Lost Souls (A Caitlyn O’Connell Novel) (12 page)

Cait wrinkled her nose. “Not sure how knowing that will be helpful, and I certainly didn’t want that picture in my mind. What did your Internet search turn up?”

Jason leaned forward. “There are more bodies to be found. That’s a certainty. The Deluxe has been the center of several missing persons investigations, going back to the early eighties. But there’s never been a single shred of evidence found. Not until they dug Sylvia out of the wall.

“And our ol’ bud, Oscar Reyes?” Jason snorted. “He’s been busted a couple of times for battery. He’s not shy about using his fists when someone pisses him off. Last time he was convicted of beating up a girlfriend. Another ex-hooker.
Guess he thinks if he saves them, they’re his to treat however he pleases.”

“Nice guy,” Sam murmured. “So it’s possible Oscar might have something to do with Sylvia’s death. But I can’t see him being the incubus.”

Cait turned to meet Sam’s worried gaze. “But he might have met him. Maybe he’s the one who put the incubus onto Sylvia. If we can figure out the incubus’s hunting grounds, we can figure out whether Oscar had a hand in all this.”

Sam nodded, running a hand over his chin.

Cait heard the chafe of his five o’clock shadow. Sexy. Maybe her expression had turned dreamy because Sam’s gaze sparkled as he continued.

“I’m sure Leland would appreciate having someone human to pin this on.”

Cait blew out a deep breath and leaned back against the leather-upholstered seat. “I was so hoping it was a completely demon thing. Oscar really gives me the creeps.”

Both men gave her disbelieving stares.

“Yeah, I said it. Oscar’s a sleazebag. He hired us to find proof of his wife’s infidelity when he had it right in his hands. He’s the kind of guy who would take it out on her flesh himself—unless he found an easier way of disposing of her. Something more painful. And note this,” she said tapping the table for emphasis, “we haven’t heard a word from him since this all went down. I would have thought a grieving husband would be on the phone that night to hear what we found out.”

Sam nodded, his gaze turning to the window as though lost in thought. “He already knew she’d be dead.” He shook his head, his lips tightening. “I’ll have Oscar hauled in for questioning in the morning.”

“You need to do the questioning,” Cait said, turning her body toward Sam. “Your homicide buddies won’t have a clue what to ask. Can you handle it on your own?”

He grunted and slouched in the chair. “You think I don’t know how to conduct an interrogation?”

“It’s not that. I want to get with the Reel PIs guys as soon as possible. Since I’m Teflon-coated now, you don’t have to worry about me getting zapped.”

“And being pulled back in time and pushed into a wall isn’t something to worry about?”

She cocked her head. “I don’t think I’ll be that vulnerable again.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Careful. Jason’s gonna think you’re the one who wears the cape.”

“Which would put you in the black skirt,” she said, smiling.

The sound of a throat clearing beside them had all heads turning.

Pauly stood beside them, grinning. “I don’t wanna know.” He slid two large plates of fish with fries in front of Sam and Cait.

“Want some?” Cait said to Jason as she stuffed a fry into her mouth, savoring the crisp potato and its saltiness. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

“I don’t want to lose a finger.”

She snagged the malt vinegar from Pauly’s tray before he had a chance to offer it.

“Douse your food with that?” Jason said, his head shaking as he watched her mill into her food. “Sam won’t be kissing you anytime soon.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “I’ll make it worth the effort.”

Pauly and Jason both groaned, and then laughed. Sam chuckled and tucked into his food.

“Gonna eat all your fries?” she asked him, blinking her eyelashes.

“Course not, honey.”

“Aw,” Jason moaned with a shake of his head. “Another one bites the dust.”

Back at her apartment, Cait listened to the sound of the shower starting in the distance before moving a chair to the closet and climbing up to root into the top shelf. She pulled down the leather-bound book and carried it to the kitchen table where she had her ingredients spread before her.

Rubbing a finger across the engraving of a pentagram on the front cover, she drew a deep, calming breath. The book was hers now. Not her mama’s. Not any of the witches in its long past.

Just like the rose quartz ball handed down the generations, the book came with mystical energy that transferred ownership to the next with a touch. The first time she’d sat at this table and read through the spells and stories her predecessors shared, she’d felt as though a part of their souls mingled with her own.

Not that she was suddenly as wise as Yoda. She was still herself, but with knowledge that was inborn and unawakened until she’d accepted the gift.

It was sudden knowledge she hadn’t mentioned to Sam because he wouldn’t understand. At times like these, when she was feeling reflective, she wished she had a friend in the
magical world to talk to. Morin would have been the perfect choice if he hadn’t turned out to be no friend at all.

Maybe she was being harsh and more than a little bitter about how things had gone down. But the fact was her mother died because she’d wanted to sever both of their unnatural attractions for the man. Both she and Lorene had been seduced.

He’d played the soulful mentor, the reluctant lover, all in hopes of drawing her into his life and teaching her just enough to free him. Cait felt shame over falling for his act.

Her mother had figured out Morin’s motives but really should have told her. Lorene had forbidden a lust-addled seventeen-year-old girl from seeing a man Cait believed was her romantic destiny. Then Lorene had attempted a spell to break the bonds, only to accidentally poison herself in the process.

Out of grief and guilt, Cait had shunned Morin and magic. Turned her back on Celeste as well, because she’d wanted nothing of her old life. Instead, she’d submersed herself in her father’s, becoming a cop. Something she’d been good at until the voices got the best of her and she’d begun to drink to quiet them. Maybe they’d driven her a little crazy.

But she was back now. Ready to embrace the part of herself she’d so long denied.

She turned the pages until she found the summoning spell her mother had recorded all those years ago, after she’d attempted one last reunion with Cait’s father.

On this day, I summoned my husband from the dead. This spell is one I read about in Morin’s Book, but some of the ingredients had to be substituted because they are no longer commonly found.

Alcohol, hell.

Cait bit the side of her lip and eyed the bathroom door, heard the water still trickling down, and hurried to the broom closet. At the bottom, behind the mop pail, she pulled out a small bottle of Glenfiddich scotch. One Sam had never found when he’d cleaned out all the booze.

She rushed to the table and tipped the bottle, splashing good scotch into her mother’s conjuring chalice. Back to the closet, she quickly hid the bottle, stopped to light incense on the counter to mask the odor, and then added the other ingredients.

The smell that rose as she swirled her mother’s athamé nearly had Cait bending to put her nose against the rim to breathe it in. The scent was beyond enticing.

Delicious. Bracing. Pulling memories from the farthest corners of her mind of a time when her mother had sat quietly beside her father, watching the television, while he’d sipped from an old Waterford highball glass he’d inherited from his Irish mother.

Scotch had been her drink because it had been her father’s.

The bathroom door opened and closed. Cait braced herself, wondering whether he’d detect the smell, and then feeling guilty as hell for trying to conceal the alcohol.

She closed her eyes for a moment. Then she set aside
the blade and gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “Sam,” she called out.

He padded to the kitchen door, a towel around his lean hips. “Need something, Cait?”

His gaze resting on her was so calm, so steady, she couldn’t stand the suspense a moment longer.

“I have a bottle of scotch in the broom closet,” she blurted. “I needed a jigger for the spell.”

Sam’s expression remained unchanged. “Thanks for letting me know, sweetheart.” He turned and made his way back into the bedroom.

Her shoulders slumped. “That’s it?” she whispered to herself.

“I have to give trust to earn it, Cait,” he called from the other room.

She shook her head, oddly disappointed at the fact he seemed to be taking this all in stride. “You really are Superman if you heard that,” she muttered.

“Capes are for pansies.”

A gust of laughter surprised her. “Want to help me with the butterfly?”

“Sure. Let me get on some pants.”

“Don’t bother. Magic works best when you’re naked.”

“I’m not the one casting, Cait,” he said, wry humor roughening his voice.

“Oh, right.”

He appeared in the doorway again, sans towel. “But it would sure save time for when you finish.”

Cait grinned, surprised when his frame shimmered. She blinked and realized her eyes had filled. She swallowed hard against a dry throat.

“Dammit,” he said under his breath, then strode toward her, his arms opening.

She snuggled against his chest. “I’m sorry I hid it.”

“I know.” His hand cupped the back of her head. “But you told me. That’s something, Cait.”

She wrapped her arms around his back and rubbed her hands on his naked skin. “I love you. I’m trying.”

“I know.”

A kiss landed on her temple, and she turned her head toward his mouth, which gently pressed against hers. Arousal swirled in her belly, but she pushed it aside.

He growled. “Better get on with whatever it is you’re making.”

The reason for his surliness was trapped between their bodies, nudging at her belly. She smiled and leaned away. “Won’t take long. There’s a bell jar in the cabinet above the stove.”

“A bell jar?”

“A domed thingie with a handle on top. Need it for the butterfly.”

“That poor thing’s still in the cup?”

“He’ll be fine. The jar?”

With his cock fully erect and bobbing, he padded to the cupboard, which afforded her a very nice view of his back and bottom. Sam’s frame didn’t have an ounce of pudge. Everything was hard, ladders of muscles rippling between his shoulders and down his back as he reached for the jar. His ass made her sigh. Hard, round…

Hard, hard, hard
kept repeating in her mind.

He turned and caught her ogling. A dark brow arched over wicked blue eyes. “Thought you were supposed to be naked.”

Well, that specification wasn’t written in her mama’s book, but Cait wasn’t above a little fibbing if it meant Sam would look at her the way she did at him. Her clothes melted away, and she kicked them to a corner. Laundry, she’d worry about later.

Naked as he, she held out her hands for the crystal, then nodded toward the cup. “Uncap the lid, but don’t let him out. Then hold it under the jar.”

She slid the jar across the tabletop, leaving a gap beneath where he held the cup, and slowly slid off the lid. The butterfly flew upward, and she slid the jar to close it against the wooden surface.

“What’s next?” Sam asked.

She quickly combined the saffron and the thickener with the alcohol, stirring with her fingers. The liquid turned a warm honey color.

Then she tilted the jar, slipped her hand beneath the edge, and held her fingers still.

The butterfly landed on a fingertip.

She smiled and glanced at Sam, who was smiling too, but whose furrowed brows indicated he didn’t understand the point of what she was doing.

She fluttered her fingers and the butterfly took flight, wings brushing against her wet fingers. Small specks of green dust were left behind. “That should do it,” she said, easing out her hand and lowering the rim to the table again.

Returning to the chalice, she stirred and stirred, imagining Sylvia Reyes as she’d looked, flicking back her hair and smacking her lips before entering the hotel. The horror in her face as she faded against the yellowed walls of the hallway.

When she finished, she poured the liquid into a vial.

“That’s it?” Sam asked, coming behind her and resting a hand on her shoulder. “No words?”

“The words are meant to be written at the time of summoning the spirit.”

“The butterfly?”

She produced a twig with blossoms she’d snapped off at the butterfly farm. “It’ll be fine until you hand it off to a uniform to deliver.”

“Then you’re done.”

She didn’t complete a nod before he swung her up into his arms and marched to the bedroom.