Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires #10)

Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires #10) Page 20

“This isn’t random,” she said. “And it’s not about vampires. It’s probably not even about sorcerers.”

She opened the bag and pulled out a large stack of rectangular cards with die-cut notches on the corners.

“The first murder didn’t involve two swords,” she said. “It involved the Two of Swords.” She flipped through the deck, pulled out a card, and placed it on the table with a snap.

A dark-haired man in a blue tunic and pants stood in a grassy field, seven bloodred poppies punctuating the grass. His arms were outstretched, just like Brett Jacobs’s in the church courtyard. Two broadswords floated in front of him, crossing just above his abdomen.

“The Two of Swords,” she said, then pulled out and flipped over another card. This one showed a woman in a burgundy off-the-shoulder dress with trumpet sleeves standing in the middle of a brilliantly white and snowy tundra. Three golden pentagrams floated in the air above her. The only green in the image was from the flowering vine that wound through her hair and across her shoulders.

“And the Three of Pentacles,” Mallory said.

“Holy shit,” Catcher said. “The killer’s using the suits of the tarot.”

“Not just the suits,” I said, putting the cards beside each other. “The cards.” I pointed to the Two of Swords. “The Jacobs murder—his body was in the same position, on the grass in the courtyard, and the swords were basically in the same position, at least two-dimensionally.” Three-dimensionally, they’d skewered him.

“And the Three of Pentacles?” Mallory asked.

I had to think back, focus shifting between the card and my mental image of Ingram’s murder scene.

“Samantha Ingram wore a red dress,” I said, then pointed to the flowering vine. “She was strangled, and the pentagrams are obvious.”

“There was no snow,” Catcher pointed out, and I nodded.

“True. But there was sand. It’s spring; maybe that’s the best he could do. The semblance isn’t perfect—chalk it up to artistic license—but the major elements are the same.”

“Jesus,” Catcher muttered. “How did I not see that?”

“Because you’re not me,” Mallory jauntily said, and proceeded to place the cards in a vertical line of four. “Let’s correct the terminology—pentacles, not pentagrams. Also called coins. And they aren’t suits. They’re the major arcana, minor arcana. The numbered cards are the latter. Swords. Pentacles. Cups. Wands.”

“We aren’t looking for someone obsessed with vampires,” Catcher said. “We’re looking for someone obsessed with tarot. Or at least someone who’s interested enough to choose them as his particular vehicle of death.” He looked at Mallory. “That’s damned impressive.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Mitzy Burrows is the CPD’s current suspect,” I said. “Does this fit with her background?”

“I don’t know that much about her,” Catcher admitted. “She’s human, so the CPD’s handling that part of the investigation. She worked at the Magic Shoppe, so she’d obviously be familiar with tarot cards. Right?” he asked Mallory.

“MS has the best selection of tarot cards in the metro area, at least until you get to Racine. There’s a little store near one of the kringle shops. Really nice cards, including replicas of some of the old French and Italian sets—”

“So the Magic Shoppe?” Catcher prompted, heading off a derailment.

“Yeah. They have them—I’ve seen a set there before. But these aren’t run-of-the-mill cards.” She held one out to me. “Touch.”

I did, felt the nubbiness of the paper. “It’s got texture.”

“It’s die-cut watercolor paper,” she said. “The Fletcher deck is hand-watercolored. There are hundreds of different kinds of tarot decks. Each one has its own symbolism. The suits, the numbers—they’re all the same. So Two of Swords could be from any deck, Three of Pentacles from any deck. But these particular images are specific to the Fletcher deck. The artist is from Chicago, actually.”

I looked at Catcher, who nodded, noting the coincidence. The artist who created the deck—the deck being used as a model for human murder scenes—lived in the city.

“And who is Fletcher?” he asked.

“June Fletcher, I think,” Mallory said. “Or maybe Jane. But she’s gone—she died five or six years ago.”

I actually felt myself deflate. “So she’s not our suspect.”

“Maybe not,” Catcher said, “but she’s another lead. Chuck will be very happy about that.” He looked at Mallory. “What’s the connection to the Magic Shoppe?”

“Her husband was also getting on in years, didn’t want the cards stuck in some box in the house, so he took them to the store. They bought the remaining sets.”

“That’s a nice link,” Catcher said.

“Will I get in trouble for noticing that of all the kinds of tarot cards out there, you just happen to have the same deck the killer’s using?” Jonah asked, his gaze flipping from the cards to her face.

She looked down at them. “I’ve had these for years, actually. The Magic Shoppe is in Wicker Park. It’s my hometown store, so to speak.”

“Wait,” I said, memories trickling in. “Is that the place where Venom worked?”

“Venom?” Catcher asked, sarcasm dripping.

“Former beau,” she said. “During one of my Goth phases.”

“The second one, I think. You were Rayven.”

“Oh, I was.” She clapped her hands together delightedly. With the classically pretty features, blue eyes, and sparking blue hair, it was hard to imagine Mallory in kohl and black lace.

“Those were good times.”

I looked at Catcher. “So the cards were likely purchased at the same place where the swords were purchased, and where Mitzy Burrows was employed. I doubt that’s a coincidence.”

“It seems unlikely,” he agreed. “But the CPD ran the store and other employees. They were clean, at least on the surface.”

“So why tarot cards?” Jonah asked.

“Maybe it’s just a game to her,” Jeff said. “Tarot cards have number cards, suits, just like a regular deck of playing cards.”

“If it’s a game,” I said, “it’s a bloody one. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t care who he or she hurts, or how, or when.”

“Or maybe the killer cares too much,” Jeff said. “You don’t have to be coldhearted to kill. You can be as passionate as anyone else—more passionate. We just have to figure out what he or she was passionate about.”

Catcher pulled out his phone, rose, and walked away from the table to make the call. “I’m going to advise Chuck of our little breakthrough. Good job, Mallocake.”

We all looked at Mallory. “Did he just call you Mallocake?”

She blushed to the roots of her blue hair, shrugged one shoulder. “It’s a nickname.”

It was also my all-time favorite snack food—a log-shaped chocolate cake with a marshmallow cream center. They were absolutely delectable. And that was kind of adorable, especially for someone like Catcher, who made Eeyore seem like an optimist.

“Young love,” Jeff sang, pouring water into a ruby-colored glass. “So adorable.”

I looked at him. “Haven’t you and Fallon only been an official item for a few weeks?”

“We’re old souls,” he said matter-of-factly, as if the issue had already been decided.

“And there is an advantage to being single,” Jonah said, giving me a wink as he took another bite of food.

Mallory, not yet done with her tarot reading, flipped out more cards to create a symmetrical cross.

That rang another bell. “This—the cross. Why did you put them that way?”

She looked at me, then back down at the cards. “Because that’s how you do it. It’s the cross form. Pretty common.”

And it was another connection between the murders. “Both victims had small crosses painted on their hands.”

“So the killer doesn’t just know the cards,” Jonah said. “She knows how to use them.”

Mallory placed a final card above the cross—the Priestess, a womanly figure covered by a black hooded cape. Her outstretched hands, palms up, were the only visible portions of her body.

“Interesting,” Mallory said.

“That I’m going to be made a priestess?”

“That there’s conflict in your future.”

Catcher came back to the table, tucking his phone away. “Chuck’s going to tell Jacobs. They’ll do another run on Mitzy, see what they can find.”

But Mallory shook her head. “That’s the wrong approach.” She leaned forward, pointed at the cards. “Someone is working their way through the tarot. You don’t check files or databases for this. You go to the source.”

“Which is?” Catcher asked.

She rolled her eyes. “All four of you are basically paid investigators.”

“But you’re the occult expert,” I said, remembering the old days, when we hunkered in the town house on a Friday night, Mallory with episodes of Buffy and me with my favorite book of fairy tales. And look where we ended up. At a Moroccan feast organized by River nymphs in a gym owned by a sorcerer. Life was crazy that way.

“I usually work for free,” she said. “I mean, I’m an honorary Ombuddy, and I’ve got the SWOB deal going on, but I wouldn’t mind taking home a paycheck.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, holding up a hand. “SWOB?”

“Sorcerers Without Borders,” she said. “Remember I talked about doing some community service? It’s my initiative, I guess. We help folks newly identified with magic in states where the Order doesn’t have an official presence.”

“Like Illinois,” I said, and she nodded.

“We explain the whole deal, get them mentors and training, make sure someone watches over them.” She blushed a little. “You know, so as not to repeat the whole Army of Darkness in Chicago scenario.”

“That’s awesome,” I said. “Really, really awesome.”

She shrugged. “Anywho, I’d just like to bring some money into the household, you know? Make my contribution. Other than with my sweet, sweet sexual prowess.”

I winced. Like most people at the table, I presumed, I neither needed nor wanted a play-by-play of Mallory and Catcher’s romantic life.

“Back to the work you don’t get paid for,” Catcher prompted. Mallory nodded, and I tried not to think of how he’d issued “payment” for the work she did get paid for.

“You mentioned something about going to a source?” Jonah said.

“The Magic Shoppe,” she said, tapping the cards.

Catcher rolled his eyes. “We took a damn long trip to get back to the Magic Shoppe.”

I held in a snicker, glanced at Jonah. “Did you already go by the store?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t, actually. The CPD settled on Mitzy Burrows before I could get over there. Looked like a cool place online, though. It used to be a very old-school pharmacy back in the day. Wooden floors, old-fashioned soda counter, big wall of herbal ingredients.”

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Mallory said with a nod, the issue decided. “When the sun goes down again and there’s no risk of you turning into vampire jerky on the sidewalk. Verky?” she absently considered, but rejected the word with a toss of her head. “Not the point. The point is, tomorrow.”

I nodded. “Give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.” Seeing as how my boyfriend and I were fighting and he’d still challenged the king of vampires, my schedule could get tight.

Catcher looked at Mallory. “Don’t get squirrelly and go without one of us—wait until I can go with you, or Merit can get away. Until we’re sure the store’s not directly connected, I want you to be careful.”

“I will be,” she said, and I wondered whether my voice had had the same petulant tone when I told Ethan I’d be careful. “Especially since this probably isn’t over.”

Catcher turned to her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Mallory put the cards she’d pulled out in numerical order again. “The killer’s modeled murders on the Two of Swords and the Three of Pentacles.” She pulled out the Four of Cups and Four of Wands, placed the cards on the table.

On the Four of Wands, a naked woman with a blond braid that fell strategically across her breasts rode sidesaddle on a black destrier. She carried two long wands in each hand, and she and the horse were headed toward a castle festooned with pennants.

On the Four of Cups, a generously breasted woman in a white robe sat on the edge of a fountain and dipped her hand into the water. Four golden chalices sat on the fountain’s edge around her, and a crescent moon dotted the blue sky.

“The question is—who’s going to be number four?”

Cassie came back and tapped a delicate gold watch. “Time’s up. Back to work.”

“Easy on the eyes,” Jonah said as she walked away again, “but hard on the heart.”

“Trust me,” Jeff said, standing and lifting the ceramic platter, which had been stripped bare of food by supernaturals. “You have no idea.”

Once again, he left us speechless.