Killer Moon (Psychic For Hire 2)

Chapter 1

DIANA

Making friends has never been easy for me, so when a young woman my age in a leather jacket comes into Grimshaw’s on a Friday morning and tells me she lives in my neighborhood, it is a special moment.

But I am jumping the gun. Let me rewind.

Three weeks ago Theo Grimshaw, wizard, Purveyor of Needs, gave me a job. Cue victory music. A part-time job minding a magic shop disguised as a pawnbroker-slash-charity-shop might not sound like much, but after my previous hellish experience working in catering it is perfect for me. Especially since Theo is perfectly happy to give me the flexibility I need to come and go as I please should I ever get that call from Special Agent Constantine Storm that I’ve been waiting for.

Three weeks at Grimshaw’s has been long enough for me to realize it is useless to spend my spare time constantly readjusting the merchandise. These days I have settled into slouching over the counter at the front of the shop and perusing various manuals of magic.

This particular Friday I am trying to wrap my head around theories of demonic and spiritual possession and the like, keeping my eyes peeled for artifacts and rituals that can extract said demons and spirits, when the shop door rings to alert me to a customer.

I give the girl who enters a cursory glance and go back to my perusing. It is hard to concentrate. I am sure that the typography of this book has been designed to beat me into submission. The text is tiny and slanted and cramped, and my currently fuzzy mind is no match for it. I’ve been crazy tired recently. I don’t know why since I’ve spent half this week trying to get plenty of sleep.

The girl had returned my disinterested brief look before fixing her eyes on the array of second hand jewelry we keep within glass cabinets near the window.

She has the look of a browser. A human customer. We don’t get many of them because Theo doesn't want them. He had been dismayed on my first day to find that I’d dusted the various used vases, home ornaments and bric-a-brac in the shop front. The point was to put human customers off, he said, not to invite them in.

The real merchandise is in the larger hidden section at the back of the shop, through the solid wall that isn’t really there if you know it’s not or if you have enough magic to not see it.

The girl in her well-worn jeans and bright skinny vest is trendy, perhaps a university student. She doesn’t have the look of someone who can afford the pricier jewelry in our display. And as everything else is a lot of old tat I expect her to swiftly leave.

A minute later AngelBeastie’s suspicious meow comes from the corner of the room. This is what alerts me to the fact that the girl isn’t just a girl.

Beastie had been napping at the top of a tall bookcase, hidden from sight. She announces her presence loudly and obnoxiously, and pokes her head over the edge of the shelf. Her distrustful glare makes her fuzzy snowy face grumpier than usual. The girl did not start in surprise at Beastie’s sudden appearance. It is like she had known Beastie was there all along, though Beastie had been well hidden.

This makes me take a closer look at her. She has an enviably deep honey complexion, and her big almond shaped eyes are made even larger with thick black eyeliner. Her high cheekbones balance out her over-prominent nose, giving her a striking look. Not pretty, but definitely not plain.

I get the impression that she likes to be seen. Her dark hair has been dyed a glaring brassy blond in the midsection and hot pink at the ends, and is styled into a riotous mass of curls all about her face. There is an interesting athletic prowl to her movements that remind me a bit of Agent Leo Kane, a werewolf. But it is hard for me to tell if she is one too. My confidence in my instincts has not been high ever since my psychic powers have been out of action these past few weeks.

The fact that she may be a werewolf has set off a little alarm bell at the back of my head. London has been on edge these past few weeks following a string of savage and highly publicized murders. The first two had happened on the May and June full moons. But now the Wolf-Claw Killer — as the media have dubbed him — has killed twice in the last eight days, outside of the full moon, sending the media into a frenzy.

I tell myself to quit being so paranoid. It is daylight outside. We get plenty of werewolf customers. I can’t go on the offensive just because I have never seen this girl before.

Theo has installed a few defensive mechanisms in the store. As I wonder whether I might need to use one, I glance at Beastie. She is perched on her viewpoint, licking her paws and ignoring both me and the girl. Her complete lack of concern reassures me.

Damn my uncertainty. I nearly scared off a perfectly good customer.

“Can I help you?” I ask the girl. If she is a real customer then I’d better show her the hidden section before she changes her mind and leaves.

She comes over to the counter and says, “I heard you might sell some more… er… unusual things?”

I raise one eyebrow and say with a straight face, “Ah, so you’re after our section of sexy sensual delights?”

She laughs. “More like magical mystery delights?” She phrases it like a question, and seems slightly embarrassed at the prospect of looking like a fool. I know the feeling. Her strong accent tells me she is from out of town. Being American, I find British accents hard to distinguish, but I suspect it is northern.

“Do you have a business card?” I ask her.

“No, I’m not in business. I’m not employed.” She looks mildly embarrassed at this.

“I meant one of our business cards,” I tell her.

Theo is an old hand at tidily dispatching unsavory or suspicious customers. But as I am new to this he’s told me not to let any customers into the back unless I recognize them or unless they’ve got one of his business cards. The Wolf-Claw Killer has had Theo on edge too. He doesn’t like that I am blond and young and female, traits shared by all five of the killer’s victims to date.

The girl shakes her head. “This is my first time here.”

“Sorry,” I tell her. “You need a card. Or you can come back after 4 o’ clock today when Theo Grimshaw, the owner, is ba

ck.”

The girl looks disappointed. “It’s my best friend’s birthday tonight. I really need to get her something special. I won’t have time to come again later.”

I give her a regretful look.

“Please,” she says. “It’s her twenty-third, her first birthday since we moved to London. I can give you my name and address if that helps? I’m India Lawrenson.” She fumbles inside her bag for her ID.

Just then a tug at my jeans makes me look down. Mozz has appeared behind the counter where she had not been before, her toddler height preventing India from seeing her. With her bouncy black curls and her solemn blue eyes, she is a sweet little bundle of huggable cuteness. She nods at me and gives India a thumbs up. I squash my instinct to beam at her and tousle her adorable head. Best not to give her presence away. Theo likes for Mozz to stay well away from strangers. Mozz toddles off, disappearing into thin air quite suddenly.

“Actually, I might be able to help you after all,” I tell India. “Let me just take down your details first.”

She gratefully hands over her passport and a utility bill.

“Do you take these with you everywhere?” I ask out of curiosity.

“I’m new to London,” she says. “Been here a few months and I’ve needed a proof of address so often in the first couple of weeks that I got used to carrying them around.”

“I’m new too. Just over two months for me.” I notice the address on her utility bill. “Hey, you live on my road!” I exclaim in delight.

“Really?” She looks equally delighted. “Isn’t Notting Hill great? Crazy expensive though. Right?”

“Tell me about it. I have this studio, just one room — like a bedroom with a kitchenette in it — and you wouldn’t believe the rent.”

“No way! Us too!” she screeches. “And do you have a weird shower cubicle all in the same room?”

“Yes!” I find myself also screeching and grabbing hold of her hand in sympathy. “I hate it, but I kinda love it because otherwise I’d have to use the shared bathrooms.” I shudder at the prospect.

“Tell me about it. But at least it’s just you. I’m sharing with Rachel, my friend whose birthday is today. It’s a bit squashy. We’re from the countryside so it’s come as a bit of a shock.”

“I’ve been wondering about couples and whether they have showers while the other is in the room,” I tell her. “Not that I’m prying. You don’t have to tell me.”