Charmed to Death Read online

  Opening the cover, I read the faint spidery handwriting.

  Thurisaz—giant, troll, demon…

  I slammed the cover shut and my eyes locked on Abby. “Why? Why are you giving me these things now?”

  Abby took my hands in hers. I felt the warmth, but it was more than simple body heat. Deeper, hotter, and the heat throbbed in my palms.

  “Feel it?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s the power, the gift you possess. Because of this gift, the stones will sing to you. And you will hear their song.”

  I smiled. “That’s almost poetic.”

  Abby smiled back. “It can be, but the song won’t always be a pretty one. Runes don’t lie and the things shown might not be pleasant.”

  I released Abby’s hands. “That’s the part that scares me.”

  “I know, but true courage means facing the unpleasant in spite of the fear.”

  “Will the runes tell me what I’m to do?”

  “No.”

  I scooted my chair back. “Well, that stinks.”

  Abby grinned. “What do you want? The runes or your spirit guides to tell you, ‘Go to the corner of Fifth and Madison at two o’clock on Thursday and you’ll meet your soulmate. He’ll be wearing a red carnation’?”

  “That would be nice.”

  She shook her head and her grin widened. “Honey, your gift will help you, allow you to help others. But in the end, it’s your life, and you’re the one who must live it. You can hear the song, but it’s up to you to listen, to choose whether or not to follow it.”

  “And if I don’t follow?”

  “Like I said, your choice. Free will overrides all, even a gift as great as yours.”

  “If I don’t listen, I won’t be fulfilling my destiny. Right?”

  Abby watched me steadily.

  “Okay, I know when I’m beat. Other than sleep with a bag of rocks under my pillow, what else do I do?”

  “Grandma’s journal will explain. When I was a child, I watched her work with the runes. Sometimes she would cast all the stones and read them. Sometimes she would draw one at a time and place them in a specific position. Each position meant something and the meaning was affected by the rune next to it. It’s all in her journal.”

  “Great. Sleep with the rocks and read the journal, then all will become clear,” I said with no small dose of sarcasm.

  Abby laughed. “Not exactly. Once you become familiar with the runes and their traditional meanings, you’ll need to start thinking outside the box.”

  “Great,” I said, throwing my hand in the air. “What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Thinking outside the box’?”

  “Seeing beyond what’s there, developing your own meanings for the runes. After working with them, you’ll find certain stones represent specific things to you.”

  I arched my eyebrow. “And, no doubt, those meanings will be very cryptic.”

  “Ophelia, you’re looking for certainties, and there aren’t any. Not in life and not with your gift.”

  “Okay. Okay. I may accept this, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” I took a quick look at the clock. “It’s late and I’d better get going.” Picking up the pouch and journal, I stood to go. “Oh, do you still want me to come to your big community meeting tomorrow night, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. The meeting could get sticky. The Department of Natural Resources, state legislators, members of the County Board of Supervisors, and, of course, Dudley Kyle will all be there.”

  “What about Harley Walters and his gang?”

  Abby pursed her lips. “Yes, they’ll be there. It’ll be a challenge to keep Harley’s group from turning the meeting into a circus.”

  Harley Walters fit the definition of redneck perfectly. Baseball cap, shirt with sleeves ripped out, jeans, and work boots. The scruffy two-day beard was optional.

  He had the personality of a rock and hated my family for some reason. Especially my mother. Mention the name Margaret Mary Jensen to Harley and a big vein in his forehead would immediately stand at attention. I’d never been able to find out the reason for his hatred. Abby’s response was always: “Ask your mother.” And when I did ask my mother, her answer was: “It’s not my story to tell.” Finally I gave up asking and stayed as far away from Harley as possible. Not hard to do since we didn’t exactly move in the same circles.

  “Poor Edna,” I said, “how did she ever wind up with a grandson like Harley?”

  Abby sighed. “Harley’s had a rough life. He was so young when his father died. His stepfather was a drunk and lost most of the land Harley’s mother had inherited, so there are reasons for Harley’s bitterness…” She sighed again. “But those reasons don’t excuse some of his behavior.”

  “What behavior?” My ears perking up.

  “Ask your mother.”

  Dang. Foiled again.

  Crossing to where Abby sat, I leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner. It was wonderful.” Straightening, I moved toward the door.

  “Wait, Ophelia.”

  The concerned tone of her voice made me look at her. “Yes?”

  She hesitated. “Umm—please find the time to work with the runes while you’re gone.”

  I watched her, perplexed. “Okay. I said I would, but why is this suddenly so important?”

  Looking down, she picked up a spoon and tapped it on the table.

  “Abby, what’s going on? It’s something about Brian’s murder, isn’t it? It’s why you were insistent I talk to the police again.” I walked back to the table and took the spoon from her hand. “You’ve had a vision.”

  She stood and put both hands on my shoulders. “There will be two men, both dark. One good. One evil. One who kills for a reason.”

  The blood slowly drained from my face. Brian’s killer. Did Abby mean I would meet Brian’s killer?

  Three

  My dinner sat like a stone in my stomach while I tossed and rolled in bed. Either it was the rich food or the runes poking me from beneath my pillow that kept me awake. Giving up on sleep, I reached for the journal on my nightstand. I squinted at the faint handwriting. Jeez, this had to be almost a hundred years old. The first words were the ones I had read at Abby’s, but this time I forced myself to read the rest.

  Thurisaz—giant, troll, demon, torturer of women, said to be used to evoke those from the underworld. The hammer of Thor. A rune indicating challenges, tests. Symbol of thorns—used both to defend and destroy. Brambles were used as enclosures to defend villages. Criminals were executed by being thrown on pikes [brambles] shoved into the ground…

  Once again, I slammed the book shut. Nice mental image—someone writhing in misery while the thorns punctured their body. Not good reading material before bedtime. Fluffing my pillow and turning off the lamp, I rolled over and tried to sleep. But with sleep came the dream.

  I walked the silent streets, my steps splashing through dark puddles. Fog swirled around my ankles with a cold that clung to my legs. I knew evil hid in the shadows, beyond the faint glow of the streetlights. I sensed it, felt it wash over me in palpitating waves. There, ahead of me, lurking around the corner of the next building. My steps slowed. Did I want to see what lay around the corner? Did I have the courage to face it? I hesitated, remembering Abby’s words, True courage is facing what we fear. I quickened my pace, determined to confront the evil.

  Rounding the corner, I saw him. Dressed all in black, he carried a bundle, wrapped in a tarp, over his shoulder. His stride was long and I ran to catch up. But he stayed ahead of me. He slowed when he approached a Dumpster with pieces of garbage sticking out from beneath its lid. Stepping into the dim light, he quickly lifted the lid and dumped the bundle he carried inside the Dumpster. He turned and walked away.

  I approached the Dumpster. Did I look inside or run to catch him? A sense of inevitability drew me to it. I had to see the truth. I lifted the lid and pulled the tarp back from the bundle he had thrown so
carelessly inside.

  Brian lay twisted on top of the garbage, with his head at an unnatural angle. Starting at his feet, my eyes traveled up his broken body. Defense wounds sliced across his opened hands and his shirt was ripped from the slash of a knife. But the worst was the wound that ran from his left ear to his right. Blood from the cut had ran down his neck and soaked his shirt. On his forehead, carved with deadly precision, was a five-pointed star. His dead eyes were wide open and still held the terror of his last moments. His lips were a dusky blue, and in my dream they moved with silent words.

  Startled and sickened, I jumped back from the Dumpster and the lid shut with a clang that echoed in the alley. I whirled to see the dark figure retreating into the night. No. I would not allow him to escape, not this time. This time I would see the monster’s face. I ran after him.

  My heart pounded in my chest. Was it from running or from what I had seen? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I had to catch the monster before he killed again. I chased him down the street and into an open field.

  Turn around so I can see your face, I thought, but he kept up his pace. Air wheezed from my burning lungs as I ran faster. He came to a hedge and barreled through it. I followed, but before I could clear it, brambles reached out and snagged my clothes. Prickly branches wrapped around my legs and held me fast.

  “Damn you. Turn around,” I cried while the figure disappeared in the darkness.

  My eyes popped open at the sound of my own voice. I scanned the room in panic while I struggled to sit up. Familiar shadows surrounded me: my dresser on the far wall and my reading chair by the window.

  Okay, I’m in my own bed with all the covers kicked off and my body’s drenched in sweat, not running through a park in Iowa City, chasing a murderer. I let out a shaky breath.

  Placing my hand over my heart, I felt it pounding. Near my bed, I saw two eyes staring at me from out of the darkness. My dog, Lady. A mixed breed—half German shepherd, half wolf—her head easily reached the top of the mattress. She whimpered and pressed her cold nose against my bare arm.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I said, patting her head.

  I felt the bed suddenly dip at my feet and I watched a large black shape slink toward me, almond eyes glowing orange in the night. The shape crept up the mattress until it reached my lap, and with a pounce, settled on my legs. A loud purr rumbled in the silence of the room as my cat, Queenie, began to give herself a thorough cleaning.

  I tried to wipe the image of Brian lying in the Dumpster from my mind, but the scene danced in the shadows of my bedroom. The blood, the terror in Brian’s sightless eyes, his blue lips. My hand stroking Queenie’s soft black fur trembled.

  That dream, that vision of horror, was the one that haunted me five years ago. It started the night of Brian’s murder, the night I wasn’t able to save him with my magick, my powers. The guilt caused a breakdown and changed my life. It had been a long time since I’d dreamed of Brian’s murder. Why tonight?

  I reached over and flicked on the lamp and the soft light chased the remaining shadows away. Looking at the nightstand, I saw the journal. Did reading about brambles, demons, torture, trigger the dream? Was it only random firings of the subconscious brought on by the words I’d read? Or was it more? Was it a manifestation of my so-called gift?

  Frustrated, I threw myself back against my pillow, disturbing Queenie. With an indignant look at me, she jumped off the bed and marched over to where Lady had settled. Plopping down, she resumed her bath.

  I rubbed my temples while thoughts of Brian’s murder bounced through my brain. What good is my gift if it doesn’t answer my questions? Wait a second. The dream was different tonight. I’d never dreamed of chasing the killer before. And something else was different tonight. What was it? I forced myself to close my eyes and think, relive what I’d seen.

  Oh my God. I jerked away from my pillow. Brian’s mouth had moved and I remembered, remembered what his soundless words were.

  “Help me.”

  Four

  My lack of sleep the night before had made for a long day at the library and the last thing I wanted to do was attend a community meeting about hogs. But I had promised Abby.

  The parking lot of the First Methodist Church was full by the time I arrived. Every car in town was there—the sedate sedans driven by the senior element, SUVs purchased to hold growing families, and four-wheel drive trucks looking like something from a monster truck competition, with tires so large and so far from the ground that it would take a stepladder to climb into the cab.

  I watched from my car as people walked to the door, stopping along the way to talk to neighbors in hushed tones. Everyone’s face wore a serious look: no laughter, no jokes. These people were fighting for their homes, especially people like Abby who would be living near the hog confinement buildings and sewage lagoon. Health issues stemming from the close proximity to the lagoon, the stench, and dropping property values were all concerns. Everyone had a reason to look serious—and worried.

  After exiting my car, I walked quickly to the building. As I did, I felt people watching me. No doubt, they were surprised to see me at the meeting, I thought. Until a few months ago, I’d kept to myself after moving to Summerset. It had only been recently that I’d begun to let people, other than Abby, into my life. Ned, Darci, and a few others made up the small circle of friends that I trusted. The stares I felt on my back made my skin tingle. I walked faster.

  Once inside the church’s meeting hall, I stopped. Currents of emotion flowed in the confined space. Fear, anxiety, anger—all eddied around me like swirling fog, the tendrils infiltrating my mind. I shut my eyes and concentrated on imagining myself in a bubble, a shield against what I sensed. A wall to hold the feelings of others at bay. When my wall was firmly in place, I opened my eyes and scanned the room.

  A long table had been placed at the front of the room and chairs were assembled in rows. Several of the rows were already full, but a lot of people stood milling around. I spotted our local state representative, George Saunders, going from group to group, shaking hands and doing a bit of backslapping. His face didn’t mirror the worried expression of his constituents. Instead, he wore the practiced look of a seasoned politician. Concerned and attentive. But I noticed how, occasionally, his eyes would slide around the room, marking the next group to schmooze. After a final handshake and a firm pat on the shoulder, he’d move on.

  Harley and his boys stood to my left, leaning against the wall. Some had their hands shoved in their pockets. Others stood with their arms crossed tightly over their chests. And all of them appeared ready for a fight.

  Dudley Kyle and his group stood on the opposite side of the room from Harley. Dudley was dressed in navy Dockers and a navy and white pinstriped shirt. His tasseled loafers screamed “expensive.”

  My gaze moved from Dudley to Harley over by the wall. He watched Dudley too. His eyebrows were knitted tightly together above eyes full of hostility, eyes that never left the spot where Dudley stood. The corners of his mouth dropped down in a scowl.

  Dudley knew Harley watched him. Quick looks in Harley’s direction were accompanied by a lot of nodding and low voices from the group knotted around Dudley. I recognized one of them as a member of the County Board of Supervisors. Talk about sleeping with the enemy.

  But the tension was what I noticed the most. It stretched like a cord between the two men, taut and ready to break. Abby was right. The meeting could get sticky.

  From my position by the door, I saw Abby at the front of the room with a cluster of people around her—Stumpy all spiffed up in a shirt and tie, Edna Walters with her walker in tow, and several more of the senior group. Abby’s eyes met mine and she gave me a thumbs up. I smiled in return.

  Without warning, another emotion crossed my radar, trying to penetrate my wall. It didn’t come from Harley or Dudley Kyle. And it wasn’t vague or insubstantial. It was hard and driving and it battered against my protection, looking for a chink. My hand instinc
tively went to the talisman I wore around my neck. I closed my eyes, while in my mind, I fought to keep my wall intact.

  “Hey, Miss Ophelia.”

  The battering stopped. I turned to see Gus Pike standing next to me.

  “Gus. How are you?” I asked smiling and held out my hand.

  I was surprised to see him at the meeting. Gus Pike had to be almost eighty and lived in a shanty out in the boonies, south of town. He was even more reclusive than I’d been and his main companion was his goat, Charlie. I’d met Gus while on a walk with Lady, after she’d tried to make friends with his chickens, much to their distress. He’d been so kind and understanding about Lady’s misbehavior that we became friends.

  Gus shyly took my hand in his. His bad eye, the one locked in a permanent squint, twitched rapidly while he gave my hand a hearty shake. “Fine, Miss Ophelia. Ever since you gave me this here necklace,” he said, reaching around his neck and pulling out an amulet of malachite suspended on a copper wire. “It’s working wonders against the arthritis.”

  “Good,” I said, giving his hand another quick shake and releasing it. “I’m glad. How’s Charlie?”

  “Oh, tolerable. He had a bellyache last night. I figured he must’a ate something spoiled. But you know how goats are.” He gave me a toothless grin. “They’ll eat anything.”

  “What are you doing here tonight, Gus?”

  His grin faded while he shook his head. “Bad’s coming, Miss Ophelia. Don’t know if it’s this here feller with the hogs or what. But I can feel it in my bones. Thought I’d better come here tonight and see if it was him or not.”

  Abby had always said she thought Gus had some psychic ability. Maybe she was right. Before I could answer Gus, a sharp rap from the front of the room drew our attention.

  “If everyone would please take their seats now, we’ll get started,” Abby said from the front table.

  I looked at Gus. “Shall we find a seat, Gus?”