Sloane woke the following day to the aroma of cinnamon and coffee. It meant only one thing—Dorathea. Elvina was perched in the kitchen window behind the sink. Dorathea was hand-washing a pile of dishes.
“Can’t you just snap your fingers and clean those,” Sloane asked as she grabbed a coffee mug from a cupboard.
Nice of you to finally join us , the familiar said. Your coffee’s ready.
Dorathea wiped her hands with a towel and turned around. “I often do the dishes like Nogicals. I find it relaxing.” She eyed her. “I understand you had a difficult night after we left and sought solace in a bottle.”
Sloane looked at Elvina. “What? Now you’re tattling?”
I only told her why you were still in bed.
Sloane rubbed her temples. “Not so loud. My head hurts.”
“Serves you right.” Dorathea grabbed an oven mitt. “Elvina tells me you have grieved your past relationship for two years. And now your mum?”
“Are you kidding me?” Sloane stared at the familiar. “Elvina needs to keep my business out of her chitchat.”
“Don’t blame her. I asked what was causing your peculiar behavior.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I hardly need to spell it out. You drink into a stupor and dress in shabby clothes. You are a sad caricature, indeed.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Sloane stepped past Dorathea, wrapping her cardigan tight. “This happens to be my favorite sweater.”
“Obviously,” Dorathea said.
Sloane poured a cup of coffee and watched Dorathea retrieve a coffee cake from the oven. “I thought you only baked scones.”
“Freya taught me a new recipe.” Her face softened.
“Smells good. Stop nagging me like Jane, and I might stay for a piece.”
“Hmm.” Dorathea snapped her fingers, and the coffee cake, the carafe of coffee, and a teapot reappeared on the breakfast table. “Are you in a hurry to leave?”
“I have a meeting with Quinn Reed.” She sat at the table. “Why? Did you want me to train this morning?”
“No. Not yet.” Dorathea sent the teapot to Elvina’s cup and back to hers. “Have you been practicing the detection and disarming spells?”
Elvina looked up from her plate. Every chance she gets. It’s annoying.
Dorathea smiled. “I recall you felt the same about Jane’s practicing when she was young.”
Elvina returned to her coffee cake when suddenly the plate slid to the other side of the table.
“Well, well. You have learned to silently disarm. Quite impressive, indeed.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
Thrilling, isn’t it? Elvina flicked her tail, and the plate returned to her.
Sloane’s phone rang. “Listen, I need to take this call.” She walked onto the patio. “Garcia, where’ve you been?”
“Hey, how about a great to hear from you or something.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. How are you?”
“Sorry?” Garcia laughed. “You’ve only been in Canada for a week. And they got you apologizing?”
“Funny. How about you give me the info I need.”
“Okay. Okay. The number ending in zero seven is registered to Lore Emilie Reed. The number ending in twenty-two belongs to Gannon W. Ferris. None of your suspects have priors. I’m still waiting for Morris’s records.”
“Nothing on Gannon?”
“That’s right. No priors, but he’s not a choir boy. His known associates are doing time. His Uncle Scottie is head of a gaming syndicate. Got popped for money laundering and illegal gaming. He’s doing a long haul in prison.”
“All right. Email me everything you have,” Sloane said.
“Just sent it. But if you go after Gannon, take someone with you, ahright?”
“What? You’re my mother, now?”
“Not likely. I’m just making sure I get my drink at Stella’s.”
“You got it. Thanks for everything.” Sloane hung up and returned to the breakfast table. She read Garcia’s email. “Change of plans. Going to have to cancel with Quinn. That was my contact in New York. I just got a break in Harold’s case. Remember Gannon Ferris from the repast? Well, he’s in imports. Has an office in Victoria’s Chinatown. But it looks like that’s not how he pays the bills.”
Sloane picked up her tote and turned toward the door.
“Wait,” Dorathea said. “When I detected him at the repast, I could see Gannon Ferris was not a Demon. But he is plain evil, in the Nogical sense. If you face danger in his presence, refrain from casting a spell in anger. Use what you have learned. Let Elvina protect you if need be.”
The familiar’s head popped up, and she licked cinnamon and sugar from her whiskers.
“I’ll be fine,” Sloane said. “I promise to seek peace before kicking anyone’s a—”
“Sloane, please,” Dorathea interrupted. “Shall I accompany you?”
“No. I’ll behave. But you could let me borrow Onyx.”
“I think not. She would never approve.” Dorathea got to her feet. “I suppose it is time you met Pearl.”
Ooh, yes. It’s been ages since I’ve seen her , Elvina said.
“Pearl? I don’t have time to meet anyone.”
“Not someone. Nathaniel and Mary’s car.”
“Oh, of course. Their car has a name.” Sloane smirked. Dorathea led them to the garage.
Sloane exhaled a loud, deep breath at the sight of lawn and garden equipment, sports gear, and holiday decorations hanging on every inch of the walls. A riding mower and several tool cabinets were crammed against the back wall behind a car covered by a tarp. “Jesus, more junk to deal with. What do a wizard and witch need with lawn equipment and tools?” she asked.
“Wiċċan, pet. We use them to blend in. And honestly, I find gardening quite fulfilling.” Dorathea flicked her wrist, and the car’s cover slid off.
“Whoa,” Sloane whispered.
“Nathaniel and Mary’s first and only car, a white 1962 MGA Deluxe roadster. We created a lot of memories with Pearl.”
So did Jane. Elvina purred and leaped onto the car’s curved headlight.
Sloane moved closer to Dorathea. “Is this car like your stuff? You know, imbued with some spirit that I might piss off?”
“You have such a way with words,” Dorathea answered. “Pearl’s enchantment ended when Nathaniel and Mary died.” Her voice lowered, and she ran her hand along the curve of the hood. “And now, she is yours. You might wish to enchant her at some point.” She opened the car door. “Can you drive a manual?”
Sloane slipped behind the wheel into the buttery soft leather seat.
“I guess it’s time to learn.”
* * *
Sloane entered Victoria’s historic Chinatown through the Gate of Harmonious Interest, an elaborate entrance of red and gold with a tiled hard-hill roof. Foo dog statues perched on each side. A female yin and male yang protected all who entered.
Sloane tried to pull into a parking spot, ramming Pearl’s gearstick into first. It ground and squealed until the car finally rolled into the spot. “Sorry about that.” She patted the dashboard and remembered the only time she had driven a standard. It was in the Catskills on a getaway with Jess, and after driving the rental Jeep for one day, she had stripped its gears. The memory made her frown.
She put Gannon Ferris’s business address into her phone’s GPS. His office was only a few blocks away, and GPS directed her back to Fisgard Street. The main drag was lined with cherry trees in full bloom. They filled the air with a faint scent of almond and rose. Red Chinese lanterns, hooked onto the roofs of two- and three-story brick and stone stores, hung on crisscrossed strings of lights up and down the length of the street. She entered the narrow lane, Dragon Alley, an unfriendly place to meet a suspect. But it was a brilliant place to do business if you had enemies.
Gannon’s office was number ten, North Pacific Imports, the last business in the lane and leading to a courtyard around which the building was constructed. She walked to the end of the alley onto Herald Street and looked up and down the road. A decent escape route if she needed one. She returned to North Pacific Imports’ door, and a cluster of tiny bells jingled when she entered. Gannon’s receptionist sat behind a black lacquer desk. She was young, in her early twenties. She looked up from her computer and gave Sloane a perky smile.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“I’m here for my twelve-thirty appointment with Mr. Ferris,” Sloane answered.
The receptionist looked confused and turned to her computer. “May I have your name?”
“Sloane West.” She peeked over the reception counter, scanning the desk.
“I’m sorry, Ms. West.” The young woman turned to her. “There must be a mistake. You’re not on Mr. Ferris’s calendar.”
“That can’t be right. We set up the meeting weeks ago. You’re Jules, right?”
Her doe eyes widened. “We did? I’m so sorry. Wait here. I’ll see if Mr. Ferris is available.” She disappeared and Sloane bent over the counter to grab a business flyer with Gannon’s picture.
A few minutes later, Jules returned with Gannon Ferris. He was dressed in a navy suit over a crisp, teal-striped shirt. His dirty-blond hair was pulled back, and he wore fashionable glasses. He looked like a completely different character from the one she met at Harold’s repast. He almost passed for respectable.
“Ms. West.” He held out his hand. “I’m Gannon Ferris. I understand we’ve had a scheduling mishap.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “If Jules had said how beautiful you were, I wouldn’t have kept you waiting for even a second.”
He pretended not to know her but had a shitty poker face. Sloane had already figured out his tell. She grasped his extended hand. “I promise I only need a minute of your time, Mr. Ferris.”
“Please, call me Gannon.” He held her hand as she pulled it back, then released his grip and turned to his receptionist. “Jules, hold my calls. Ms. West and I will be in my office.”
“After you,” he said, motioning her into his office, an intimate space with a set of French doors that opened onto the large courtyard. “Nice view, huh? The garden is the only reason I leased this suite, otherwise you only get natural light if you’re in the front or back of the building. And believe me, I pay more for it here.” He walked over to a bar cart, a retro fifties deal. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thanks. My visit isn’t social.” Sloane dropped her tote next to a plain wooden chair and sat.
He poured a drink from a crystal decanter and sat in a leather chair behind his desk. “How can I help you with your nonsocial visit?”
“I’m a private investigator from New York. I’d like to ask you a few questions about a case I’m working on.”
Gannon leaned back and propped his foot on a cabinet. “You’re a PI? Are you playing with me? I figured you for a lingerie model or something. But, hey, a detective’s sexy, too.” He loosened his tie. “I’ve never been to the Big Apple. Maybe I’ll plan a trip now.”
“Do you have any business dealings in New York?”
He shook his head. “My operation is exclusively West Coast. That’s why it’s in the name.”
She crossed her legs and rested a hand on her knee. “How do you know Charles Huxham?”
“Charlie? Oh, me and him go way back. But come to think of it, I haven’t heard from him in a few days.”
“Did you know Harold Huxham, his uncle?”
Gannon sat his drink on the desk. “No. Can’t say that I did. I never got the chance to meet him.”
“Yet you and Charles go way back? Why didn’t he ever introduce you to his uncle?”
“You’ll have to ask him that. But it might be because I’ve never been to Denwick. Charlie preferred to hang out here in Chinatown. He said the village nightlife at that geriatric pub bored him. Why are you asking me about his uncle?” His mouth twisted slightly, and he sipped his drink. He acted cool, but Sloane had already heard an imperceptible rise in his voice. Was it suspicion? Anger? “I was real sorry to hear he died. I felt bad for Charlie. He always had nice things to say about him.”
“Actually, Mr. Huxham was murdered. And we’re investigating a Canadian link to the crime.”
“Murdered?”
“Yeah. We believe someone in this area hired the man who shot him. Do you know a man named Liam Morris?”
“Yeah, no. Never heard of him.”
“All right.” Sloane tilted her head to the side. “You said you’ve never been to Denwick?”
“Well, yeah. Except for the old guy’s gathering at Charlie’s. I went to pay my respects.” He set his feet on the floor, lifted himself out of his chair, and pointed his empty glass at her. “Now I remember seeing you there. You wore a sweet black suit.” He poured himself another drink and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me? I could clear my schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”
Sloane’s eyebrows pinched together. “Does that crap actually work on women?”
“More than you could imagine,” he said and bit his lower lip.
“That’s pathetic.” Sloane uncrossed her legs and leaned on the desk. “Listen, I know you aren’t the kind of company one brings home to meet the parents. You’re a two-bit bookie trying to keep your uncle’s illegal business going while he’s in the slammer. I know Charles Huxham owes you money. I suspect it’s a lot more than he’s got. But you’re still collecting. And there’s only one way he’s getting more money. I’d say that gives you a strong motive for hiring Morris to kill Harold and me.”
Gannon rested with his forearms on the desk’s top. “Look around. I’m in the import business. I’m not involved in anything illegal.”
“No?” Sloane looked around. “Nice office. Cute receptionist. You’re saying importing pays the bills, especially the best suite on Dragon Alley? I know Uncle Scottie isn’t floating you anymore. Oh, unless you’re running Scottie’s business.”
Gannon smirked.
“Your poor uncle. In prison in his late seventies. No chance for parole for at least ten years. That’s a death sentence. And here you are on the outside. Running the ring he worked so hard to establish. You need to make him proud. Keep his confidence. A couple bullets can take care of the Huxham problem. Charles inherits and keeps the Degas. You get paid. Scottie stays happy.”
Gannon stared at her, perfectly at ease. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The only thing I’m unsure about is who hired Morris, you or Charlie? My hunch tells me you did. The chances Charles knows more sleazeballs than you are slim. But whoever it was, made a bad hire. Morris didn’t finish the job. I’m in Canada, and the Degas is mine. You must be furious. I bet you counted on that pretty painting to give you a little class.”
She picked up her tote and stood.
“Are all the good-looking bitches in New York crazy like you? Why would I put a hit on you? I didn’t even know your name until today.” He dismissed her with the back of his hand.
“You know me now. And Uncle Scottie’s going to know me soon. I’ll see myself out.”
“Hey,” Gannon shouted, and Sloane turned around. “If I were you, I wouldn’t throw around accusations and threats. Not on this island. You’re gonna make the wrong person angry.”
She grinned, shut the door behind her, and said to herself, “What a total prick.”
The sun had moved behind the top of the buildings, and Dragon Alley was left in the shade. Sloane shook off Gannon’s slime and headed back toward Fisgard Street. A man in a shiny black tracksuit entered halfway down the laneway. He walked toward her with his hands in his pockets.
Sloane glanced behind her. They were alone. Not good. When she turned back, the man ran toward her, a knife in his hand. She stumbled backward, focusing on the blade. A dark shadow passed over them. And her flesh shivered.
“Āniman!” she yelled and held out her hand, expecting his knife to fly to her. But nothing happened. The spell failed.
Keep trying, dear. Elvina’s voice, calm and collected, came into her head.
“Āniman!” she shouted.
Nothing.
She turned and ran. Near the courtyard the man caught her by the hair and yanked her back against his body. He held the knife to her neck just below her ear, shoved her into the garden next to Gannon’s French doors and slammed her back against the brick wall. A moan escaped her, but she didn’t struggle.
I can immobilize him , Elvina spoke in her head.
“No. I got this,” Sloane replied.
Remember to mind your temper.
“I will.”
“Say another word, and I cut you. Real bad,” the man said. He reeked of cheap leather and hair gel, and Sloane turned her head away from his sweaty face.
“Listen, whatever your name is. I made a promise not to kick anyone’s ass today. Keep pressing that knife into my neck, and you’ll make me break my promise. And the only thing I hate more than a broken promise is a lie.”
“No, you listen, tough girl.” His breath was hot and wet on her cheek. “We walk out of here together, and when we get to my car, you climb in nice and quiet. We’re gonna take a drive.” He jerked Sloane from the wall and put his arm around her waist, pressing the knife against her side with his other hand.
Its tip cut through her cardigan and T-shirt, piercing her skin. A surge of adrenaline pulsed through her body. “You stupid son of a bitch. Did you tear my favorite sweater?” She struck the man’s face with a back-side elbow. The force cracked his nose, spraying blood, and sent him stumbling backward. He shook off the blow, straightened, and lunged at her.
Calm down, dear. Breathe.
“Fuck that, Elvina.” Sloane kicked him in the abdomen, slamming him against the brick wall. He collapsed to the ground, and she picked him up by his jacket. “Here’s your trash back, asshole,” she yelled outside Gannon’s French doors as she flung the man into the glass.
She walked away, taking slow steady footsteps as she tried to calm her breathing. Back in the alley, she stopped, clutched her head, and fell to her knees.