. Mr. Thomas Evans, age forty-seven, formerly resident of the house with a brownie and a housekeeper… She left the crime scene photos in their plasticine sleeves, face down. She did not need more nightmares. Instead, she sorted everything across her blotter. Her own notes and Jon’s went on the left, then the details of the insurance file. The contents of the kitchen went to the right of that, followed by Mr. Evans’ day planner.

“Very organized.”

She jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

Jon Taylor chucked. “Don’t be so jumpy.” He went and sat down at his desk across from her and watched her fiddle with more papers, putting more material in piles. “What are you looking for?”

“Connections,” she grunted, concentrating. He fell silent and she focused on the papers. Letting her intuition rule her hands, she sorted and resorted piles and kept coming back to the day planner. She leafed through it and then set it, closed, in front of her. Leather, its brown cover well-worn, the two-inch thick binder held all the mundane details of a life. An inkling tickled the back of her mind.

A babble that erupted near the door broke her concentration. Bee looked up from her desk. Why was she even surprised? Her family rivaled the Pony Express for gossip getting around.

As her mother breezed in, a chorus of “Hi, Heather!” rang out.

She insisted on not being called ‘Ms. Gary’. That title belonged to Gran, usually with bowing involved.

Heather Gary aged well. Her waist-length honey-blonde hair, the source of Belinda and Brock’s own color, flowed around her head like a crown, with very little grey. Belinda knew chamomile tea and other herbs kept the color shiny and bright, but nature merely supplemented her mother’s natural beauty. Large, almond-shaped blue eyes saw the world from a smooth-cheeked face of a woman ten years younger. Her favorite colors, autumnal shades of russet, lavender, and gold, decorated her long skirt and tunic. A plain ivory top peeked out from the tunic, and her long legs tapped along in soft brown leather knee-high boots.

The large brown paper bag, the type that supermarkets used to carry before being seduced by plastic, probably contributed to the enthusiasm of her greetings. Already the smell of fresh baked cookies filled the station.

It was no use telling the front desk sergeant to announce her first; bribes of his own bag corrupted him long ago.

Her mother’s trim form paused at the kitchenette counter at the back of the squad room. She tisked over the old pot of coffee and started a new one. Despite Heather Gary’s aversion to caffeine, it still would brew beautifully for her.

Hardened, grouchy detectives crowed around her like a football team of youths homing in on the most popular cheerleader, one that possessed baking talents rather than acrobatic skills.

Sandillo emerged from his office and Belinda’s coworkers parted like the Red Sea for her mother. Another, smaller brown bag appeared from the huge hand-knit satchel always on her mother’s shoulder when she ventured forth.

“I made chocolate chip for the squad, but I remembered that oatmeal raisin was your favorite so I whipped up a few for you,” Heather said, holding them out.

Belinda watched as her lieutenant accepted them silently, but sighed as a smile spread across his harsh countenance. She patted his arm like old friends and they began chatting quietly, too quiet for Belinda to overhear.

Chatted!

There would be no stern looks reminding them to work now. Thoroughly grumpy, Bee turned back to her file with her concentration totally out the window. She set the planner aside and pulled the photos from the insurance company over.

Jon sat opposite, a steaming mug in his hand. “The coffee’s really good, you want one?”

“Only if it’s big enough to drown myself in.”

“So, who’s Miss Popularity?” Jon asked, faint sarcasm in his deep voice.

“My mother.”

She watched her new partner hide his wince behind a sip.

“It’s okay. I’m fully aware of her effect.”

“If your mother is visiting, why isn’t she over here?”

“Trust me, I wish she would ignore me. She’s letting me get accustomed to her invasion gradually.”

Belinda glared when she overheard Sergeant Gavin Tensell tease her mother.

“Heather, are you sure you’re already taken?” he called out around a mouth full of cookie.

The warm, soft look on her mother’s face as she looked over her shoulder gave answer enough. Belinda concentrated on the fuzzy photo in front of her. The reminder that her brother had been right about the quality of the insurance pictures didn’t improve her mood. The dagger seemed like so much metal blob, rather than a dagger.

She watched her mother approach from the corner of her eye and considered hiding under the desk. Realizing that would be too subtle Belinda resigned herself, raising her head and smiling.

A stronger smile that reached the warm blue gaze that matched Belinda’s one blue eye returned it. Belinda could see where Gavin’s teasing comment rooted in truth. Her mother still possessed a lithe figure, soft curves accented by the flowing tunic sweater and multicolored skirt of fall colors. No grey showed yet in the honey blonde Gibson Girl knot that Belinda could not master. On her, the style always ended up in messy disarray.

Of course, her father never being around helped fuel the good natured flirting a few of the detectives indulged. Gavin, catching sight of Belinda’s face, blushed and turned away to chat with his buddies. They all suddenly ignored Heather and Belinda, giving them the illusion of privacy.

“Hi, honey.” Heather hugged her and pecked her cheek. Then she turned to Belinda’s desk mate. “You must be Jon.”

Jon stood and stuck out his hand to shake. “Jon Taylor. I’m Belinda’s new partner.”

Instead of shaking hands, Heather deposited a small bag of cookies into the huge paw. “These are for you. Do you like Snickerdoodles?”

“Yes!” Jon sounded delighted and dove into the bag. “These smell better than…” He blushed and cleared his throat. “They smell great!” He took a bite of one and beamed. “Taste even better.”

Bee rolled her eyes. “Other than bribing half my department, what are you doing here, Mom?”

“You’re in a snappy mood,” Heather commented. She sat down in the extra chair next to Belinda’s desk. “I can’t check on my daughter?”

“I’m not fourteen, Mom. What are you doing here?”

“Mind your tone,” Heather warned, heat in the back of her eyes.

Belinda felt her face redden and sat down. “Mom…”

“How are you, honey?”

She frowned. “Fine. Why?”

“Are you coming to Gran’s for dinner this week? Thursday night is good.”

“I…” She cleared her throat and stood abruptly. “Let’s take a walk.”

Jon eyed them with mild surprise but didn’t comment. Heather stood gracefully and hefted her much-lighter bag. “Sure, honey.”

Bee led the way outside and across the street to the park where Heather parked her bicycle. “Why are you here, Mom?”

“I was in the neighborhood, Bee. You really ought to come to dinner, you know. Your Uncle wants you to be there.”

Belinda sighed and looked down, avoiding her mother’s gaze. She concentrated instead on the fluttering strands of green, silver and white that streamed from the handlebars of Sasha. For as long as she remembered her mother rode the same bike. Bright green, the smaller basket hanging from the front of the handle bars supplemented the larger ones that resembled saddlebags. Large enough to be stuffed full of various baked goodies.

Unable to resist she slipped into her ‘sight’. An aura of a large pony superimposed over that of the bike now. Her hand reached out and long, silky stands of a mane tangled around her fingers. The flapping sounds of cards stuck among the spokes covered the faint echo of hoof beats Belinda knew she would hear when her mother pedaled away. Often she swore that the shrill bell her mother often rang resembled a whinny.

For the last few years she gained the ability to ‘see’ Sasha’s ‘other’ form and it fascinated her, but frustrated her as well. For now there existed yet another subject that her mother refused to fully explain.

The fuzzy image of an equine head tossed and Belinda jerked her hand away. She stepped back and shoved her hand in her pocket, her fingers tingling. She glared at the metal bike, leaning on its kickstand. Raising her gaze she caught her mother’s frown.

She hated earning her parent’s censure and it made her angry. Angry that this time she felt it wasn’t deserved. Angry that her mom seemed more concerned about Brock than her right now. And especially angry at herself for using her magic again.

The case justified its use, someone had died. But it felt good in an odd way that, even thought the subject had been horrifying, a tightness in her chest eased afterwards. Just now had been for fun, and fun and her magic were not allowed to mix anymore.

“And Gran?” she asked bitterly.

“Gran too, you know that.”

“All right. I already told Uncle Matt I’d come, so I’ll come. Thursday?”

Heather eyed her but didn’t comment on her tone. “That will be fine.” She went to her bicycle and deposited her bags into the basket. “I’ll let Gran know.”

Belinda gave her mother a stern look. “You really didn’t need to come to the station to check up on me.”

“That wasn’t the reason behind my visit.”

“Okay, to check out my new partner, then. He probably won’t last anyways for you to worry if we’ll get along.”

Her mother’s warm palm cradled her jaw and Belinda leaned into it. “I didn’t for your sake, honey, but for Brock’s.”

Belinda blinked as her mother climbed on her bicycle and peddled off.

Jealousy flared in her stomach and she felt tears in the back of her eyes. “Damn you, Brock,” she muttered without real feeling. It wasn’t like it was his fault.

She turned and trudged back to her office.

The day planner sat on her desk, practically talking to her. She picked it up and set it in the center of her blotter. “What is with you?” she muttered.

“Huh?” Jon asked, looking up from some forms.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

He shrugged and turned back to his paperwork and she leafed through the planner. The pages fell open to reveal that week and she stared at it for a moment in shock.

“Jon!” she cried.

He jumped. “What?”

She looked up at him. “Our vic had an appointment to see the antique dealer. Tomorrow.”

Jon sat back, looking as stunned as she felt. “You don’t say.”

She tapped the day planner. “It’s right here.”

“I think it’s time we talked to this antique dealer, don’t you?”

She grinned and his answering expression matched it: feral, excited, and altogether predatory. They turned as one to go to Sandillo to set up a meeting.

New World Order, Chapter 12: Interlude at the Door (Brock)

2010-06-23T00:12:00.006-05:00

Fresh from the shower, the melodious tones of his wind chimes caught Brock’s attention. He shuffled over to the stairwell. Originally, the brownstone had been divided up into flats; convenience prompted him to keep the front door buzzers on each level when he remodeled.

Of course, his sanity and temper changed the harsh buzz to this sound when premonitions of interruptions while he painted came to him.

He pushed the button. “Good Morning.”

“It’s Jon Taylor, your sister’s partner,” the answer clarified for him.

In case Brock had forgotten his name.

In case Brock hadn’t shouted it while jacking off.

“A very good morning, then.”

“Uh, can I come up? Official police business.”

The latter was said in a much firmer tone; the low, growly one Brock already loved. He could imagine the large man shifting uncomfortably on his front stoop.

“Sure. I’ll buzz open the entry door and meet you on the second level. It’ll take me a second.”

Not only would he need to get down from the third to the second floor, but he was not dressed for the early morning visit.

Or, more accurately, he was overdressed.

His favorite shapeless grey sweat suit draped his tall frame and a towel wrapped, turban- style, around his wet hair. Huge polar bear slippers adorned his feet.

The hardwood floors got chilly.

He kicked off the slippers and stripped the fleece away, tossing them in the general direction of his bedroom. Racing down the stairwell, he paused in front of the door. He sensed Jon on the other side.

Pulling the towel from his head, he draped it around his lean hips instead. Brock squeezed some water from his damp hair so drops beaded on his bare chest.

Glancing over his shoulder, hoping the opening of the front door didn’t reveal a mess, he spied his audience. Three cats were lined up on the back of the couch staring at him as if he was crazy on catnip and crack.

Brock glared at them. “Look casual!”

Pulling open the door revealed a rather uncomfortable-looking detective. Brown eyes widened, taking in Brock’s appearance. Those lush lips slightly parted as Jon began to breath through his mouth. Brock wondered how wonderful the other man would sound panting with excitement.

Perhaps he could find out, now rather than later.

“Come on in,” Brock purred.

He stepped back and waved Jon into his home. Brock decided to ignore his pets and hoped his guest did the same. Amelia now hid under the couch, peeking out warily while Jezebel busily washed her paws. Queenie sat with her back to the men, ignoring them.

“Why don’t we sit down?”

His wide and deep couch could easily hold both of them.

Horizontal.

A gentle push of magic nudged the cats from it. Jezzie hopped down, Queenie glared first before complying. Jon shook his head, still hovering at the open door.

Brock’s manners kicked in. “How about a hot cup of Chai?”

Another head shake answered Brock. This time the restless shifting of large feet accompanied the negative gesture. It appeared as if Jon prepared to bolt. Brock’s flirtatious manner disappeared. Jon would not be allowed to escape after showing the courage to show up uninvited like this.

He moved forward, invading the other man’s personal space. Reaching past Jon, he pushed the door shut and continued to crowd closer. The detective backed up until he leaned against the oak panel.

“You are being rude, and rudeness needs to be punished,” Brock stated, making his tone low and firm.

He watched Jon’s eyes widen before dropping. But, not before Brock glimpsed the yearning. He placed his palm against the door level with Jon’s shoulder. Then Jon shifted sideways and Brock’s other hand moved to stop him. Now, Brock bracketed the set of wide shoulders and he leaned inwards.

Jon’s aborted movement ended with his legs now spaced apart, making his height even shorter. Brock realized this was deliberate and pleasure at his new playmate’s ingenuity flowed through him. He obliged Jon by looming over him.

No hands rose to push him away. Instead, they flattened low against the door. Quickened breathing betrayed Jon’s excitement and Brock noted that the lowered eyes fastened on his mouth. He leaned forward until his warm breath bathed the waiting lips.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

Dazed brown eyes obeyed and met his.

“Tell me your safe word.”

Jon blinked, confusion and awareness creeping into his gaze. It seemed that Brock’s command jarred the building scene. But Brock always asked for safe words first, they were just too important. Changing this, just to maneuver a sub into a scene, wasn’t the way Brock played.

“I didn’t come here for that,” Jon protested.

His still body and needy eyes contradicted that statement. Brock did not deride him for that apparent falsehood. Instead, he waited.

“I wanted to warn you not to withhold information from me, especially if you were planning on only telling your sister.”

“I won’t,” Brock assured him. “I consider you Bee’s equal and partner.”

“But not your equal.”

Jon’s face flushed. Brock read embarrassment on the other man’s face. He knew of several subs whose self image of their submissive side warred with their personality outside of a scene. Brock also wondered if another reason for Jon’s hesitation was due to Jon’s work world crossing the line into his fantasy one.

“You know that the sub holds all the true power, the power to stop everything when uttering his safe word.” He paused. “So, tell me yours.”

“I haven’t agreed to a scene or anything else! Besides, now that I’ve seen you in just that towel I know I’ve got thirty pounds of muscle over you!”

Brock smiled. The heated gaze roving over his exposed flesh when the door first opened had almost dried him. Jon had noticed a lot, and appeared to like it very much. He remembered how the brown gaze lingered on his tattoos. They both knew that the scene had already started and Jon’s protest was a prod to be proven wrong, but Brock wouldn’t allow any gray areas between them.

He reached down and grasped the other man’s wrists, raising them and pinning them against the door. His fingers moved over the rapidly beating pulses. Again, no physical resistance halted him. Brock, though, was not going to allow Jon to get away with just letting things happen to him and enjoying them. He had to make an admission of want and a decision to consent.

Brock moved his hands away, fingers tracing a pattern on the door instead.

“You’re helpless now, so tell me you safe word.”

Brock made his tone taunting and washed a wave of tingling power through Jon. The other man narrowed his gaze, the odd sensation clearly jarring and confusing him. Instinctively he tried to move and discovered he could not.

Brock’s magic held him more securely than any chain or shackle.

Panic flared in the brown depths as he struggled. Brock buried his hands in the loose waves of Jon’s hair and directed his gaze to meet his own.

“Remember the rules, you have the power.” Brock squeezed Jon’s hands. “Tell me and choose if you are actually going to use it.”

A shudder shook the large, muscular frame followed by a sigh. Awe replaced fright in Jon’s eyes as he relaxed.

“Shit! You really could physically dominate me if you wanted to!”

“If you wanted me to,” Brock corrected.

“It’s ‘Peaches,’ and you’re right, my rudeness earlier should be punished.”

Upon hearing the other man’s consent, Brock’s mouth swooped to cover Jon’s. Their first kiss was not tentative and exploring, but harsh and invading. Brock ground his mouth against Jon as his body copied his movement. Pressing the other man against the unyielding oak door, his hips rubbed against the cradle of Jon’s pelvis. The towel and thin pant fabric proved to be flimsy barriers.

Jon moaned and Brock took that opportunity to force his tongue inside. He swept around, discovering the faint lingering hints of minty toothpaste and coffee. Warm wetness surrounded his tongue and he tangled his with Jon’s.

His hand reached to tangle in Jon’s loose hair, forcing a better angle for his invasion. The whimper he swallowed proved that Jon liked this action and Brock’s fingers tightened, producing more soft sounds. Brock’s other hand swept down the pressed dress shirt, finding peaked nipples under the stiff cotton. He tweaked one, twisting and pulling on it. The large frame trapped under him arched, a deeper moan rumbling from the massive chest.

Brock smiled in satisfaction, his mouth still devouring Jon’s. Finally releasing his prize, he moved his lips to nip and bite the strong jaw that curved to expose a tanned throat. Brock accepted the silent invitation and licked and nibbled Jon’s neck. The other man’s pulse raced under his lips.

Abandoning the nipple he tormented, he followed the line of buttons down to Jon’s belt. Brock moved slightly to the slide to give himself room to explore. Nimble fingers worked the buckle free and the rasp of Jon’s zipper sounded loud, even over the sound of their labored breathing. Brock felt the other man stiffen and decided not to let him think too much. His mouth still freed, Jon could safe word and stop him at any time.

His fingers reached in Jon’s slacks and found engorged flesh. Brock grinned at the feel of sensible cotton boxers. He stroked Jon through the thin fabric and the other man’s hips twitched.

“Don’t move, be still for me.”

“Sorry,” Jon muttered.

Brock sipped his fingers into the slitted front of Jon’s boxers. Coaxing and pulling, he freed the swollen cock. A swipe of his thumb found and spread the pre come beading from the slit. He gently ground the pad of his thumb into the narrow slit and more flowed as Jon gave a hissing groan.

He looked over, the other man’s eyes were closed a dull flush spread under the freshly shaven cheeks. Jon’s lips were swollen and wet from his earlier kisses. The hands held against the door fisted and the muscled chest heaved, brushing against Brock’s with every breath. Pleasure filled him at Jon’s reaction to his touch.

“You’re not going to come until I allow it.”

Jon nodded then frowned and shook his head. Brock’s fingers slipped to pinch the sensitive skin between Jon’s cock and scrotum.

“Agree with me with words,” he instructed.

“I’m not going to come until commanded.”

“Good, baby.”

As a reward he closed his hand around the impressive girth of Jon’s erection. After a few strokes Brock removed his touch and Jon whimpered.

“Shhhh.”

Brock pulled the towel from around his hips and swung it over his shoulder. His own cock curved up and he moved forward. Grasping Jon’s cock again he captured it in a firm grip with his own.

“Watch us.”

His other hand forced Jon’s head forward and he could feel the heat of the chocolate gaze as his new lover followed his instructions. Brock glanced down as well, at the contrast of his nude body and Jon’s clothed one, just a reddened cock protruding from dress slacks, almost obscene and definitely erotic. As the pace of his strokes increased, Brock leaned forward, his tongue tracing a pattern on Jon’s jaw.

His grip rough, only their pre come as lube, he jacked them furiously. Brock had the advantage of enjoying release in the shower just a short time ago. Too soon, though, he felt the familiar tingling at the base of his spine and of his balls drawing up. Jon, at this point, panted like a steam engine and all but trembled with suppressed tension.

He released his grip on Jon’s hair to grab the towel. Wrapping it around their erections, he moved his mouth to Jon’s ear.

“Now, baby, now.”

The muscled body bucking against his almost tossed Brock away as Jon shuddered in release. Feeling warm cum making his cock slick triggered Brock’s orgasm as well. His mouth covered Jon’s again, capturing the whimpers and moans the other man made.

After long moments Jon slumped back against the door, Brock’s body following. The spell restraining Jon evaporated without his concentration. Brock snuggled, recovering waiting for his breath to return to normal. The smell of sex filled the air and Brock gave a low laugh.

“See? You didn’t need an excuse to come see me.”

Surprise filled him as Jon pushed him away. Those muscles came into effective effect.

“This isn’t a game, the case is real! Someone died last night because of those damn daggers!” the detective growled.

Brock blinked in shock, the ramifications of this violent turn in the case affecting him. One of the still missing daggers resided at the Gary homestead where his mother, Gran and Uncle Matt lived. The towel being yanked from his slack grasp focused him. He watched as Jon hurriedly cleaned himself, the rough terrycloth rasping over sensitive skin.

“Did you do the sketch of the dagger?” Jon asked tersely.

“Yeah, it’s downstairs on my studio table. The door’s unlocked, I was down their earlier.”

Before he could add anything more Jon wrenched his door open and stormed down the stairs. Brock heard his studio door open and slam closed, and then that of his front door.

Brock sighed, knowing his fledgling relationship had taken a blow. He should have never mocked Jon’s job. He wondered how much damage control he would need to do. Brock scooped up the thrown towel; nothing to be done about it now. First he needed to make some phone calls.

Then he would concentrate on Jon. This was by no means over between them.

New World Order, Chapter 11: Scene But Not Heard (Belinda)

2010-04-29T18:23:00.010-05:00

Belinda parked in front of the quiet house, police ‘do not cross’ tape blocking off the front yard from the neighbors. No neighbors congregated in front of the yard. The street had an abandoned feel, as if everyone hid from the ugliness of earlier. Street lights provided some illumination, but the house seemed shadowed with no porch light or any internal lamps turned on.

“We going in?”

She jumped and snapped her head around to face her partner. “Huh?”

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Belinda, you’re acting like a rookie case of nerves here!”

She shivered. A breath of wind flowed through her and it seemed for a moment like her hair would move in the face of it. Goose bumps popped up along her arms and throat and tightened both her nipples, but it didn’t feel like arousal. She turned back to the front of the house, inhaling.

“What is it?” Jon whispered.

“I don’t know yet,” Belinda responded. “There’s something…”

Jon’s phone bleated and they both jolted. He rolled his eyes and got out of the car, snapping the phone open. She heard him talking but didn’t pay attention, focused on the house in front of her.

She put her hand on the door handle and a snap of static electricity zapped her all the way up to her elbow. “Ow!”

“What’s wrong?” Jon asked sharply, bending to look in the car.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” she growled, annoyed.

She got out of the car and stood up. The scarab seemed to shiver on her skin and then went cold. She inhaled and opened her right hand, palm down. “Brock…” she whispered.

~Bee?~

~Help me~

She felt his spurt of panic and then the sense of him riffling through her memories. He realized she stood at the crime scene, but not in any actual danger, and calmed down.

~Show me~

She let her eyes fall shut and inhaled deeply. Warmth tingled along her arms and then her fingers. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead and littering the ground, a soft susurration that smelled like dust and small animals. She walked toward the front door, moving through a strange double awareness.

~There~

A faint blue shimmer surrounded the stairs, only a couple inches off the ground. As soon as she registered it, the color faded like mist, but she could still feel it like a pressure against her collarbone.

Jon walked up and she caught his arm. “Don't step on the stairs!”

He looked down, a bewildered expression on his face. “Huh?”

“Just stay back, will you? I'm trying to figure something out.”

Brock's ghostly chuckle in her mind only irritated her further. ~Well?~

~It’s not human~ he answered with no delay, despite his clear wish to play with her.

She stifled her surprise. It wouldn't do to annoy him when he wanted to help out. Then what he said hit her. “You’re kidding!”

“Who?” Jon asked.

~Would I do that to you?~

“Shut up, both of you,” Belinda muttered.

“Excuse me?”

~Is it hostile?~ she asked.

~Depends.~

~On what?~

~What are you there for?~

‘Not everything you see is visible.’ She studied the house and its shadowy angles that shrank from the light. She closed her eyes and opened her hand, palm out, and pointed it toward the house. It felt like she reached through a gauze curtain.

~Brock. I have no clover oil with me~

~Oh. Um… Hold on~

She got a sense of him riffling through his magical supplies and had a moment to wonder if she’d interrupted him mid-ritual. Then she felt a ghostly impression of something cool on her eyelids, as though a phantom hand brushed eye shadow across her skin. She realized he applied it to his own eyes, and used their link to ‘give’ it to her. She wasn’t sure that would work, but... She opened her eyes and the house sat there, ordinary-looking and unshadowed.

~Wow~

~Yeah~ Brock agreed. ~Bee careful~

She grimaced. ~Funny. But what is it?~

~No idea~ He paused. ~Drop your keys~

~Why? They don’t like iron!~

~So Jon picks them up~

She felt his grin like something physical and slammed her shields down on his ghostly laugh. “Prick,” she muttered.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Jon snapped, annoyed.

“My brother,” she answered without thinking. “Come on.”

Jon’s big hand landed on her arm, covering nearly the entire bicep. “What?”

“I have a blue tooth for my cell phone,” she lied. “Come on.” She pulled away and went up to the yellow police tape. She scratched on the door frame. “Hello! I’m coming in, and don’t want to disturb you. I’m a police officer, I’m trying to find out who killed the owner of this house.”

“You’re beginning to really creep me out.”

“Keep your shirt on, big guy.” The door opened easily and she stepped in. Even with the clover oil, the shadows inside seemed to move and freeze in slightly different positions than they were before the door opened. She shivered. “Stay behind me.”

She heard the click of his gun safety and resisted telling him to put the gun away.

“Hello?”

His loud bellow made her jump and she rounded on him. “Keep it down!”

He frowned. “Why? The place is unoccupied.”

“How do you know?”

He studied her. “Where’s your blue tooth?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The blue tooth you talked to your brother with. Where is it?”

She flushed and turned away. “Never mind.” She moved toward the kitchen and then saw a flash of something move ahead of her.

Jon bumped into her and then stepped back, his large hand holding the gun next to her head as he sighted down the hallway. She'd go deaf if he fired it from that close. His hand stayed rock steady, but his voice came out breathy. “What was that?”

She eased a hand onto his arm and pressed down, so the gun pointed at the floor. “Relax. It’s what I came here to find. You’ll scare it with the gun. Put it away and stay in the hall.”

She saw the saucer of milk as she entered the kitchen. It sat on the counter in the mercifully spotless kitchen. Someone took their time cleaning, too; she could smell the cleanser in the air. Something fresh and non-chemical, but thorough. A small dish with chocolate chunks sat near the milk; definitely not snacks for a kitten or cat. It had to be one of the fey… but would it be friendly to a stranger?

Belinda felt a pressure in the air to her left and resisted the urge to move quickly. Instead, she squatted down and then sat cross-legged on the floor. “My name is Belinda Gary. I’m with the Madison Police. I’m trying to find out what killed your Master.”

The voice, when it came, sounded like dry sticks rubbing together. “Gary.”

“That’s right. Belinda Gary. My friends call me Bee.”

“You know Tilly.”

She felt a flash of cold bolt through her. She swallowed around a dry mouth and nodded. “She’s my grandmother.”

“Master likes Tilly. Good woman, Tilly, he says. You good woman, Bee-of-Tilly?”

She edged her face to the left slowly, so as not to startle the creature. “I try to be.”

“You not sing, Bee-of-Tilly. Why you not sing, Bee-of-Tilly?”

Her eyes widened. “How do you know I sing?”

“You have the music, Bee-of-Tilly. Tilly has it. Matthias has it. Bee-of-Tilly has it. You have brother, Bee-of-Tilly?”

“Yes. Yes, his name is Brock.”

The creature stood maybe two, two-and-a-half feet tall. Wrinkled brown skin, dark like a walnut, covered it. The hair wasn’t hair so much as corn silk, a silvery greenish brown that reminded Belinda of a garden in Spring. A neat white smock adorned it and its feet remained shoeless, the nails on the toes like little shiny claws. Beady green eyes, like little agates, regarded her out of a wizened face.

“Brock keeps the music. You not sing, Bee-of-Tilly. Not good, not sing. Must sing, Bee-of-Tilly.”

“I’m here to try to find out who killed your Master.” Maybe if she kept to the case…

The creatures eyes welled up with huge tears and it looked to where the body had lain. “Evil woman kill my man, Bee-of-Tilly. Evil woman!”

“Woman?”

“Yellow-haired. Lighter than you. Taller, too. Said to buy the dagger. But lied.”

The hairs on Belinda’s arms raised at that last word, and the echoes hissed and bounced around the kitchen. Despite its diminutive size, the creature seemed menacing suddenly.

“Belinda?” Jon called.

The creature hissed and raised a clawed fist.

“It’s my partner,” Belinda soothed. “Stay there!” She hoped Jon would heed her.

“Your partner, Bee-of-Tilly?”

Belinda got the distinct impression the creature meant romantic partner. “No, my work partner,” she clarified. “He’s a police officer too. We are trying to catch the murderer of your master.”

“You must sing, Bee-of-Tilly. To catch this murderer, you must sing.”

Belinda stared at it. “What?” Her voice had hardly any sound.

“You must sing,” it insisted. It took a small step closer to Belinda and smiled, showing an alarming number of sharp, pointy and very white teeth. “You call me Buca.”

“Can my partner come in, Buca?”

“Your partner, Bee-of-Tilly?”

“He’s helping me find the killer, Buca.” She figured it would be good to remind the little creature. Was this a brownie? Had Belinda finally met a brownie? What would her brother think?

At that thought, Brock appeared in her mind like an overlay.

~Shit~ Brock sounded completely flabbergasted.

She’d’ve laughed if the situation weren’t so serious.

Buca cocked its head. “Bee-of-Tilly? That your partner?”

~She knows I’m here!~

~She?~ Belinda asked. “My brother, Brock.”

“Brock-of-Morgan already sing, Bee-of-Tilly. You must sing,” Buca insisted.

~Look at the dress, Buzz. Of course it’s a chick. Buca is Welsh for ‘brownie,’ I thought you knew that. You’ve never seen a brownie before?~

~Not in the flesh, and not in my murder scene~

~Did she see who did it?~

~Yeah, but her logic isn’t exactly human~

A snort is a weird thing to experience through a psychic link. She felt Brock riffle through the memory of the conversation and then he fell silent, thinking.

~Ask her if the woman had ever come here before~

“Buca, did the killer ever come here before? Did your Master know her?”

“No, not!” Buca said in a loud voice. Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked where the body had lain.

A step alerted Belinda and then Jon stepped in.

Buca turned her head and squeaked. “So big!” A loud clap, like thunder, split the air in the small kitchen and the brownie disappeared.

The force of it knocked Brock out of link with her.

“Fuck!” Jon shouted, frozen in the doorway.

“That was a brownie,” Belinda told him, rubbing her ears. “She saw the murderer.”

It wasn't until she followed Jon back to the car, so they could go tell Sandillo what they'd seen, that it occurred to her: how did Buca know their father's name?

She eyed the house, stomach clenched, until the shadows shifted and danced in her vision. Unsettled, she turned the Prius around and headed toward the office.

Chapter 10: A Pie for All Seasons (Belinda)

2010-04-14T07:41:00.001-05:00

Belinda Gary swung by her house to feed the animals on her way to the precinct. Just as she went in to wash up, a car pulled up outside. A burgundy Shelby Cobra parked behind her Prius, its paint immaculate and gleaming. It reminded her of the kind of car her brother would drive if he weren’t so obsessed about the environment.

She wasn’t really one to talk, since she cared as much as he did, but he was more mouthy about it…

King and Trixie surged at the driver’s side door, the deep bells of their barking drowning out Marvin’s determined efforts. Of course Marvin, a long-haired Golden Retriever, wagged his whole body as he barked and ruined the effect. The two Burnese Mountain Dogs were an entirely different matter and she headed outside to call them off.

“King! Trix! To me!” She let out a piercing whistle with her fingers in her lips. She never could master the tongue whistle that Brock could do. Dogs came just fine without it, no matter what he claimed. She clapped her hands. “Come!”

A wave of three ecstatic dogs turned and crested over her, dust and dog spit flying. “Oh, guys, now I have to change again!” She ushered them to the side gate and through, then closed the gate so her visitor could get out of the car without getting mauled. Or licked to death.

Prince’s odd, lonely-sounding hoot could be heard over the dogs. Monica loved the quirky peacock, both for his feathers and his affectionate nature, but Brock hated him. She glanced over to make sure his enclosure hadn't gotten opened by the dogs on accident and then turned back.

Jon alighted, bouncing the car on its shocks as it reacted to his weight. She felt her eyes widen. Jon drove a Cobra? He caught her watching him and waved with one hand, then bent to retrieve something off the passenger seat.

Pizza.

Her new partner brought her pizza?

Maybe she wasn’t losing another partner, after all…

She opened the mud porch door for him. “How’d you find me?”

“I’m a detective, remember?” he said, but without rancor. “Sandillo told me. He said you like anchovy on your pizza.”

She felt her eyes widen. “Bet he didn’t.”

He laughed. “I’ll tell you inside. I’m starving.”

She sighed. “Yeah. All right.”

She held the door and followed him in. The finches, or “The Girls” as Monica called them, exploded into happy beeps and chirps when they caught sight of him. She closed the door between the kitchen and the dining room where their flight cage sat so they could have a conversation.

“Sorry.”

“No problem. Canaries?”

“Huh-uh. Finches. They all have names, but I’ll introduce you later. They like men, especially big ones. They’ll never shut up if I bring you in there now.”

He chuckled and set the pizza on the counter to look around. She felt self-conscious suddenly, very aware of the dirty dishes in the sink and on the right side of the counter. Monica never let dishes accumulate. She loved to cook and make house, and kept everything immaculate. Belinda, never a good homemaker under the best of circumstances, didn’t have the wherewithal now that Monica died to keep things up the right way. Keeping up with the animals was enough of a chore. “I’m sorry it’s such a mess.”

“Nah,” he disagreed. “Just looks lived in.”

She wondered what he’d call her bedroom with its four loads of unwashed laundry, but figured she wouldn’t need to find out. He wanted Brock, not her. “So why the meals on wheels?”

“Where are your plates?”

She blushed. “I don’t have any clean…”

“Let me,” he interrupted her, stepping in front of her as she went to the sink. “Peace offering.”

He brought her a peace offering? “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why?”

He started the water to let it heat and stacked the dirty dishes on the drain board. “You had a theory. I want to hear it.”

She knew better than to say something sarcastic. Her brother long ago explained ‘boy’ for apology; it dawned on her this must be Jon’s way of doing it.

If he fed Brock when they got into fights, they’d grow old together. She turned her back so he wouldn’t see her smirk.

“There are two perps,” she told her towel drawer. Its contents, thankfully, didn’t need washing. Of course, that was because she hadn’t washed dishes enough to use them all up.

Maybe she should start a load or two before she went to work.

She set the towel down and washed her hands. She eyed her clothes, but decided with one dab of the towel that she still looked presentable.

“Do you have something to drink?” he wanted to know.

“Coke or ginger ale?” she offered.

“Ginger ale?”

“Vernor’s.”

He smiled, pleased. “Then I’ll take that.” He brought the plates and pizza to the table. “You have oregano?”

“For what?”

“The pizza. You can’t have pizza without oregano flakes.”

She rummaged in the spice cabinet, digging through to the ‘O’s.’ Monica rivaled Belinda’s mother for an herb garden, and in fact traded herbal wisdom with Heather whenever she could. She found the oregano leaves and brought them out, handing the small plastic baggie full of whole dried leaves to Jon.

“What’s that?” Jon asked, suspicious.

“If I said pot, you’d probably believe me, huh?” Monica told him. “Relax. It’s oregano from my garden. My …” She started to say ‘girlfriend.’ “My partner picked it last Spring, so it’s fresh.”

He eyed it and then sprinkled a large helping on his plate and crushed the leaves in his fingers. His eyes widened. “This smells divine!”

She grinned, pleased. “She was a good cook and gardener.”

He opened the pizza box and it was her turn to be suspicious. “What is that?”

“Pizza,” he said in an overly innocent tone of voice.

“It looks like you killed a cow for the milk,” she muttered. “How much cheese is on that thing?”

“It’s Chicago deep dish,” he told her. “Sausage and garlic. Sandillo said you usually get that pansy New York shit, but I’m buying, so I get to pick.”

She didn’t think her pizza was ‘pansy,’ but this… She watched him serve her an enormous slice. “I can’t eat all that!”

“Just try it,” he advised.

“Where’d you get it?” She had to admit, it smelled divine.

“Lou Malnati’s,” he answered, cutting his own piece. “I had some shipped up here and they just got dropped off by FedEx, so I froze them and brought on here.”

“Don’t you stay in an extended-stay apartment?”

“Yeah. I only got three.” He sounded defensive.

She watched him sprinkle the oregano on top and tried some on her own. When she took a bite, she had to close her eyes.

“You look happy,” he noted smugly.

She waited until she chewed and swallowed. “This is like sex on a plate.”

“Better than,” he agreed, taking a huge bite.

“Only if you’re doing it wrong,” she retorted.

He glared at her, but had too much food in his mouth to say anything. She laughed and took another bite.

“So tell me about his theory of yours.” He served himself another piece.

“How’d you heat it?” she blurted, staring at the pizza. “They don’t ship it hot…” Of course they didn’t. She flushed.

He snorted. “No, they send them frozen. I have an oven in my apartment.”

“And you just heated it up?”

“Don’t you cook?”

“Why, cuz I’m a chick?”

He frowned at her like she should know better. “No, because this is obviously a cook’s kitchen.”

Her stomach clenched. “Oh.” She fished a piece of sausage off her piece of pizza. “Yes. Monica did all the cooking.”

His eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Let’s just stay focused.”

“Fair enough. So why do you think it’s two perps?”

She resisted saying, “I know there are,” but only because he just brought her pizza. “The first perp is orderly. The ‘feel’ of the scenes is methodical, calm. Like a thief. The third scene...” She had to set her food down. “Maybe we should talk about this after we eat.”

His eyes widened and then he swallowed his bite. “I should have thought.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like I’ve never worked homicide.”

“Just not so up-close and personal,” he finished for her.

“Yeah.” She took another bite, dainty compared to him, and he started in on his third piece.

“Why’d you pick Madison?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I looked around. I wanted a change of scenery, since they wouldn’t let me stay in serial crimes. Madison has a good rep, and it’s a good city.”

“Where else did you look?”

“Boulder and San Francisco,” he told her. “But Sandillo seems to be the kind of leader that I could work with.”

“Really?” She frowned. Why?”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course!”

“That’s why.”

“Oh.” She finished her slice and sat back. “I’m full.”

“You sure?”

“I had something with my uncle earlier, so…”

“Ah. Shall we leave the rest in the fridge?”

She nodded. “Sure!”

He rose, stuffing the last of his crust into his mouth, and opened the door “Jesus, Belinda!” He stared at her refrigerator.

“What? It’s clean!”

“There’s no food!” He set the pizza box on the top shelf. “You need a housekeeper.”

Unfortunately, that reminded her of the woman at the murder scene. “That poor woman.”

He closed the door and leaned against the counter, hip cocked. “Huh?”

“The housekeeper. At the murder scene.”

“Oh.”

“She seemed devastated.”

“Maybe she wasn’t just a housekeeper.”

She remembered her uncle’s admonition. “I need to go see the crime scene again.”

“What for?”

“I… I have a hunch,” she told him. It wasn’t exactly a lie, she just didn’t specify whose hunch it was.

“So we good?”

“Yeah. You still don’t believe me, do you?”

He shrugged. “I’ll keep an open mind.”

“You were a profiler!” she burst out. “What do you think of the pattern?”

He shrugged again. “Too soon to tell. One school of thought would say it’s just that the killer is coming unglued, and that’s why he’s escalating it.”

“How do we know it’s a guy?”

“We don’t.” He grabbed his ginger ale and then leaned against the counter, looking down at her. “Just using that to be economical. If I have to start saying ‘he or she’ all the time, it’ll take forever to say anything.”

She laughed. “Fair enough.”

“Are you driving or am I?”

She frowned. “Driving where?”

“The crime scene?”

“You’re going with me?’

“We’re partners, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I guess we are.” She stood. “I’ll drive. Takes less gas, so move your ego monster for me to get out.” She wondered if he had purposely parked behind her so she couldn’t escape before they sorted things out. He was pushy, just like her brother…

He smirked but didn’t argue her reasoning, just let her precede him out the door.

New World Order, Chapter 9: A Pint of Harp (Brock)

2010-03-31T11:38:00.003-05:00

Brock walked into the dim interior of the pub his eyes searching for Kelly, his usual waitress. Or, more accurately, his uncle’s. With the size of Uncle Matt’s tips, not only did his uncle get great service, but Kelly’s teenaged son was assured of a college fund. After dealing with his Gran for two hours, Brock really needed a pint of Harp.

He knew where his great uncle would be: at the back with a good view of the front door and the dart board.
Uncle Matt waved a greeting at him and Brock slid into the booth. Surprisingly, none of his uncle’s cronies gathered nearby. Shouts from the bar under the TV broadcasting football answered the mystery. Brock glanced over. After see that the Packers weren’t playing, he lost interest.

Uncle Matt nudged the basket of onion rings his way and Brock grabbed a few, justifying that the deep fried treat was still a vegetable and fit in with his usual healthy diet. Munching on one, he spied a telltale spot of red on his uncle’s neck.

The breading on the onion ring scratched his throat as he hurriedly swallowed. “Did you go paint balling today without me?”

Uncle Matt grinned. “It was a senior division match. We won!”

“Was it fair, considering your team consists of Guardians?”

“They were retired Marines. It was fun afterward when they discovered we were ‘civvies’ in their eyes and half of the team women.”

“Great, let’s piss off the retired armed forces.” Brock rolled his eyes.

“Nah, they won’t hold a grudge. Some joined up with us for drinks and Edith is making it up to their squad leader. Or at least that’s my guess, as she didn’t leave with us. He’s a widower,” Uncle Matt added.

Brock blinked; perhaps his former baby sitter earned the nickname ‘Fast Eddie’ for other reasons besides her speed with blades. He ran his hands over the polished wood top of the table. A faint echo ghosted through him.

“Was Bee just here?”

“Yup. She’s all twisted up about this new case.”

“I’ve been trying to get Gran to give over the Greenlee dagger for safekeeping, but she didn’t go for it.”

Uncle Matt grinned. “It’s safe enough where it is and well protected, that’s why we claimed it after our great, great, great aunt’s death. I’m more worried about your sister than some burglar.”

Brock nodded and munched on another onion ring. Kelly appeared and he gave his order. “Bee is still having trouble dealing with Monica’s death and Gran pressuring her to ‘let her old partner go’ isn’t helping.”

“Tilly’s still under the impression that Monica was just her partner, not Belinda’s life partner.” Censure colored the older man’s voice.

Brock raised his eyebrows and took a fortifying sip after Kelly left his tankard on the table. “Inheriting the house wasn’t a tip off? Does Gran think it’s just about taking care of Monica’s pets?”

Uncle Matt frowned. “Watch your tone, young man.”

Brock nodded, the closest he could admit to an apology. He knew his great uncle tolerated only so much criticism of his own twin, Brock and Bee’s grandmother.

It still amazed him how blind everyone seemed. Bee’s aura swirled with unhappiness and the constant barrage from their grandmother only served to drive his sister further away. She’d already left the covens, separating herself from her family would be the next step. Would it take her moving from Madison for his kin to wake up?

Kelly slipped a plate of lasagna under his nose. “I know you’d want some.”

“Sure do. Rudy’s lasagna is a work of art. Thanks, hon.”

Brock picked up his fork, that pumpkin stew hadn’t been very filling and the ladies wouldn’t share the brownies he’d brought. His great uncle continued the conversation, proving he understood the seriousness of the situation concerning Belinda.

“I’ve tried to get Belinda talking about Monica but she just clams up. Maybe someone, a stranger outside of the situation, can get her to open up. Like her new partner?”

“Maybe. Her partner is Jon Taylor and he seems real sharp and not the type to let her wiggle out of discussions. He’s from Chicago, so I don’t think he has any friends here. He’s used to homicides, so a stubborn partner won’t deter him much.” He went on in that vein, thinking out loud.

Brock stared at his empty plate that he’d made inroads on while talking. Speaking of talking, had he’s just been jabbering away about Jon the entire time? A glance at the wall clock showed that over twenty minutes passed since the discussion began concerning the handsome detective.

His great uncle’s blue eyes gleamed when Brock met them and he fought a blush. Thankfully, he knew of a sure way to distract the older man. “Wanna play darts?”

Uncle Matt rose and grabbed the darts. “You planning to cheat again?”

“Who, me?’

“Using telekinesis to push my arts around while I toss is cheating, boy.”

“Oh, so that’s your excuse when you lose to me?”

Uncle Matt snorted, narrowing his eyes, and the game began.

New World Order, Chapter 8: In Plain Sight (Belinda)

2010-03-15T06:22:00.003-05:00

Belinda stretched in her warm cocoon of blanket and quilts. She hated sleeping in a stuffy room, so even though Wisconsin nights got chilly, she always jacked down the thermostat before tumbling into bed. Rolling on her back the scarab ached a bit, reminding her that the skin had been broken and need extra care and attention.

It also reminded her of true reason for her deep, restful sleep. Despite the weariness making her eyes gritty, Belinda had fully expected not to be able to drop off. Her body ached, too tired and stressed to relax, while her mind replayed images of blood splattered in that pristine kitchen.
Earlier as she lay fretting over her theory of two perps, the idea that Jon dismissed so easily, the scarab had begun radiating warmth that slowly spread. It allowed her to drop into a restful haven protected from the horror of earlier. She knew her shields would be strong for hours to come, perhaps lasting until the small punctures fully healed and faded away days from now. No spillage from her new partner, or strangers, threatened to distract her.

Belinda viewed depending on her brother’s magic to be a crutch. But, as she sat up and pushed back the heavy drapes that let her nap the afternoon away, perhaps she was being too critical. She absorbed the serene view of the lake. She knew Brock only tried to help. The trouble was, lately, she felt like she didn’t deserve it. Not since she’d failed and Monica paid the price for it with her life.

She threw herself out of bed, unwilling to continue that line of thought. She got in the shower and by the time she finished shaving her legs, she had a plan.

The Prius felt cold against her still damp skin and her head chilled since she hadn’t yet dried her hair. The heater warmed up quickly and she ran it full blast all the way from her house to the pub. She drove around back to the small employee lot and parked next to her uncle’s pickup. A regular for as long as she could remember, he had permission to park back here and so did she, though in her case it owed more to her status as a police officer. She walked in the back door of the restaurant.

“If it isn’t little Spelling Bee!” Rudolph, the huge Black man who had cooked there for almost three decades, grinned from ear to ear. “You here for breakfast, little girl?”

He hugged her one handed, the other occupied stirring the day’s soup.

“Uncle out front?”

“He’s by the back dart board,” Rudolph grunted. “You need some food, girl. You’re gonna fade away, now that Monica’s not feeding you no more!”

Unfortunately, that reminded her of her earlier line of conjecture and she felt the smile fall off her face. Rudolph, occupied with his soup, didn’t notice. “I’ll catch you later, okay Rudolph? I need to talk to Uncle.”

“Sounds fine, little girl, just fine,” he responded cheerfully.

Matthias Gray remained Belinda’s favorite relative, with the exception of Brock, all through college and once she became a cop. He didn’t judge her, for one thing, and rarely told her what to do.

“If it isn’t Bee-Linda,” he greeted kindly when he saw her. “You out slumming today?”

His nickname for her lightened her heart. “Maybe I’ve come to arrest you.”

His blue eyes glinted and his welcoming grin grew predatory. “If you win a game of darts.”

“You’re just saying that. You won’t really go quietly when I win.”

“That’s because you never win.” He winked, then tossed her a set of darts when she came up to him, a gentle sideways toss so as not to hurt her.

She put each one in the triple ring on twenty.

Two men seated nearby turned to stare at the board and then watched her uncle surreptitiously. She didn’t recognize them and wondered if they knew Matthias or were just tourists.

Matthias didn’t even bother to rise. He took a sip of his beer and threw all three darts in a precise grouping dead-center. Triple bulls eye.

“Dammit!” Bee cried. “Every time!” She rose and twirled each dart free of the board.

Her uncle’s eyes twinkled as he grinned at her. “Looks like it’s not your day, Bee-Linda.”

She sat down, deflated. “Tell me about it.”

He cocked his head. “Tell you about what?”

She let the darts fall and put her elbows on the table. “Everything!”

“Hey Val!” Matthias called without turning. “Tell Kelly to get us the usual, honey?”

“Yeah!” The curly-haired blond bartender scribbled a note on a ticket and handed it to Kelly, their waitress, as she walked toward the kitchen window. Kelly went back and got Bee’s huge mug, a blue ceramic with a picture of a large flower and two drunken bees on it, from a shelf at the back of the bar. Monica gave the mug to her for her last birthday and Uncle Matt had them keep it for her, knowing well her coffee addiction.

“Just iced tea today, thanks Kelly,” Bee called before she could fill it. She turned back to find her uncle regarding her.

He blinked and then studied his beer. “So. What brings you to the bar in the middle of the afternoon? Sandillo know where you are?”

She shrugged and moved her hand so Kelly could set the tea down. “Not exactly. I’m not on for another couple hours.”

The two men who’d watched their dart game got up to leave and Belinda waited for them to be out of earshot. Kelly, meanwhile, brought them both scrambled eggs with what looked like every vegetable in the kitchen as well as a double stack of toast to share.

It had been Monica’s favorite dish.

“What’s wrong, Bee-Bee?” Uncle Matt coaxed.

She shook her head. “This case,” she said, not lying but not telling the whole truth. “I have a new partner, and I don’t know if it’s going to work. And there’s been a murder, Uncle Matt!” She had to put her fork down as the scene welled up around her.

Her uncle said nothing, just ate another bite as placid as ever.

“The murder happened near the lakefront. The wards weren’t disturbed, not even a little. They recognized me, and it was like they could tell what I said, that he’d been killed!” She shivered. “There are two perps, Uncle Matt. But Jon doesn’t believe me!”

He broke eye contact and took a sip of ale. When he looked at her again, his eyes seemed bluer than before. “They weren’t his wards, then,” he pointed out. “As long as he’s human, the wards die when he does. What does your partner think?”

“I don’t know. But there’s something else weird. The rug in the living room felt…” She trailed off, searching for a description.

“Like what?”

“Well, like Gran’s crone circle, sort of.” She took another bite of food but hardly tasted it. “It recognized me when I walked on it.”

He digested that, playing with a fragment of mushroom on his plate. “What about the rest of the wards?”

“Nothing. Just the living room.”

“Not all you see is visible to the naked eye.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Finish your food.”

“But Uncle Matt –”

“Don’t ‘Uncle Matt’ me, girl. Eat your food before you get sick from bad habits.”

“Yes, sir.” She sighed. When he got that tone, there was no arguing.

One thing was certain. If not all she saw was visible, she would have to go back to that house. She finished her lunch and excused herself to go to the bathroom. The bar steadily filled with patrons, there to watch the Colts play the Bears. Any time the Bears played anyone, the Brocach filled to watch them get trounced. And if they played their beloved Packers, the patrons cheerfully threatened all sorts of mayhem to their Chicago rivals.

“Not everything is visible to the naked eye.” Bee stared at herself in the mirror. “Like what, though?” She stopped further inquiry when two women came in, overly cheerful and definitely tipsy. She washed her hands and checked her makeup.

Her hazel eye looked back at her from its contact, blue now, and then seemed to change. She bent closer and felt her blood run cold. Monica’s darker blue eye looked back at her from her own face, filled with love and concern.

She dropped her purse and the sharp sounds its contents made as they clattered around the floor broke her reverie.

“Here, let me help you,” one of the other women said kindly. Her eyes, safely brown and shaped like downward-facing ovals, seemed friendly but not too forward.

“Thank you,” Belinda managed to mumble, feeling her face heat. She prayed she wouldn’t tear up in front of her.

She emerged to find her Uncle embroiled in one of his dart wars with two older burly marines. She knew their military branch from the patches on their coveralls, by their age she guessed them to be retired. The second one threw a good shot, in the center too, but her uncle repeated his performance of earlier.

“Dayum!” the other marine blurted. He finished is Coke. His arm had three paint spatters on it, and a bruise peaked out of his sleeve. “We’ve got to RTW, but next time we’re in town, we’ll look you up!”

She knew ‘RTB’ meant ‘return to base,’ since Brock went through a phase where that’s all he’d say: acronyms for everything. Her uncle must have shared her puzzled look because they grinned and explained.

“That’s ‘return to wives’ nowadays.”

She resisted rolling her eyes. Her Uncle refused to give up paintball; now it appeared he played with Marines.

The three of them shook hands and the two big men passed her and exited the bar.

“I’ve got to go, Uncle,” Bee interjected.

“Just remember what I said.”

“Yes. Thank you, I will.” She hugged him.

“Are you all right?” he murmured, his hands on her shoulders.

“Yeah, why?” She smiled brightly up at him. “Just a late night, and this case..”

He nodded and broke eye contact. “Come over for dinner this week. Gran’s getting irritated.”

“Uncle Matt…”

She broke off the rest of her whine as his blue eyes regarded her, utterly without sympathy this time.

“Yes, all right. I’ll come for dinner. Thursday.”

He beamed. “Good.”

Good. Right. She walked out into the midday sun and went to her car, lost in thought.

New World Order, Chapter 7: Promised Fulfilled (Brock)

2010-03-01T23:49:00.006-06:00

Brock rolled away from his easel, well satisfied with the progress he made. He captured on canvas the way Jon’s huge hands cradled a mug of chai. Smiling, he remembered the suspicious way the detective sniffed it before tasting. Already he had several drawings in charcoal, but Brock knew that this pair of hands would be added to his oil collection.

His mother’s hands holding her favorite mortar and pestle, Gran’s aged hands almost hidden in the thick fur of her familiar, Uncle Matt’s around a sword hilt, his father’s folded neatly on a gleaming tabletop numbered among his most treasured. He had several of Bee’s: one caressing the keys of her piano and, in his favorite, wrapped around the butt of her service automatic.
He kept others; one of an old service buddy opening a letter from home and more of his coven mates doing various tasks. Brock painted them on small canvases, just a bit bigger than life sized, and not for sale. People claimed that the window to one’s soul was through the eyes, Brock believed it was in the hands.

He stared at his canvas and wondered again what it would feel like to have Jon touching him. Queenie mewing from the doorway, managing to sound both pitiful and imperious, broke his musings.

His own stomach growling alerted Brock to the reason for the silver tabby’s visit. That, and the imitation of a starving feline performed by her, once she realized she had his attention.

“You know the rules, Queenie. I need to clean up first.”

He gathered his brushes and palette and carried them to the gardener’s sink in the corner. The pungent scent of the expensive oils he used filled his nose. He carefully washed them, leaving them on the drain board rack next to the basin to dry.

Next, Brock took the stiff brush and removed the colorful splatters adorning his hands and forearms. After rinsing his hands clean he dried them and then stretched, working the kinks from his long frame. The setting sun filled his studio, the rays spilling in from the skylight and two walls of windows. One wall faced the building next to him, devoid of a view but useful for the precious light the long windows provided. The back windows overlooked his garden and he strode over and looked down over the peaceful visage as he unbraided his hair. On the other two walls his canvases covered the pale oak paneling, a colorful collage stretching to the ceiling. More canvases leaned against the walls, scattered around the large room. Queenie twining around his ankles reminded him that he had starving pets.

Slipping silently down the stairs in sheepskin moccasins, Brock left his upper studio to reach the living level. There, two more pair of anxious feline eyes watched as he warmed their food. Most of their dinners were made by him using fresh ingredients and they appreciated his cooking very vocally.

Jon would have a huge appetite, Brock reflected.

He shook his head, amazed at how completely his sister’s new partner commanded his attention. After he fed the cats he returned upstairs to change from his paint splattered tee-shirt and pajama pants back to the clothes he wore earlier. Brock added a brown leather bomber jacket and scooped up his keys. He stopped in the kitchen to grab the plate of brownies he made before beginning to paint. He knew better than to show up without a bribe.

Climbing into Pearl he carefully placed the plate on the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. Pearl purred to life when he turned the key and he pulled out into light traffic. The Ford Escape hybrid ate up the miles. He loved his vehicle and felt no shame in naming her. Well, the pirate movies populated by cute actors helped. The color, Black Pearl slate metallic, made her name easy- Johnny Depp just helped.

Not that he ever admitted it to his sister, after all the razzing he gave her on naming the Prius.

The drive to the Gary homestead seemed short despite the impending confrontation. Originally part of a larger farm, on what was once the outskirts of the city, now twenty acres remained. The land had not been sliced up and sold to developers; instead coven families built houses and clustered around the Gary home. A regular little magic commune hid in Madison suburbia.

He grew up there; his mother chose to stay in the family home and let Gran and Uncle Matt help raise him and Belinda. Uncle Matt was actually his Great Uncle Matthias, Gran’s twin. He wouldn’t be there tonight, normally choosing to avoid quilting night in favor of his pub.

The long driveway wound through trees and hedges, kept up by various members of the coven’s bevy of children and teenagers. Two of their herd of horses stood in the pasture to the left of the gravel roadway; he recognized Thunder from the white streak on his face. The big bay, his black mane and tail silky and the burnished red of his body glowing, whinnied as he drove by, hopeful for treats. Brock couldn’t quite see who stood with him, but guessed Thunder’s partner in crime, Ladybug. Technically, Ladybug wasn’t a horse, but a Pony of the Americas pony. She stood a full fourteen and a half hands tall though, and gave Thunder a run for his money. The big gelding tried to dominate her, but she knew what Thunder didn’t, that he wasn’t a full male anymore.

Not for lack of trying, Brock noted to himself with a smirk.

Brock smiled as the white farmhouse with green shutters came into view. Two storeys tall but with an attic and basement with attached cellar, the house had been built in a time when families grew large and needed lots of space. Unlike modern houses with their spacious rooms and closet space, this monster house had plenty of small rooms and a huge ‘great room’ on the main floor that could hold all the covens for parties and gatherings.

He’d have to repaint soon. They painted every five or six years, Madison winters being what they were. A salesman appeared every so often to propose aluminum siding, but Gran wouldn’t hear of it. None of the Garys would. Painting involved re-warding the house and remained a beloved ritual, complete with a full day of cooking and night of partying after the hard work got done. A spacious wrap-around porch extended the house on all four sides, more of a veranda. In back they’d enclosed it, to create a mud-porch for winter, but in summer they used the veranda for an extension of the party space. Three handmade bench-swings, built by Great-Uncle Matthias and decorated by cushions and quilts made by Gran and her circle of crones, lined the front porch. The right side, Brock knew by memory, held the children’s toys and two sturdy romp-around enclosures for infants. Adirondack furniture, built by Matthias and Brock as a training exercise, populated the rest of the porch. The older ones they replaced, made by a previous Gary years ago, now squatted in the garden.

The gravel driveway circled the house to the right. The left of the house backed up on the kitchen garden and chicken coop. Rather than entering through the front door, painted a deep green to match the shutters, he pulled around back to park with the vehicles of his grandmother’s friends. A clear space remained for parking between the vegetable and herb gardens. Brock balanced the plate of brownies as he closed his car door. His boots quiet, he crept across the wraparound porch and slipped into the kitchen. He tried to sneak up on one of his Gran’s friends that stood at the counter, Edith Booker. The steak knife she used to spread peanut butter flashed to his throat.

“Don’t try that on me, boy!”

“Sorry, Edith, but I hadda try.”

He slipped a brownie from under the clear wrap and handed it over as a peace offering. At her raised eyebrow he added another and put it on her plate next to her open sandwich. Brock grinned at Edith as she wolfed one down. In her younger days they called her ‘Fast Eddie’ for the speed she possessed with her blades. To the coven’s enemies she earned the title ‘the Beheader.’

She rolled her eyes and hugged him, her hands tugging at his sweater hem afterwards. The forest green chenille refused to do her bidding and lengthen, creeping up again when she released it.

“I didn’t get it right, again, did I?”

“It’s one of my favorites and I love it,” Brock assured her.

She slapped together her sandwich. “I’ll try again.”

Brock kept silent his instinctive protest. Edith’s skills excelled at teaching weaponry, not knitting. But, he wouldn’t dream of hurting her feelings.

The spacious kitchen, built, like the rest of the house, at a time when families grew large and people didn’t eat out often, spread along the entire side of the first floor. A polished light oak table that sat ten stood at the back, jackets draped over the chairs and purses and other bags strewn across its surface. A tray in the center held the salt, pepper, and numerous condiments used by the Gary family and guests to season their food. A heavy red vase of gladiolus, Gran’s favorite flower, held court in the center. The spotless white walls reflected the light warmly and set off the pink of the flowers.

To the right of the door stood the heavy six-burner stove. A wide counter to its left held the fixings for dinner, where Edith worked. Along the perpendicular wall the sink and dishwasher lived, and then the huge fridge. The deep freeze in the basement held extra provisions, and a second fridge down there held extra drinks and food for parties. A spacious double-panel of cabinets lined the wall next to that, built by Uncle Matthias to double the space in the kitchen.

He strode to the crock pot warming on the counter next to the stove. An odd orangey substance bubbled and gurgled up at him as he lifted the lid.

“Pumpkin stew,” Edith informed him as she left with her sandwich. “Good luck.”

He wondered if she referred to the concoction or his upcoming conversation with his grandmother. Spooning up a small bowl, Brock followed her. In his other hand he carried the offering of soft squares of chocolate. As long as he could remember the dining room was never used for eating. Instead, it served as a craft room and here the other women gathered.

He spied that they were just starting a new quilt, squares and triangles of colors scattered around and scissors flashing as they cut. The dark walnut wood of the heavy, carved table disappeared under the colorful fabric. With the leaves in, the table could seat sixteen, but now just had chairs for ten. The women looked up as he entered. Eddie took her chair near the open archway. Brock wondered if the others noticed she still placed herself between them and potential danger.

Zoey Thomas also stationed herself near the doorway, ready to hop up in case her beeper sounded. As an obstetrician, her patients had the habit of delivering at odd times. She wielded the scissors with a surgeon’s skill. Her short, wiry black hair belied her Irish heritage, but her clear blue eyes regarded him with penetrating intelligence. She wore her favorite color, a bright cobalt blue, this time in a long dress with brown calf-boots with a two-inch heel.

“Hey Dr. Z.” With both hands full he bent his head and she patted it.

“You’re such a good boy,” she replied, slipping a square from under the plastic.

“You call him a scamp when he hasn’t been baking for us,” Edith reminded her.

“That’s because I can’t bake. It confuses me,” Zoey added, at the other woman’s look.

“I’m sure that inspires confidence in your patients.”

Brock hid his grin as he continued to the table, remaining quiet. He saved his smart-assed remarks for his sister, knowing better than to take on the coven’s crones.

The other two women that helped raised him argued over colors.

“I like the pinks,” Ginger snapped. She brandished a fat quarter of magenta, rose, and rich berry.

“It’s too girly,” Lydia disagreed. “We need earth tones, like a tree. Browns and sables. Green. Definitely green.”

“It’s a quilt, not a maple,” Ginger shot back.

Since Ginger Hopkins reigned in the city council room and Lydia Dziedzinski in her boardroom, the debate raged fast and intense. Because he knew their friendship spanned decades, Brock understood that the heat was more habit then seriousness. He also knew they could argue for hours. Brock waved the plate of brownies to distract them. Ginger’s fading strawberry blonde curls and Lydia’s sleek salt and pepper bob swiveled to track the chocolate treats.

He placed the brownies on the table between the two women and leaned over and hugged each of them. Unfortunately, he could not escape the very thing he strove to avoid.

“What do you think, Brock?” Ginger asked.

He shoved a spoonful of pumpkin stew in his mouth instead of answering. It tasted…interesting.

“Ginger thinks there too many browns, makes it too dark, but I think they’re necessary for its owner,” Lydia said.

“You don’t even know who it’s for, yet,” Ginger scoffed.

Lydia glared. “Lots of times we’ve a quilt not knowing who it’s for. I know I’ve never met him.”

Brock silently agreed with the ‘him’ part. The colors definitely radiated ‘masculine’. So far only forest green deviated from the palette of browns in the fabric near Lydia. He picked up a chocolate brown triangle, one that reminded him of Jon’s eyes. The forest green shade matched the hue of his sweater, Brock noticed. He had a feeling of who the quilt’s owner would be. He also wondered if his presence would precede or follow it being on the detective’s bed.

The women looked at him, waiting, and Brock hoped a blush wouldn’t give him away. He slipped the chocolate brown fabric scrap in his pocket and reached for a darker one.

“Replace this with a russet one and add some cream that you have left over from the quilt for Dr. Z’s daughter,” Brock advised.

Ginger clapped her hands in delight. “Perfect!”

Lydia gave him an approving look that also had a good measure of consideration in it. His grandmother entering the room gave him an excuse to glance away. Her familiar, a large silver tabby, preceded her. Victoria trotted over to twine around his legs, mewing a greeting. He put his bowl on the table so he could lean down and pet the feline.

After a moment he straightened to hug his grandmother. She already sat at the head of the table like a little queen. He went to her and planted a kiss in her silvering blonde curls. She seemed even tinier sitting. Gran barely reached 5’2”. Brock, at 6’5”, and Uncle Matt, at 6’2”, always towered over her.

What she lacked in height she made up for in force of personality.

“I know you didn’t come to quilt. What do you want?”

Brock hid his smile. Gran and Belinda were too much alike. It probably fueled their many conflicts.

“I received an official visit from the Madison Police Department this morning.”

Gran snorted. “What did Belinda have to say?”

“The daggers are finally being gathered up.”

Gnarled, but still nimble fingers stilled as the coven’s crones absorbed his news.

“They’re not being bought, but instead homes are being broken into. Already Wilfrieda and Gilberto have lost theirs.”

Gran’s eyes narrowed. “Gilberto had one?”

Brock nodded.

“Well, isn’t it fortuitous that one is safe here?” Her tone firmly stated it as a rhetorical question.

“Frieda never mentioned a break-in!” Ginger seemed surprised at the news.

“Oh, you’re talking to her again?” replied Lydia, dryly.

“Frieda and I are friends; we just don’t have a lot in common.”

“Except for Gilberto. I bet you’re more upset that he never showed you the dagger.”

“Gilberto’s just a friend.”

“You thought he liked you. Gilberto paying attention to Frieda put your nose out of joint,” Lydia stated flatly.

Ginger’s face reddened. Brock remained silent. He would never have guessed that Ol’ Gil was such a ladies man.

“Enough,” Edith overrode Ginger’s response. Her hand slapped palm down on the table.

A startled silence fell, and both Ginger and Lydia stared at Edith.

“You’re interrupting Brock,” Edith told them calmly, taking another bite of sandwich.

Gran eyed them, and turned back to Brock with her eyebrow raised.

Brock ignored it. “We need to at least tell Bee about it. Better yet, give it to the station for safe-keeping. They can keep it in their evidence locker. It’ll be hard to steal surrounded by cops.” At her look he added, “A temporary loan, you know Sandillo will give it back.”

“Unfortunately neither Sandillo, nor I for that matter, have complete control of the Police Department. Who knows if we’d ever see it again if it left our hands?”

Brock sighed and sat down at the table. He picked up a pair of scissors; a long evening of arguing waited ahead of him.

Thursday 13 for Feb.18

2010-02-18T10:37:00.002-06:00

Thirteen favorite movies

Lord of the Rings (will count them as all)
Ladyhawke
Labyrinth
Event Horizon
Lion of Winter
Man in the Iron Mask
Hard Target
The Barbarians
Legend of Hell House
Fright Night
Dr. Doolittle
The Prophecy
Serenity

New World Order, Chapter Six: "Disarray" (Belinda)

2010-02-15T03:00:00.002-06:00

The front lawn seemed oddly serene in the midst of all the bustle. Only a few uniformed police officers stood outside, mostly to keep the public back. None of the neighbors tried to step onto the lawn, as though to get to close might make the murder rub off on them.

“Concentrate, Gary,” she murmured to herself, irritated at how her mind wandered. It did not reassure her when the scarab started pulsing on her shoulder.

“Ma’am?” one of the men nearby asked, brows crinkled.

“As you were,” she snapped. She strode past and up the steps, her boots banging like hollow drums.

The door handle felt hot and her elbow went numb. She hissed and pulled her hand back. Idiot! Where was her brain, dammit? Don’t touch the door of a murder scene with bare skin; psychic echoes left behind still had strength especially this close it. She rubbed her hands on her arms and shouldered the door open.

The entryway had faded brown carpeting covered by a rubber mat that stretch from the front door all the way down the hall. Immediately to the left stood a spindly-legged console table with recent mail, a basket with keys, and a well-cared-for wallet of brown leather. An EMT pushed passed her with a murmured apology and headed toward the back of the house. She could see the two wide-bodied men dressed in identical uniforms, ‘Coroner’ on the back in white letters like a protective emblem.

She shook herself and looked to the right.

The living room stretched all the way to the right exterior wall, windows in the front, back, and even a small one on the back corner, to her left, by a small reading chair. Her boot thudded on the strip of hardwood floor and then she stepped onto a rug. The minute she stepped down on it, she knew some living hand made it, cared for every braid and stitch. As the magic whispered up her body and made her hair tingle, she knew.

The deceased had been a witch.

She walked forward, one hand out and palm down, parallel to the floor. She walked the entire perimeter, all the way to that small window, and stopped. The wards gleamed in her mind’s eye, undisturbed in this room.

“Anything?” Sandillo’s voice, when it came from behind her, didn’t startle her so much as draw her back into her body.

“The wards are undisturbed.”

“What?” Jon demanded, sounding confused.

“How?” Sandillo asked. “The killer had to come in somehow.”

“The back door,” she responded. “This room is still warded.” She circled to the right, hand still out. A wave of cold flowed into her and she froze. “Stop!”

“Get back, Taylor. Let her work.” Sandillo used that ‘tone’ he got, the one that intimidated men twice his size.

Belinda glanced over and saw Jon step back into the hall, perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

“Just watch,” Sandillo advised. “She doesn’t do this often, but she’s never been wrong.”

“The rug was made by someone of power,” she told them, eyes on the walls. “There are wards in this room. It’s not where he does his circles, but…” She trailed off. “There’s something here…”

“Solitary?”

“Could be,” she hedged. “Gran would know. She lets solitaries practice here, sometimes, and it would explain why there’s not more warding, more people.”

“What about the housekeeper?” Sandillo cleared his throat. “Is she a practitioner?”

Belinda wanted to laugh. Sandillo, from another time and place, knew those who practiced Santeria. To this day, he refused to use the word ‘witch,’ and rarely the word ‘Wiccan.’ She didn’t bother to correct him. “It’s possible. There’s only male energy here, though. I’d check the kitchen.”

“That’s where the body is,” Jon put in.

Her stomach clenched. The wards tightened around her, as though they could understand his words. She stopped, dizzy.

“Belinda?” Sandillo asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answered. She straightened with some effort. “These wards are strong.”

“Not strong enough,” Jon muttered darkly.

“You don’t understand.” She swallowed around suddenly dry mouth. “They’re very strong. They’re not meant to keep out a physical threat. They’re meant to keep out psychic intrusion. The dagger is an artifact, a verifiable artifact of magical power. This man knew that, and these wards… I think these wards somehow know he’s dead.”

“That’s impossible! There’s a real, flesh-and-blood body in that other room, Belinda. Fairies didn’t kill him. The burglar did!” Jon’s face flushed.

“Okay, then you tell me why the two of you are standing on the wood and not the rug, Sergeant Taylor!” She advanced on him. “And since you’re such an expert on the unseen, explain to me how this room lay undisturbed when he’s clearly got a gun in this drawer!” She yanked the top drawer of the china cabinet by the door open to reveal the forty-five. “Now. Since you don’t have answers to those very reasonable questions, get the hell out of my way and let me do my job!” She pushed passed him into the hallway and strode to the kitchen.

“Belinda!” Jon protested.

She ignored him and walked through the door at the end of the hall. She stopped on the threshold and then had to step out of the door when another investigator needed entrance to dust for more prints.

Her mind refused to understand what she stared at. The immaculate white kitchen, with its white-painted walls and white tile around the sink, stood as though caught in the middle of a sentence and just interrupted, about to resume at any moment. The crimson splashes decorating the fridge seemed almost pretty, a bright and cheerful red in contrast to the plain fixtures. The body lay, limbs every-which-way, under a sheet. As she caught sight of it, a man from the coroner’s office walked by with a body bag and she heard the gurney approach down the hall.

She stepped into the alcove that led to the back door, a well-stocked pantry on her left. Neatly-arranged canned goods lined the shelves, as well as two fresh loaves of bread and various supplies for baking more. Behind her, aside from the body, the kitchen had been demolished. She didn’t turn around to look; the image seemed burned into her retinas like a strobe light. Broken dishes lined the floor all around the table, at least two plates, mugs, silverware, and a decanter of what had probably been orange juice. Fresh squeezed, by the smell of it. Shards of a Louisville Slugger lay on the floor, shattered by the force of a blow. Or possibly several blows.

She made it out the back door without having to vomit, and walked all the way into the middle of the back yard. Deep breaths steadied her. She squatted down in the grass and ran her fingers through it. She’d forgotten how bad it felt to be around the violently dead. The death energies swirled around that kitchen like debris in a toilet bowl.

“It takes a while to get used to. Some never do.” Jon held a wet-nap down for her. “This will help. Clear your nose.”

She tore the packet open and inhaled the unpleasant antiseptic odor deep into her lungs. It overrode the other scents and she felt herself steady a little. “I should have slept first, before coming here.” She wiped both hands with the damp cloth and it felt good, soothed her nerves.

“Because of dreams?”

“No. Because my shields are shot to hell.” She eased to her feet. “That murderer is dangerous, Jon. Agitated and violent.”

“You say that like we haven’t already seen their work.”

His warm chocolate gaze filled her awareness and she blinked it away before she violated his privacy again. “We haven’t.” She turned back to the house to study its backside. Out here, the paint on the exterior gleamed a soft grey that seemed to recede from view, a subtle color that didn’t clash with the trees. A breeze blew the scent of the lake toward her and she inhaled.

“There are two other sites, Belinda,” Jon told her in a tone that made it clear he thought she should have remembered that.

“It’s not the same person . That’s what I’m telling you.” She waved her hand at the house. “Whoever killed that man isn’t the same burglar as the other two crime scenes. They were methodical, surgically precise. This… This is a goddamn blood bath, is what it is. Totally enraged… There’s a mess everywhere. Broken china, even a chair. Jon, whoever did this isn’t the same person!”

He shook his head. “I’ll go so far as to grant that you may be able to see things other people can’t. But knowledge of the killer? What, did a little fairy tell you that too?”

She stared at him, hands balled into fists. She briefly considered ‘borrowing’ more of her brother’s strength to wipe that sanctimonious expression off the big man’s face, but it wasn’t worth it. “Get a ride home with one of the beat cops or Sandillo. I’m done.” She walked past him without even slapping him, for which she ought to get a prize.

“Belinda. Belinda!” He started after her and then she heard one of the men from inside call to him.

She could feel his frustration like a physical pressure. She couldn’t blame him; this case would frustrate a saint. Too many things didn’t add up. But too much had happened for her to care. Her phone buzzed and she yanked it out of a pocket.

“Bee, what’s wrong? I can –”

She snapped it closed on her brother’s sentence, and then thumbed the ‘off’ button. She made it all the way to her car before Sandillo caught up to her. Had she been a few seconds quicker, he’d never have made it at all.

“Belinda.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

She blew out her breath but didn’t turn. “What, Lieutenant?”

He walked up and leaned on the car, next to her, close but not touching. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I need sleep. I haven’t slept since yesterday.” And you dragged me out here for this fucking murder and I don’t want to be here anymore! She managed to not say that part out loud.

“Fine. I’ll cover for you with Taylor. Just be sure you know what you’re doing.”

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

His dark brown eyes seemed unusually thoughtful. “Just be careful. I don’t want to have to explain to your grandmother how I got you killed on an assignment.”

She felt a chill and remembered the premonition she’d had, when she first met Jon. She laughed shakily. “You develop the Sight and didn’t tell me?”

He leaned closer and opened her car door. “Just be careful.”

She got in and he closed the door behind her, and watched as she drove away.

Try as she might, she couldn’t just shake off his concern as mere nerves. She turned the car toward home and prayed nothing else cropped up to interfere. As she pulled into the line of cars going down the road, she felt eyes on her. But when she looked back, she saw nothing.

Here’s hoping it really was nothing. She shivered and turned onto the main drag.

New World Order, Chapter Five: Superimposed (Belinda)

2010-02-01T06:00:00.002-06:00

The clock on the dash read nine o’clock in the morning, like it enjoyed reporting such a disgusting fact. Belinda rubbed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her. Jon opened the passenger door and she managed to get a more professional face on before he saw her.

“So. That’s Brock,” Belinda told him, craning around to see behind her as she backed the Prius out of the spot.

“He’s very accomplished as an artist,” Jon murmured, attention out the windshield.

Belinda got a flash of Brock standing with the teapot in his hands, his sweater somehow shrunk up to his nipples so the flat planes of his abs shown free. The vision started to get more salacious and she slammed on the breaks. “Enough!”

Jon’s brown eyes flashed at her. “Huh?”

He didn’t know! He had no idea what she’d just seen! Belinda swallowed. What was she supposed to say now? ‘I’m a psychic, and I know you want to have sex with my brother, but would you mind fantasizing about him when I’m not around?’

“Nothing,” she growled, annoyed. She pulled into traffic. Her mobile phone buzzed at her from inside her jacket and she jumped as though shot.

“What!” Jon cried.

“Relax, it’s my damned phone.” She fished it out of the pocket and thumbed the ‘answer’ button. “Gary.”

“It’s me.” Sandillo never announced himself by name, just assumed the person on the other end would know who it was. “There’s been a development. Where are you?”

“Leaving Brock’s. I was about to go home.” ‘To sleep,’ she didn’t add.

“You’re driving?”

“Yes.”

“Hand the phone to your partner. You know you should have the speaker on.”

“I just got in the car!” she protested. She handed the phone to Jon. “It’s Sandillo. He won’t talk to me while I’m driving.”

The look on Jon’s face showed her he agreed with the Lieutenant. Some days, everybody’s a critic. She turned left, heading toward the station. She didn’t need extra-sensory perception to tell her that if Sandillo called now, they’d be wanted at the station. He didn’t do ‘casual.’

Jon pulled a small, immaculate notepad encased in a red leather sleeve out of his inside jacket pocket and started writing with a gold Cross pen. She felt her eyebrows disappear into her hair. He asked cryptic questions and then hung up.

“Can you take us to North Shore Drive?”

“Yeah, why?” Belinda rubbed her cheek. “I was going to –”

“There’s been a homicide.”

She stopped at the next red light and stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“There’s been a homicide. Related to our case.”

“Are you joking? Who? We haven’t found all the owners, how do they know who was murdered?”

“Home insurance policy says, and the housekeeper knows what was taken.”

“Jesus. Who found the body?”

“Yeah.”

She shivered. Poor woman. “Where is it?”

“North Shore Drive near South Bedford. Sandillo said you’d know it. Dow Court?”

“Yeah. I’ve been through there. We’re about twenty minutes out. What else?”

“It’s messy. Killer clearly got interrupted, burglary gone bad.”

“Did they get away with the dagger?”

“Reports aren’t clear. The owner really didn’t want them to get it, put up a helluva fight. They haven’t found it missing for sure yet, but probably. If he’d had a gun or any training, instead of just a baseball bat, this might have ended a lot differently.”

She smirked. Easy to tell where he came down on the whole home defense issue; no bias there!

“What’s so amusing?”

Crap. He’d been watching her. “Nothing, exactly. I’m just amused because you’re so pro-gun, self-protection and stuff. Member of the NRA?”

“Yes.” His tone sounded defensive.

“Relax, I’m just teasing you.”

When she glanced at him, she got a flash of a body on the floor, disarranged and half-naked, blood everywhere. It filled her mind so much she almost missed the red light.

“Belinda!”

She slammed on the brakes and skidded halfway into the crosswalk.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Nothing! I’m sorry!”

“Another stunt like that and I’m driving!”

Belinda felt the scarab outline, safe under gauze, tingle on her shoulder as it tried to protect her from danger. If they weren’t so close to the address she would switch and let Jon drive after all. Her shields were crap, from lack of sleep and stress; she knew better than to let herself be distracted while driving! She blinked and the image flashed in her mind’s eye again.

“Who died?”

“I don’t have the name; Sandillo didn’t know yet.”

“No, I meant…” She trailed off.

He stared at her, eyes wide and shocked. She watched the knowledge swim into his eyes. “What are you talking about?” His voice sounded breathy, submissive; not at all like the ‘tough cop’ voice he usually used around her.

“I saw a half naked body, on the floor, covered in blood. It was awful.”

His jaw clenched and the color drained out of his face. “What are you?”

“What?” She swallowed, mentally pushing away his fear and growing dread. “It’s nothing!”

“I haven’t told anyone about how I found him. Not anyone!”

“Was it your partner?”

He looked away, but not before she saw his lips tighten to a grim line.

Great, Belinda, fucking great. Dig at his scars. “Jon, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“Let’s just get to the damned crime scene.” His voice scalded her, hot and furious but contained, like an oven.

She wracked her brains as the light turned green, trying to figure out what to say. Nothing came to mind. Neither of them spoke the rest of the ride and when they pulled up behind one of the squad cars, he just unhooked his belt and got out. He didn’t slam the door, for which she was grateful since with his bulk, he could have dented it. He strode away without a backward glance.

Make that the third partner she’d lost in as many months. Gods!

She got out and locked the car, then followed in Jon’s wake. She caught sight of a sobbing woman, her silver hair caught in a bun but wisps all undone like an areole. Her face glowed red and splotchy with makeup that had run like a grotesque skin disease.

Jon and Sandillo faced off with one of the guys from Homicide. Just as Belinda saw him, he turned and stalked off.

Her partner, at least for now, rounded on Sandillo. “No fucking way!” His arms waved around. “My partner's been working on this case for months, Lieutenant! You can’t let them pull it away from us now!”

“It’s not up to me, Taylor. The game’s different now. It’s a homicide. You know how this works.”

“Call my Captain! He’ll give it to us!”

Sandillo’s face darkened and he took a step forward.

Belinda walked up before he could speak. “Lieutenant.”

Sandillo’s gaze raked her and returned to her partner, but he said nothing.

“Please!” Jon pressed.

Sandillo whirled on his heel and strode away. Jon took one step to follow and Belinda grabbed his arm. “Don’t!”

“No!” He pulled on his arm.

She ‘borrowed’ some of Brock’s strength and tightened her grip, praying that her brother wasn’t in the middle of anything dire. “Let him go, I said.”

Jon’s rich brown eyes glared down at her, darker than they’d been a moment before but still chocolate. “What the hell?”

She shook his arm. “Just trust me. Leave him alone.”

He stepped forward, invading her personal space, and she let go of him. “One of these days, you and I are going to have a long conversation, Gary. Don’t ever grab me again.” He spun and walked after Sandillo.

Belinda watched him go, trembling. Her mobile buzzed and she jumped, heart thudding into her mouth. “Gary!” she snapped without looking.

“What the fuck, Bee?” Brock demanded. “I was washing dishes and broke my favorite – ”

“I can’t talk now,” she told him and snapped the phone closed.

~Don’t you hang up on me!~ she heard in her head.

She slammed her shields closed. “Dammit!”

As she walked up to Jon and Sandillo, they broke off their conversation and glared at her with identical expressions of irritation.

“What?” she asked, coming to a stop a few feet away.

“Homicide agreed to give you the case,” Sandillo growled. He glanced at Jon and then walked away from them, toward his car.

“Well?” she asked Jon.

He turned his back on her and walked off without answering.

Great. Just great.

New World Order, Chapter 4: Canvas of Skin (Brock)

2010-01-18T23:00:00.002-06:00

Brock used turning and topping off his cup of chai to hide his expression from his twin and her observant new partner. He could feel their gazes like a pair of laser beams drilling into his back. His mind racing, Brock decided how much he could tell them.

He also wondered how he could shield from his sister to prevent her from discovering more. She could easily pick up things from the connection between them. He could only do it when they were touching. He understood their powers were different and balanced, but it bugged him how much better Belinda’s skill was. Perhaps he could get her to shield instead of him?
Realizing the solution to his dilemma, Brock took a long sip before turning. He strolled back to the table and a finger moved the crude sketch of the dagger.

“Who did this? It’s awful.”

“Probably not an artist up to your standards,” Belinda commented, rolling her eyes. “What do you know about it?”

“That I can draw you one better,” he informed them.

“And where have you seen it?” Jon asked.

The other man’s voice rumbled, low and strong. Brock’s gaze met the hard stare of the cop. Nothing submissive showed in the flat brown depths and he wondered if he had been wrong.

Brock hated being wrong.

He ignored the disappointment welling deep in his belly. The other man’s earlier submissive manner could have just been an attempt to downplay his huge size. Brock knew other people’s reaction to it, seeing it first-hand many times.

Of course, the other possibility was that Jon only played in the bedroom; a normally dominant man that chose to give control when the whim, or the right master, appealed to him. That idea caused Brock’s cock to twitch in his pants.

Belinda’s snort broke the stare off between him and her new partner.

“TMI,” she told him.

“What? He hasn’t told us anything,” Jon protested.

Brock smirked; secretly glad his twin had only read his lustful musings and nothing more.

He gestured to the bench. “I’ll talk while I work.”

Belinda glared at him and he blandly returned the look. He had already wiped it down earlier, knowing he was going to tat, but not who. Belinda’s appearance actually surprised him. She refused to be under his needle while they disagreed on matters. His fingers itched to put his mark and magic on her skin. It let him protect her and she resented that he felt that she needed it.

Nope, not his lone wolf, tough cop baby sister. Belinda wanted to prove she could stand on her own without her family and coven supporting her.

She stood, her chair scraping on the hardwood floor. Belinda stalked to the bench, everything in her manner proclaiming that she agreed under duress and only because she needed his help.

Brock ignored her attitude. As her big brother by seven minutes, it was his duty and right to protect her. Besides, he really wanted to see his design on the canvas of her skin.

Jon spoke up. “Do we really have time for this?”

“Trust me, it will be easier in the long run,” Belinda assured her new partner.

“Yes, I do like getting my own way,” Brock purred.

Belinda peeled off her shirt knowing that Brock wanted her back. While her black lacy bra was revealed he reached back to braid his hair out of the way. This caused his sweater to ride up again. An intent brown gaze examined his treasure trail and the flat plane of his belly, ignoring the curves of his sister’s breasts.

Brock might be wrong about whether Jon possessed submissive qualities, but the evidence proved the other man definitely like his own sex. With him at least being partly right about Jon and his sister needing his help, Brock’s morning was improving.

“Gloating is such a shallow emotion,” Belinda informed him.

He sat on his stool and rolled it closer; bringing his tray holding his gun along. Brock smoothed his palm along his waiting canvas, and ignored Belinda watching him over her shoulder from her now prone position.

“Yes, it is,” Brock agreed, smirking. It changed to a deliberately concerned expression. “So, how are you adjusting to a new partner?”

He accompanied the question with a slight mental nudge and hid his pleased reaction when her mental shields slid into place. He could almost ‘hear’ the echo of a clang. This was exactly what he hoped for. With her shields solidly up to block Brock she hampered her own ability to read his thoughts.

Now he could discuss the daggers and not worry about his twin discovering more than he wanted to reveal at this time.

Brock glanced at Jon and nodded his head towards the sofa. The studio ran the length of the brownstone with his drafting table near the front window to take advantage of the natural light. The middle part of the room held the discussion table and kitchenette and at the other end his chair also sat in spilled sunlight from the windows overlooking his back garden. Positioned close by Brock had placed a comfy sofa for his client’s companions. Seldom did one get a tattoo alone.

He watched with open pleasure as the larger man moved with fluid grace. A sharp punch on his upper thigh, too close to the proximity of his groin for comfort, reminded him of his waiting sister.

“Spill,” she informed him.

Ignoring her prompt, he cleaned the area with liquid soap and warm water before shaving it. He used a little pink disposable razor and then swabbed with alcohol. Pushing up the sleeves of his sweater, he felt Jon’s gaze on the colorful ink adorning his wrists and forearms.

Drawing the outline of his design on her skin Brock began. “There are several daggers that form a set.”

“We know that, Jolly.”

He frowned at Belinda. She didn’t need to refer to him by her personal nickname, ‘The Jolly Green Giant,’ in front of company.

“There are six of them. Five are identical. They look like the drawing, which is crappy, by the way. I’ll draw you a better one.”

“And just how do you know how it looks?” Jon repeated.

Brock grinned at the other man. Already he loved the low, growly tone Jon used sometimes.

“Wilfrieda is a member of the Madison Historical Society. As the oldest object in her small collection she’s shown it off to other members. She’s only had it less than a year. You’ll need it.”

“We should be getting the insurance photos any time now,” Belinda interjected.

“And they will be blurred or fuzzy; you know how magical items don’t want to be recorded by ‘modern means.’ Something will be wrong with them,” Brock reminded her.

Belinda remanded silent while Jon gave a disbelieving grunt. It seemed the practical detective did not ‘believe.’ Brock ignored the other man’s reaction. He examined the designed drawn on the smooth skin of his sister’s shoulder. He free-handed it, preferring not to use transfer paper this time, like he usually did. The sketches he labored over right before their arrival, now abandoned on his work table, were still fresh in his mind.

“Mirror. You likey?”

Belinda glanced over her shoulder to look at the scarab crouched on her left shoulder using the mirror placed on the ceiling for that purpose. Now she grunted, but Brock knew she hid her pleasure.

“No ink,” she cautioned him.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not using up my canvas so soon. I’ve got years worth of art waiting.”

“You wish.”

“I know,” he retorted in true sibling fashion.

“It’s a bug,” Jon announced, interrupting their squabbling.

Brock blinked. The flowing lines of the scarab, the ancient Egyptian symbol for rebirth and protection, were so much more than a ‘bug.’ He did not appreciate the criticism of his choice or skill by the ignorant. A tense silence filled the spacious room after Jon spoke.

Jezebel’s plaintive meow broke it as the cat door flap swung shut behind her entrance. Her paws making soft patting sounds on the hardwood floor, she traversed the length of the long room to join them.

Her amber eyes begged as she circled and danced where she stopped nearby. Brock had trained her not to approach his actual work space and compromise the sterile setting. Her need to greet Belinda threatened those ingrained teachings.

Belinda crooned and Brock sighed and rolled away. His sister moved and ended up sitting on the floor, an ecstatic tortoise-shell feline in her lap. He grabbed the pot and topped off his mug and then moved to do the same for Jon. His mugs were oversized, painted and glazed by a fellow artist, but appeared tiny when cradled in the other man’s huge hands.

He wondered what they would feel like on his skin, warm and rough. He crowded close to the detective, letting his legs press against Jon’s while he purposely loomed over him. Brock wanted to straddle those thick thighs and sink down to sit on that large lap. To discover if the loose folds of the other man’s dress slacks hid a growing erection that would feel wonderful pressed against his ass.

“So, is Gilberto Balistreri also a member of the Historical Society?” his sister asked, interrupting his private fantasy.

Brock gave Jon a last smoldering look before backing away. The detective hurriedly sipped and gasped, the fresh chai hot and scalding. Brock added more to his sister’s mug before returning the pot to the warming plate.

After returning to his stool he answered her question. “Yes, Gilbert is always trying to impress Gran with his knowledge, as if making up for his lack of magic.” Brock frowned. “But, lately he’s been flirting with Wilfrieda. I thought he just gave up on the old bird and switched to a more obtainable objective.”

Belinda returned to her spot on the bench despite Jezebel’s plaintive sounds. Brock watched his pet notice an empty lap and make a bee line for it. The grunt Jon made as she leapt and landed on his groin make Brock wince.

“Sorry, I hope you like cats,” Brock commented.

“Have one of my own.” Jon’s fingers scratched under Jezebel’s chin and she began purring for him.

Ohhhh, did this man get better and better, Brock thought. He watched the detective’s large, calloused palm stroke the long, multicolored fur, almost envious of his pet. He felt his sister’s shields tighten against him and hid his smirk.

“Did you know that Mr. Balistreri also owned a dagger?”

That brought Brock’s attention back to the reason of their visit. “No, and I can’t believe that he never showed it off to Gran. So they both have been stolen and that drawing is of the esteemed Miss Greenlee’s dagger?”

“Perhaps your grandmother knew and chose not to share that information with you?” Jon said.

Both twins gave him a disbelieving look.

“I’m her favorite. She tells me everything. Even stuff I don’t want to hear about,” Brock clarified.

His sister grunted her agreement.

“Are they both okay?” He couldn’t believe he forgot to ask until now.

“Both slick jobs while the owners were away, only the pugs were scared,” Belinda replied.

“Well, the ‘boys’ do have delicate sensibilities.” Brock continued in a more serious vein. “Celtic legends claim that the daggers were a sword broken down, melted and re-smithed into the set. That’s why the last one to be found will be different, it is the original hilt.”

He picked up the gun and checked the depth of the needle’s penetration. Since no ink needed to be deposited below the epidermal level the taps would be shallower. Brock bent over, the familiar hum comforting him. He started the outline of the sacred beetle as he continued to talk. Pink dots bloomed where his needles tapped.

“Is the sword evil?” Jon asked.

Brock hid his grin. For someone that didn’t believe in magic the possibility of an inanimate object being evil revealed a lot.

“No, it just bestows power. Some claim that it is a soul sword, Gran might know more.”

Brock waited.

Belinda knew better than to sigh under his gun, but he could hear it in her voice. “Could you ask her next time you see her?”

“Oh, as a favor to you?”

Jon answered instead of his sister. “No, as a favor to the Madison Police Department. Unless you believe my questioning her would provide more results?”

Brock’s mind boggled at the idea of his grandmother being hauled in and put in one of those little rooms with the one-way mirrors. He knew his mental images were an exaggeration, based on the cop shows he and his twin watched growing up with Uncle Matt. He wondered if Gran’s one allowed phone call would be to him or the governor.

~Move the gun~ his sister advised, her voice a whisper in his mind.

His hand lifted as Belinda’s body convulsed with giggles. He couldn’t help joining her as Jon glowered at them. Somehow that made it funnier.

Wiping the tears streaming from his eyes, Brock realized how long it had been since he heard her laugh. Too long.

He wiped the skin one last time before framing the area with his fingers and pushing. Gently breathing on it, Brock said the incantation silently as the blood welled up.

“Done,” he told Belinda, leaning back.

She studied in the overhead mirror the outlined scarab formed of blood drops. They gleamed like tiny rubies on her back. She smiled at the result.

“And, yes, I will chat with Gran,” Brock volunteered.

When his sister’s smile extended to include him at his offer, Brock knew that this case would be the bridge rebuilt between them. He hoped the information he hid for now didn’t jeopardize that fragile foundation.

New World Order, Chapter 3: A Cup of Chai (Brock)

2010-01-04T11:49:00.009-06:00

Brock stepped from the shower, steam billowing around him. Amelia sat vigil from her perch on the toilet seat. Her ears flattened at the moisture and she mewed worriedly. He went to her and scratched under her raised chin. She hissed at the dampness clinging to his fingers.

“You can relax, the shower didn’t eat me,” he reassured her.

With a look at feline disdain at his teasing she jumped down and left the bathroom. Brock grinned at her final tail twitch. Though not his familiar, her emotions were still easy for him to decipher.

As he toweled his long body dry he noticed again his sense of anticipation. After running a comb through his long hair he left it loose to air dry. He knew work awaited him today, his fingers fairly itched; but he decided against braiding his hair back. Instead, he tossed the damp towel away and strode naked to his closet.

He pulled on his favorite low-waist jeans. The worn denim faithfully hugged his lean hips. His hand hesitated over the sweater. Brock loved the feel of the chenille and his fingers stroked it as he considered. The shade flattered him, the rich forest green making his hair more honey blonde. The fit, though, left much to be desired. Its width wider than needed, he felt it made him look too bulky. In Belinda’s opinion, fat; but he ignored that. He excelled at ignoring his twin.

Its length, also, was too short; the hem didn’t quite reach the top of his pants. It bared a circumference of skin and drafts whipped under it. Still, he kept it. Fondness for the color and for the knitter, one of his grandmother’s bosom buddies, assured its place in his closet.

For some reason it felt important to look his best. He did not possess the high degree of intuitiveness of his twin, but he learned to listen to the whispers he could hear.

From the depths of his closet he unearthed heeled cowboy boots. The inches added to his considerable height of six five. Again, he followed his inner urging.

He grabbed a banana and put fresh kibble in the cat dish, nimbly sidestepping the feline stampede. Humming, he clomped down the stairs to his studio. Earlier he checked his book, no appointments were written down. He did not do walk-ins. Checking the front window he frowned. Its bare, unadorned glass looked out onto the quiet street.

Sometimes hopeful customers left drawing of artwork taped to his window for him to consider. If he deemed it worthy of his time and talent he called.

Peeling the fruit, he slid onto the high stool in front of his drafting table. Brock began sketching the tattoo and waited for its future canvas to appear.

The slamming of the car door interrupted his concentration. The slam sounded forceful and he looked up. His lips curved into a grin upon seeing the sky blue Prius. Through the glass his twin’s glare speared him. He let his smile grow to a smirk.

She needed his help.

Brock did not use his meager intuitive abilities to reason this conclusion. Their fight over her plan to miss their Samhain celebration assured avoidance for least another week, perhaps even until their birthday in November.

Ergo, she needed something from him.

A puzzling thought marred his smugness. Why would he feel the urge to dress up for his sister?

The large male who uncoiled from the passenger side answered that. A large, handsome, yummy looking male. One muscled enough that Brock could collapse upon him and not worry about crushing after a vigorous bout of sex. And vigorous it would be, Brock concluded happily.

He let his smile turn more sensual as the stranger stared in at him through the window. Belinda stomping around the car to his door Brock easily ignored. He waited, hearing the beeps and muttered cursing. After a few moments his sister strode in.

“You couldn’t get up and let us in, your royal highness? The door was locked.”

“And you need the practice of figuring out my alarm code, sister dear, before all your talents wither away like your sex drive.”

The fact that her answer only consisted of a scowl alerted Brock that she really need his help. He decided not make her visit easy. He had noted immediately she wore her hazel contact. Brock hated that, and she knew it. She felt it put others at ease while the flat color that did not change with the subtlety of her natural one unnerved him. There was nothing wrong with not being ‘normal.’ A subject they constantly disagreed on.

Waiting for her to reveal the reason for her visit, Brock slid from his stool and stretched. The time spent bent over working stiffened his back. As his tall frame arched, he noted the other man’s reaction. Faint surprise lighted the brown eyes surveying him.

Brock guessed that his own height triggered it. The other man stood around six foot three and, with the boot heels adding to his own six five, Brock stood taller. He was sure that Belinda’s new friend did not find many taller than himself.

The following behavior especially intrigued him. Most males, upon finding another physically larger, puffed themselves up. This man actually slouched instead, making himself appear smaller. That combined with the lingering look at his bared navel while he stretched, made Brock smile again.

A submissive, gay giant.

How the Goddess blessed him today.

He spied the folders held against the enormous chest, under the rolled- forward shoulders. The paperwork the man held for his sister while she fiddled with the keypad.

Belinda seemed to remember her manners and waved a hand. “Jon Taylor, this is my brother, Brock. Brock, my new partner.”

Brock hid his relief. Though he wished this scrumptious piece of manhood was not a cop, his sister did need another partner. Jon did not look like the type to fold under his sister’s vile mood swings. Despite his manner now, when he had first climbed from the car the cop’s carriage radiated self confidence and purpose.

Brock strode forward, his boots causing his steps to echo on the hardwood floor. He stopped a little too close, making Jon look up at him. He saw the widening of the milk chocolate gaze when it met his. He knew his own mismatched eyes, one pale blue and other hazel, startled the cop, but that was the only reaction. When he shook the warm hand of the other man he let his grip linger.

Belinda sighed loudly behind him.

“I doubt you dropped by just visit,” Brock commented. Or to introduce me to my future lover, he added silently.

“I have a case that you might be interested in.”

Brock turned and grinned. That sounded so much better than asking for his help and gave his sister a mental point. He waved further into the long room. A small round table and a deep couch both waited. She chose the table and pulled out a chair.

“Then let’s get to work,” Brock told Jon.

Jon followed him, Brock’s smile widening at the precise two pace distance from his heels. He met Belinda’s knowing gaze with a smirk. At the table the other man straightened and handed the files to Belinda. Brock noted with disappointment that the other man was ‘all cop’ now.

Against the wall a small kitchenette counter held needed fuel for his late night designing. At some point during the morning he must have started a pot of Chai. Brock poured the fragrant liquid into mugs and brought them to the table, now covered with photos and paper.

Belinda wrapped her hands around it and sniffed. Jon did the same, but his seemed prompted by suspicion and not pleasure. Brock sipped his while still standing. Looming over them annoyed his sister and seemed to subtly turn on his future bedmate. He looked down and spied the rough drawing.

Crap, the case concerned the daggers.

Thrusday 13..hmmm 14

2009-12-31T20:31:00.001-06:00

New Year Resolutions

Improve Inner Strength
Get Healthier
Go to Gym
Commit to regular Prayer Circles
Write More
Concentrate on Original Themes for Writing
...while Finishing Old Projects

and from the 'other half'....
get fit
publish Conservator
Get my master knitter certification
organize my files
sort out my books
index the books and files
regular lunar observances

hope everyone has a wonderful and safe New Year

New World Order, Chapter Two: Sibling Rivalry (Belinda)

2009-12-11T06:06:00.005-06:00

Belinda sat back and rubbed her chin. Her caseload sat on the left side of her desk, labels facing toward her, so she could see them. She knew the one she should look at, but truth to tell, she didn’t want to deal with a new partner on it.

“So, whatcha got?” Jon asked, leaning back in the chair and watching her. His milk chocolate brown eyes seemed penetrating and very serious, a lot more intelligent than a moment before.

She wasn’t going to be able to fool this one easily.
“I have a few to look at,” she told him. She slid the main case file onto her desk blotter and handed over the stack of the rest of them. “I’ll be right back, I need to powder my nose.”

He nodded, examining the labels. She walked out to the hall and slipped into the ladies’ room, grateful no one else used it. She washed her hands and then ran the cold water. It felt good on her face, chasing away memories of Monica’s blue eyes. ‘Blue’ didn’t really describe them; it was the kind of shade a lake turned just before a rain, deep, dark and shadowed, but very, very blue.

She turned away from the mirror, scrubbing at the tears angrily. “Get a grip, Belinda,” she snarled at herself. “And pick a new word for ‘blue.’” She nearly ripped the door off the hinges but managed to school her features to a polite mask by the time she got back to her desk.

The Balistreri file wasn’t on her blotter.

“What’s the deal with this one?” Jon asked, the file in his hands. He had the crime scene photos spread in front of him.

“You just take without asking?”

He shrugged. “I can see why you don’t want to share, new partner and all. But this saves time.” He glanced at her and it seared her to her toes. “Trust is earned, not guaranteed. On both sides.”

She swallowed and sat down. “Fine. You’re right. I didn’t want to share.” She inhaled deeply, trying to clear her thoughts and focus. Her eyes fell on her keys. “Look. You want to get out of here?”

He cocked his head and then slipped the photographs back in the file. “Yeah.”

“I’ll drive.”

She grabbed the second file, the related theft, and her purse. He followed her, his strides long enough that she’d have to jog to keep up but he didn’t move as fast as he must normally go. He just paced next to her, content to let her set the speed.

Interesting. After the little stunt with the file, she didn’t expect him to let her ‘drive.’

He held the door for her and they walked outside into the Madison air, chilly with the onset of Autumn but not yet cold. She led the way around the side of the building to the parking lot where she left her Prius.

“So, what’s the deal with Balistreri?”

She shivered, nipples tightening in a sudden gust of chill air. “Don’t say his name out here, please.”

He glanced at her, startled. “You’re serious?”

“Very. Get in the car, it’s the blue Prius.”

He folded himself into her tiny automobile, surprisingly compact for a man of his bulk.

“These are roomier than I thought,” he grunted as she got in.

She shrugged. “My brother fits in it just fine.”

“Your brother your size?”

“No, yours.”

He seemed impressed by that. “Older? Younger?”

“Twins, actually.” Why were they discussing Brock? It just reminded her she was mad at him. “Can we get back to the case please?”

“Sure.”

Belinda pulled the case file out and put it in his lap, then pulled out of the lot and headed for the edge of town. She figured they could find a park and talk there, look at the trees instead of stare at blank walls. Maybe it would wake her up.

“Mister Gilberto Balistreri owns an antique shop downtown. Been there for years, very successful,” Belinda told him. “Shows up to work last week and finds something missing.”

“Something? Not several somethings?” He spoke without looking at her, thumbing through the papers.

“You’re quick,” she purred. “Just something. A dagger, to be specific. Only, it’s not just any dagger. But he’s been really cagey about what, exactly, it is. Which is where we come in.”

He thumbed through the file to her notes on the dagger. “‘Eight inches long, two wide at the base, sharpened on both sides, folded steel…’ What the hell is ‘folded steel?’”

“Very magical,” she answered. “It’s a technique of creating very strong metal in the forging process, and there are all sorts of legends about them. Sometimes called Damascus steel, it’s said to have magical properties.”

“Like what, witchcraft?”

She shrugged. “Some say.”

“What does Balistreri say?”

“Nothing. Refuses to meet with me.”

He turned to stare at her, his eyes wide. “Pardon me?”

“He’ll only talk to Sandillo,” she confirmed. “Says he won’t deal with ‘the help.’ Has enough clout to make it stick, too. Knows the mayor, a bunch of important people in town, the usual.”

He whistled. “Was the item insured?”

“It wasn’t in the shop for sale,” she told him, eyes twinkling. “It was in his own personal collection.”

“Not listed on the home insurance?”

She shook her head. “He had it in the shop, but he won’t say why.”

He digested that while they drove. She pulled into the parking lot overlooking Lake Mendota and cut the engine.

“This is gorgeous,” Jon said after a moment of staring, wide-eyed, out the windshield.

She smiled, touched. “I like coming here to think. It’s peaceful.”

“No kidding!” He blinked and seemed to pull himself back into the car, looking down at the papers in his lap. “So. Balistreri won’t talk to you. He has a rare dagger but doesn’t put it on his insurance… Do you think he’s had it for a while?”

“There are six in existence. One is missing and has been since eighteen forty-three. One of the others is owned by… it says in the file…”

“Mrs. Wilfrieda Kincaid?” he asked.

“That’s the one. One was in Mr. Balistreri’s possession.”

“Provenance?”

“Says he can produce it, but hasn’t yet.”

He whistled again. “Do you think it was stolen?”

She felt her eyes widen. “You mean, maybe he was fencing it? I honestly hadn’t thought of that…” Mr. Balistreri didn’t seem like the type to do that, but you never knew about people. “It’s a possibility.”

He thumbed through to the other file. “And what about Mrs. Kincaid?”

She sighed. “Poor old thing got a fright. Home invasion, but she wasn’t home. Convinced her little dogs were disturbed.”

Jon eyed her with a grin in his eyes, but he didn’t laugh outright. The warm chocolate seemed like syrup, rich and friendly. He sure had a good ‘good cop face.’ She wondered how genuine it was.

Since she had an expression similar to it, she figured it wasn’t very.

She cleared her throat and looked back at the lake, watching a duck flap heavily up from the surface and take off toward the far shore. “Their names are Mr. Churchill and Franklin D.”

His brows drew down. “Who?”

“The two pugs.”

His eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” She laughed. “Mrs. Kincaid’s a widow. Mr. Kincaid died a few years ago, but she kept the dogs for company and to bark at the neighbors. She spoils them rotten. She got home and found the dagger missing. Nothing else was disturbed, not the jewelry, the television or home entertainment equipment, computer, nothing. Just the dagger missing.”

“Insured?”

She nodded. “The file’s coming from the agent, but it won’t get here for another day or two.”

“So that leaves two more.”

“Nancy is looking them up for me. I’ll introduce you, she’s our research associate and all around fix-it lady.”

“Ah,” he nodded sagely. “Bring her chocolates, flowers and concert tickets.”

“She likes dark chocolate, yellow gladioluses, and Elton John.”

He chuckled. “Thanks for the tip.”

She hesitated. Jon hadn’t seen the part in the file about her ‘nameless’ informant. She knew her brother could help her, could tell her more about the daggers and their magic. But the problem lay with the fact it was police work, and Brock Gary wasn’t a cop. Wasn’t anything like a cop, and didn’t really like the police service to begin with.

Lord knew, he threw it in her face often enough.

“What aren’t you saying?” Jon asked, startling her.

“You’re good,” she grumbled.

He shrugged. “Just tell me.”

Or what? she almost asked, but didn’t. “Fine. I think I may know someone who can help us, but he’s not part of official channels.”

“Who?”

“My brother, Brock Gary. He’s a Wiccan priest and knows a lot about magical artifacts.”

Jon studied her. “And you think he knows something about Balistreri?”

“I think he knows something about the daggers. See, the legend is, there are six daggers, with all sorts of magical properties. A lot of it is fairy tales and hokum, but if two of the daggers really exist…”

“He have expertise in this area?”

She nodded. “He’s a tattoo artist. One of the best in the Midwest, actually,” she admitted grudgingly. “He’s interested in all sorts of the occult.”

“Can you trust him?”

“Of course!” she snapped, anger filling her so fast it startled her.

“Easy,” he soothed. “I’m just saying, you seem to want to hide this whole case from me, and then not tell me you wanted to see him.”

“That’s not why,” she told him. She looked out the driver’s side window. “I’m mad at him.”

“Why?”

“What does this have to do with the case?”

“If he knows you’re mad, he might not tell the truth. And if you’re mad, you may not be thinking clearly, and you’re giving confidential information to a civilian.”

“I know my job, Detective.”

“So why bring the case file? Why not just interview him?”

She sighed and looked back. “You always this pushy?”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Jerk.

“Fine,” she snapped, annoyed. “I need to have all the information or he may not be able to help. Psychic ability isn’t like science. If I leave something out that’s important, he won’t be able to get the whole picture. I’ve involved him before, Sandillo knows about it.”

“Then why isn’t he on the department’s list of experts?”

She stared at him, flabbergasted. “My brother?”

“Yeah.”

Because he’d kill me? she thought, but didn’t say. “He’ll only talk to me.”

He sniffed and leaned back in his seat, staring out over Lake Mendota. “So, an informant.”

“Yes, exactly!”

“Why didn’t you just say that then?”

She flushed. Good question.

His eyes caught hers again, utterly serious. “I looked up your file, Gary. I know about Monica.”

She got ten feet away from the car before the tears spilled down her cheeks. She walked, steps quick and tense, until she came up to a picnic bench. She just stopped in front of it, back rigid. The trees in front of her wavered and jumped in her vision.

A car door behind her slammed and then a second one. She must have left her door open. He made no sound as he walked up.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She said nothing. Truth to tell, she wasn’t sure her voice would work right that second.

“Look. When I got assigned, I had no idea what I walked into. Sandillo’s got a reputation for playing things close to his vest. So I researched you and the team. I don’t mean to dig up the past.”

“But you did.” Her voice came out hoarse and low, hardly sounding like her at all.

“I get why you don’t want to trust me, Belinda. But if you give me a chance, we can solve this case.”

She glanced at him. A crease between his brows formed as he watched her, though he didn’t quite frown. She could feel his earnestness radiate from him, but then the window in her mind opened and she saw more than she wanted to. He’d had a partner once too, but watched him die in the street.

She didn’t bring it up, no matter how much she wanted to throw it in his face. “Fine. Can we just get back to the case?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them spoke on the way to the car and got in silently. He picked up the files and thumbed through. “So you think these daggers are magical in some way?”

“Yeah. I have a sketch of one of them.”

He pulled a sketch out of the pile. “This it?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I found that from a book written in eighteen forty-three by a wealthy society lady here in Madison.”

“Wait. Isn’t that the year…”

“The other dagger went missing. Yup. That’s the one.”

“‘Constance Greenlee,’” he read. “Scary looking lady.”

Belinda nodded. Miss Greenlee, not Ms., died a spinster at the ripe old age of ninety-four – not notable by modern terms, but an eternity in the pre-Civil War years. She dressed all in black, from her bonnet to her skirts, and the lines on her face all pointed downward – not a smile line among them. She didn’t look unhappy, precisely, more that she believed life cheated her of something rightfully hers. No, Miss Greenlee didn’t seem unhappy, so much as angry. Angry and calculating, as she glared at the camera such that Belinda could feel it more than a century later.

She shivered and rubbed her arms. “So. I was going to go see Brock before I called it quits,” she announced.

Jon blinked. “What, now?”

“Now.”

He studied her. “Well. Why are we parked then?”

It took a moment, but she felt her grin appear. Jon smiled back and the look in his eye matched hers: calculating, challenging, and altogether energized.

Maybe coffee could wait. She started the Prius and pulled back onto the road, headed for Brock’s house.

Thursday 13: Lady Cat Names

2009-11-25T23:23:00.000-06:00

1. Jezebel

2. Queenie

3. Mouse

4. Nellie

5. Shadow

6. Smoochie

7. Maybelline

8. Marina

9. Ghost

10. Corina

11. Jasmine

12. Svetlana

13. Tuesday

Got one of your own? Tell us in your comment!

Thursday 13 - Rachel's Websites!

2009-11-19T06:24:00.001-06:00

13 Websites Rachel Loves:

Us!

Pomme de Sang

SAPayne

Ellora's Cave

FictionWise

Torquere Press

Wikipedia

Adult FanFiction.net

DeviantArt

MapQuest

Expedia

Amazon

Playgirl

New World Order, Chapter One: The Hunkman Cometh (Belinda)

2009-11-05T06:08:00.004-06:00

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Belinda Gary called. She handed her sidearm through the slot to the waiting Sergeant and turned to greet the tall Latino. “You’re up late.”

“You got a minute?” Lieutenant Sandillo spoke with no trace of a Spanish accent, though she knew he was fluent.

“Yeah, let me drop my stuff at my desk. Your office?”

He nodded and pivoted on his heel. She watched him go, bemused. Least he could do is pretend he knew how to talk to other people.
She walked over to her steel desk, the light blue color faded to an indeterminate grey. The window looked out on the parking lot, but at least she got natural light. She adjusted the Venetian blinds to let in a little more of the pre-morning light. She’d been up past dawn.

Again.

She stifled a yawn and looked longingly at her car keys. Instead, she headed to Sandillo’s office.

Guillermo Sandillo wore his habitual black suit, white dress shirt, and thin black tie. He never seemed aware of the seasons, preferring to wear his suit in any situation. Occasionally, and very occasionally at that, he would consent to remove the suit jacket, but she could count the times she’d seen it on one hand. Without using her thumb.

“Hey, Lieutenant.”

“Close the door, please.”

She did so and sat on one of the hard metal chairs in front of his desk. Nothing cluttered its surface besides a phone and black laptop, closed now, its cord snaking off to the right. As she watched, he retrieved a single case file from a drawer and set it in the precise center of the desk. She glanced at it, but his hand covered the label.

“You have a new partner.”

It took her a minute to process what he said, then she shot to her feet. “Oh no. You aren’t going to foist some rooky on me, Lieutenant! Not like the last time. I work just fine –”

“Belinda.”

It wasn’t loud, but she stopped mid-sentence and stared at him, chest heaving. “What?”

He tented one long-fingered hand on the top of the folder. “He’s not a rooky.”

She chewed her bottom lip and then sat down. “Fine. So tell me about him.”

“He’s on loan from Chicago. Homicide. One of their best undercover men.”

“If he’s so good, why’d he leave?”

“Mandatory two-year rotation.”

She felt her eyes widen. Only team that had a mandatory rotation like that worked serial crimes unit. The profilers and their ilk. “He’s a profiler?”

The lieutenant inhaled and lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “Not exactly. Close enough for us. But he’s got a good record and we can use him.”

Superstition pricked her and she tamped it down. Just because the lieutenant may have implied there’d be more murders for the Investigative Unit to deal with, didn’t make it so. No matter what her brother might have to say about it.

At the thought of her brother, anger swelled in her chest. They’d argued again over the upcoming Samhain holiday. He wanted her there to celebrate with him, but she wanted no part of it. She wanted to be normal, dammit.

A light knock interrupted her reverie and she realized she’d missed the Lieutenant’s last comment. His gaze intensified in annoyance, but he said nothing and stood to greet the newcomer.

Her new partner.

She turned and looked up. And up. She finally got out of her chair, intimidated by the huge leviathan that swam in. At least six-three, maybe six-five, he was a big son-of-a-buck. Probably bigger than her brother, a part of her mind noted smugly. A thatch of silvery brown hair flowed to his shoulders in loops and waves, but his chiseled jaw saved him from being effeminate.

As though anyone that big could be ‘effeminate.’

“Lieutenant Sandillo. I’m Jon Taylor, from Homicide.”

“Good to meet you,” Sandillo responded. He moved around his desk so he could shake hands, and then turned to Belinda. “This is Sergeant Belinda Gary, your new partner.”

His eyes fell on her, a shade of brown just this side of milk chocolate. His grip, when he shook her hand, felt firm but not too strong, though his hand engulfed hers like a catcher’s mitt.

She had the irreverent thought, ‘you know what they say about a man with big hands and big feet.’ She turned to retrieve her cup of coffee and to cover the slight blush covering her cheeks. She turned back, in control of herself. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Madison coffee better than Chicago coffee?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

She laughed outright. “Doubt it.”

He grinned, teeth very white. “Sounds perfect.”

“I’ll show you where it is.”

She could feel Sandillo’s eyes on her back as she left and resisted the urge to rub the back of her neck. God damned psychism just had to flare up now. She tried to close the window in her mind but knew the Lieutenant watched her, wondering about her former partner Monica Carlyle and whether Belinda could learn to deal with this one.

The fact her last partner died a gruesome death on their last case colored his thoughts, though he didn’t bring it out to examine.

Not the way she did, every night, in her dreams.

She nearly spilled coffee on herself at that thought, but managed to get the liquid in the cup with only a quick swipe of the towel required. They’d given her two different rookies after that, to “test out” the waters. Both were abysmal failures, one even drummed out of the service entirely.

She hauled her mind back to business. “How do you like your coffee?” Belinda asked the man-mountain hulking beside her.

“Strong and bitter.”

“Like you like your women?” she quipped.

He eyed her, but said nothing. She got a sudden flash of a naked man, Chippendale dancer style, and nearly choked on her coffee.

“You all right there?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go look over our case file, shall we?”

He nodded and followed her to her desk. She pointed at Monica’s old desk standing back to back with hers, so they could sit facing each other, and tamped down the memory of Monica’s blue eyes dancing as they discussed music and men. She cleared her throat.

“You can sit there, it’ll be your desk now.”

“Thanks.” He set the coffee down. Monica’s chair creaked under his weight but didn’t collapse under him.

Shame, really.