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  Darktide

  A Witches of Cleopatra Hill Novel

  Christine Pope

  Dark Valentine Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DARKTIDE

  Copyright © 2018 by Christine Pope

  Published by Dark Valentine Press

  Cover design by Lou Harper

  Ebook formatting by Indie Author Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Sneak Peek: Hidden Gifts, Prologue

  Also by Christine Pope

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Miguel de la Paz

  The de la Paz warlock parked his car in front of the rundown apartment building and glanced quickly from side to side. The precaution probably wasn’t necessary, since he hadn’t spotted any activity on the sidewalk in front of the building as he pulled up. That was partly the reason why he’d planned this trip for the middle of the afternoon — he had a much better chance of avoiding any of the building’s residents at a time of day when most of them would be at work, or possibly school.

  Still, being wary was second nature to him by now.

  Nor did he think anyone would give him a second glance, even if he did happen to encounter any civilians…nonmagical people…in the vicinity. What was there for them to look at? Fifty-odd years on this planet had granted him perspective if nothing else, and he knew he was less than remarkable — short, balding, carrying about thirty more pounds than he should. But hey, “less than remarkable” was a valuable trait for a private detective to have. He always wondered how his cousin Jack Sandoval had ever managed to pull off any kind of undercover operation when the guy walked around looking like a goddamn movie star all the time.

  Not that it mattered now, since Jack had retired permanently from his position at the Scottsdale P.D. And all because of a woman…and a civilian woman at that. Yes, Kate Campbell was a stunner, but Jack had been a damn good detective and had loved his job. It must have been hard for him to give up, even for someone like Kate. As far as Miguel was concerned, it was never a good thing for a witch clan like the de la Paz family to lose an insider with one of the local police departments. No matter what was going on, it always helped to have some eyes and ears on the inside.

  But then, that was where Miguel came in. He could move around the fringes if necessary, operate in a gray area where a regular cop might not have the same freedom to do what needed to be done. Which was the reason why he was here, in front of the shithole that Matías Escobar and his cousins had used as a base of operations down here in Tucson — and where one of the McAllister clan’s young witches had met a sudden, violent end.

  The apartment had been empty for more than a year after Roslyn McAllister’s death. Miguel knew this because he’d thought it a good idea to keep tabs on the place, just in case. Eventually, the two-bedroom unit was rented out again — housing tended to be tight in this university town, especially places college students could afford — but those first occupants had stayed only a few months, saying that the place creeped them out and that they kept hearing strange noises, had personal items moved around without anyone touching them. The apartment was rented again not too long after they picked up and left, but again, none of the residents who came after them seemed to stay longer than six months.

  The latest occupants, Tara Elizabeth Montoya and Lisbeth O’Neil, both students at the University of Arizona, had fled the scene the night before, screaming that someone — or something — was in the apartment and trying to get them. Who that person was supposed to be, no one could tell, because the Tucson P.D. had sent out a patrol car, and two officers had searched the apartment and found nothing. Nevertheless, the girls made the officers remain on the scene while they packed their bags with as much as they could carry before they took off in Tara’s RAV-4, saying they were going to crash at a friend’s house and didn’t think they’d ever be coming back.

  Miguel knew all this because he had a police scanner, and he’d listened to the back and forth between dispatch and the officers on-scene at the apartment. He’d trained himself to keep a weather ear out for anything remotely connected to his clan, or to anything supernatural…just in case. And as soon as he heard the address, he knew some kind of serious shit must be going down, something much more sinister than a few strange noises or a misplaced cell phone.

  Of course, when viewed in the glaring light of a late May afternoon, the desert sun already brutally hot even though it technically wasn’t summer yet, the apartment building didn’t look all that threatening. The brown stucco was patched and faded to a sort of watery tan color, and the palm trees planted out front looked depressed, too, as though they’d once had dreams of waving in the breeze at a tropical resort rather than being stuck here in a crappy-ass part of Tucson, Arizona.

  After double-checking the pistol in the shoulder harness he wore — a gun wouldn’t do much against a supernatural opponent, but it sure could help in case he ran into any drug dealers who’d decided to squat in the now-vacant apartment — he got out of his car, a silver Honda Accord chosen mostly for its complete anonymity, and began to walk toward the building. It was two stories, a hollow rectangle built around a courtyard area with more palm trees and a dingy swimming pool that looked about as inviting as the rest of the structure.

  The unit in question was on the second floor, located toward the back of the complex. A woman in her forties, with sun-fried blonde hair and tanned skin as wrinkled as a cheap linen suit, came down the stairs toward him. Miguel caught the way her gaze — partially blocked by a pair of tortoiseshell Ray-Ban knockoffs — slid in his direction for a second or two before she continued on her way. Clearly, she didn’t consider his presence worthy of note. He wasn’t worried about the shoulder holster, because a while back Luz, his clan’s prima, had cast a minor spell of illusion on it so it would blend in with whatever he was wearing.

  He was glad the blonde woman hadn’t paid any particular attention to him. Even the Hawaiian shirts he favored weren’t enough to make him noteworthy, precisely because that kind of attire was the sort of thing you might expect to see men of his age and build to be wearing, especially in this climate.

  He headed toward the apartment where Roslyn McAllister had been murdered. Unlike some in his clan, Miguel couldn’t really sense dark energy, didn’t have the talent for detecting where forbidden magic had been used — unlike his cousin Luz Trujillo, head of their family. Even so, he co
uldn’t quite help shuddering as his fingers touched the doorknob. He might not be able to actually feel the bad juju, but he knew it was here, and that was enough.

  Because he was a warlock, the knob turned under his fingers, even though the place had been securely locked up. No police tape on the door barring entry, probably because no crime had been committed here. Not last night, anyway.

  The interior was decorated in a hodgepodge of what Miguel tended to think of as “early garage sale.” Several textbooks sat on the scratched glass coffee table, and underneath it was a pair of abandoned flip-flops, bright pink with rhinestones on the straps.

  Something about seeing those flip-flops made him want to shake his head as a wave of sadness washed over him. Foolish; he knew the girl who owned that footwear was just fine, since she’d had the good sense to get the hell out of the place when her hinky-meter went off the charts.

  There was nothing here to indicate anything out of the ordinary had ever occurred on the premises. Just the expected college-girl clutter, stylized posters of Che Guevara and Frida Kahlo competing for wall space with posters of bands Miguel had never even heard of, which meant they must be just obscure enough to be considered cool. Did college kids even say “cool” anymore? He didn’t know. Unlike most witches and warlocks, he’d stayed blissfully single, never had any children of his own. It was a lot easier to be the fun cousin — or uncle, he supposed, since his own brothers and sisters had definitely done their best to be fruitful and multiply.

  Despite the apartment’s mundane appearance, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Power of suggestion, stemming from what he’d heard on the police scanner the night before, what he knew had gone down in this place now more than three years ago? Maybe, but he’d never been one to spook easily. Besides, Matías Escobar was now dead, and his partners in crime, the cousins Jorge and Tomas Aguirre, were still locked up in separate maximum-security facilities. Yes, it seemed that Matías’ father Joaquin was just as bad as his son — or even worse — but he was off in California, apparently occupied with consolidating his power there. The portal that had been opened to allow demons into this world to wreak their particular havoc was now closed, so Miguel wasn’t too worried about an otherworldly attack, either.

  Mostly, he just wanted to know exactly what the hell had gone on here last night.

  He moved from the living room and peeked into the tiny kitchen, but there wasn’t much to see, just some dirty dishes piled on the counter, and a plate with a piece of pepperoni pizza sitting on it next to the microwave, as if one of the girls had just finished heating up her food when whatever it was that scared the crap out of her had occurred.

  Two small bedrooms, and a shared bathroom across the hall. One of the rooms was definitely neater than the other, the bed made, and only a folded pair of jeans sitting on top of the shabby dresser, while the other was a disaster area, clothes piled on the unmade bed, some on the floor, mingling with a dizzying assortment of shoes. Miguel wondered who of the roommates was the neatnik, and who was the slob…not that it really mattered at this point.

  Even so, in a way it was good to see the ordinary clutter, just because he could look at it and do his best to ignore how two girls had been sexually abused in those rooms, and one of them tortured to death.

  The thought of what Roslyn McAllister and Danica Wilcox had suffered in this place made him clench his fists. At least Danica apparently was happy and settled now, but there would be no happy endings for Roslyn.

  A rustle from the hallway made Miguel turn at once to see what had made the sound. Eyes narrowing, he headed back toward the main section of the apartment, the one that comprised the kitchen, living room, and dining area. A quick scan of his surroundings told him that he was alone. And yet….

  Another of those odd rustling sounds. It almost sounded like a taffeta dress his mother had once owned…or maybe like dead, dry leaves blowing down an empty street.

  Mouth tightening, he reached back and pulled his Ruger from its shoulder holster. He was a warlock, and so he knew that just because he couldn’t see something didn’t mean it wasn’t there. The skin at the back of his neck prickled, and for the first time, he wondered if he should have had someone come along with him. His own gift of knowing whenever someone was speaking the truth came in very handy in his chosen vocation, but it didn’t help much when it came to self-defense, magical or otherwise. Miguel’s cousin Alex Trujillo, with his talent of generating a sort of force field that protected anyone inside it, would have been a good person to invite along on this expedition. But Alex was at work at his job with one of the local television stations, and couldn’t drop everything to come running out on what Miguel had thought would probably be a wild goose chase.

  All right, the smart thing to do would be to leave and come back with some magical reinforcements. Just because he hadn’t actually seen anything yet didn’t mean that something wasn’t here. Something decidedly not friendly, judging by the way his skin was crawling. He could call Jack. The former detective’s talent was defensive magic, and he certainly didn’t have a job to worry about anymore. He’d probably jump at the chance to come here and poke around a bit.

  That seemed to settle it. Miguel returned his gun to its holster, just because going down the stairs with a 9mm in hand would probably be enough to attract attention, even in this neighborhood. He began to head toward the door…

  …only to have what felt like a net made of a thousand needles descend on him, biting into his flesh. Repressing a cry of agony, he clawed at his face and throat, thinking that if he could just tear it away from his eyes and mouth, he might stand a chance. But then the needles sank into his fingers as well, and he couldn’t seem to move them, couldn’t seem to….

  Can’t breathe. Can’t….

  The world went red, then black.

  And then it was gone altogether.

  1

  Angela McAllister-Wilcox

  I stood at the living room window of Connor’s and my house in Jerome, watching Levi and Hayley head down the front path before they turned onto the sidewalk and continued toward Main Street. They held hands, and Hayley’s bright blonde hair rippled in the sunlight as they walked.

  Connor’s arm tightened around my waist. “You okay?”

  “Define ‘okay.’” I tried to laugh, but it just came out as a hoarse chuckle that wouldn’t have convinced anyone, let alone my husband. “I suppose I have to be. It’s not as if I have much choice.”

  “I thought you’d be happy to hear that there haven’t been any further incursions. Levi said that he hasn’t seen evidence of any demons for the past two weeks.”

  “I know. It’s just….” I let the words trail off there. Problem was, I didn’t even know how to articulate the creeping dread which seemed to have overtaken me, that made me wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the ceiling for what felt like hours as Connor peacefully slept beside me. Levi had done the McAllisters — and all the Arizona witch clans — an enormous favor by closing the portal that connected the demons’ world to this one. Ever since then, things had been quiet enough. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the calm before the storm. “Maybe it’s just watching the two of them. I can tell how happy they are, but is this really the time to start a relationship?”

  Connor’s hand, which had been resting on my hip, moved gently to my stomach, which was still completely flat. “Is this really the time to start anything?” Before I could speak, he went on, “We can’t all put our lives on hold because of what’s been happening.”

  “I know that.” I placed my hand on top of his, taking some comfort in the quiet strength I could sense emanating from his very fingertips.

  There wasn’t much use in pointing out that, when I’d conceived, this latest mess with the Escobars hadn’t yet begun. Connor and I had quietly decided it was time to try for another baby, now that Ian and Emily would be starting school in the fall and I didn’t feel as if I’d have to run after
the two of them every hour of every day. I’d just passed my twelfth week, and it was certainly safe to make the announcement to the McAllister and Wilcox clans…but did I really want to add another complication to everything else that was going on? I might be the prima, but I knew everyone would turn all protective and try to keep me out of harm’s way the second they learned I was pregnant. Of course I would prefer to stay out of harm’s way, but I also knew I couldn’t ignore the needs of the clan just to protect the fragile life I now carried within me. It was a frightening balancing act, yet another responsibility connected with being the head witch of my clan.

  “Then just be happy for them.” Connor withdrew his hand, but only so he could push away the heavy hair from the back of my neck and place a gentle kiss on the skin there. A pleasant tingle moved through me before he went on, “Anyway, Levi and Hayley make a pretty potent combination. I don’t think you need to worry about them.”

  No, I probably didn’t. They were most likely in a better position to take care of themselves than anyone else I knew. And, although I’d been preoccupied lately, I wasn’t so distracted that I hadn’t noticed another possible romance budding, this one between Hayley’s brother Brandon and Lucinda Santiago, whom Levi and Hayley and Brandon had rescued from the Escobars only a few weeks earlier. It wasn’t that Brandon and Lucinda had moved in together the way Levi and Hayley had — in fact, Lucinda was back staying with my Aunt Rachel, in the room that had once been mine — but I’d seen the two of them walking around Jerome together, or in our little town’s tasting rooms and restaurants. You certainly didn’t need to be psychic to see what was going on there. I was happy for Lucinda because she’d suffered enough and deserved a little happiness, and it was nice to finally see someone distract Brandon from his car obsession and the long hours he worked at a custom car and motorcycle shop down in Cottonwood. I’d seriously started to think he was asexual or something…until Lucinda came along.