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  Dez had provided a brief explanation to Sully on the way over. Marc—a professor of occult studies, among other courses—had been the complainant in a residential break-in approximately a year ago, had reported waking up to find a guy inside his house. It had been a fairly simple investigation requiring no more than a couple patrol units and a sharp eye to locate the college student dashing down the street with the intricate and expensive ceremonial dagger he’d stolen from Marc’s altar. Other officers had brushed Marc off as slightly crackers; Dez had left the guy’s house seriously spooked.

  “I swear, he could see right into my brain,” Dez had told Sully with a shiver. Now that they were standing in front of him, Sully could see what his brother had been talking about.

  Marc recognized Dez immediately, reaching out with a hand and shaking a friendly greeting. But he promptly turned eyes on Sully and his mouth dropped open about an inch as he peered at the younger man through a pair of round glasses.

  Marc didn’t bother to wait on an introduction. “You’re a seer.”

  Dez looked from Marc to Sully, as if trying to see what the other man had noticed. “Uh, Mr. Echoles, this is—”

  “Marc, please.” Still focused unnervingly on Sully, his eyes fixed on him in a way that had Sully wanting to look away but unable to.

  “Right. This is my brother, Sullivan Gray.”

  “Different names,” Marc said. He didn’t wait for the usual explanation before coming up with one of his own. “Different histories. You aren’t blood brothers.”

  “Foster,” Sully said. “Dez’s family took me in when I was a kid.”

  “But not soon enough.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve known trauma, but you’ve had the chance to heal. Desmond is a good and a kind man, and while he’s suffered through tragedy, he’s lived a good life with a stable, loving family. As far as you’re concerned, they saved you. Not just from the outside world, but from the man you could have become.”

  Sully didn’t have to see Dez’s expression to know just how uncomfortable his brother had to be right now. Sully was feeling plenty of his own discomfort at this inexplicable intrusion into his soul. But where the unease had bred something approaching fear in Dez, Sully found he was fascinated.

  “How do you know all that?”

  “I’m a seer too,” Marc said. “I’ll explain if you have the time, but I sense the two of you are on something of a mission.” He returned his gaze to Dez, a shift that appeared to take some effort as he broke the connection with Sully. “What is it you need to ask me?”

  Dez’s eyes were still a little round, and he’d lost a shade of colour beneath the smattering of freckles, suggesting Sully would be taking pointe in this conversation.

  “We’re looking for someone,”Sully said. “A man. I don’t have anything of a description other than that he’s a Caucasian and he’s got a tattoo on his inner right forearm. The tattoo is probably key to this, but we’re struggling to find someone with anything matching the description.”

  “I take it there’s an occult connection or you wouldn’t be here,” Marc said.

  “It’s a candle,” Sully said. “A black candle. Lit and dripping wax. We’re hoping you might be able to tell us something about the meaning.”

  “I see,” Marc said. “And what is it this tattooed man has allegedly done?”

  Dez finally found his tongue. “He killed a woman.”

  This time, Marc’s eyes were the ones to widen, although he regained his composure quickly. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Yeah,” Dez said. “So could we ask about the symbology?”

  “Of course I would be pleased to answer any questions you have,” Marc said. “But I feel I should tell you something first. Or, rather, show you.”

  And he pulled up the sleeve of his black turtleneck to reveal on his right, inner forearm a dripping, lit black candle.

  11

  Dez tried not to stare at the tattoo. Sully was doing a good job of that already.

  Sully didn’t have to say it out loud, the expression on his face and the fading colour in his cheeks telling Dez this was the tattoo he’d been shown last night.

  Dez considered confronting Marc right there, but in the few seconds he had before the silence became awkward, he decided that wasn’t the right way to go. Not yet anyway.

  He came down in favour of playing it cool, asking questions while Marc was more likely to remain cooperative. It was just as likely he’d put up some smokescreens to try to throw them off his trail, but he’d do the same thing if confronted with an accusation.

  “What does it signify?” Dez asked.

  “It signifies stupidity,” Marc said. He waved an arm toward his office and a pair of chairs this side of his desk. “Why don’t you come in and we can discuss it? I’m just instructing a summer class right now, and I’m done teaching for the day. I should be marking papers, but I could use a break.”

  Dez led the way in, taking one of the chairs and watching Sully as he lowered himself into the other. Sully was still pale and quiet and it was clear to Dez he’d withdrawn somewhere within himself, was probably envisioning what he’d seen and performing the mental comparisons to be certain of what they were dealing with here.

  Dez hated the idea of ghosts and wasn’t afraid to admit to his fear. But criminals he understood. He could deal with that, and so he did, taking the lead on this conversation as Marc slid into a beat-up desk chair across a desktop littered with stacks of books and essays.

  Marc didn’t wait for further questions, simply picking up the narrative he’d started with that self-deprecating comment and matching smile a minute ago.

  “I’m sure you recall I’m a practicing Wiccan,” Marc said. “I spent much of my adult life practicing with my life partner, just the two of us. But when she passed away seven years ago, I temporarily let go of my beliefs. I went into a very dark place, and I can see now the mistakes I made as a result. After a few months of withdrawing from the world and sitting around stewing in my depression, I decided a change might be in order. I wanted to reconnect with my faith, but I couldn’t face the idea of practicing at home, alone, where Mariel and I devoted so much time. So, for the first time in my life, I sought out a coven. It was a terrible mistake, one I’ve regretted since.”

  Dez nodded toward Marc’s right arm, once again concealed beneath his black sleeve. “And I take it this coven has something to do with the tattoo.”

  “You take it correctly, Desmond. I should ask, I may call you Desmond?”

  “No problem.”

  Marc nodded with a small smile and continued. “Keep in mind, the coven already existed before I came to it. Those practicing within it called it the Black Candle.”

  “No offence, but didn’t that put you off?”

  “Those who don’t understand Wicca or candle magic mistakenly believe black candles are connected with the dark side of the craft. They actually signify the exact opposite—a protection against darkness. I was looking for that in my life at the time, and I believed the others shared my views. I was wrong. Now, they understood the basics of Wiccan practice well enough and the ceremonies were as I remembered, with a few tweaks here and there. And most of them were good people, and accepted me and supported me, and so I stayed for a few years. I even got the tattoo. Coven members all have one, a rite of passage and communion I didn’t quite understand but accepted nonetheless. At that point, I saw no harm in it.”

  “But you do now.”

  “I said most of the members were good people. I should explain that I have a rather unusual talent that allows me to see a person’s aura. From the time I was a young boy, I could see bright colours emanating from most of the people I met. In you for instance, Desmond, I see strong golds. This tells me you are guided by divine good, that you possess an inner wisdom. I also see greens that suggest to me you are a loving, social person, although some muddier blues tell me you have some fears you have yet to face. S
ullivan possesses some remarkably bright royal blues, whites and indigos that show his third eye is open and seeing, that he is spiritual and in touch with higher dimensions.”

  Dez shifted in his chair; Marc chuckled.

  “I see one of the areas you struggle with is acceptance of this world beyond your five senses. I expect Sullivan has been placed within your life to teach you about that world so you might find a way through your fears. In turn, you are his protector and an earth guide to him.”

  Dez shifted again, tried to disguise the unintentional show of discomfort by crossing an ankle over his knee. “You were talking about the coven.”

  Marc allowed one more amused smile, but it drifted away as he continued. “There were a few members who were surrounded by dark colours—blacks, muddy greys and darker, non-earth tone browns. It was clear they were bent under the weight of grief, pressure or greed, or something else that had stolen their light. But most people suffering through these types of challenges still retain the brighter colours that identify the goodness within them. These men seemed to have little of that colour left. That’s how I know they were no longer what I would call good men.”

  “Who were they?”

  “You have to understand, Desmond, Wicca is not a widely accepted religion. Those who practice are subject to judgment and ridicule, and sometimes outright hate and even violence. I have no shame in my choice of religious path or my practices and I have chosen to live openly. Many haven’t. The coven operates under a code of silence that dictates we are not to reveal the identities of other members. Although I no longer practice with them, I hold to that pledge.”

  “But you can confirm that anyone with that black candle tattoo is a member?”

  “Or was in the past. I believe I am safe in confirming that for you. The tattoo artist who does the work is a member of the coven. I can’t imagine she’d ink anyone outside the circle with the candle. It’s intended to be unique to the group.”

  “And since you’re no longer a member, there was no push to have you get the tattoo removed?” Dez asked.

  Marc quirked up a corner of his mouth. “I know what you’re getting at, and no. The Black Candle is a coven, not a street gang. One can come and go at will. There was no beatdown for me and no threat to forcefully remove my tattoo if I didn’t do it myself. It’s there for life if I want it.”

  “Why’d you leave, anyway?” Dez asked. “Was it just because of those members?”

  “Not wholly, no. There was a tragedy that occurred within the circle a little over a year ago. I was still grieving my partner’s loss at the time and I couldn’t bear the additional hurt, particularly because the new loss darkened so many souls within the coven. People changed after that. It was as if their light had been stolen and I was surrounded by darkness when I was there. After two meetings, I couldn’t take it anymore so I stopped going.”

  “What was the name of the person who died?” Dez asked. When Marc’s gaze dropped to his desktop, and he failed to provide an immediate response, Dez pushed on. “If the only reason for not identifying members is to protect them from fallout, then there shouldn’t be any problem telling us this person’s name. Not now. Anyway, it will just stay with us, and I think you’re well aware Sully and I are the last people to judge.”

  Marc nodded and met Dez’s eye once again. “Her name was Gabriella Aguado. She was a beautiful young woman, so full of light and life. Her death all but broke me.”

  Dez uncrossed his legs, allowing him to sit forward. “You said there were members of the group you didn’t like. Did you ever suspect any of them of being involved in her death?”

  “As far as I’m aware, no one was involved in her death. She drowned in the Kimotan River. Gabriella was beautiful, but she had some problems. I don’t believe she committed suicide, but I think her decision to use chemicals to heighten her awareness led to her death. I have no doubt you could access the file at police headquarters if you wanted to know more. I’m afraid I don’t know much else about it. I distanced myself from the coven following that, so anything they might have shared with each other, I wasn’t privy to.”

  “Can I ask you one more question?” Dez asked. “Does the name Kenton Barwell mean anything to you?”

  “You’re asking if he was a coven member,” Marc said.

  “He’s got a black candle tattoo on his left arm identical to yours,” Dez said. “I’d assume that means something.”

  “Since you’ve seen the tattoo, you don’t need my confirmation.”

  It was all the reply Marc offered and, as it happened, it was all Dez needed.

  The next logical stop, after phoning Bulldog to call off what would be a pointless search of tattoo parlours, was police headquarters and a trip up the elevator to Administration.

  Deputy Chief Flynn Braddock had the smaller of two corner offices, and Dez checked to ensure his backside was more or less dry before dropping it into one of several leather armchairs that circled a small round table in the corner. Sully went to stand at the window, the grey city barely visible through the rain-streaked eighth-floor window.

  “You haven’t said much since we left Echoles’s office,” Dez said, craning his neck to speak to Sully’s back.

  Sully didn’t move, hands remaining stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget I’m not the only freak out there.”

  Dez reached back, his arm plenty long enough to allow him to swat Sully none-too-gently on the backside. “Don’t use that word. We’ve had this discussion.”

  “I saw the way you looked at Echoles, Dez. If you didn’t know me, you’d look at me the same way. You know you would.”

  “Two things, man. I do know you, and I don’t think of you or anyone else like you in that way. My fears are my hangup, not yours. I like threats I can see and do something about. And it isn’t you or him or anyone living and breathing. It’s the fact there’s this whole world around us I know nothing about. We’ve all got talents, Sull. This is yours. Mine’s hockey.”

  That got him the reaction he wanted, Sully letting loose a surprised laugh and turning his head just enough to smirk at Dez. “Hockey? Seriously? Dude, you suck.”

  Dez grinned back. “Point taken. But I’m damn good at kicking your ass.”

  He didn’t get a chance to prove it as the door opened and Flynn walked in, face breaking into a wide smile when he saw his visitors. It disappeared just as quickly. “What did the two of you get into this time?”

  “What makes you think we got into anything?” Dez said. “You know us better than that.”

  “Damn right I know you. That’s why I’m worried.” Flynn peered at Sully. “You’re not opening the bar today, I hope. Streets down that way are full of water. Lots of places are closed and in damage control mode.”

  “Crap,” Sully said. “I haven’t been back recently to check. I’ll bet the basement’s flooded.”

  “I’ll take you over there right away,” Dez said. But first, they had something else they needed to deal with. “Dad, we’re in the middle of something we need help with.”

  Flynn dropped solidly into the nearest chair. “I knew it. One of you in trouble or is this a Sully matter?”

  “Sully matter” had become a sort of code in their family. “The latter,” Dez said.

  Sully finally drifted over to sit next to Dez, allowing him to face their father as he gave Flynn the rundown. He didn’t leave anything out, even admitting to the ill-advised exploration of the abandoned house and the trip to Kenton Barwell’s. Sully had to have expected the scolding, particularly over the Barwell incident, and he got it—albeit a lighter and less expletive-filled version than the one he’d earned from Dez earlier.

  “Why would you do something like that? Damn it, Sully, you know better. Dez was on his way. You should have waited.” He turned eyes on Dez next. “And you shouldn’t have been considering going there either without at least three units at your back. Goddammit, don’t the two of you go get
ting stupid on me. I’ve already lost one son. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose the other two. You’re not invincible. Either of you.”

  “We know, Dad,” Dez said. “You’re right. It won’t happen again. Right, Sully?”

  Sully was scanning the tabletop and managed only a tight nod in response. It was obvious he was fighting emotion, but Dez knew his brother well enough to realize it wasn’t over the mild tongue-lashing; it was the fact Flynn had referred to him as his son. Thirteen years had passed since Sully first came into their lives, and he still showed various levels of surprise when anyone besides Dez described him as family. To Dez, Sully was so engrained in the Braddock clan it was sometimes easy to forget he had a prior life in which he’d never really belonged—and, in at least a few cases Dez was aware of, had been told exactly that.

  Dez landed a hand solidly on Sully’s knee, giving his leg an affectionate shake.

  “I know you can’t get us a look at the Breanna Bird file as it’s still an open case, but I’m wondering if there’s anything we could scan in relation to Iris Edwards or Gabriella Aguado. I didn’t want to start tapping into stuff in our system myself just yet, especially with regards to Iris Edwards.”

  “Smart move,” Flynn said. Then he added with a wink, “Could be your first of the day. I’ll be sure to check in with Major Crimes on the Bird matter, just to make sure they’re following through on re-interviewing Danny Newton. As for the other stuff, pull up a chair and let’s check the system.”

  Moving to Flynn’s desk and his computer, they found little on Iris Edwards. She was more or less a blank at this point, other than a recent arrest for possession of cocaine after she’d been caught ripping someone off at a known party house. There were no missing person reports and nothing else to suggest anyone out there was at all worried about her. Dez knew better, of course, thanks to Sully and Bulldog.

  Gabriella Aguado’s file was a little more helpful, though not much.