When the Rooster Crows at Midnight: The Mallory Shane Witch Detective Series

By Hargrove Perth

When a rooster crows at midnight, a witch will die...

An old wive's tale proves to be more than just words. Witches are dying, something the human population of Pittsburgh really could care less about with one very small exception. The targeted witches protect the Three Rivers area. Bequeaths are the highest ranking witches in the immortal community, descended from countless generations of magic, and the rooster is only crowing for them. Now the safety of the city rests in the hands of Mallory Shane, a Bequeath detective who cannot prove her lineage. Can she discover the killer before the rooster crows for her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hargrove Perth
• Release date: Apr 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201176181

Hargrove Perth

A perpetual night-owl and lover of all things paranormal related, Hargrove spends a great deal of time researching the larger than life characters of history to formulate characters unforgettable and strangely adored. She writes horror, dark romance, fantasy, and paranormal in the Adult, New Adult, and YA categories. When asked why paranormal, she said, "I'm the girl who cries at the end when Frankenstein is misunderstood, who wants Dracula to keep Mina in his arms forever... I see the humanity in them that others cannot." 2014 Author of the Year by Double Decker Books in Historical/Horror Dark Days Remy Broulette. DDBA 2015 Author of the Year YA Fantasy Miss Crabtree's School for Unnaturals, DDBA 2015 Nominee YA Fantasy Chronicle:Dark Sea Triad, and DDBA 2015 Author of the Year Horror (comedic) Coven Wives.

Book preview

Chapter One

Weather Vanes, Dreams, and Memories

DARKNESS ENVELOPES me, a thick darkness that clings to my skin, bordering on stealing my breath as I’m drawn, nearly forced against my will, to stare at the weathervane. Mist swirls about the horrid contraption as it twists, moving as though pushed by the wind despite the fact it is a windless night.

Its construction is old, even ancient. The iron is weathered, rust clinging to the edges from countless years of being exposed to harsh conditions.

Knowing the fact that it couldn’t possibly be mocking me doesn’t ease my nerves or the growing rock in the pit of my stomach as my angst grows with each passing moment.

They’ve frightened me since I was a child, seeing that one atop the orphanage staring down at me every single day while walking across the grounds at Hawthorne House, a silent beacon foretelling the countless lives taken throughout history, all quietly etched into the surface of the iron.

Mistress Pettigrew standing alongside me, relating their origins, how the Ancient Romans also used weathervanes, how they were a very mystical creation. In the ninth century A.D., the Pope decreed that the cock, a common farm-born rooster, be used as a weathervane on church domes or steeples, perhaps as a symbol of Christianity, referring to Jesus' prophecy that Peter will deny him three times before the rooster crows the morning after the Last Supper. She told us how the Witch Finder General used a witch to enchant all the weathervanes in England so they would point toward the home of a witch.

As the persecuted fled the European Continent, both witches and Christians alike, those roosters made their way to America, sitting atop the rooves of red barns, quaint Cape Cod houses, and humble farm homes.

She thumbed her nose at all of it, at the church, at the Inquisition, at every living being who discounted our existence, all by sticking that rooster weathervane atop the orphanage like a giant screw you to the whole history of it. We were not what the world believed, she had said. Healers. Midwives. Seers. Fortune tellers. Daughters. Mothers. Maidens and Crones. We were all these things, but never, not once, did we worship a fallen one feared by the mortals.

It was propaganda, a smear campaign designed to lessen the value of women in the eyes of the world, replacing those views with the powerful hierarchy focused on a singular spirituality where the men with power feared us.

The days that followed the decree and the curse of the weathervane were dark ones indeed, filled with torture devices designed to extract a confession regardless of whether or not it was the truth.

Mistress Pettigrew had lost an ancestor to the Iron Maiden, so she had no love for any part of history that condemned our natural ways.

It seemed of them all, despite their brutal nature, she hated the Rooster the most. He foretold of us, betrayed us...

Those stories made me shudder, filling me with inexplicable dread. Now here I stand, staring at it as though some compulsion spell has been cast against me, unable to look away, unwilling to look away. A weathervane, atop an old building in downtown Pittsburgh that has no reason to be there but one irrefutable reason, a witch will die.

I can hear the downbeat of the bird’s wings, pushing the air with a distinctive sound, while flying through the darkness. It circles me, taunts me as it glides through the thick mist, nearly leaving a visible path.

The rooster lands on the weathervane, stretching its wings while mocking me. His chest expands, readying to launch the sound all witches fear.

It’s the crow that calls a witch’s death at midnight.

My alarm sounds, that shrill and blaring tone that shatters sleep without mercy. I swat at it, never so grateful to be frightened awake.

What a great way to wake up, I mumble, trying to push the images from my mind.

I slide my hands through my hair, pulling it back away from my sweat laden brow. The nightmares have grown stronger, more frequent in the last three months. I feel connected to them as though they are not dreams at all. Somehow, those dreams are real, a living moment into which I’ve been drawn. There’s a frequency to them that appears to have a distinct repetitive nature, as though something or someone is attempting to send a message.

They aren’t the only thing in my life that seems to be increasing without reason.

So have the murders.

The floor is cold as my feet hit the bare wood. I peer over the edge of the bed to look for my slippers, then realize they’re next to the couch where I left them after getting home last night.

I grab my robe off the end of the bed. Charlie meows, rubs against my leg and runs to the kitchen ahead of me where he jumps onto the counter to wait for his breakfast.

You know the rules. Coffee first then you get breakfast. A quick pat on his head satisfies my persistent cat, for now at least.

The coffee is already brewing, allowing that blissful aroma to drift into the kitchen. The wonders of a programmable coffee pot are among the many things in this century that make me thankful.

I pull the pot early, quickly pouring a cup before it’s finished. I return the glass carafe under the filter basket to allow the brewing to finish.

Goddess that is good.

My badge is still lying in the center of the small table where I left it when arriving home, sometime around 2 a.m. It was a long night, longer than usual.

Charlie paces the counter, just like he does every morning while waiting for that little dish of canned cat food. I pull his half eaten can from the refrigerator and put the last of it in his bowl before sitting at the table. There’s always a bowl of crunchy food out for him, just in the event work prevents me from coming home at a reasonable time. Sadly, that happens more often than I’d like.

Sometimes that badge is a curse. It’d be a bold-faced lie if I said it wasn’t, if I said I loved my job every single day.

That badge, and working as a detective, will eventually be the death of me one day, unless the rooster finds me first.

My phone chimes, letting me know there’s a text waiting. Ignoring it, I continue to sip my well-deserved cup of hot coffee. The world doesn’t turn until I drink my coffee, or at least that’s what Sergeant McConnell will say.

It’s been a difficult week. Four murders in the immortal community, all of them witches, all of them found with their hearts missing. With little in the way of leads, it doesn’t look like anything my division will solve anytime soon despite pressure from the Witch’s Area Council.

We exist here, in Pittsburgh, with our base of operations located inside what was once the First Presbyterian Church on 6th Street. The department purchased the old gothic style building years ago, when downtown became a dangerous center of activity. For a long time, downtown Pittsburgh just wasn’t safe for anyone, human or immortal, what you called yourself didn’t matter. Anyone could easily become a victim of crime or worse. Stepping into that area after dark was a certain death sentence for many, sadly.

The IDAW was formed to help quell the crime in the area. The Immortal Detective Association of Witches became a branch of the Pittsburgh Police Department. We were to investigate crimes that had the possibility of being immortal based in nature. It was done for several reasons. First reason being the PPD didn’t really care to be involved with any crime based inside the craft community, or the immortal ones for that matter. Secondly, since a witch cannot lie, our community was the obvious place for local law enforcement to look at recruiting officers. There was no concern over Bequeaths or Hedges stealing evidence or attempting to corrupt a crime scene for personal gain. If we were confronted, we had to tell the truth. Within four years, IDAW was up and running. A year after that, I enlisted.

Sometimes I regret that day deeply. On other days, there’s no place I’d rather be than in the thick of an investigation, but what’s happening now, it hits too close to home.

I turn my phone over to look at the notification bar. The sergeant’s number is rolling across the top. Regardless of what McConnell wants, finishing my coffee is happening first, perhaps even a second cup. It’s that kind of morning.

That dream...

Who are you? Why are you in my head? I say aloud, knowing no one will answer me. Sometimes the sound of your own voice is reassuring, especially in times like this.

For years we thought it was nothing but an old wives’ tale, one of those stories that witches told their children, on a dark and starless night, to frighten them into following the laws of their area council; especially when we weren’t looked upon so fondly, when just being accused was enough to end your life.

Now I’m not so sure that it’s just an old wives’ tale. Witches are having the same collective dream. Witches are dying.

The first witch was found with her heart missing on Butler Street, lying in the center of the road, right under a lamplight for everyone to see. It was intentional and methodical, designed to draw attention to what the killer had done.

Her name was Megan Jessup. She was respected in the community for her knowledge of spells, even more important was the respect she had garnered from the citizens of Pittsburgh for the Moonglow Children’s Center that she had raised the money to build, through donations. No child in need of medical care was turned away, regardless of an inability to pay by their parents. Megan didn’t have an unkind bone in her body.

Now, I’ll never forget her face for all the wrong reasons.

The killer had dressed her in a black gown, one with an old, nearly gothic flair to it. Her nails were freshly painted, her hair was perfect, not a single piece out of place, and she was posed with the gentle touch an undertaker would have inside their funeral parlor... minus the gaping hole in her chest where Megan’s heart was missing.

Since that night, the murders have all been relatively the same. All the witches found executed were part of a certain rank inside the witch community, all posed perfectly, all placed in a prominent area of the city where they would be found quickly.

I pick up the phone, dialing my sergeant’s number.

The rooster crowed last night. Another corpse turned up after midnight.

Where? I ask, walking around the divider between the bedroom and the kitchen with my coffee cup still in my hand.

Mellon Park.

I’ll be there in an hour.

There’s no time for a shower. I dress, slipping on a clean pair of jeans, a black tee-shirt, my customary black velvet blazer, and a pair of boots. We don’t have a dress code inside IDAW, which is just fine with me. I’ve never been one for uniforms. Being comfortable is what matters to me.

I don’t carry a gun. To me, there’s just not a reason to carry a pistol being what I am, but other witches within the agency do because for some strange reason it makes them feel comfortable. I’ve never felt the need or want to do that. If magick can’t save me, there’s little reason to continue working as a detective. The only item worn that even denotes where I work is my badge, which I slip onto the waist of my jeans before stepping out the door.

The three flights of stairs allow me to clear my thoughts, shake that feeling of dread that comes with the nightmares. Sunlight streams through the glass, original glass from the building’s construction in the late 1800’s. It creates small rainbows of color on the walls due to the imperfections in it. It’s a strange thing to look forward to seeing each morning, but it lets me know nothing in my world has changed. Consistence and order is important to me, probably because of my childhood.

Cold, crisp air strikes my face as the door opens to the street. It’s autumn in Pennsylvania. There is nothing comparative in the United States like this season in the East, at least that’s my opinion. That rich, earthy smell that comes with the changing color of the leaves permeates the air, wrapping me in the splendor of it, making me want to take long, reflective walks while sipping a hot coffee or cup of cocoa.

It’s chilly enough that my breath floats in the air each time I exhale while walking to my car. The ‘beast’ as McConnell calls her, but I’d rather drive a vintage Monte Carlo with a carburetor than anything with a computer lurking under the hood. There are more than a few advantages to it, most notable the fact spells don’t work on regular engines unlike anything that’s computer based. Get a witch worm in your computer, your car is as good as dead... literally.

I pull my keys out of my pocket, unlock the door, and slide into the red leather seat. The engine turns over with a roar. There’s nothing like the sound of a V-8 engine... nothing. Plus, I’d never own a car with a computer in it. Give me something that I can work on, slip beneath the hood for a few tweaks to the carburetor, that’s a real car.

The streets are dense even though it’s early with those bustling off to their places of employment. That’s not anything new. Pittsburgh has been a busy city her entire life. What is new is the trend to use public transit, to walk or ride a bike to work to avoid traffic. Driving in the city has become a major hassle for most with the congestion.

Pittsburgh has grown into a busy, 24 hour metropolis that rivals any city in the U.S. She went through some hard times. The closing of the steel mills, the economic crashes, pollution, crime, it all left a mark on the old girl, yet she prevailed somehow. That’s one thing few can understand unless they were born here, or at least on the East Coast. We’re tough. We fight for what we believe in without a second thought. We’re survivors. We don’t quit. There’s an old pride here about freedom, about surviving when others tell you it’s not possible. Maybe we all have a bit of that Minute Men blood running through us that prevents us from giving up on what we believe.

I can only pray the witch community can survive what’s happening, that there will be a break in these unsolved cases before there’s no witches left alive to tell our tale.

Someone wants us dead. I don’t honestly believe they will stop until the last witch in the city has taken her final breath.

Chapter Two

The Detective with Lavender Eyes

POLICE TAPE COVERS the west-side parking lot as I turn onto the street. There’s a young cop, a rookie I’ve never seen before, who immediately waves me past, thinking I’m just a rubbernecker hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever is beneath the blue tarp. I pull my badge and press it against the windshield, offering him a smile.

Sorry, detective, he offers while lifting the tape as I roll down my window.

Officer Johnson, I say, staring at his badge. Where’s the sergeant?

She’s under the tent with the coroner.

Thanks.

I pull into the open spot after he lifts the police tape high enough for me to drive underneath.

The clatter of a woman’s dress shoes moving down the sidewalk draws my attention while exiting the Monte. I watch as she hustles down the sidewalk, obviously late for work.

If you weren’t wearing stilettos, that walk could be faster, I mumble, watching her balance slip slightly before my shoes hit the dew-covered grass. Those days of being required to dress like that, wearing a skirt and heels are long behind me. I can’t say that I miss it.

What do we have? I question while stepping into the tent.

Witch, early twenties in appearance, same as the others, Jules says as she drops the tarp on the pop-up awning to block the view of people on the sidewalk, not that most of them would care. Most of the humans in this city would just as soon see us dead than alive. She pulls back the blue tarp covering the dead witch. It’s like the general population won’t put two and two together eventually despite the mayor’s attempt to keep this out of the papers. Blue tarps mean the same thing in every city. There’s been a death. With IDAW on the scene of these crimes it won’t be but a few weeks before the papers are talking about an immortal murder spree gripping Pittsburgh.

I grab a pair of gloves and pull them on before leaning down to examine the corpse.

No blood on the scene. The body was placed here after the murder just like the others. No identification or identifying marks. Her dental structure has been altered with a spell. Same M.O. as the last three murders. I’d say we have a serial killer on the loose. Jules pauses, looking at me. You look tired. Are you sleeping?

Not really, it’s a little hard to sleep when someone is killing your people.

Jules nods. I notice she’s wearing contacts, brown ones, to hide her blue eyes. Do you believe it’s vampires doing this? What else would be the reason for the missing heart and the bodies being devoid of blood?

I don’t believe we should limit our search to the Sanguisuge Community just yet. There are other possibilities for what is happening. I still believe it has something to do with witchcraft. If we focus on one immortal sector only, we will miss obvious clues.

It’s something the humans don’t know about the immortal community. Witches only have eyes that fall into two color ranges. That color determines your rank inside the witch community. Once upon a time, that eye color also determined how much respect you were shown.

Blue eyed witches are Hedges, natural borns; the witches who enter this world with the power inside them, free flowing, without a family lineage that can be traced and zero reason for being a witch.

Bequeaths can trace their lineage of witchcraft and how it has passed from generation to generation. Their gifts are extremely powerful being they can call