Deadly Magic

Inc.

Rattles shook,

and she pulled the rough wool blanket closer. Even though the sweat lodge was stifling, she shivered. I can’t do it, Grandfather. I can’t see the way forward.

It is never easy to forge a new path, Grandfather coaxed. Sometimes you must falter first. Trust and the vision will come.

Breathing deeply, she focused her thoughts again, feeling the packed earth under her. She slowed her pulse to match the cadence of the drums. White light and shadows danced, and the drumbeat faded until all she heard was her own heartbeat.

Then she was transported to a new place, a round, Southwestern kiva, tucked inside a limestone cliff. A narrow shaft of sunlight penetrated the fissured rock, highlighting dust motes in the hot, parched air.

A sun-browned man stood before her, armed with a flint knife and holding a staff that coiled and twisted in his hand.

They were alone, but she wasn’t afraid.

In the dimness, she recognized his pale brown, gold-flecked eyes. The elder she’d seen before. A beautiful turquoise amulet shaped like a jaguar’s head hung on his bare chest. His long, black hair, crested with silver, had been braided with leather thongs and an eagle feather. Shaman.

She lowered her eyes and sensed his radiating strength. A very ancient, but very powerful spirit.

Setting down his staff, he folded his legs and sat before the smoldering fire.

Kudos for Joy Brighton

2010 Linda Howard Contest—1st Place

~*~

2010 Silicon Valley RWA Gotcha! Contest—1st Place

Deadly Magic

by

Joy Brighton

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Deadly Magic

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Joy Brighton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Kristian Norris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2016

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0419-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0420-5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

In 1943 John MacGregor, an archaeologist, discovered the ancient tomb of a Singagua man. Located in the Ridge Ruin Pueblo in Walnut Canyon, Arizona, the tomb held a vast array of precious goods from the time, a treasure. He was named The Magician.

When I read of this discovery in the course of my research, the nine-hundred-year-old Native American inspired my ghost, the Magician, and the preservation of his magnificent treasure became the goal of my human characters.

Only recently, I learned the Magician has been returned to his tribe and secretly reburied.

I would like to dedicate DEADLY MAGIC to this ancient man and his ancestors. May his spirit rest in peace.

Acknowledgments

Countless people have contributed to this book, more than I can possibly name. I’d like to mention a few, without whose help DEADLY MAGIC would not have been possible.

Most importantly, I want to thank my family. My wonderful husband, Dave, supported and encouraged my writing efforts and believed in me and in my writing career when few others did.

A huge thank-you to my fantastic critique group, the Armadillos: Teri Bradburn, Linda Hill, Anne Maragoni, and Janet Periat. The book would not have been finished without your help and support. You are all very special, very talented and insightful women.

I’d also like to thank the Silicon Valley chapter of the Romance Writers of America. I learned the writing craft through seminars, workshops, and the graceful and gentle mentoring of fellow SVRWA members. You’re an amazing group of writers, and lots of fun.

My special thanks go to the Los Gatos Monte Sereno Police Department and the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Department for ride-alongs, fly-alongs, and answering what must have seemed to be endless questions. Thank you to she-who-must-not-be-fully-named, FBI Special Agent Julia. Any errors in procedure or weaponry are mine.

Thanks to my web designer and web mistress, Rae Monet. Your designs for the website are amazing.

Thanks to other friends who read part or all of various versions of this manuscript, including Dan Baxter, Celeste Dyer, Andy Fischer, Deb McKenzie, Susan Miller, Deb Mumper. I owe you lunch.

Prologue

South Central Los Angeles, One Year Earlier

The pit bull turned in a slow circle and finally collapsed, its huge jaw drooping onto its paws. Two more dogs dozed nearby with stomachs full of sedative-laced sirloin.

Norah Redfox eased from behind the garbage cans and crept through the dark, littered alley. She inched closer. No noise from the dogs.

No barks.

No growls.

With a wobbly hand, she reached out and rattled the chain link fence.

The animals didn’t stir. She heaved one shaky sigh and then another.

Grasping the rough metal, she scrambled up the fence. When she swung over the top, her shirttail caught on the raw, twisted ends and jerked her off balance. She ripped free, dropped to the ground, and darted across the dead grass.

Crouched low in the shadow of the back porch steps, she paused to catch her breath. Her spirit guide nagged in her mind, No time! Get them now. Hurry!

A chill shuddered through her despite the stifling August heat. The drug bust would go down in less than ten minutes. She had to rescue her sister Laverne and niece Amber before Ray murdered them. She couldn’t bear to identify their battered, bloody corpses in the morgue. Again.

Her belly smoldered like she’d swallowed a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit. She’d already failed to change tonight’s events once when the vicious guard dogs had stymied her. Each attempt became more dangerous. A third history-twisting journey back through time could be fatal.

From inside the rundown, 1930s bungalow, she sensed fear and pain radiating from her sister. Rap music blared from open windows, but Ray’s angry voice boomed above the pounding bass. Why had Laverne married that sadistic, hyped-up son-of-a-junkie? Norah clenched her jaw. Love? No. Lust. Lust that was deaf, blind, and brainless.

Norah slipped into the pool of light spilling through a screen door. Holding her breath, she stole up the cement steps and slid a screwdriver into the crack where the warped bottom gaped away from the peeling doorframe. She jimmied the tool upward and strained but couldn’t budge the hook.

Her clammy hands slipped, and the sharp metal sliced one finger. She hissed a breath through her teeth at the pain and wiped off the blood.

Using all her strength, she forced the screwdriver up, and the latch released. As she eased the door open, metal screeched against metal. Her heart jumped hurdles inside her chest, but she licked her parched lips and stepped onto the cracked brown linoleum. Edging past a rust-speckled washer and dryer, she peered around the corner and down the shotgun hall.

In the living room doorway, Ray stood with his back to Norah, dressed in droopy jeans and a wife-beater with a red sweat rag tied around his shaved head. He loomed over Laverne, ranting and waving his tattooed arms.

She whined something Norah couldn’t hear over the loud music and cowered, shielding her face with her hands.

His shoulder muscles bunched. He grabbed Laverne by her long, dark hair. You got shit for brains? You stupid whore! He smashed his fist into her nose, and she screamed.

Laverne’s pain seared through Norah, and she staggered back a step, gasping. Although her hands shook, she couldn’t afford to wait. She had to act now. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she inched toward the living room, hugging one wall.

Seconds later, the door across from her opened. Eight-year-old Amber shuffled into the hall, wearing a faded, oversized T-shirt. The child rubbed her sleepy brown eyes with her knuckles. Momma?

An ache twisted Norah’s heart, muffled her voice. Shush, sweetheart. It’s Aunt Norah.

The child’s gaze jerked up.

Norah clamped a hand over Amber’s mouth and yanked her flat against the far wall. A flurry of gunshots erupted, and one splintered the doorjamb where Amber had stood.

Norah sensed Laverne’s spirit flicker, and her life force snuffed out.

Agony ripped through her as she choked back sharp tears and glanced toward the living room. Laverne’s body lay crumpled on the floor, her dark eyes wide and frozen.

Numbness clogged Norah’s throat and turned her blood to sludge.

Too late. She was too late, forever.

Whimpering, Amber squirmed against Norah’s hand. She scooped up her terrified niece, turned and ran.

What the fuck? Who’s there? Ray yelled. His footsteps pounded after them.

With her pulse thundering in her ears, Norah slammed out the door and raced across the backyard. She dove into the shrubbery and shielded the child’s body with her own. Think invisible. Think absolutely still, but each breath snagged, shaking her body, and each heartbeat throbbed in her cut finger.

Aunt Norah? Amber shifted her head. The scent of baby shampoo dueled with the tang of fear.

Hush.

Ray appeared in the porch window. Even in the dark, his aura quivered with rage, chromium yellow streaked with muddy brown. He thumped down the steps and bellowed, I know you’re out there. Show yourself, you coward.

Light from the kitchen window glinted off his gun.

Norah ducked her face as bullets exploded. Puffs of dirt and shards of Bermuda grass flew against her hair. Squeezing her eyes closed, she swallowed a sob.

In the distance, sirens spiraled closer.

Go ahead and take the fucking brat. Never wanted that whiny little shit anyway. He fired one more shot into the dirt.

The screen door banged shut, and he disappeared from view.

Come on, sweetheart. Bruised and numb, Norah struggled to her feet and dragged Amber toward the fence. She’d failed to save her sister, but at least she had her niece.

Using her free hand, Norah scrambled up while half carrying Amber. To the screech of sirens, they hurtled over the top and tumbled into blackness.

Chapter One

Sereno, California, Present Day

Norah hustled into the Silicon Valley Fast Mart. Go get the drinks, Amber, while I wait in line.

When Amber flashed a cocky grin and raced off, her soccer cleats smacking the floor, Norah moved toward the counter, keeping her niece in sight.

At the cash register, an adolescent boy, maybe eleven or twelve, slouched beside a brawny man with thick, blond hair. The man leaned close to the high school girl behind the counter and drew his hand through his perfect hair. He smiled a perfect smile, showing his perfect teeth.

When Norah stepped closer, all the fine hairs on her body stood on end. Her grin evaporated into a shudder. The man’s handsome features couldn’t disguise the menace that rolled off him in waves, like a jarring shock from two-twenty current. Her nostrils burned from his psychic stench.

The man stuffed a roll of lottery tickets in his pocket. Damn it, Josh. Quit whining. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder and squeezed.

Josh stiffened. Yes, sir.

Her power hummed, and she brushed a hand over the prickles on the back of her neck. Spirits clamored in her mind, urging her toward the boy.

As if sensing her, Josh turned his head and sucked in air. His razor sharp cheekbones and stick-straight, black hair mirrored her own. When he looked up, his sherry-colored gaze pierced hers.

Her handbag slipped from her fingers, and the clasp broke on impact. Coins jangled onto the floor, and her carved stone fox skidded beneath the candy display. Heat rushed over her face. Stooping, she groped for the small statue.

Josh wrenched free of the man’s grip and scrambled toward her. Crouching, he reached under the shelf. His hand fisted around the carved fox, and he opened his eyes wide. A shaman with white braids and black eyes that can bore a hole through you.

She shivered. How do you know?

He raised his chin. Your spirit guide’s a fox, he said in a high, rapid voice.

Leaning back on her heels, she opened her mind to the boy, and her breath caught. Pulsing energy, red and violet with cinnabar streaks, swirled around him. Intriguing. Unique. Ancient.

The man turned and glared at her. An unlit cigarette drooped from his cruel mouth. He stomped toward the boy, yanked him upright, and snatched the reddish stone. Take care of your own shit, he snarled and pitched it at her.

The carved stone hit her cheekbone, dropped, and shattered. Norah covered her bruised face, and furious tears stung her throat.

Josh straightened and glared at the man. Don’t hurt her.

The man clenched his huge fist, then glanced overhead at the surveillance camera and smiled. He thumped the boy on the back. She’s not your problem, runt.

Norah jumped to her feet and reached for Josh. She’d seen too many abused children at work and couldn’t let this go. Leave him alone, she yelled, her voice like the slam of a gavel.

The man loomed closer, his light blue eyes iced steel, the bulky muscles in his arms and shoulders taut and bunching. Butt out, bitch. He grabbed the boy and elbowed her hard in the center of her chest.

Pain arced through her ribcage, bowed her back. She landed on her rear, stunned and gasping.

I’m calling the cops! the blond clerk shouted from behind the counter.

Come on. The man gripped Josh’s arm and dragged him outside.

Her spirit guide penetrated her dazed consciousness. Help him. Two boys are in danger.

Norah lurched to her feet and shook her head, but couldn’t clear the gray spots clouding her vision. She staggered toward the storefront windows, moving slowly like fighting through chest-deep mud.

Alone in the parking lot, the man cuffed the side of Josh’s head and heaved him into a battered white truck.

Hoping for a glimpse of the license plate, Norah stumbled toward the door. The engine roared, and the man backed out.

The pickup skidded onto the street and stopped at a signal down the block. The light flashed green, tires squealed, and the truck disappeared from view.

She paused in the doorway and doubled over, swearing under her breath.

Pressing her fingers over her eyelids, she struggled to remember the number on the plate when she’d driven past it in the parking lot. A California plate?

No. A cactus. Arizona. But she could only picture three numbers.

Wide-eyed and ashen, Amber peeked around the candy display, clutching a six-pack of neon green bottles. That man yelled at you. Did he hurt you? She set down the sports drinks and hugged Norah’s waist.

Norah wrenched herself back to the moment and stroked Amber’s dark hair. The child had seen far too much violence in her short life and didn’t need to hear about more. I bumped him, and he got mad, but I’m okay.

Trembling, Amber looked up. What about the boy?

Cold fingers squeezed Norah’s heart.

****

Norah crossed the busy road holding Amber’s hand. The sky had clouded over during soccer practice, and a brisk wind whipped at Norah’s French braid.

Amber chattered, tugging her toward the crowd waiting to enter the Fall Festival at Sereno’s community center.

Just inside the gates, a tall man sat on a worn sleeping bag and played an oboe. Cash littered the open instrument case beside him. His denim shirt left strong, tanned forearms exposed. Heavy, masculine stubble shadowed his lean cheeks, but those black dreadlocks looked unnatural hanging over his impressive, I-can-dead-lift-an-elephant shoulders.

The smoky, mellow tones of the jazz ballad he played glided through Norah. Warmth spread, lured her closer, and she slowed to listen.

When he glanced up, their gazes locked. A half-grin crinkled the corners of his dark gray eyes, triggering a quick jump in her pulse.

Norah tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, and he winked.

Aunt Norah!

With a start, she re-focused on Amber’s anxious face. What did you say?

Hannah and her mom are playing ring toss. Can I go, please?

Norah picked their friends out in the crowd and waved. Okay, if you stay with them until I get there.

Can I play, too? Amber wiggled in place, shifting from foot to foot.

Have fun. She handed the girl a bill, and Amber skipped ahead. Soccer had done wonders, helped Amber work through her fears and recover some of her spunk. Even the nightmares had eased.

Norah leaned against the wall, rubbing her bruised cheek. Grandfather nudged her mind. "Both boys are in danger."

Acid churned in the pit of her stomach. You’ve given me a mandate, but what can I do? Tell me how I can help.

No answer.

She huffed out a breath, unable to shake a gnawing sense of urgency. Why had he mentioned two boys? She itched to be safe at home finding the answers, but she’d promised Amber time with her friend. Grandfather would have to wait.

The last notes of the jazz melody meandered through the air. Norah swallowed the strange lump in her throat and dug in her purse, tossing a single into the instrument case.

The street musician’s gaze brushed over her and tingling heat branded her neck and face. Thanks, beautiful, he said, his voice deep and triple-chocolate rich. Are you okay?

Norah dropped her hand from her cheek, flicked a surprised glance at her fingers and grinned crookedly. I’m…I’m fine. Close encounter with a soccer ball.

He flashed straight white teeth and began a new song. His powerful, long-fingered hands raced up and down the oboe, playing a lilting Shaker tune.

Captivated, she sank onto a nearby bench. When her tender backside met the hard stone, she couldn’t stifle a wince, but she closed her eyes and let the song wash over her.

He played with such purpose, each note pitched clear and true. The knot in her shoulders loosened as the bewitching melody painted pictures of spring in her mind. Immersed in the magic of his music, she could almost smell the sage blooming at Grandma’s cabin in the Black Hills. A totally unexpected yearning ignited. She swayed forward and something untouched within her stirred.

Trembling, she studied his full lips where they curled around the reeds of his oboe. Her heart beat faster, her blood coursed hot beneath her skin. The notes swirled in a tight spiral of sensation, and a warm ache radiated low in her body.

****

Come on, Josh. We gotta job to do. Kenny Swank flicked his cigarette butt out the truck window, where it hissed into the overflowing gutter.

Hunched in the passenger seat, Josh stared at the floor. But we should go home. Mom will be worried.

Kenny wanted to punch the smart-mouthed brat but cracked his knuckles instead. Just his luck the other kid flaked out. Now he was stuck with Gina’s whiny nephew. But he’d seen the runt in action with that interfering bitch yesterday. The kid had real talent, if only he’d play along.

Gritting his teeth, Kenny drew his lips up in a curve and softened his voice until it was as smooth as a fat Cuban cigar. You want to help your mom, don’t ya?

Josh’s head bobbed. Yes, sir.

This old lady just wants some info on an old gun and powder horn she inherited. Thinks it belonged to a Revolutionary War soldier named Ephraim Lee. He wove a threat into his tone. Give her what she wants.

The runt shrank back, stuttering. I n-n-never know what I’ll see until I touch something.

What’s wrong with you? He shoved his face up close to the kid’s. Doesn’t matter what you see, stupid. And for fuck’s sake, don’t tell her it belonged to some horse thief.

No. The boy’s eyes widened, showing white all around.

Put on a show. Moan and groan. Then feed her a fancy fairytale. Twisting the runt’s shirt in his fist, Kenny raised him off his seat. Be sure you call the guy Ephraim. Ya got it?

Color draining from his face, the boy shriveled away from Kenny’s hand. Yes, sir.

Kenny’s pulse spiked, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. Good. He’d scared the runt enough to control him for a while. Come on. Let’s get ’er done. He jerked Josh out into the downpour and frog-marched him along the sidewalk.

When they turned up the flagstone path, Kenny eased his grip. Might be a camera at a McMansion like this. He slapped on his stupid-hick grin and poked the buzzer.

A pudgy woman in pearls opened the door. Kenny removed his cap and shook off the rain. Widening his smile, he wrestled his gaze off the bling glittering on her stubby fingers. Evening, ma’am.

Mr. Swank. Will you and Joshua please take off your wet shoes and leave them on the tile. She fluffed her poufy gray hair, twittering like a fucking canary. Everything is in the kitchen.

Yes, ma’am. Kenny cased the joint while he kicked off his shoes. A suitcase-sized purse sat open on the dining room table, inviting him to take whatever he wanted. He sucked on his tongue to find some spit. What a rush. The runt better not blow this. He grabbed hold of the kid’s collar. You’re lucky we could fit you in. Josh has talent, powerful psychic talent.

She patted her hands together and gushed, I’m so excited to hear what he sees.

Once he does the reading, you’ll have the true history. Absolutely bona fide. He grinned at his mark again and caught a glance of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. He clenched his molars and pulled his smile even wider. You sure got a nice place here. The kind of place he deserved.

Beaming, she led them into a huge kitchen. Her exhaust trail of sickly-sweet perfume gagged him.

From the granite counter, she lifted a beat-up old powder horn with a metal band around the rim. A dirty green cord hung from both ends. My great aunt left this to me.

Josh’s gaze fixed on the piece. May I hold it?

You didn’t tell me he had to touch it. She stepped back and eyed the boy suspiciously.

Kenny pitched his voice low, like he didn’t give a shit. You want a vision?

Her lower lip jutted out for a second, but then relaxed. Something in the kid’s dopey look must have made her cave. Damn good thing.

Okay, but be careful. The horn’s very old and valuable. Sit down so you don’t drop it.

Josh obeyed and took the piece with both hands. His eyes rolled back, and he swayed in his seat, moaning. In a singsong voice he said, I see a ram, a ram in the mountains, and a man walks through the forest, and the trees are red and golden, and he works at night, by firelight to make the powder horn for his son. His voice drifted lower, and he began to mumble.

Tensing her fists, she leaned closer. Who were they? Do you know their names?

Kenny’s mouth watered. The old bitch was buying the kid’s patter. Come on. Get the fucking name right.

Josh’s eyes snapped open. He twitched like a butterfly with its wings ripped off. Yes. Lee. The son is Ephraim Calvin Lee. Ephraim for his grandfather and Calvin for his father.

A shiver grabbed Kenny by the balls. Creepy. Maybe the runt really did see stuff.

Her mouth gaped wide in her flushed face. Here. Touch the musket, she squeaked.

Josh laid one hand across the wooden gunstock and froze. Ephraim’s a soldier.

Where? When? She stared at the kid, twisting her hands together.

The runt was a natural. Kenny bit his cheek to keep from laughing and slid away from the pair.

Easing into the dining room, he rifled through the purse and silently opened a