She didn’t back away. “Why would someone kill Shirley?” The August matriarch was one of the few of their clan who didn’t cause trouble. “I’m not being nosy,” she said when no one spoke up. “We’ve had peace in the Fringe for years now. Six murders in ten days … someone’s trying to stir things up. I want to find out who.”
That got her a chorus of low chuckles. Bren placed his hands on her shoulders, angling his hips closer. “Aw, Vee, you gonna make things right for all us Fringers? Get justice?”
She pushed him back. “You don’t get to touch me.”
He gave her a contrite look. “You liked when I touched you before. You used to sigh …”
She slugged him, which slammed his head to the side. The others stepped closer, their fists tightening as Bren caught his balance.
He laughed it off, even as his eyes still swam. “Damn, that Argentinian fire’s still in your blood. Vee, you still got it bad for me, don’t you?”
“Stop calling me Vee, and I couldn’t care less about you.” She narrowed her eyes. “You do know women can control their libido, right? Or are you getting the genders of your lovers confused?”
She wouldn’t admit how badly she wanted to cut off his balls and feed them to the raccoons, because that would reveal how much he’d affected her. He’d wooed her, saying all the right things. Not how beautiful she was, how clever or sexy, but how their getting together would heal the rift between their families. She’d let down her defenses and bought it.
Eventually all his questions about their alligator operation, cleverly couched in mild curiosity, burrowed down to her cynical self. He was using her to get information about their farm and shows. Not long after, they opened their own alligator wrestling tourist attraction. She’d been so mad at herself, but not because her heart had been broken. She hadn’t given it to him. But her pride had taken a big hit, even to this day, and that was nine years ago.
She turned to the oldest brother. “Did one of the Spears clan kill Shirley?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yeah.”
“How do you know?” She’d seen enough retaliatory murders based on nothing more than speculation.
Bren’s expression changed to fierce. “We found that stupid skull handkerchief Bobby wears all the time about twenty yards from her body.”
None of this felt right to her. Not that Fringe justice ever felt right. The Spears clan would rear up and strike back. And the wars would start once more.
2
She was either making a huge mistake or saving her family. Too damned bad she didn’t know in advance which it was going to be. Violet stood on the steps of the Guard’s headquarters. She’d heard that it was fashioned after the government buildings on the Crescents’ ancestral island of Lucifera, and that this building had been here since the beginnings of Miami.
There was no written history of Lucifera, only legends handed down orally through generations. Like many ancient cultures, Luciferians worshipped gods specific to the island. A fluke of nature allowed several gods to become physical on the Earth plane, where they fell to sensual temptations. Eventually, two disgruntled gods and one overly righteous angel decided procreation was a bad idea and instigated a war between their progeny. The war caused a violent schism that not only reversed the gods’ physicality but broke the island apart, forcing the inhabitants to flee to Florida.
Etched symbols like hieroglyphics adorned the two-story columns along the front of the otherwise nondescript building. Violet recognized six of the symbols, mostly the Dragon gods with which she was familiar. Her Crescent jewelry store customers sometimes requested pieces with the symbols for various gods. No one ever requested a necklace depicting the Tryah, the trio who started the war.
And we’re on the verge of war now.
Maybe rage and violence were in the blood, the vengeful tendencies just a throwback to the flawed beings that sired them so many generations ago.
The imposing dark blue doors did not invite the curious. Crescents knew the “financial services firm” was a front for the Hidden’s police force. Couldn’t go to the Miami police complaining that your neighbor’s magick was disrupting your satellite signal. Or that your brother was murdered by a Dragon. The Guard’s main focus was enforcing Rule Number One: Crescents must never expose their magick to the Mundanes. Then there were Crescents who’d gone Red, their term for magick psychosis.
Violet betrayed her clan with every step she took toward those ultra-tall double doors. As much as she hated the idea of going to the Guard for help, she had no choice. There was going to be a lot more bloodshed if she couldn’t convince them to intercede. She took a deep breath as she clutched the steel handle. Act like none of your family has ever been on the wrong side of the law.
Compared to the bright Miami sunshine, the lobby was dim and cool, dominated by shades of blue. Even the woman behind the reception desk wore a dark blue blouse.
“I need to speak to someone about a murder.” That last word caught in Violet’s throat. When the receptionist asked her name, “Castanega” came out even hoarser. She had to repeat it, and the woman’s eyebrows rose.
Yes, I’m one of those Castanegas.
The woman’s previously placid expression soured. “Did you commit murder or are you reporting on behalf of the victim?”
“The victim.”
She opened a drawer, pulled out four pieces of paper, and clipped them to a board with a practiced hand. “You’ll need to fill these out.”
Violet could only stare at the words DEATH REPORT at the top. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the clipboard. The woman jabbed a pen in her direction and walked into the back room.
Crescents in general had their prejudices against Fringers, viewing them with the disdain bestowed on hillbillies. Since Fringers didn’t want outsiders poking into their business, they happily perpetuated the stereotype. Mostly it worked, and the Guard only stepped in when illegal activities might draw the attention of the Mundane police.
