Salt Shaken Read online

  My concoction swirled to the left and the light within glowed as Waldo clapped his hands in delight.

  I slid it across the bar with a wink and watched him lift the drink to his lips. Waldo partook infrequently at The Boogey, so his gentle enjoyment of the drink was a perk of sorts.

  The glowing bit remained, and he sucked it in. His entire body shook, and he slipped off his seat, the vials in his waist sack tinkling in a clinking finale. With a giddy hiccup, he rose and pulled a vial from his pocket. On tiptoe, his fingertips pushed it onto the bartop.

  “For your hair.”

  Waving a small hand, he swayed and headed toward the door.

  “That WellWind was perfection, darling. See you in two weeks!”

  I palmed through to my office, then entered the dining room. This was a new feature. After last October, Poseidon insisted on greater connection between the spaces, saving me untold steps. I shot Charlie an assessing glance. His bar appeared well stocked, the afternoon contingent growing loud and loose. The Jonesy wake was underway.

  “Man, I thought that guy would live forever.”

  “He did too, just ask him.”

  “Any idea what killed him?”

  “More like who. Sounded damn unnatural to me.”

  Charlie slid a fresh round to the trio on the end, a set of sub-Jonesys who had boats a peg or three below the swanky fest where Jones died, suitably titled “Keepin’ Up.”

  “Jones got kids?”

  “Yeah, a couple of sons and a daughter.”

  “Could be they’ll dump the boat cheap.”

  “Might, there’s bad juju.”

  Each looked hopeful at this bit of supposition and swigged.

  I slipped behind the bar. With a couple taps on the POS terminal, I checked Charlie’s till. Fat.

  “I’ll swap this at 5:00. Can you close tabs?”

  “Yup,” Charlie’s eyes twinkled and my mental eye roll took charge.

  Do not go there, Patra.

  I scanned the entryway and froze. Ballard. In my bar. A quick hair fluff and I moved, nerves jangling, on the intercept course. I’ve memorized every hard, supple curve of this man. He doesn’t know I’m alive. Today is the first time he’s darkened my door since October, but it won’t be the last if I find the way to shake him awake.

  “Detective, I’m Patra, the manager. Perhaps you remember me? How can I help you?”

  His green eyes covered me, and stilling the inner quake was an exercise in discipline. I held his gaze, letting my lips curve.

  “Have we met?”

  “Briefly, at an appreciation event.”

  Green pools washed me clean. “I believe I’d remember you, Patra. What is your full name?”

  “Maybe I was having an off day,” I grinned, lifting an open palm in question. “Cleopatra O’Keefe. I imagine you understand why Patra is my go to choice.”

  “Egyptian Irish? That’s an unusual blend.” His chuckle recalled a sense of homecoming. “I need to speak to a few of your patrons regarding a current case.”

  “If it’s about Jones, the wake is underway,” I gestured at the bar. “Try the three on the closest end first; they were buds.”

  “Thanks. You made the wellness check?”

  A nod. “Jones was clockwork, and it didn’t feel right.”

  Again, his look was a shade longer than professional. A welcome twist spiraled through my belly, and I caught my lip in my teeth, trying to regain a semblance of poise. The green depths darkened before he turned back to business.

  Mercy.

  For an initial interaction, I’d call that promising. It was damned odd to be in love with a man who didn’t know I was alive, but I lived a pretty weird life, so it kinda fit.

  I watched Ballard work, grip a shoulder of one of the trio, and move along to a few others. After greeting a few tables, eyeballing my kitchen, and dumping a Frida Kahlo eyebrow on my dishwasher, who pushed off, with reluctance, from the sink edge and turned to wash the freaking dishes, I returned to the main dining room and glanced through to the magical side.

  Poseidon. Crap. Not what I needed right now. A big finger beckoned.

  Grouchy face on full display, I entered my office, shut the door, and palmed back into The Boogey.

  “Your usual?”

  “Looks like somebody needs to get laid. You know you’d feel better, and my schedule is wide open.”

  He’s hard to resist when he makes the effort, but I don’t need to raise a baby behind my bar and gods don’t miss. Well, except we hooked up once. I managed to remain unpregnant, but in my heart I thought I got a little assist from my Vapor buddies.

  “I’m managing just fine, and a shag is not what I need right now. In case you forgot, I’m supposed to launch a Triune. No room for…”

  “Immortal schlongs?” Poseidon cut in, not helping. “Amazing protuberances. You should reconsider. Last time was memorable, for both of us, which I don’t often say. A few hours with me is an excellent offer, Patra. Besides, we’re all tired of your cranky countenance making The Boogey a bummer.”

  “Well, that might be about to improve,” I said.

  Poseidon grunted. “Keeper, do not reunite with Ballsy. He is lucky he’s alive. Let him complete his time unmolested.”

  My eyebrow’s ‘get stuffed’ was eloquent, but unappreciated.

  “The order of the worlds changed, Keeper, but remember, I am still a god.” He flexed his aura, and I bounced against the bar before landing flat on my ass. For him, it was a light tap.

  “Oof.”

  Since I deserved that, I pushed up without comment. My fingers ran over the bump in my pocket and I pulled the vial. “Waldo left this. Says it’s hair serum.”

  A gold feeler erupted from Poseidon’s palm, slipped into the potion, and withdrew, curling around my wrist in a bolt of horny bliss. “Your hair is fine. So’s your ass.”

  “Is it safe?” I concentrated on my breath as the feeler slid back into his palm and vanished. For now. They’re sneaky.

  A nod, accompanied by an unnecessary bang as he slapped his glass on the bar. Why was he acting so cranky?

  A giant golden eyebrow raised.

  Please stay out of my head!

  “Another,” he gestured to his empty glass and laughed. “You now tell gods what to do?”

  Jeez. Well, no, I don’t. In fact, I just maintain the record and try to stay alive.

  “Fair enough.” He took the fresh drink and spun to stare along the sand. “I miss the beach volleyball. Such delightful bikinis.”

  “There’s a tourney next weekend. Keep the faith, Big Red.”

  He scratched his balls into greater comfort within the crimson speedo, flipped a piece of gold next to his glass, and rose. “Guess I’ll do what I can to enjoy the day.”

  “What? Or, whom?” I kept it neutral.

  “Point taken.”

  He sauntered out while my gaze sought Ballard through the transparent wall between the pubs. He answered his phone, stiffened, and headed for the exit in a trot. What the hell?

  A faint pop announced an arriving witch, and I turned back as a worried Chelsea took a seat.

  “Wine?”

  “Stronger.” Her hand waved a complicated spell, and the bar filled with the pops of numerous witches.

  A quick mix produced a cocktail that should suffice. As I pushed it to her, I gazed at the thirty-five new arrivals. Three covens? The hell?

  “Bottles?”

  Several nodded, so I grabbed wines from the case, uncorking and passing them to the various groups, who swigged and shared between their coven mates.

  “Is there a situation?”

  Chelsea’s eyes squinted. Even within our friendship, me being considered a peer instead of a mere human took adjustment on her part. Chelsea had been poster-child level arrogant, but I know how important vows, including ones of friendship, were to her. An evolution, of sorts. She blew out a sigh, downed her drink, and the witches in the room cocked their he
ads to the right.

  “An incident occurred on a yacht.”

  “Jones? Yeah, I know. Cops were in today talking to the regulars.”

  “Not Jones, Patra. A different boat.”

  Oh, crap.

  I knew Jones’ death came from a magical, just by the bits I’d gleaned. If this was a second attack, someone with a high level skill set was AWOL.

  “How many?”

  “Dead? Hades knows for sure, but my guess is fifteen to twenty.”

  Holy crap. Okay, Patra, think. Each type of magic kills in their own ways.

  “How did they die?”

  “Mer.”

  What? That made zero sense. I had barely started, and I mean tiny inroads, to talk to human governments about how their world works. In fact, I’d only talked in an official capacity to the hottie in Canada. He was now interacting with a shit ton of bears, wolves, and fairies, plus a sizable number of covens, a warlock contingent, and a few Canada specific shifters that crapped goose poop everywhere. The mer presence that far north was minimal, because it’s an ice cube most of the year. So, it’s not as if the mer felt any pressure. For them, the world was unaware, so they moved and lived as accustomed. Why were they lashing out?

  “Why don’t the mer discuss the issue, make a point to be heard and understood?”

  Chelsea’s face squished. Okay. She’s holding back. Find the right question, Patra.

  “Chelsea, who has it in for these boat owners? Or, is this against humans in general?”

  “Not all of them, at least not yet.”

  I crossed my arms under my breasts and stared at her. She chewed her lip and shrugged.

  “The grievance is over humanity junking up the seas, Patra. If you’re building a Triune, that disrespect has to stop.”

  “Fifteen or twenty lives, over plastic?”

  “You don’t see the volume of life extinguished daily under the surface. Lives that matter far more to the mer than bumbling drunks in their bobbing boats.”

  I watched a line of red lights tear past on Atlantic Ave. It appeared the entire Boogie Beach PD responded to the latest attack.

  Perfect. So much for measured steps toward this alternative world.

  Chapter 3

  The witches, after an evening of intense conversations, left at dawn; the office door snicked shut as I sat, breathing in the silence and staring at the weathered desktop and the magically protected cupboard that housed the record, a book at the center of my life. Within it, I recorded the intersection of the human, magical, and Vapor worlds, and more. A lot more.

  In a few slices of a shell blade, shit got real. Why the fuck did I believe me, a human with a shred of Vapor and a couple of magic friendships, well, tolerances, could unify the damn worlds? Good grief. On the shore last October, toe to toe and kicking ass, I acted as though I had a plan.

  If it’s soul baring time, I sensed the showdown was the right choice. That was all I had. Nice. I flipped the world on its butt for a freaking ‘feeling’.

  Jeez, Patra. Way to think through the options.

  Crap. Stop it. Generations of Keepers laid and played the path. They handed me the card that won the game. I ginned, and for the immediate, it was good. Now, I’m dealing with a fuck-ton of attitude, ego, and resistance. Magicals with actual power won’t want to give it up, and humans who thought they were powerful might decide the reality that they weren’t didn’t sound appealing.

  Greed, as usual, was in play. People love their money, the idea of artificial control, and for many, winning was everything. Humanity won’t be excited about sliding down the ladder from top of the food chain to being a beaver. Or an ant. We’re speaking of gods here.

  I opened this box. This was the chaos I lived in, and dammit, having the attitudes grow shitty was a given. I never sat on my ass. The Canadian PM was receptive. Lots of humans understood life was more than the surface. While it’s not the ‘normal’ powerful folks sold them to keep them quiet, building a world of hamsters running the wheels and producing the goods, making the top wealthy while the bottom lived a loving life, this hierarchy was old business.

  I wished there were alternative options, but the situation was zero-sum. Tipping everything on its ear was my job. I sat in my office, gobsmacked.

  My problem was before the world blew apart I had Ballard, all the way, and he set me straight every damn day. Now I didn’t, and it’s not a breakup but a heart-rending erasure. I loved and revolved around the sense of reset we created. Ballard had me: I had him. To save him, I lost him. And that killed me on the daily.

  At my most honest, losing Ballard was why the Triune’s unification was sideways. Without him, I was at half-strength. I’m trying. I’ve got a plan, sorta, but at the core this was bullshit, and my heart remained shredded. The world’s warrior wanted to get laid, have her lover back, and for one fucking night, sleep.

  Is that too much to ask?

  In a new world of competing values regarding what constituted normal, probably.

  A whirl of lightning bugs rose from the ferns at Gigi’s feet as Guru’s bike materialized in the dying light. A dimple flashed in a quick smile at this cherished child.

  “I’ve begun, my son.”

  Guru’s eyes gleamed in the gloaming.

  I managed 5 hours of sleep, which was enough because I ran hard, but I fell asleep that way too. Or used to, at least. I made coffee and padded barefoot onto the balcony facing the sea. A shimmer, and Poseidon materialized.

  “Nice panties, Keeper.”

  I yanked my tee shirt down as his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Ever plan to wash that speedo? Nevermind. What do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Checking to see if you reconsidered the sad state of your vagina. I also hoped you might have bacon. And, I want to talk.”

  “My vagina is fine. But I’m down for bacon. Coffee?”

  “Those beans aren’t worth a damn.”

  “Suit yourself. Come inside.”

  One rule I stiffened is that my home, beyond the confines of The Boogey, was private. If I didn’t invite a magical to enter, it relegated them to the balconies. Because magicals and gods materialize, the balcony makes a better landing site than my lobby, with its cameras and prerequisite nosy neighbors.

  They accepted the rule. Magicials retain the ability to read the human mind, but I put a stipulation into the record requiring permission. We’ll see. That rule was less well received. When you had an advantage, giving it up was difficult.

  Invited, Poseidon followed me into the kitchen, snapping a slap on my ass cheek. I gestured to the island and ducked into my bedroom for a pair of shorts. Cheeky style, unfortunately, so not much help, but at least another layer.

  Bacon snapping in the pan, I poured Poseidon a quart sized glass of Indian River Select orange juice (the best OJ on the planet) and another coffee for myself, before plopping on the stool at the opposite side of the breakfast bar.

  “What’s on your mind, Big Red?”

  “You’re dealing with an uprising.”

  “I wondered. Two boating incidents so close together didn’t sound unrelated.”

  “Of course not,” Poseidon’s skeptical glare made clear he believed I’d grown stupid overnight.

  “Hey now. I only learned of the second boat a couple hours ago. Don’t waggle those eyebrows at me as though I’ve turned into a single cell organism.”

  “Keeper, if you aren’t paying attention, you’re no better than an amoeba that writes. A sexy one, but useless beyond the bedding. I think you need a reset.” He gave his balls a thoughtful scratch.

  Ouch. And no, I definitely don’t need a ride with Posei-traction.

  I stared at him, shoulders slumping. “Arrgh, I know. Dammit, I KNOW. I think I left my cajones on the beach.”

  He leaned back and eyed me, a searing blue stare. “It’s affected you that much? Ballsy?”

  Four months into the loss, the tears formed and dripped, unbidden. A feeler shot out, scooped a tear,
and held it before his eyes.

  “I’ve seen this,” Poseidon grunted. “Unique to humans, but I’m aware of others.” Thick fingers drummed the countertop.

  After mopping my face, I transferred the bacon to a plate covered with paper towels and set it on the island. In silence, we munched, warm bacon magic taking the edge off the conversation.

  “Very well. If Ballsy re-enters your life, I’ll allow it, but only because you appear to share a soul connection. He may shine to you, he might move past you. These threads within the Universe are not static, Cleopatra. You cannot begin where you left off or even assume you can start anew. This is unwritten.”

  My swallow clicked inside my throat. What if Ballard felt nothing? Then what?

  A big blond eyebrow lifted, Poseidon drained his juice, and leaned closer. “Free will is a bitch. I, however, am an excellent antidote.”

  He stood, arranged his junk with a leer, shimmered, and vanished.

  With a sigh, I cleared the dishes, then peered at the balcony, covered in Vapor mist.

  Huh. Okay.

  I cocked my head and crooked a finger, heading toward my coffee table and the journal tucked in the secret drawer. I palmed it open and pulled the battered notebook into my hands. The journal was beat to hell after its snowplow along the beach, but the connection between it and the book in my office at The Boogey remained intact. What I wrote into one appeared within the other. I opened it to a blank page, glanced at the fog swirling in my living room, and wrote a question.

  What do you want me to learn?

  The script emerged, an elegant spidery etch, before fading to nothing.

  There is unrest within the magical world.

  Hmmm. The fade meant the writing was returning to the book hidden in The Boogey. They intended this conversation to enter the record. I fished in my mind for the correct question and set the pen on the page.

  What is the root cause?

  The pause before the answer was so long I thought I’d asked the wrong question, but the script began, slow, but gaining momentum.