dead. The fire snuffed out, and he was only slightly er—cooked. Someone wanted this guy dead, badly.”
“Sounds ritualistic or a tad Devil worshippy.” And sick, don’t forget sick. I thought of the stuff that had shot up my arms, bubbled and burned inside me. Maybe his death was appropriate.
“I guarantee it either was, or it was deliberately set up to appear that way.”
“When reading Clyde’s journal at Claudia’s house I saw the cold soullessness of his stare.” So very much like Sasha’s after he’d changed. “There’s a certain deadness in a person’s eyes who has an evil soul. Clyde did something to deserve that death.” Of that, I was positive.
“Well whatever he did, it pissed someone off.”
My horses Tina, Willow, Falcor, and Bones came to the fence and whinnied. “Hey guys, dinner will be soon.”
“I felt his evil, but I don’t know what he did.” And hoped to remain ignorant.
Tyreal raised a single black brow, “Felt it? Intuition?”
“No. Through my gift. While touching Clyde’s journal, I felt a viscous slime or ooze,” I bit my lip. How much could I explain this? “I’ve felt ooze before, and it’s always a good indication of the evil dead.”
I looked at Tyreal to catch his reaction. Not only was he listening, he appeared to believe me. “On Monday, just before we met, I’d been to Clyde’s grave. I never enjoy grave reading, but in Clyde’s grave, the evil felt so deeply enmeshed it err, shocked me.”
I still needed to find a protection spell. To look the part, I’d have to make a purple cape plus a wand. A witch had to have a wand.
Tyreal watched a couple of black hens wander past, then a white duck. “Everything country. Did you find anything out today?”
Coffee machines are really expensive. “Claudia gave me a box of stuff. It’s in my living room waiting for me to read.” First, I needed to dig bowel deep for some brave. And I’d find it, even if it was tainted with chicken feces. I wanted that Rembrandt.
“Do you mind company? I’m curious to see what you do. I could make dinner. I cook a mean steak.”
“Actually, I’m a vegetarian so steak would be mean. But you can watch.”
He viewed the horses, the dogs, and cats sitting around. “I can cook other stuff. Vege risotto, vege lasagna, vege quiche, vege, salad, baked potato. Boiled egg … toast?”
I laughed at his fading voice. “How about mushroom risotto? It’s what I planned to make for my own dinner, and I’ve bought heaps.”
“I could cook a mean mushroom.”
“Do you eat mean mushrooms?”
He grinned, “Usually with steak.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll live. I have three types of mushrooms in the fridge, white wine and goat’s cheese. Herbs are in the pots over there acting as the veranda’s rail.” I pointed to dozens of large rectangle terracotta pots. “Herb type is marked with pen on those white labels.”
Inside the house and on my dining table, I spread the journals and letters and sorted them into date order. Tyreal picked up a letter addressed to Clyde from England. “This is written by someone else and addressed to him so this won’t help will it?”
“No. Mrs. Reese-Jones is desperate enough to give me anything written near that time.” I pointed to a fan spread of eight letters, “But these were penned by the man himself.”
I picked up an envelope from the set and pulled out the enclosed letter. The paper was powdery at the edges, thin and splitting in the folds, and freckled with age spots. “ Oooh, good score, this one’s from two months before his murder. He might have been feeling the need to hide that Rembrandt by then.” The less I had to face Clyde the better for my sanity and Vig’s safety.
With my heart jumping around like a bug on a bar-b- que, I sucked in a deep settling breath, pulled up my big girl thong and pressed my hand to the frail paper. I opened my sixth sense and melded the ether into two overlaid time
“Sounds ritualistic or a tad Devil worshippy.” And sick, don’t forget sick. I thought of the stuff that had shot up my arms, bubbled and burned inside me. Maybe his death was appropriate.
“I guarantee it either was, or it was deliberately set up to appear that way.”
“When reading Clyde’s journal at Claudia’s house I saw the cold soullessness of his stare.” So very much like Sasha’s after he’d changed. “There’s a certain deadness in a person’s eyes who has an evil soul. Clyde did something to deserve that death.” Of that, I was positive.
“Well whatever he did, it pissed someone off.”
My horses Tina, Willow, Falcor, and Bones came to the fence and whinnied. “Hey guys, dinner will be soon.”
“I felt his evil, but I don’t know what he did.” And hoped to remain ignorant.
Tyreal raised a single black brow, “Felt it? Intuition?”
“No. Through my gift. While touching Clyde’s journal, I felt a viscous slime or ooze,” I bit my lip. How much could I explain this? “I’ve felt ooze before, and it’s always a good indication of the evil dead.”
I looked at Tyreal to catch his reaction. Not only was he listening, he appeared to believe me. “On Monday, just before we met, I’d been to Clyde’s grave. I never enjoy grave reading, but in Clyde’s grave, the evil felt so deeply enmeshed it err, shocked me.”
I still needed to find a protection spell. To look the part, I’d have to make a purple cape plus a wand. A witch had to have a wand.
Tyreal watched a couple of black hens wander past, then a white duck. “Everything country. Did you find anything out today?”
Coffee machines are really expensive. “Claudia gave me a box of stuff. It’s in my living room waiting for me to read.” First, I needed to dig bowel deep for some brave. And I’d find it, even if it was tainted with chicken feces. I wanted that Rembrandt.
“Do you mind company? I’m curious to see what you do. I could make dinner. I cook a mean steak.”
“Actually, I’m a vegetarian so steak would be mean. But you can watch.”
He viewed the horses, the dogs, and cats sitting around. “I can cook other stuff. Vege risotto, vege lasagna, vege quiche, vege, salad, baked potato. Boiled egg … toast?”
I laughed at his fading voice. “How about mushroom risotto? It’s what I planned to make for my own dinner, and I’ve bought heaps.”
“I could cook a mean mushroom.”
“Do you eat mean mushrooms?”
He grinned, “Usually with steak.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ll live. I have three types of mushrooms in the fridge, white wine and goat’s cheese. Herbs are in the pots over there acting as the veranda’s rail.” I pointed to dozens of large rectangle terracotta pots. “Herb type is marked with pen on those white labels.”
Inside the house and on my dining table, I spread the journals and letters and sorted them into date order. Tyreal picked up a letter addressed to Clyde from England. “This is written by someone else and addressed to him so this won’t help will it?”
“No. Mrs. Reese-Jones is desperate enough to give me anything written near that time.” I pointed to a fan spread of eight letters, “But these were penned by the man himself.”
I picked up an envelope from the set and pulled out the enclosed letter. The paper was powdery at the edges, thin and splitting in the folds, and freckled with age spots. “ Oooh, good score, this one’s from two months before his murder. He might have been feeling the need to hide that Rembrandt by then.” The less I had to face Clyde the better for my sanity and Vig’s safety.
With my heart jumping around like a bug on a bar-b- que, I sucked in a deep settling breath, pulled up my big girl thong and pressed my hand to the frail paper. I opened my sixth sense and melded the ether into two overlaid time
Similar Books
