Obsidian Curse (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Five) Read online

  “Very funny. Will she look human? Dark hair, light hair? What?”

  “You’ve seen the goddesses in their true form, correct? So you know they have a regal quality about them and that they are exceptionally beautiful,” Birdie said.

  “But you said her beauty was stripped.”

  “I said her enchantments were taken from her. Those enchantments were what allowed her to appear as any normal devastatingly gorgeous human. Without them, her beauty would be in full force, which is why it will fade fast. She’ll be looking for a vessel straight away. But to answer your question, she has hair as black as ebony and shiny as starlight. Eyes the color of spun gold.”

  Fiona said, “Buxom breasts, plump lips, and hips any man would kill to hold onto.”

  So I was looking for Selma Hayek. Excellent.

  “Anything else?”

  Birdie thought about it. “It was written in the Blessed Book that she often smells like paint and paper. Although I suspect she may smell like whoever she’s targeting as her lover.”

  Lolly looked at her sisters. They all opened their hands. I noticed the straws were three different lengths.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  The timer on the oven dinged. I could smell that the maple sausage casserole was done.

  Lolly said, “We explained this, dear. One of us needs to make a sacrifice.”

  As if I didn’t have enough crap piled on this shit sandwich. Now, I had to worry about one of them offing themselves.

  “NO. NO. NO.” I snatched the straws from each of their hands, one by one.

  Birdie looked at me in surprise.

  “Are you crazy? This isn’t the dark ages. No one is making any sacrifices.” I looked out the window toward my cottage, thinking about the three men who were there last night and really hoping that not one of them—especially the one I loved—would end up bleeding to death in the cauldron of a maniac.

  I faced my family. “As the Seeker it’s my job to deliver justice. Let me do my job.”

  Birdie smiled at me. She locked hands with her sisters and they all drew me into their circle.

  “Besides, I have a plan.”

  Chapter 16

  I left the Geraghty House with the keys to Birdie’s car, a bottle of mead, a batch of Lolly’s extra-sweet sugar cookies, plus three taffy apples. I set all of the offerings on my porch with a note of apology to Pickle and asked for his help in a very specific way that I was sure he could manage. I was hoping that would coax him back to the cottage. Maybe he could help me figure out how to capture and bind the fairy mistress.

  After that, I hurried inside, grabbed the laptop and the locket. I filled the locket with ruby dust, stuffed the computer in my bag, and texted Derek to tell him I’d be in soon. I debated on the tranquilizer gun, thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea, and shoved that in my bag too. Then I hopped into Birdie’s Buick and drove to Cinnamon’s house.

  I had so much to do; my head was swimming in random thoughts. I needed to interview the valedictorians for the pre-reunion piece I wanted to write, I had to figure out how to find the Leanan Sidhe and a creative way to keep tabs on Monique, there was the matter of helping Blade determine who killed his parents and why—and more importantly, who the hell shot my window out. But all that would have to wait until I picked up my dog before Cinnamon decided to feed him a Xanax-laced steak.

  When I got to Cin’s house, Thor was stretched out on the front porch in front of the skeleton, ears erect, paws stretched out in front of him, lying statue-still. There was a menacing look about him as if he were the key component in the Halloween décor.

  I climbed out of the car and walked over to my Great Dane.

  I flipped the keys around in my hand and tapped my foot. “We talked about this, Big Man. You can’t come over here uninvited or she’s liable to shoot us both, as hormonal as she is right now.”

  Thor snorted and looked away as if I were a fly that needed shooing.

  From the corner of my eye, I spotted Cinnamon’s fingers separating the blinds that covered the windows of her living room. She peeked out to see who would dare park in her driveway at this ungodly hour. She made eye contact, shook her head at me, said a swear word that I lip-read, and then disappeared. I heard the faint click of a lock turning a few moments later.

  “Really?” She stood there with her hands on her hips, her hair in a loose bun and her face set to annoyed.

  “Hey, at least he didn’t barge in this time,” I said.

  She stood back, swung the door open, and invited us inside.

  Thor waved his snout all across my cousin as he sauntered through the doorway. I smelled bacon, coffee, and something spicy.

  “Want some breakfast?” Cinnamon asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We shuffled through her comfortable living room, past the flat-screen television and silver framed photographs hung at eye level of Uncle Declan, Tony, Cinnamon, her mother Angelica, me, my mom, and the Geraghty Girls, before we arrived in the kitchen.

  I’d always liked Cinnamon’s style. Modern, with neutral colors, clean lines, and a nod toward functionality and comfort. However, there was something different about the kitchen now. Besides the fact that there was hot food in it, I mean. Tony was the chef in the family since Cinnamon didn’t have the time nor the desire for culinary exploration.

  The boxy space was somehow brighter. Cheery even, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. For anyone else, the change might seem normal. A mother-to-be nesting, preparing for the birth of her first child.

  Anyone but Cinnamon, that is. For her, it seemed so out of place that it was downright disturbing.

  “Coffee?” she asked, pot in her hand. She was wearing baggy sweats and a Led Zeppelin tee shirt that just barely grazed her swollen belly.

  “Sure.”

  I watched as she reached for a mug on a low-hanging shelf. She poured the coffee, swirled some cream into it that came out of the nose of a tiny ceramic cow leaping over the moon, and handed it to me.

  “Have a seat. There’s a roasted red pepper, spinach, and goat cheese frittata in the oven. Should be ready soon.”

  A frittata? With vegetables? And goat cheese? I didn’t even think Cinnamon knew what goat cheese was, let alone how to incorporate it into the first meal of the day. And she had a strict policy against eating anything green. Vegetables, Cin believed, are what real food eats.

  I glanced briefly at Thor, whose eyes were struggling to stay glued to my cousin, although they occasionally betrayed their post by sliding over to the sizzling bacon in the pan. I took the mug of steaming coffee from Cinnamon, noticing that it had a crown on it, thanked her, and sat at the table.

  There was something off about the table. It was softer. When I set my coffee down I realized it was because there was a tablecloth draped over it. The white cloth was covered in tiny cherries, arguably the most cheerful fruit. The Cinnamon I knew wouldn’t even eat in a restaurant that had cherry table coverings, let alone be caught dead with one on her table.

  What the hell was going on?

  I sat down and inspected the rest of the kitchen. There was a Humpty Dumpty egg timer ticking on the stove, a salt and pepper shaker set was on the counter with the names “Hansel and Gretel” etched across the base, the curtains were printed with once-bitten apples, and the napkin holder in front of me was hand-painted with the image of Little Red Riding Hood. I turned it around to see the wolf on the other side dressed in a housecoat and bonnet, teeth dripping with venom.

  Maybe Cinnamon had been featured on one of those designer remake shows and the guys who showed up to give the place a facelift were the Brothers Grimm.

  I took a tentative sip of the coffee. Cinnamon’s idea of coffee usually tasted like it was scraped off the bottom of the Mississippi, but this concoction was a tasty, nutmeg-infused varie
ty.

  A clock chimed and I glanced up in the direction of the noise, thinking it might be later than I thought. The clock was above the pantry, and I jumped when a mouse scurried out, tweaked its whiskers, and melted back into the base.

  Okay, now I was officially creeped out. I looked at Thor, who had anchored himself in the corner, with a ringside view of the room. He flicked his eyes at me as if to say I told you so, then went back to studying my cousin. And the bacon.

  Cinnamon was humming a tune I couldn’t place as she drained the bacon on paper towels stamped with roses.

  The humming was the part that lit my inner flare gun.

  I once saw Cinnamon escort a man out of her bar by his nipples when he refused to stop humming. In her defense, she gave the guy three chances.

  Something was terribly wrong. I decided that perhaps Thor should keep an eye and an ear on my cousin after all. I was also thankful I had engaged his audio/visual equipment last night.

  Humpty Dumpty fell off the stove and cracked in half, which I assumed meant the eggs were done.

  Cinnamon stooped to pick the timer up, set it back on the counter, and opened a cabinet where the plates were stashed.

  “Let me help you,” I said.

  She waved an arm behind her. “You’ll only get in my way. Sit.”

  I sat. When she pulled the plates from the shelf, I thanked the Goddess that they were her plain old white ones.

  She set the plates on the counter next to the stove, grabbed a red oven mitt, and opened the oven door to check the egg pie. She wiggled the glass pie plate, made a slight sound of affirmation, and removed the frittata. She set it on a trivet, grabbed the salt and pepper and the plates, and plopped them in front of me.

  I looked at Hansel and Gretel suspiciously, sniffing the tiny holes in their heads when Cinnamon went back for the bacon and frittata. I sneezed from inhaling the pepper.

  “Gesundheit,” she said absent-mindedly.

  I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if Mother Goose had walked through the door right then and joined us for breakfast.

  Cinnamon returned with silverware and I reached for a napkin that was also plain white, thankfully. I handed my cousin one as she cut the frittata. Over her shoulder, I noticed the light was still illuminated on the oven, indicating it was still on.

  I scooted my chair back. “You forgot to turn the oven off.”

  Cinnamon said, “I did?”

  She turned her head sideways and right before my eyes, the gas stove powered off.

  Cin flicked her gaze to me for a moment as she scooped up a piece of the egg and vegetable pie. She put it on a plate and passed it to me. “It’s on a timer. Shuts off automatically.”

  “Is that so? Then why did you use your cute little egg-man?”

  Honestly, a Humpty Dumpty egg timer? Cin hated kitschy stuff like that.

  She stiffened for a brief moment, then she cut herself a wedge of the pie and slid it onto her plate. “Doesn’t always work. So I use backup.”

  “Hmm.”

  She was lying through her teeth.

  “You’ve had that stove since you moved into this place. I always saw Tony shut it off manually.”

  Cinnamon ignored me and unwrapped the bacon. She offered me a piece, which I declined, then she tossed a few to Thor, who gobbled them up.

  It wasn’t a digital oven. This was an older model with dials. No way it could turn off on its own.

  Cinnamon sat down in her chair and I took a bite of the frittata. It was delicious. We ate in silence for a moment and I was chewing on more than the eggs. Was it the baby that was changing her? I’ve heard that pregnant women can even cause electrical surges, although I’d never seen it. Not from one who wasn’t a witch anyway.

  Is that what was happening? Was Cinnamon becoming a true Geraghty?

  “So what’s with the kitchen makeover?” I asked, sipping my coffee. “Does Martha Stewart do your decorating now?”

  She glared at me. “Shut up. Tony bought this crap. I hate it.”

  Good. At least this woman I understood.

  Cinnamon looked at our plates and snapped her fingers. “Forgot the toast.”

  Before I had a chance to say that I’d make some for her, the goddamn toaster popped out two perfectly golden slices of bread.

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “I didn’t see you put any bread in there.”

  “Must have been before you got here.” She licked her lips.

  I shook my head. “No. If that were true it would have popped up minutes ago.”

  She shot up out of her chair. “I’ll get it.”

  I stood to block her path. “It’s all right, let me.”

  She wiggled around me, faster than I thought she could move even before she got pregnant. She shoved a chair in my path and I hurdled it. We both got to the toaster at the same time.

  Cinnamon grabbed the toast, whirled back to me, and stretched her hands out, dangling the two slices. “You butter them.”

  I stared at her for a while, trying to read her eyes, her thoughts. They were steely, just like my cousin.

  “No problem. The butter’s on the table,” I said cheerfully.

  She shifted slightly to glance at the table and I took the opportunity to scoot her out of the way.

  I knew it before I saw it, but I still couldn’t believe what I was looking at. What was I looking at? It wasn’t possible. Was it?

  The plug from the toaster was several inches away from the nearest outlet. I felt the small white appliance. It was warm. I held the plug in my hand and waved it at Cinnamon.

  I looked my cousin square in the eye and said, “Do you want to tell me something?”

  Chapter 17

  Cinnamon sighed and sank back down in her chair at the table. I went to the refrigerator to grab the butter and slathered it on each piece of toast.

  My cousin dipped her head down for a minute, and when she brought it back up there was a mist in her eyes that startled me.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Stacy. I can’t explain it.” She grabbed another slice of bacon and bit into it, chewing slowly.

  I sat down, put my hand on hers, and said gently, “Just start from the beginning.”

  She looked at the coffee mug in my hand. “That’s decaf. It started with that. Caffeine isn’t good for the baby, so I gave it up.”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded. “Then it was just little things. Reading up on how to take care of myself, you know, normal pregnant women stuff.”

  “And then?” I took another bite of the casserole. It really was delicious.

  Cinnamon tossed her hands in the air. “And then, I don’t know. Then suddenly I’m buying avocados, almond milk, and spices I’ve never even heard of and I’m cooking like Chef Ramsay.”

  “You know who Chef Ramsay is?” I asked.

  She glared at me.

  “Sorry.”

  Cinnamon stabbed at her frittata. “You see what I mean?” she said after she swallowed a mouthful. “It’s freaking delicious! I didn’t even use a recipe, and Stacy, I don’t know how to cook.” Her voice rose several notches, verging on hysteria, and I really wanted to comfort her.

  “Your mother does. Maybe that’s where it’s coming from,” I suggested.

  She shook her head. “It’s more than that. It’s more…odd than that.” She looked behind her as if someone were about to jump out of the pantry and yell Boo! “The appliances seem to have a mind of their own. Yesterday, I left a pie in the oven, forgot all about it, and fell asleep for two hours.” She looked at me, her face a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. “The damn thing came out perfectly cooked, the crust flaky and golden.” She tapped the tablecloth. “Cherry freaking pie. I hate cherries and they aren’t even in season.”

  She seemed
to catch herself and looked at me in wonderment. “You see? How do I know that? I’m not supposed to know stuff like that. I’m supposed to know how to make a Tequila Sunrise, where the best catfish can be caught, and how to load a shotgun.”

  There was definitely no explaining the appliance thing. Even that had me baffled.

  I glanced around the kitchen. “And all this stuff?”

  She flicked her eyes away, a hint of guilt in her voice when she spoke. “I don’t remember buying any of this crap. I hate it, I really do.”

  “You don’t remember?” This frightened me. How could she not remember?

  “No,” she said softly. She leaned into me and whispered, “Stacy, I think it’s the baby. I think this is all because of the baby. It’s like I’m possessed or something.”

  I didn’t like where she was headed with this. Cinnamon was the most stable woman I knew and the thought of her cracking up—or worse—made my heart lurch.

  “What are you saying?”

  She looked around the kitchen, almost fearfully. “I’m saying that the baby is somehow controlling my actions. Does that sound crazy?”

  She looked at me with those huge brown eyes that were always so in control, so void of emotion, but that now were filled with a worry I couldn’t possibly fathom. I didn’t want to tell her that yes, it sounded downright batshit bonkers coming from Cinnamon, but she was a Geraghty, after all. Maybe the baby was somehow controlling her actions, her motivations, her talents. And maybe it was natural if you were carrying a witch in your womb.

  I looked around the room one last time, gobbled up the last bite of frittata, then said, “Come on, let’s go in the other room.”

  Cinnamon sat on the sofa as I examined the living room. The pictures were the same as the last time I was here. No new faces, no new frames. The furniture was plain and comfortable, the curtains devoid of any prints, the walls pale beige, the carpet a speckled, practical earthy-toned Berber. There were no dancing tiki girls on display or nostalgic portraits of Rosie the Riveter, no gnome collections or fuzzy stuffed animals. I ducked my head in the bathroom next. A plain plaid shower curtain, two standard-issue toothbrushes, a counter-length mirror. The bedroom seemed to reflect a young married couple. Clothes tossed on the back of a chair, the bed made with a soft, blue cotton comforter. Tony’s workout room was filled with weights and Men’s Health magazines. The last room I checked was the nursery. I held my breath as I flipped the light switch.