“Yeah, afraid so.”
He expected her to laugh, to express disbelief. A witch, for real? But she merely looked thoughtful. “And why me?”
“Credibility. She came after me. You just happened to be someone around here I’d listen to, so she used you. Sorry you got wrapped up in it.”
In the video, the woman looked around briefly before climbing back into her car. Cormac leaned in suddenly. He recognized her.
“Can we freeze that, blow it up?” he asked, and Aubrey slid the computer mouse to him. He backed up the footage, zoomed in. She had on sunglasses. Her dark hair was in a braid. The features were fuzzy in the low-res footage, but there was something about the tilt of her head, the way she moved, and the bright red lipstick she wore. “I’ll be damned.”
Amelia wanted to know how many people from his past might be holding grudges. He wasn’t expecting this one.
“You know her?” Aubrey asked. “Who is she?”
Maybe Cormac was wrong. This was a mistake. Maybe. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Is. . .is this going to be a problem?”
For him or for her? Best she not get involved. “You see her around here again, call me.” He wrote his number on a notepad tucked under one of the stacks of paper.
She never stopped with the skeptical sidewise glances, but she pinned the number to a nearby corkboard, next to diagrams of excavations and photos of broken pottery in dirt.
She walked him back to the Jeep, maybe to make sure he really left. She also studied him in a way that seemed academic. What sort of sense would an archeologist make of his T-shirt and jacket, brown mustache, sunglasses, and constant frown?
“What exactly is it you do, Mr. Bennett?”
“Travel. Look out for things.” He’d never been able to explain what he did, not since his days of hunting vampires and werewolves and everything in between. He’d gotten in the habit of delivering the vague and ready answer.
“Ah,” she said. Then put a thoughtful hand on her chin. “Would. . .you like to go get a cup of coffee or something? We don’t really have much here, but there’s a good diner back on the highway to Rapid City. I’d like to hear more about witches.” Her interest might have been merely academic.
The archeologist was cute, under the dust. Round face, bright eyes. She probably had some great stories. Maybe some other time. . . He shook his head. “I don’t really have time right now. Maybe later.”
She smiled wryly. “Good luck. If you find anything out about this impersonator, let me know.”
“Sure.” He walked out, ready to follow the next lead.
Driving away he thought: Amelia would have told him he should have gone for the coffee.
Clearly, he’d left too many threads hanging after that job in Chicago.
Lord Edgar hadn’t been the Master of Chicago. Chicago technically didn’t have a Master, as far as Cormac knew, though how the vampires themselves decided these things seemed arcane to him. But Lord Edgar aspired. What he wasn’t was discreet, and while running a protection racket to make money he’d been leaving bodies. Vampires usually policed their own, but Chicago didn’t have enough of a presence to manage it. That was exactly where folks like Cormac came in. Cormac had been hired to finish him by a local cop who knew and believed. He’d taken up a collection to pay Cormac.
Isabel Durant had been the primary human servant of Lord Edgar. She called herself a courtesan, but really, she was a human servant, which meant fetching and carrying in daylight hours and serving as a food source. Vampires didn’t really need or want sex. For them, physical desire was tied up with drinking blood. So she could claim to be his beloved mistress and sex object all she wanted, and that might be what she got out of the relationship. But really, a human servant had more in common with livestock.
Ten years ago, she’d been stunning. Model-beautiful, aristocratic features, impeccable taste, and a stately manner. A trophy a would-be Master vampire would keep hanging on his arm, another pretty thing to go with all his other pretty things. She had seemed to enjoy being kept. Maybe Edgar had even promised to turn her, after a suitable apprenticeship. Well, so much for that.
Once he got rid of Edgar, Cormac had left her alone. She hadn’t been a threat. That’d teach him.
Isabel Durant, from what Cormac knew of her, wasn’t a witch. So what was she doing taking hairs from other people’s cars? She’d either learned some witchcraft in the last ten years, or she’d hired someone. But why? If she’d wanted to leave him for dead she could have just shot him. She’d knocked him out, hadn’t robbed him, but Amelia was gone. No way Durant could know about Amelia to target her. Something wasn’t fitting together.
If Durant had been learning magic or had hired a magician, he ought to be able to track that. However, this was Amelia’s area of expertise. She was much better at it than he was. He had learned from her by watching, but not enough for this.
Some quick searching revealed that Durant had no internet footprint to speak of. She might have been savvy at keeping her information offline, or she might have been one of those fringe freaks so suspicious of technology they never left an imprint. Not surprising, hanging out with vampires. So how did he find her?
He went back to Rapid City, forced himself to eat another burger, downed a large coffee, and sat in his Jeep to make another call.
“Manitou Wishing Well, may I help you?” A kindly voice answered, which meant this was Judi. Her partner, Frida, was more brusque. They owned a souvenir shop in Manitou Springs that served as cover for more occult dealings. Judi also ran a ghost tour in the historical town. First time he’d met them, they spotted Amelia right off—Cormac had two auras, Frida insisted—and hadn’t batted an eye. He wondered what Frida would see in his aura now.
“Judi? This is Cormac Bennett. I could use some help.”