Darkangel (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill) (4 page)

I wrenched an arm free. “You want me to pay you back? I’ve got money inside, in my purse.”

“That’s not what I want,” he growled, and began to haul me toward him by the one arm he still held.

Not thinking of anything except the need to get away from him, I cried, “Blessed Brigit, give me the strength to be free!”

White-hot light shot from my arm, striking Perry in the chest. He slumped backward against the driver-side door, eyes wide open, mouth slack. Half sobbing, half gasping, I hurled myself out of the truck and ran back inside, ignoring the curious stares of the small clumps of people who were standing out in the parking lot and smoking. The music had started up again, and the beat pounded against my eardrums as I pushed through the crowd and came back to the table, where Sydney and Anthony were busily sucking face.

“I have to go,” I gasped, and yanked my purse off the back of the chair where it had been hanging by its strap.

Sydney pushed herself away from Anthony and fixed a bleary gaze on me. “You what?” Her eyes tracked past me and seemed to notice I was alone. “Where’s Perry?”

“He’s, um, out in his truck.” Well, that was true enough.

That seemed to satisfy her. “Oh, okay.” Then she focused on me again. “You sure you’re all right to drive?”

I was pretty sure I wasn’t, but I also knew I couldn’t stay here. What if Perry was dead? No, I couldn’t believe that. I’d struck out in self-defense, but not with the sort of focused intent that actually killing someone would require. He was just unconscious. He’d wake up in a few hours and feel like crap. That’s all.

Or so I tried to convince myself, in my less than lucid state.

“Oh, sure, I can drive,” I told her. “Anyway, I know that road so well I could drive it asleep and blindfolded. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she replied, sounding dubious, but since she was in even worse shape than I, obviously she wouldn’t offer up any more protests.

“Call you tomorrow,” I said. “’Bye, Anthony.”

“Mmm…’bye,” he replied absently, and returned to burying his face in Sydney’s neck as she giggled and reached for her wine.

That was my cue to leave. I went back outside and hurried over to the Jeep. Part of me wanted to stop at Perry’s truck and make sure he was okay, but I’d already attracted enough attention. I just wanted to go home and forget this evening ever happened.

Since he was parked in the space closest to the driveway, I did get close enough to see that the windows of his F-250 were starting to fog up. That had to be a good sign. At least it meant he was breathing.

Thus reassured, I turned left on Mingus Avenue and headed back up to the highway. The speed limits around here were low enough that I didn’t feel too challenged, even though I had to keep blinking to prevent the streetlights from blurring around me, obscuring the road ahead. That wasn’t the alcohol, though.

Those were tears.

Biting my lip, I maneuvered the Jeep around the last traffic circle before 89A headed up into the hills. Off to my right I could see the glaring white lights of the Clarkdale cement plant, but then they were obscured by the black bulk of the mountain as the road began to twist its way up toward Jerome.

I slowed down; there wasn’t anyone behind me to care that I was going at least five miles an hour below the speed limit. These roads didn’t get patrolled that often, except during the holidays or when Jerome hosted a big event such as the Halloween dance. I figured I could make it home safely as long as I maintained my death grip on the steering wheel and kept every ounce of focus on the road.

The curve for the final approach up into town appeared a few yards ahead. Standing in the middle of the road was a dark figure — a man in an overcoat, as far as I could tell. Adrenaline surged through me, and I jammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop as the acrid scent of burning rubber hit my nostrils. I blinked, and he was gone.

Oh, Jesus. Had I hit him? Hands shaking, I put the Jeep in park and got out, tottering over the uneven asphalt to the spot where I had seen the man standing, sure I would find a crumpled body in the roadway, blood…something.

But there was no one. A cold wind blew from the northeast, pulling at my hair, biting through the utterly inadequate pashmina shawl that had been a Yule gift from my Great-Aunt Ruby. I stumbled over to the side of the road, wondering if maybe the man had jumped out of the way and was lying in the brush there, but again nothing. The road was utterly deserted, lifeless and without movement, except for the tire smoke swirling in front of the Jeep’s headlights.

I knew I couldn’t keep standing there. Even though by then it was almost two in the morning, someone might still come up the road to Jerome, whether that was their destination, or whether they’d be heading up and over Mingus Mountain on their way to Prescott.

So I got back in the truck and drove off, still shivering, wondering who I had actually seen…or what.

“
Y
ou were
out very late last night,” Aunt Rachel said the next morning over breakfast.

I pushed my eggs around on my plate. “The band didn’t start until almost ten.”

She lifted an eyebrow but said nothing, and instead sipped at her green tea.

Strange that I didn’t feel more hung over, considering how many glasses of wine I’d consumed the night before, but maybe that jolt of adrenaline as I was driving home had shocked the alcohol right out of my system. Nothing strange had happened after that, though; I’d maneuvered the Jeep up the final curves of the road before coming into Jerome proper, then turning down the side street that allowed access to the carport behind our building. All had been quiet and dark as I crept inside, as I had expected it to be. My aunt often stayed up until midnight, since the store didn’t open until ten, but two o’clock was kind of extreme even for her.

My brain also kept picking at the little problem of Anthony’s friend Perry, slumped over in his truck. I thought he was
probably
all right, but I didn’t know for sure. And even though I kept checking my phone, I hadn’t heard anything yet from Sydney. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered me too much, since she tended to be a late sleeper even when she wasn’t up until all hours the night before. Now, though, I kept wondering why she hadn’t called…and being halfway glad. If something catastrophic had happened, surely she would have texted or called or emailed. Something.

“You’re very quiet,” my aunt said.

“Just tired, I guess. I’m not used to staying up that late.”

Her hazel eyes regarded me carefully. I hated it when she looked at me like that, as if she were trying to unearth whatever secrets I might have buried in my soul. But she was a witch, not a clairvoyant, and so she couldn’t really do that. I hoped.

She seemed as if she were about to reply, but just then we heard the buzzing of the door chime, the one at the back entrance, not the main shop. Her gaze flickered up to the clock above the doorway. Nine-thirty. A little early for visitors, but maybe Tobias was stopping by for something. No, that wasn’t right. Aunt Rachel had given him a key more than a year ago. He always gave a quick knock to let us know he was there, and then opened the door with the key.

Not that we witches generally needed keys, but it felt more polite to do it that way than just come barging in.

“I’ll get the door,” she said. “You go ahead and finish your breakfast.”

After setting her napkin down on the kitchen table, she got up from her chair and headed down the short flight of stairs that led to our apartment’s private entrance. I heard her open the door and greet someone, followed by the rumble of an unknown man’s voice. Then she said, “This way,” and mounted the steps, someone larger and heavier obviously behind her.

She came into the kitchen, a man in the dark blue uniform of the Cottonwood police department a few steps behind her. I swallowed. This couldn’t be good.

I’d never had a run-in with the Cottonwood police before, not even a parking ticket. I knew Deputies Sandoval and Murphy with the Yavapai County sheriff’s office, since Jerome was in their patrol area, but the grim-faced man staring down at me was someone I’d never seen before.

Pushing away my plate, I got to my feet. “Officer?”

He took a small pad of paper out of his pocket, along with a ballpoint pen. “You are Angela Diane McAllister, currently residing at 129B Main Street, Jerome, Arizona?”

“Yes,” I replied past the lump in my throat. Part of me wanted to point out that it was sort of obvious that was my residence, since we were all currently standing in it, but I resisted the impulse. There were still a lot of things I didn’t know about how the world worked, but even I knew that smart-mouthing a police officer was generally not a good idea.

“And were you at Main Stage in Cottonwood last night between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1:30 a.m.?”

I nodded miserably.

My aunt spoke up then. “What is this about, Officer?”

His gaze barely flickered away from me as he replied, “Ma’am, we have a report that this young lady assaulted a young man in his vehicle. Bruised him up pretty bad, although the hospital says none of his ribs were cracked.” The policeman’s dark eyes narrowed. “You want to tell me about that?”

“Yes, Angela, tell us about that,” Aunt Rachel said, her voice sharper than I had ever heard it.

I took in a breath, expelled it, then said, “Look, I know it was stupid to go with Perry to his truck, but he got totally out of control. I had to defend myself.”

“And do you have any evidence that your assault on Perry Haynes was in fact self-defense?”

Actually, I did, although I’d tried to cover it up by wearing a long-sleeved shirt, an embroidered tunic from India that I’d picked up in Sedona a few years ago. I pushed up the bell-shaped sleeve hiding my left arm, revealing an angry ring of bruises, purple and dark red, on my bicep.

I heard my aunt gasp, even as the officer said calmly, “Both arms?”

In grim silence I let the one sleeve drop and pushed up the other so he could see that the marks were in fact on both arms, although the bruises on my right arm were placed a little lower.

Without saying anything, he put the pad of paper back in his pocket. After a slight pause, he asked, “Do you want to press charges?”

I blinked. “Do I — ?” Then I shook my head. “No. It was just a stupid misunderstanding. He got rough because he’d had one too many beers, and I guess I pushed back on him harder than I thought I did. No harm, no foul, right?”

For a few seconds he was silent. “You are within your rights to press charges, Miss McAllister.”

“No, really, that’s all right. I’d rather just forget it happened.”

“That’s your prerogative. In the future, you might want to consider how much you have to drink…and who you’re drinking with.” He inclined his head toward my aunt. “Ma’am. Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll let myself out.”

His heavy tread moved down the stairs. Less than a minute later, I heard the sound of the door closing, not slammed, but with a solid
thunk
.

Aunt Rachel stared at me, arms crossed over her chest. Normally I would have described her looks as softly rounded, still very pretty, with her lively hazel eyes and full mouth that always seemed on the verge of smiling. No hint of a smile there now; her lips were pressed together in a thin line.

I didn’t want to meet her angry gaze, but I wasn’t a child she could punish.

I was the next
prima
.

“It was just a misunderstanding,” I said at last, my voice quiet. “Perry had too much to drink, and I guess he got the wrong impression from me. He — ”

“And just how did he get that impression? Because you spent the night drinking with him, went with him to his truck? What did you think was going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, a sulky note slipping into my tone despite my best efforts to keep it away. “I guess I didn’t think it would go that far. I thought — ”

“I think it’s pretty clear that you didn’t think at all. Angela, you cannot put yourself in such situations. Think of what could have happened — ”

“What, that I might’ve lost that precious virginity you all’ve been hiding and hoarding like it’s gold bars at Fort Knox?”

She went still then, hand reaching down to grasp a fold of the lively broomstick skirt she wore, as if by doing so she could prevent herself from letting go an outburst she might regret later. After a visible pause, she said calmly, “We only want what’s best for you. We want you to be safe.”

“Maybe so, but you have to stop treating me like a child! I’m not a child — I can vote and drink and do everything an adult is supposed to do…except make my own decisions about my future.” My voice was rising, and I knew I should try to control it, but I was tired and my head ached, and I just wanted to say what I felt for once. “I couldn’t even go to the college I wanted to, because oh, no, that’s in Wilcox territory. Everything I do is managed and bounded in this little box here in Jerome. I can’t go shopping by myself…to the movies by myself. Goddess, I’m surprised you even let me go to the bathroom by myself!”

With that parting shot I turned and stomped up the stairs, then marched into my room and slammed the door. An empty act, really, since we had to open the shop in less than ten minutes, and as angry as I might have been, I wasn’t going to make my aunt try to manage the store on her own. Not on a busy Saturday on the sort of mild October weekend that brought up all the day-trippers from Phoenix and beyond.

And isn’t that you
, I thought then with some spite.
You can’t even make a grand gesture without worrying about how it’s going to affect someone else.

It was going to be a very long day.

W
e maintained
a frosty silence for most of the morning. Then I saw a flash of bright blue as someone snagged the prime parking space in front of the store, and realized it was Sydney in the Ford Focus her parents had bought her as her high school graduation present.

Uh-oh
, I thought, and risked a quick glance at Aunt Rachel just as Sydney came inside, string of temple bells jingling from the front door as it closed behind her.

Once again I saw that thinning of my aunt’s mouth, but she said pleasantly enough, “Hi, Sydney. What brings you up here today?”

Sydney shot an anxious glance in my direction. “Um, I was wondering if I could borrow Angela for lunch? I know she usually only gets a half-hour, but — ”

“It’s fine,” my aunt replied, although her voice sounded strained. “I’m sure you two have a good deal to talk about.”

Sydney’s expression clouded, but I didn’t give the exchange a chance to go any further, instead slipping out from behind the jewelry counter and saying, “Sounds great. I’m starving — let’s go up to Haunted Hamburger, okay?”

I took my friend by the arm and steered her back out of the store. Once we were a few paces away, she said, “Oh, my God, Angela, I am so sorry — ”

“Not here,” I broke in. Not that the patio of the Haunted Hamburger would be much better, but I had to hope that anyone overhearing us there would probably be tourists who had no idea of what was really going on.

At least she got the hint. “Okay.”

We walked down the street for a block and then cut up to the next street by using the stairs located at the park. Jerome was like that, built in terraces on the side of Cleopatra Hill, and although you could go the long way around if you didn’t want to take the stairs, why bother?

The place was crowded, but we were able to get a table out on the patio. Normally the view out over the Verde Valley was enough to distract me for at least a minute or two, but I had more important things on my mind right then.

“Oh, God, Angela, I had
no
idea that Perry guy was going to be such a douche! He came pounding on Anthony’s door at, like, eight in the morning, saying he was going to have you arrested for assault or something, and — ”

“You spent the night at Anthony’s house?” I interrupted.

Red flared along her cheekbones, underneath the pink blush she was wearing. “Well, I really wasn’t in any shape to drive, and he said I could crash, so I went home with him, and, well, you know how it is.”

No, I don’t
, I thought wearily. All I said, though, was, “So Perry showed up this morning — ”

“Yes, banging on the door, saying how he’d spent all night in his truck and almost froze to death or something, which is just stupid because it wasn’t even close to freezing last night, and that you’d assaulted him, and please, the guy has to have sixty or seventy pounds on you, so how could you have done that?”

Since she’d paused to take a breath, I said, “Well, I sort of did, but only because he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Her blue eyes widened. I didn’t talk much about spells and powers and all that around Sydney, mostly because those exact details were something we witches preferred to keep private, and partly because I didn’t want to scare her off by revealing too much. She thought the whole “McAllister witch” thing was pretty cool, but probably because she didn’t have the whole story. Maybe an eighth of the story, if that.

“So you, what” — her voice lowered — “put the whammy on him or something?”

That word made me laugh, despite the situation. “No, I just…called on someone to give me the strength to fight him off. And according to the police, he’s bruised, but that’s about it, so he doesn’t have all that much to complain about, considering…”

I hesitated, then looked around at the crowded tables to either side. One family was arguing whether to continue up the mountain to the hiking trails and picnic area or to go over to the Tuzigoot Indian ruins, and at another table a mother kept telling her daughter that no, she wasn’t getting soda, so it was milk or nothing. Obviously they weren’t paying any attention to the two girls at the far table having a
sotto voce
conversation, probably about boys or something equally uninteresting. So I pushed up one sleeve and showed her the band of bruises around my arm, then just as quickly tugged my sleeve back down.

“Holy shit, Angela, he did that to you?”

“I told you he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

The conversation was interrupted then by Eileen, the waitress on duty that day, coming out to take our orders. Since I’d been to the Haunted Hamburger hundreds of times, I already knew what I wanted and ordered a barbecue burger and fries, along with an iced tea. Sydney shot me an envious look but still only ordered a charbroiled chicken salad.

After Eileen had left, Sydney remarked, “It is so not fair. You must have the metabolism of a hummingbird or something.”

“Or something,” I replied with a shrug. My mother had always looked thin in the few pictures I had seen of her, so maybe that was where I got it from. At least I had something of a chest, despite being thin, although nothing as eye-catching as Sydney’s curvaceous frame.

“Anyway,” she plowed on, “you said ‘according to the police.’ Did you a file a report on him?”