Spell of Shattering Page 3

  “If you need gloves or thermals or something,” Bo said, flicking his cigarette against a tree, “for God’s sake go up to the house and take it.”

  “Thanks,” Derek said. He would need to borrow heavy-duty boots because he’d recently had to choose between buying a pair of his own and buying roof shingles for his house.

  Budgeting was a new concept for him, but using credit cards would leave a paper trail, and though the Dark Caster’s spirits already knew where he was, Derek continued to lay low. If he lived off Bo’s weekly cash salary, he’d be difficult to find by actual human beings.

  “Alright then.” Bo waved lazily. “See you in the morning. Don’t work too late, ya’ hear?”

  The sound of Bo’s boots clomping through the underbrush slowly faded until Derek couldn’t sense anything except the occasional bird. He climbed the ladder with his tools, set them on the sloping surface, and then pulled himself onto the roof.

  Life in Alaska wasn’t fancy or fast-paced, not like his old world in North Carolina, but he enjoyed the hard work and the quiet moments, when he could steal some from his ghostly tormenter. If he could fix whatever was wrong between him and Jessa, or at least get her to stop leaving him messages, things would be better. Not great, definitely not perfect, but acceptable.

  He felt bad about things he couldn’t even remember, which wasn’t fair. Holden had messed with him in ways he hadn’t fully worked out yet. The strongest memory he had of Jessa was telling her to leave. And yet, every time he saw her name on his phone, unsettling emotions rose to confound him further.

  A branch snapped behind him. Derek froze for a moment, the hair on his arms standing at attention, and then set his hammer aside and scanned the treeline. It wasn’t unheard of in this area for a hungry bear to attack a lone man. But it wasn’t an animal.

  The bad feeling blossomed into a sick, foul wash of magic through his veins. Like the devil himself tapped him on the shoulder.

  Derek had experienced this once before. When he’d tried to open the Chaos Gate by possessing Rebecca Powell with a demon. And failed.

  The world tilted sideways, and he grabbed for the edge of the roof but missed and rolled over the lip. For a blissful moment he was weightless in the crisp, cool air, and then he hit the hard-packed earth.

  Lights flickered. The pain expanded. He forced himself to his hands and knees and crawled toward the cabin’s doorway. At the threshold, he vomited his lunch onto the ground.

  This was bad. This was really, really bad.

  The dark cabal had possessed an innocent person with a demon.

  The Dark Caster had raised the first pillar. They were opening the Chaos Gate.

  Chapter Three

  Jessa rolled over and blinked several times to be sure she wasn’t seeing things. Her alarm clock read eight-thirty a.m. She hadn’t slept past six since high school. Somehow, she’d slept for over ten hours without waking up once.

  But instead of hopping out of bed and hurrying through her usual routine as if it were any other Tuesday, Jessa rolled flat on her back and stared, blurry-eyed at the cream-colored ceiling. Her headache from the day before made a surprise comeback, which was most likely stress induced because Mayor Paul Westfield was a problem for her.

  How was it possible to be both elated at landing a client and distressed at not being able to immediately make that client happy? Not to mention all the anxiety over Derek’s whereabouts.

  Jessa inhaled deeply, reining in the anxiety. Everything was going to work out.

  She was going to find Derek before Friday.

  She was going to make Paul happy.

  She was going to be a full-fledged agent.

  “Hey!” A pounding burst apart the quiet morning. Her roommate, Esmeralda, knocked again. Louder. “Are you up yet? Jessa!”

  “I’m up,” she called back. Stumbling around in panties and a tank top, she stubbed her toe on the fin of a surfboard.

  “Don’t worry,” she grumbled to the board. “I’ll hang you on some hooks as soon as I have a spare minute.” The board’s equally high performance twin leaned against the corner.

  Jessa cracked open the door. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t find the stupid remote,” Esmeralda exclaimed, trembling from head to toe.

  These morning freak outs were becoming more frequent, much to Jessa’s frustration. Last week, it’d been about the dish-washing schedule. Jessa had always known Esmeralda struggled with obsessive-compulsive disorder and went off her rocker if things weren’t just so, but since they’d moved in together the girl was getting worse. If Jessa didn’t love Esmeralda like a sister and practically owe her career to the woman—Esmeralda’s intense studying techniques and constant encouragement helped Jessa pass her real estate exam—she’d seriously think about finding her own place. No roommates.

  “Did you look between the cushions?” Jessa grabbed a terrycloth robe from a pile behind her door and followed her friend into the living room.

  “Of course I did.” Esmeralda twisted her long, glossy black hair into a tight braid over her shoulder as she walked. “See, I recorded a documentary on TiVo last night, and I need to watch it before class but I can’t find the remote.”

  Jessa double-checked the sofa cushions. Nothing there but seven cents and cracker crumbs. Then she dropped onto all fours to check under the couch.

  “Were you sleeping?” Esmeralda asked, joining her on the floor. “I’m sorry, I assumed you were awake. You’re always up before me.”

  She didn’t admit she’d slept late, but chalked it up to the headache gnawing at the back of her skull.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” Jessa assured. It never calmed things down with Esmeralda to make her feel bad about her condition. “What class is the documentary for?”

  “Medieval history,” she answered, crawling around Jessa to check under the side table. “I have to watch a documentary on Richard III. I was supposed to finish it in the library a week ago, but I put it off. Like always,” she added derisively.

  “It’s okay. We’ll find the remote.” Jessa walked into the kitchen, scanning all visible surfaces as she headed for the fridge. “Remember that time you went for a sparkling water and left the remote in the refrigerator?” She opened the door and, sure enough, the extra large remote control rested amidst a mash up of her groceries and Esmeralda’s obsessively labeled organic food.

  “Here it is.”

  “Bless you,” Esmeralda exclaimed, taking Jessa’s face in both hands and noisily kissing her forehead. She snatched the remote and, as she crossed the living room, operated the television and the TiVo simultaneously.

  The screen flickered with an emergency weather update. Hurricane Hadley was toddling its way up the Florida coast with no sign of slowing down, and then Esmeralda pressed a button and her documentary began.

  Something on the arm of the couch caught Jessa’s eye. “Were the neighbors shouting again?” she guessed, gesturing to the serrated kitchen knife lying within easy reach.

  She nodded. “I’m surprised it didn’t wake you up.”

  It wasn’t the first time Esmeralda had armed herself when the volatile couple downstairs screamed at each other, but it never got any easier to deal with.

  “Would you really use it?” Jessa asked, staring at the reflective blade. “I don’t know if I could hurt somebody like that.”

  Esmeralda flounced onto the couch, still pushing buttons on the remote. “If it was me or him, you bet I would, and you would too.” She waved the remote like a sword in Jessa’s direction. “Some weird stuff goes on in this world, and I’m going to protect myself.”

  “Maybe it’s the weather,” Jessa surmised, glancing through the living room window at storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

  Esmeralda snorted. “I don’t think a hurricane is like a full moon.” She eyed Jessa’s bathrobe. “Did Ryan give you the day off?”

  That would be a first. “No such luck.”

  Esmeralda set t
he remote down and picked up the knife, using the tip to clean under her fingernails.

  “I feel better knowing you’re on guard,” Jessa teased, turning her back. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Esmeralda grunted a reply without looking away from the television.

  Jessa closed herself into the bathroom, and as the water heated up, she wondered again how her life could seem so fantastic and so disastrous at the same time.

  “Not if I talk to Derek,” she murmured to herself, stepping under the warm spray. If she could speak to him, she was confident he’d agree to return to Auburn and sell his house to the mayor. If he really were intent of living in Alaska, he’d be happy to unload the property so effortlessly.

  She simply had to find him.

  In Alaska.

  She pictured charming, prissy, and fashion-conscious Derek Walker clomping through snow like some bearded, flannel-wearing wild man and grinned at the absurdity. She couldn’t reconcile the perfectly put together decorator with the fantasy in her mind.

  But then, after his accident, Derek had changed.

  Rinsing the previous day’s worries away with hot water and a soapy loofah, Jessa was determined that by the end of the day she would have Derek on the phone and in complete agreement with her plan.

  An hour and a half later, Jessa swept into the Ryan Rohmer’s real estate office wearing black slacks and a white blouse with the sleeves rolled, a little disoriented that she wasn’t the first to arrive. Oversleeping had thrown her entire equilibrium off. The headache from earlier wouldn’t quit, further complicating things.

  She paused at her desk and forced herself to take several deep breaths and roll her shoulders.

  It didn’t help, so she shook out four ibuprofen pills and downed them. That should bring her around to halfway normal.

  No phone or email messages from the mayor or Derek.

  But it had only been twelve hours. She returned two calls from loan officers regarding one of Ryan’s clients, and then got to work finding Derek Walker.

  Which turned out to be harder than she anticipated. Maybe he really didn’t want to be found. She searched his property first and discovered his name listed as the sole owner. Maybe they’d get lucky, he would go into default on his loan, and Paul could pluck it out of foreclosure.

  The idea gave her hope. Not that she wished Derek to lose his home through lack of payment, but if he didn’t care about losing it, it would solve a lot of problems.

  Jessa called Rebecca Powell’s cell phone, and her old boss immediately picked up.

  “Hi, Rebecca,” she greeted, picturing the stunning blonde as she’d always looked when they worked together—chic and pressed. “It’s Jessa. How are you?”

  “Jessa?” Rebecca’s voice was unusually strained. “Oh, I didn’t recognize your number. I, uh.”

  She blurted out her question before Becca dropped the call. “You sold Derek his property in Richlands, right?”

  “What?” A pause. “Derek Walker? Why are you asking me about Derek Walker?” Another pause. “Did something happen?”

  “No,” Jessa rushed to reassure her. “I have a client who’s interested in purchasing his house in Richlands. Do you remember the sale?”

  “Yes, of course, but Jessa a lot is going on over here. I can’t really talk right now.” Anxiety, and perhaps a bit of aggravation, entered Rebecca’s voice. Which was strange. No matter how tired or frustrated Rebecca grew, she never let it show. Or, at least, she never used to.

  “Do you know if he financed it or paid in full?” Jessa asked.

  “He financed part of it, but he bragged about paying it off last year. I have to go. I hope that helps.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

  Jessa set her phone down and stared blankly at her desktop.

  Since losing Carly as a client, one obstacle stood in the way of beginning her career. Find Derek. If only she knew where he was.

  The outer office doors opened and Ryan appeared, followed by his favorite and top-selling agent, Karen. “Good morning, Jessa,” he greeted. “Make a coffee run, will you? And throw in some donuts. I’m feeling lucky today.”

  Jessa checked the time. Already behind schedule, she didn’t want to waste a half hour running errands for Ryan, but she didn’t have a choice.

  “Oh. Okay.” She grabbed her things, reduced to making phone calls in the car.

  “Thanks, doll.” He shut himself into his office.

  While waiting in line for coffee and donuts, she ran a simple online search for Derek Walker in Alaska. Nothing came up. She tried a couple other keyword combinations but got no results.

  “What’ll you have?” barked the middle-aged woman at the counter.

  Jessa’s cell phone buzzed. “A mixed dozen and a large coffee.” She passed the woman a debit card while answering the call.

  “Please hold for the mayor,” Anastasia instructed.

  “Jessa?” Paul greeted after a short pause. “I’m calling for an update.”

  “I’m searching for him as we speak, sir. I’ll call you the minute I have news.”

  “Until then.”

  Jessa hung up and collected her debit card, donuts, and coffee.

  Three days. Three short days to get him to North Carolina. Maybe if she declared him missing…

  * * *

  Still jumpy from the blast of sickening magic she’d suffered the night before, Jolie McAvoy sacrificed time with her sister Jessa—was it appropriate to say former sister since Jolie was dead—to hang around Holden Clark’s restaurant instead. There, things were hopping.

  A group of casters gathered—Holden, his fiancée Rebecca Powell, who continually ignored Jolie’s existence, the witch Daniela Ferraro, and her boyfriend David Wilkes. Plus some other people Jolie didn’t know very well. The spirits of a little pig-tailed girl, a teenaged boy, and a grown man popped in and out of the room.

  At some point in the last twenty-four hours, the entire supernatural population had experienced the same disorienting and overwhelming sensation that heavy-duty black magic had been cast in the world. Almost immediately, Willow, the leader of the Raleigh coven, had demanded a meeting of the full membership. Jolie had overheard her terse phone call to Holden.

  Jolie folded her arms over the neoprene wetsuit she was stuck wearing for all eternity and listened in.

  “This can’t happen,” Cole Burkov exclaimed. “Where are the agents of heaven? Why aren’t they stopping it?”

  Though the voices began to blend, Jolie discerned one thing very clearly. The entire group was scared.

  And so was she. Because part of possessing a human being with a demon required a spirit’s power. Except the spell was so evil, such an abomination, the magic fueling it literally destroyed whatever spirit helped cast it. Destroyed, as in gone forever. Not to the other side. Not to heaven or hell or any other realm spirits might travel to.

  Just gone.

  That wasn’t going to happen to her. No, thank you. She wasn’t exactly happy lingering on earth and watching Jessa’s life unfold, but it was good enough. She did not want to end up spiritual road kill.

  “They stopped it last time, didn’t they?” Rebecca asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, she lifted a rag and a bottle of anti-bacterial spray from the kitchen and vigorously scrubbed the lunch counter, moving slowly from one end to the other.

  “Yes,” one of the witches said. Jolie didn’t know which one. Since witches couldn’t see ghosts, Jolie hadn’t learned many of their names. “Otherwise we would all be hiding from demons right now.”

  “I need to confess something.” Willow stood twisting her hands into knots. “Most of you know Beatrice.” There was a grumble or two. “She was part of our coven. Well, not anymore.” Willow bowed her head, and her auburn hair obscured her face. “She’s working for the Dark Caster now.”

  “What?” Daniela exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”

  “She sort of dropped off the map a couple weeks ago. Her ap
artment is empty. She won’t return my calls.” Willow’s voice faltered. “Then she sent me a message right after the first pillar went up.”

  “What did she say?” Cole asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Willow sat back down. “She’s a part of the dark cabal now, and she’s helping the Dark Caster open the gate.”

  Rebecca finished cleaning the counter and moved with purpose to the malt machine, dismantling it into pieces and rinsing each component in the sink. Jolie made eye contact with Holden, unsure how out of control Rebecca was getting. He wasn’t staring, but it was obvious he was keeping his fiancée in his peripheral vision as Rebecca scrubbed and scrubbed until dirt and grime surrendered.

  “Are you absolutely sure they finished the first pillar?” Rebecca asked, soap bubbles up to her elbows. “What if they’re only trying to raise it?”

  “It’s no attempt,” Cole said. “They raised it. We have a limited amount of time before they finish the other two.”

  Dead only seven months, Jolie had been a living, breathing mortal when the Dark Caster attempted the first pillar. She’d been blithely unaware of any magical muckety-muck.

  “Can someone explain what happened last time?” Jolie blurted out.

  The necromancers turned at the sound of her voice, but the witches continued, oblivious.

  “Hold on,” Cole said to a particularly chatty witch. Then, to Jolie, he said, “The Dark Caster used to be a necromancer, the same as me, but he wasn’t satisfied creating beneficial magic. He flirted with darker and darker spells. Finally, insane with power, he summoned a demon into a human being and raised the first pillar of the Chaos Gate. Luckily,” he sighed, “agents of heaven appeared and cleaned up the mess.”

  “Angels?” Jolie clarified.

  Cole shrugged. “Whatever you want to call them. They banished the demons, closed the gate, and stripped the Dark Caster of the ability to channel spirit power. At the time, we all thought the danger was over. He would never bother another person again. But he didn’t roll over. He collected necromancers and witches, re-christened his coven the dark cabal, and started over.”