It’s been too calm around here for too damn long, and my head’s been so buried in research I’m still mentally in the dark and dirty trenches of my research.
“Cain!”
My boots hit hard on the top landing as I jog toward the top of the stairs.
“What?” My heart’s beating hard, and I don’t hear Violet. Where’s Violet?
I come around the corner at the top of the stairs, staring down the banister at the living room below. Skylar stands with her hands on her hips and Violet’s in her shadow, shaking her head.
“Told her you were busy,” Violet mutters, rolling her eyes. She’s got a string of pinecones in her hand. “But she insisted.” Violet looks up at me and her eyes go a little wider. “See? I told you not to yell his name. You scared the hell out of him. Lucky he didn’t blow your damn head off.”
“I’m not the one who shoots without reason,” I remind her.
She rolls her eyes heavenward. “You shoot a weapon you didn’t know was loaded one time and you never live it down.”
“Never.”
Joe snorts from the doorway, walking in with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a napkin in the other. “Boss, we got a call from a Miss Robbins? She says she has some urgent news.”
Violet looks at me. “First time I ever heard of that one.” There’s a chill in her gaze I haven’t seen often, and I look at her curiously.
“Yeah, because the case is as cut and dried as they come.” I groan. “And seriously, this Robbins woman’s intense.”
Violet narrows her gaze so slightly it’s barely noticeable, but I notice it. “I’m intense, too.”
Really? She’s playing this game with me now? I look at Joe when he opens up the napkin he holds and pulls out a cookie.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t walk in there getting crumbs all over the place,” I tell him.
“I won’t.” He pops the whole thing in his mouth and grins.
“The garland,” Skylar says, interrupting whatever’s going on between me and Violet. “Violet says it’s too much, but I love it, so you’re the tiebreaker.”
Violet grimaces.
They’re arguing over… room decor? I knew I should’ve taken on the last two cases that came to me, but I wanted to free us up to focus on Violet’s parents’ case. I’m on the cusp of a breakthrough.
“Oh no you don’t,” I say to them. “No goddamn way I’m getting in the middle of you two about that.”
Skylar rolls her eyes. A few months back, she agreed to come and live here, after she was abducted and assaulted by an asshole enemy of mine. He paid the ultimate price, and she’s been safe ever since, but not without scars. Violet’s helped her.
When they first met, Skylar wore nothing but black and often hid her gaze beneath thick, long bangs. She’d found her people among the Wiccans of Salem, and Violet knows and respects that. But much of the way she dressed reflected her dark inner world. Things are a bit different now. Skylar’s… changed.
She still meets with her Wiccan friends, and it’s still a large part of who she is. But she doesn’t hide the way she used to. Violet’s brought her out of her shell, you could say.
Violet has that effect on people. She doesn’t have what I’d call a cheery personality—no, she’s really nothing like that. She’s honest, though, sometimes brutally. She hides nothing, so she values bold truth and unencumbered sincerity.
I love that about her. It’s partly why I hate that I’ve hidden anything from her at all.
But Violet has secrets, too.
“I don’t want to decorate,” Violet says, cringing. She throws up her garland-covered hands and gives it to Skylar. “Go ahead. Put ‘em up. Get some… scarecrows for the front yard, or Christmas lights, or whatever the fuck. Peace out.” She hands Skylar the pinecones and leaves the room. I hear the kitchen door shut behind her, then the whines and barks of greeting from Romulus and Remus, our pit bulls. They love Violet.
Joe stares at me, his cheeks still stuffed with cookie. Skylar gives me an apologetic look.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t… really know what set her off. Like, is she hormonal or something?”
Joe holds up his hands and leaves as quickly as he came, likely wanting nothing at all to do with a discussion about Violet’s hormones.
I blow out a breath and shake my head. I suspect I know what’s bothering her.
“It’s not you,” I tell Skylar. “Let me handle her.”
Skylar turns back to the mantle and arranges the pinecones with a flair of victory. She got her way. “Oh believe you me, I am happy to stand back and let you handle her, as long as you handling her is done behind closed doors.”
This, from the girl who once had a chair particularly suited for tantric sex maneuvers in her bedroom.