Noon and Wilder

The front lawn seemed oddly serene in the midst of all the bustle. Only a few uniformed police officers stood outside, mostly to keep the public back. None of the neighbors tried to step onto the lawn, as though to get to close might make the murder rub off on them.

“Concentrate, Gary,” she murmured to herself, irritated at how her mind wandered. It did not reassure her when the scarab started pulsing on her shoulder.

“Ma’am?” one of the men nearby asked, brows crinkled.

“As you were,” she snapped. She strode past and up the steps, her boots banging like hollow drums.

The door handle felt hot and her elbow went numb. She hissed and pulled her hand back. Idiot! Where was her brain, dammit? Don’t touch the door of a murder scene with bare skin; psychic echoes left behind still had strength especially this close it. She rubbed her hands on her arms and shouldered the door open.

The entryway had faded brown carpeting covered by a rubber mat that stretch from the front door all the way down the hall. Immediately to the left stood a spindly-legged console table with recent mail, a basket with keys, and a well-cared-for wallet of brown leather. An EMT pushed passed her with a murmured apology and headed toward the back of the house. She could see the two wide-bodied men dressed in identical uniforms, ‘Coroner’ on the back in white letters like a protective emblem.

She shook herself and looked to the right.

The living room stretched all the way to the right exterior wall, windows in the front, back, and even a small one on the back corner, to her left, by a small reading chair. Her boot thudded on the strip of hardwood floor and then she stepped onto a rug. The minute she stepped down on it, she knew some living hand made it, cared for every braid and stitch. As the magic whispered up her body and made her hair tingle, she knew.

The deceased had been a witch.

She walked forward, one hand out and palm down, parallel to the floor. She walked the entire perimeter, all the way to that small window, and stopped. The wards gleamed in her mind’s eye, undisturbed in this room.

“Anything?” Sandillo’s voice, when it came from behind her, didn’t startle her so much as draw her back into her body.

“The wards are undisturbed.”

“What?” Jon demanded, sounding confused.

“How?” Sandillo asked. “The killer had to come in somehow.”

“The back door,” she responded. “This room is still warded.” She circled to the right, hand still out. A wave of cold flowed into her and she froze. “Stop!”

“Get back, Taylor. Let her work.” Sandillo used that ‘tone’ he got, the one that intimidated men twice his size.

Belinda glanced over and saw Jon step back into the hall, perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

“Just watch,” Sandillo advised. “She doesn’t do this often, but she’s never been wrong.”

“The rug was made by someone of power,” she told them, eyes on the walls. “There are wards in this room. It’s not where he does his circles, but…” She trailed off. “There’s something here…”

“Solitary?”

“Could be,” she hedged. “Gran would know. She lets solitaries practice here, sometimes, and it would explain why there’s not more warding, more people.”

“What about the housekeeper?” Sandillo cleared his throat. “Is she a practitioner?”

Belinda wanted to laugh. Sandillo, from another time and place, knew those who practiced Santeria. To this day, he refused to use the word ‘witch,’ and rarely the word ‘Wiccan.’ She didn’t bother to correct him. “It’s possible. There’s only male energy here, though. I’d check the kitchen.”

“That’s where the body is,” Jon put in.

Her stomach clenched. The wards tightened around her, as though they could understand his words. She stopped, dizzy.

“Belinda?” Sandillo asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answered. She straightened with some effort. “These wards are strong.”

“Not strong enough,” Jon muttered darkly.

“You don’t understand.” She swallowed around suddenly dry mouth. “They’re very strong. They’re not meant to keep out a physical threat. They’re meant to keep out psychic intrusion. The dagger is an artifact, a verifiable artifact of magical power. This man knew that, and these wards… I think these wards somehow know he’s dead.”

“That’s impossible! There’s a real, flesh-and-blood body in that other room, Belinda. Fairies didn’t kill him. The burglar did!” Jon’s face flushed.

“Okay, then you tell me why the two of you are standing on the wood and not the rug, Sergeant Taylor!” She advanced on him. “And since you’re such an expert on the unseen, explain to me how this room lay undisturbed when he’s clearly got a gun in this drawer!” She yanked the top drawer of the china cabinet by the door open to reveal the forty-five. “Now. Since you don’t have answers to those very reasonable questions, get the hell out of my way and let me do my job!” She pushed passed him into the hallway and strode to the kitchen.

“Belinda!” Jon protested.

She ignored him and walked through the door at the end of the hall. She stopped on the threshold and then had to step out of the door when another investigator needed entrance to dust for more prints.

Her mind refused to understand what she stared at. The immaculate white kitchen, with its white-painted walls and white tile around the sink, stood as though caught in the middle of a sentence and just interrupted, about to resume at any moment. The crimson splashes decorating the fridge seemed almost pretty, a bright and cheerful red in contrast to the plain fixtures. The body lay, limbs every-which-way, under a sheet. As she caught sight of it, a man from the coroner’s office walked by with a body bag and she heard the gurney approach down the hall.

She stepped into the alcove that led to the back door, a well-stocked pantry on her left. Neatly-arranged canned goods lined the shelves, as well as two fresh loaves of bread and various supplies for baking more. Behind her, aside from the body, the kitchen had been demolished. She didn’t turn around to look; the image seemed burned into her retinas like a strobe light. Broken dishes lined the floor all around the table, at least two plates, mugs, silverware, and a decanter of what had probably been orange juice. Fresh squeezed, by the smell of it. Shards of a Louisville Slugger lay on the floor, shattered by the force of a blow. Or possibly several blows.

She made it out the back door without having to vomit, and walked all the way into the middle of the back yard. Deep breaths steadied her. She squatted down in the grass and ran her fingers through it. She’d forgotten how bad it felt to be around the violently dead. The death energies swirled around that kitchen like debris in a toilet bowl.

“It takes a while to get used to. Some never do.” Jon held a wet-nap down for her. “This will help. Clear your nose.”

She tore the packet open and inhaled the unpleasant antiseptic odor deep into her lungs. It overrode the other scents and she felt herself steady a little. “I should have slept first, before coming here.” She wiped both hands with the damp cloth and it felt good, soothed her nerves.

“Because of dreams?”

“No. Because my shields are shot to hell.” She eased to her feet. “That murderer is dangerous, Jon. Agitated and violent.”

“You say that like we haven’t already seen their work.”

His warm chocolate gaze filled her awareness and she blinked it away before she violated his privacy again. “We haven’t.” She turned back to the house to study its backside. Out here, the paint on the exterior gleamed a soft grey that seemed to recede from view, a subtle color that didn’t clash with the trees. A breeze blew the scent of the lake toward her and she inhaled.

“There are two other sites, Belinda,” Jon told her in a tone that made it clear he thought she should have remembered that.

“It’s not the same person . That’s what I’m telling you.” She waved her hand at the house. “Whoever killed that man isn’t the same burglar as the other two crime scenes. They were methodical, surgically precise. This… This is a goddamn blood bath, is what it is. Totally enraged… There’s a mess everywhere. Broken china, even a chair. Jon, whoever did this isn’t the same person!”

He shook his head. “I’ll go so far as to grant that you may be able to see things other people can’t. But knowledge of the killer? What, did a little fairy tell you that too?”

She stared at him, hands balled into fists. She briefly considered ‘borrowing’ more of her brother’s strength to wipe that sanctimonious expression off the big man’s face, but it wasn’t worth it. “Get a ride home with one of the beat cops or Sandillo. I’m done.” She walked past him without even slapping him, for which she ought to get a prize.

“Belinda. Belinda!” He started after her and then she heard one of the men from inside call to him.

She could feel his frustration like a physical pressure. She couldn’t blame him; this case would frustrate a saint. Too many things didn’t add up. But too much had happened for her to care. Her phone buzzed and she yanked it out of a pocket.

“Bee, what’s wrong? I can –”

She snapped it closed on her brother’s sentence, and then thumbed the ‘off’ button. She made it all the way to her car before Sandillo caught up to her. Had she been a few seconds quicker, he’d never have made it at all.

“Belinda.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

She blew out her breath but didn’t turn. “What, Lieutenant?”

He walked up and leaned on the car, next to her, close but not touching. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I need sleep. I haven’t slept since yesterday.” And you dragged me out here for this fucking murder and I don’t want to be here anymore! She managed to not say that part out loud.

“Fine. I’ll cover for you with Taylor. Just be sure you know what you’re doing.”

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

His dark brown eyes seemed unusually thoughtful. “Just be careful. I don’t want to have to explain to your grandmother how I got you killed on an assignment.”

She felt a chill and remembered the premonition she’d had, when she first met Jon. She laughed shakily. “You develop the Sight and didn’t tell me?”

He leaned closer and opened her car door. “Just be careful.”

She got in and he closed the door behind her, and watched as she drove away.

Try as she might, she couldn’t just shake off his concern as mere nerves. She turned the car toward home and prayed nothing else cropped up to interfere. As she pulled into the line of cars going down the road, she felt eyes on her. But when she looked back, she saw nothing.

Here’s hoping it really was nothing. She shivered and turned onto the main drag.

Brock used turning and topping off his cup of chai to hide his expression from his twin and her observant new partner. He could feel their gazes like a pair of laser beams drilling into his back. His mind racing, Brock decided how much he could tell them.

He also wondered how he could shield from his sister to prevent her from discovering more. She could easily pick up things from the connection between them. He could only do it when they were touching. He understood their powers were different and balanced, but it bugged him how much better Belinda’s skill was. Perhaps he could get her to shield instead of him?
Realizing the solution to his dilemma, Brock took a long sip before turning. He strolled back to the table and a finger moved the crude sketch of the dagger.

“Who did this? It’s awful.”

“Probably not an artist up to your standards,” Belinda commented, rolling her eyes. “What do you know about it?”

“That I can draw you one better,” he informed them.

“And where have you seen it?” Jon asked.

The other man’s voice rumbled, low and strong. Brock’s gaze met the hard stare of the cop. Nothing submissive showed in the flat brown depths and he wondered if he had been wrong.

Brock hated being wrong.

He ignored the disappointment welling deep in his belly. The other man’s earlier submissive manner could have just been an attempt to downplay his huge size. Brock knew other people’s reaction to it, seeing it first-hand many times.

Of course, the other possibility was that Jon only played in the bedroom; a normally dominant man that chose to give control when the whim, or the right master, appealed to him. That idea caused Brock’s cock to twitch in his pants.

Belinda’s snort broke the stare off between him and her new partner.

“TMI,” she told him.

“What? He hasn’t told us anything,” Jon protested.

Brock smirked; secretly glad his twin had only read his lustful musings and nothing more.

He gestured to the bench. “I’ll talk while I work.”

Belinda glared at him and he blandly returned the look. He had already wiped it down earlier, knowing he was going to tat, but not who. Belinda’s appearance actually surprised him. She refused to be under his needle while they disagreed on matters. His fingers itched to put his mark and magic on her skin. It let him protect her and she resented that he felt that she needed it.

Nope, not his lone wolf, tough cop baby sister. Belinda wanted to prove she could stand on her own without her family and coven supporting her.

She stood, her chair scraping on the hardwood floor. Belinda stalked to the bench, everything in her manner proclaiming that she agreed under duress and only because she needed his help.

Brock ignored her attitude. As her big brother by seven minutes, it was his duty and right to protect her. Besides, he really wanted to see his design on the canvas of her skin.

Jon spoke up. “Do we really have time for this?”

“Trust me, it will be easier in the long run,” Belinda assured her new partner.

“Yes, I do like getting my own way,” Brock purred.

Belinda peeled off her shirt knowing that Brock wanted her back. While her black lacy bra was revealed he reached back to braid his hair out of the way. This caused his sweater to ride up again. An intent brown gaze examined his treasure trail and the flat plane of his belly, ignoring the curves of his sister’s breasts.

Brock might be wrong about whether Jon possessed submissive qualities, but the evidence proved the other man definitely like his own sex. With him at least being partly right about Jon and his sister needing his help, Brock’s morning was improving.

“Gloating is such a shallow emotion,” Belinda informed him.

He sat on his stool and rolled it closer; bringing his tray holding his gun along. Brock smoothed his palm along his waiting canvas, and ignored Belinda watching him over her shoulder from her now prone position.

“Yes, it is,” Brock agreed, smirking. It changed to a deliberately concerned expression. “So, how are you adjusting to a new partner?”

He accompanied the question with a slight mental nudge and hid his pleased reaction when her mental shields slid into place. He could almost ‘hear’ the echo of a clang. This was exactly what he hoped for. With her shields solidly up to block Brock she hampered her own ability to read his thoughts.

Now he could discuss the daggers and not worry about his twin discovering more than he wanted to reveal at this time.

Brock glanced at Jon and nodded his head towards the sofa. The studio ran the length of the brownstone with his drafting table near the front window to take advantage of the natural light. The middle part of the room held the discussion table and kitchenette and at the other end his chair also sat in spilled sunlight from the windows overlooking his back garden. Positioned close by Brock had placed a comfy sofa for his client’s companions. Seldom did one get a tattoo alone.

He watched with open pleasure as the larger man moved with fluid grace. A sharp punch on his upper thigh, too close to the proximity of his groin for comfort, reminded him of his waiting sister.

“Spill,” she informed him.

Ignoring her prompt, he cleaned the area with liquid soap and warm water before shaving it. He used a little pink disposable razor and then swabbed with alcohol. Pushing up the sleeves of his sweater, he felt Jon’s gaze on the colorful ink adorning his wrists and forearms.

Drawing the outline of his design on her skin Brock began. “There are several daggers that form a set.”

“We know that, Jolly.”

He frowned at Belinda. She didn’t need to refer to him by her personal nickname, ‘The Jolly Green Giant,’ in front of company.

“There are six of them. Five are identical. They look like the drawing, which is crappy, by the way. I’ll draw you a better one.”

“And just how do you know how it looks?” Jon repeated.

Brock grinned at the other man. Already he loved the low, growly tone Jon used sometimes.

“Wilfrieda is a member of the Madison Historical Society. As the oldest object in her small collection she’s shown it off to other members. She’s only had it less than a year. You’ll need it.”

“We should be getting the insurance photos any time now,” Belinda interjected.

“And they will be blurred or fuzzy; you know how magical items don’t want to be recorded by ‘modern means.’ Something will be wrong with them,” Brock reminded her.

Belinda remanded silent while Jon gave a disbelieving grunt. It seemed the practical detective did not ‘believe.’ Brock ignored the other man’s reaction. He examined the designed drawn on the smooth skin of his sister’s shoulder. He free-handed it, preferring not to use transfer paper this time, like he usually did. The sketches he labored over right before their arrival, now abandoned on his work table, were still fresh in his mind.

“Mirror. You likey?”

Belinda glanced over her shoulder to look at the scarab crouched on her left shoulder using the mirror placed on the ceiling for that purpose. Now she grunted, but Brock knew she hid her pleasure.

“No ink,” she cautioned him.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not using up my canvas so soon. I’ve got years worth of art waiting.”

“You wish.”

“I know,” he retorted in true sibling fashion.

“It’s a bug,” Jon announced, interrupting their squabbling.

Brock blinked. The flowing lines of the scarab, the ancient Egyptian symbol for rebirth and protection, were so much more than a ‘bug.’ He did not appreciate the criticism of his choice or skill by the ignorant. A tense silence filled the spacious room after Jon spoke.

Jezebel’s plaintive meow broke it as the cat door flap swung shut behind her entrance. Her paws making soft patting sounds on the hardwood floor, she traversed the length of the long room to join them.

Her amber eyes begged as she circled and danced where she stopped nearby. Brock had trained her not to approach his actual work space and compromise the sterile setting. Her need to greet Belinda threatened those ingrained teachings.

Belinda crooned and Brock sighed and rolled away. His sister moved and ended up sitting on the floor, an ecstatic tortoise-shell feline in her lap. He grabbed the pot and topped off his mug and then moved to do the same for Jon. His mugs were oversized, painted and glazed by a fellow artist, but appeared tiny when cradled in the other man’s huge hands.

He wondered what they would feel like on his skin, warm and rough. He crowded close to the detective, letting his legs press against Jon’s while he purposely loomed over him. Brock wanted to straddle those thick thighs and sink down to sit on that large lap. To discover if the loose folds of the other man’s dress slacks hid a growing erection that would feel wonderful pressed against his ass.

“So, is Gilberto Balistreri also a member of the Historical Society?” his sister asked, interrupting his private fantasy.

Brock gave Jon a last smoldering look before backing away. The detective hurriedly sipped and gasped, the fresh chai hot and scalding. Brock added more to his sister’s mug before returning the pot to the warming plate.

After returning to his stool he answered her question. “Yes, Gilbert is always trying to impress Gran with his knowledge, as if making up for his lack of magic.” Brock frowned. “But, lately he’s been flirting with Wilfrieda. I thought he just gave up on the old bird and switched to a more obtainable objective.”

Belinda returned to her spot on the bench despite Jezebel’s plaintive sounds. Brock watched his pet notice an empty lap and make a bee line for it. The grunt Jon made as she leapt and landed on his groin make Brock wince.

“Sorry, I hope you like cats,” Brock commented.

“Have one of my own.” Jon’s fingers scratched under Jezebel’s chin and she began purring for him.

Ohhhh, did this man get better and better, Brock thought. He watched the detective’s large, calloused palm stroke the long, multicolored fur, almost envious of his pet. He felt his sister’s shields tighten against him and hid his smirk.

“Did you know that Mr. Balistreri also owned a dagger?”

That brought Brock’s attention back to the reason of their visit. “No, and I can’t believe that he never showed it off to Gran. So they both have been stolen and that drawing is of the esteemed Miss Greenlee’s dagger?”

“Perhaps your grandmother knew and chose not to share that information with you?” Jon said.

Both twins gave him a disbelieving look.

“I’m her favorite. She tells me everything. Even stuff I don’t want to hear about,” Brock clarified.

His sister grunted her agreement.

“Are they both okay?” He couldn’t believe he forgot to ask until now.

“Both slick jobs while the owners were away, only the pugs were scared,” Belinda replied.

“Well, the ‘boys’ do have delicate sensibilities.” Brock continued in a more serious vein. “Celtic legends claim that the daggers were a sword broken down, melted and re-smithed into the set. That’s why the last one to be found will be different, it is the original hilt.”

He picked up the gun and checked the depth of the needle’s penetration. Since no ink needed to be deposited below the epidermal level the taps would be shallower. Brock bent over, the familiar hum comforting him. He started the outline of the sacred beetle as he continued to talk. Pink dots bloomed where his needles tapped.

“Is the sword evil?” Jon asked.

Brock hid his grin. For someone that didn’t believe in magic the possibility of an inanimate object being evil revealed a lot.

“No, it just bestows power. Some claim that it is a soul sword, Gran might know more.”

Brock waited.

Belinda knew better than to sigh under his gun, but he could hear it in her voice. “Could you ask her next time you see her?”

“Oh, as a favor to you?”

Jon answered instead of his sister. “No, as a favor to the Madison Police Department. Unless you believe my questioning her would provide more results?”

Brock’s mind boggled at the idea of his grandmother being hauled in and put in one of those little rooms with the one-way mirrors. He knew his mental images were an exaggeration, based on the cop shows he and his twin watched growing up with Uncle Matt. He wondered if Gran’s one allowed phone call would be to him or the governor.

~Move the gun~ his sister advised, her voice a whisper in his mind.

His hand lifted as Belinda’s body convulsed with giggles. He couldn’t help joining her as Jon glowered at them. Somehow that made it funnier.

Wiping the tears streaming from his eyes, Brock realized how long it had been since he heard her laugh. Too long.

He wiped the skin one last time before framing the area with his fingers and pushing. Gently breathing on it, Brock said the incantation silently as the blood welled up.

“Done,” he told Belinda, leaning back.

She studied in the overhead mirror the outlined scarab formed of blood drops. They gleamed like tiny rubies on her back. She smiled at the result.

“And, yes, I will chat with Gran,” Brock volunteered.

When his sister’s smile extended to include him at his offer, Brock knew that this case would be the bridge rebuilt between them. He hoped the information he hid for now didn’t jeopardize that fragile foundation.