Hero of Terra

By Christopher Duro

In seven years as a former cop and current PI, Jason Kane has seen corruption and criminality up close, and he thinks he's got a pretty good idea how the world works. So when his best friend starts babbling about witches, and his girlfriend claims to be one, he doesn't buy it. Then his beautiful new client turns out to be an alien, and the man she hired Kane to find becomes a suspect in the deadliest conspiracy he's ever seen.

Kane's in for the fight of his life, for the lives of everybody he's ever loved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Duro
• Release date: Apr 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005512019

Christopher Duro

Christopher Duro is a former professional astronomer and current engineer and outdoorsman. He lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and teenage children. An avid reader of science fiction, he has often considered and occasionally attempted to write it. Hero of Terra is his first novel.

Book preview

1: A Groan In The Dark

The fog crept in through the broken window and trickled slowly down to dissipate on my shabby office carpet. I watched it in glum silence and waited for the whiskey to take the edge off what had turned into a spectacularly lousy evening.

It had started out fine. I’d gotten paid by a client I’d saved from hard time by finding his supposed murder victim living under an assumed name on a farm north of the City. Flush, I’d bought a new set of lead-acid cells for my old Fairview, charged them up, and taken an evening off to spend wining and dining Viola. Her long red hair streamed in the wind as the car raced north toward the Lake. The little box in my trench coat pocket was a token and catalyst of our future together.

DiMarco’s was the best restaurant in the City. The valet took my battered Ford with barely a sniff. I caught him eyeing Viola, but you can’t hold it against a man when a woman looks that good. Besides, Viola didn’t notice it, and I wasn’t going to make a scene tonight.

Over sauteed crayfish and rainbow trout I took the box from my pocket and asked The Question. That’s when it all fell apart.

The first sign of trouble was her lack of surprise. Her clear green eyes didn’t widen, her breath didn’t catch, her delicate red lips didn’t part. Instead, she gave the ring a careful, appraising look before she met my eyes with the frankness I’d always admired but didn’t welcome now. Oh, you are so sweet, she said. And this is really pretty. But, well, this isn’t a good time for me…

What’s wrong? I asked, dreading the answer but determined not to accept defeat without knowing the reason for it.

Jason, she began, not quite meeting my eyes now, "you know I waited for you to get, well, settled. Established. To become the kind of man a girl can brag about, who can take her into society and buy her the things that show she has class."

Foolishly I charged into the breach: But Viola, we socialize with the movers and shakers – just last week I introduced you to two of the top Councilmen and one of the biggest industrialists in the City. And look where we are right now…

But she was shaking her head. "You met those men because you were investigating them, and they shook your hand out of politeness, and because they thought it was easier to schmooze you than have you beat up again. And I know you can’t afford this place, not often anyway. Do you see how people are looking at me? They think I don’t belong here!"

They’re looking at you because you’re beautiful, I said honestly.

See that girl in red and black? She pointed with her chin at a brunette in her late 20s who was, I had to admit, a beauty. "That’s Emily Quinn. Her husband is Grant Quinn, third in the Council. She comes here whenever she pleases, and the valet doesn’t turn up his nose at the car she drives."

"That’s Quinn’s wife? But he must be sixty years old!"

She had the grace to look embarrassed. Yeah, but the way he treats her, she must be one of the happiest women in the whole world. The look in her eyes was wistful. I took a long pull on the expensive red wine.

Viola, I said finally, I know a PI’s not the kind of guy who’s going to get rich and famous. But I’m doing okay, and there’s half a dozen crooks behind bars because of me, and at least one good innocent man walking free. And those big shots in the Council know who I am, and they respect me. They may not like me, but they’re looking over their shoulders when they break the law. Isn’t that better than being wed to some geezer with a fat wallet?

Viola’s eyes were darting around nervously, and I realized I’d been talking loud enough for half the room to hear. Let’s… let’s get out of here, she said. She offered her arm, and I took it, throwing a pile of bills on the table. They represented more than a week of hard work. That regret would have to wait in line.

Heads turned to follow us out the door. Viola dropped my arm as it closed behind us, shutting in the scandalized mutterings that started as we crossed its threshold. I pretended not to notice.

The evening air was cool and fresh as we made our way up the stairs to the parking lot. The valet took my ticket with a poker face that told me he’d heard enough to guess what kind of mood I was in.

I stood by Viola and waited. The bright plans I’d made were a shambles. We weren’t going to be dancing tonight. I didn’t trust myself to talk, so I kept my mouth shut and stared out across the Lake.

Somewhere far away a dog howled, long and lonely. Another picked up the tune, and another. After a while they settled down.

There was a splash on the far side of the Lake, and the frantic squawking of ducks. A little later a dozen of them passed low over our heads, flapping hard.

Yellow headlights and the creak of worn brakes announced the return of my car. The valet climbed out and accepted my over-generous tip without comment. When I went around to open the passenger door, Viola hopped in like she was taking a cab.

Suddenly every dog around was barking.

I couldn’t tell what was wrong. There was an odd rushing sound like wind in an open car but lower and fainter. Something seemed to be moving near the far shore, but the gathering darkness made it hard to see past the parking lot lights. I shrugged and started back for the driver’s side. Whatever it was, it wasn’t my problem.

The whole world groaned. The pavement under my feet jumped. I stumbled. Viola shrieked. The valet swore as he went down.

The rushing sound had gotten a lot louder. It was coming from the Lake. I turned back to face it just in time to see a twenty-foot wave hit the shore fifty feet away. Roiling water surged over the low boardwalk and up the sloping lawn to crash into the side of the restaurant with a head-rattling boom that blasted mist past its walls and high over the roof. Where the building didn’t stop it the water kept coming, losing force as it rose until it reached the level of the parking lot as a three-inch flood that crept under the car and soaked my shoes.

As the water subsided I heard screams from the dining room.

The whole building had been knocked askew and looked like it’d collapse if it got hit again. The front door’s frame was damaged, but a solid tug got it open.

The lights were out, but a single table candle had miraculously stayed lit. Its wavering flame revealed a soaking mess of overturned tables and debris. The famous picture window had shattered and left a layer of broken glass over everything. Through the gaping hole where it had been I caught a glimpse of a limp and broken body being swept under by the ebbing tide.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I began to see bodies on the floor, too. Some of them moaned. One climbed slowly to its feet.

I needed better light. The kitchen had a couple of flashlights and supplies of bandages and alcohol. One of the survivors was a doctor. At the sight of my clumsy first aid work he roused himself and put his skills to good use. The little box of bandages ran out fast, but there was a stack of dry tablecloths on a high shelf in back. There was plenty of alcohol behind the bar.

We needed more help. The phone was out, but there was one at the charging station half a mile down the road. The valet said he knew a closer one, so he went to make the call.

An hour later we’d gotten the wounded patched up and safely to the parking lot. Those able to drive were taking the worst injured to City Hospital. The five dead we laid out under tablecloths by the ticket booth. By the time the ambulance guys showed up they didn’t have much to do but carry them away.

I made my way back to my car. Viola was still waiting in the passenger seat. She started to say something, but gasped and turned away when she got a good look at me. I wasn’t in a talking mood anyway, so I drove her home in silence and spent the time trying to figure out what had just happened.

I was still deep in thought when we got to her apartment. I offered the traditional kiss at the door, but she backed away and fled inside.

###

Three days later she called me at home. She was usually asleep by nine – she’d raked me over the coals more than once for phoning her past ten – and it was almost midnight when the phone rang. I was in no mood for conversation, but I couldn’t afford to miss a potential client.

Jason, it’s me. Her voice was high and fast, the way it got when she was nervous or trying to hide something. I… just called to say I’m sorry about… Friday. I wasn’t myself. Can you ever forgive me?

Part of the pain melted away, but somewhere in my mind a suspicious little voice was yelling for attention. I ignored it. Of course I can, Viola.

Suddenly she was all business. Okay. Let’s do it over again: the drive, the dinner, the question. And this time let’s make it come out right.

I was broke: that dinner had finished off the fee from my last client, and there hadn’t been another one. That’s the way the business was: long periods of boredom – and poverty – punctuated with long working days, long working nights, the occasional injury, and the more occasional fee. How about I cook you a nice dinner at my place? Wine, candles, the works? Let’s make it next Saturday. If I found a client before then I could afford something nice.

Let’s not, she said. I really want to see the inside of Antonio’s. With you. And the ring.

I paused. What happened Friday had made Antonio’s the best restaurant in the City, and I’d heard their prices had gone up accordingly. All right, I said, trying to keep the wince out of my voice. Antonio’s it is.

You’re sweet. Good night, honey. There was a click before I could say goodbye. Irritated, I started to put the phone down, but before it hit the cradle there was a second click.

2: A Beauty and a Beast

Irish whiskey is a wonderful thing. Even when the sky is resolutely gray, it can turn the light to gold. Aches and pains go from strident to mellow, and the world drifts along without a care.

I stared at the empty bottle. It’d been down to four fingers when I got it out of the desk drawer, another casualty of my shortage of work. I tipped it back anyway, expecting nothing and getting it.

My mind kept turning back to that second click, and covered the same old ground: Who would care enough about my private life to spy on a call from Viola? And, more disturbing: Did she know somebody was listening in?

I wasn’t going to find out by sitting here. I needed to see Viola. I’d have to be careful not to make her feel like a suspect, and she’d be quick to catch on if I tried to grill her. But maybe if I just spent time with her and got her to relax, she’d open up to me more. And let something slip, the professional in me whispered. I ignored it. Personal life is personal.

I reached for the door, but it opened first.

I couldn’t help but stare: it was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, a cascade of glossy black hair framing a perfect oval face with big eyes the color of sapphires. I looked down – couldn’t help myself – at a body any Councilman’s wife, or even his mistress, would have envied. The silence grew awkward.

May I come in? The voice was perfect too, low and smooth, refined, exuding reserved confidence.

I recovered enough to step back from the door and say, Of course, Miss…

Call me Fannie, she said. Her walk was graceful, like a dancer’s. I gestured, embarrassed, to the well-worn chair across from my desk, and eased myself back into my seat. Then I got up again with a start. As Fannie held the door, a big, dangerous-looking animal padded silently through. At first I thought it was a dog, but no: it looked like a pussycat from Hell, heavily muscled and black as night. It had a thin silver chain on its neck. It wasn’t on a leash, not that one would have done any good. Briefly it met my eyes. That look scared me – and I don’t scare easy – not because of any overt malice, but because it was too damned knowing.

Its eyes were exactly the same color as Fannie’s.

Fannie sat primly on the wooden chair, her feet together and hands resting lightly in her lap. No wedding ring, so probably not a Councilman’s wife, and something about her made me doubt she was anybody’s mistress. For a few seconds we just stared at each other. The cat, having given me the once-over, settled on the carpet and groomed itself, ignoring me.

I asked Fannie what I could do for her.

Most new clients would have hesitated, either out of nervousness or just to collect their thoughts. Not Fannie. I would like to hire you on retainer for a period of up to three months. I need answers to a set of questions, some of which I do not yet know to ask. The pay would be good, and the work would be… interesting. I would share with you some important and surprising information, which you would be required to keep secret. There may be some personal risk involved, though I will attempt to minimize that. And you may be required to travel, perhaps for an extended period of time.

Retainer. I didn’t like that word much: it made me think of servants, or, worse, lawyers. But a steady client, and a steady income, would solve at least one of my problems.

I still had reservations about Fannie herself, starting with the fact that she seemed to have appeared out of nowhere: I should’ve heard of somebody like her before.

You’re asking for something unusual, I replied. I’ll need to know more about the investigations you’ll want, and about yourself. Are you doing this as a private person, or are you representing someone else? And why have I never heard of you before?

Fannie nodded and smiled in satisfaction. Those are good questions, Mister Kane. I am afraid I cannot answer them until I have your word that you will keep this information secret.

Of course, I assured her. It’s customary in my business. In fact, City law says whatever we talk about here is secret, except by court order. It’s called client privilege.

I need more than custom and law, Mister Kane. She leaned forward a little, meeting my eyes directly for the first time. It must be your personal word of honor.

I blinked. The Law had been good enough for every client I’d had in five years as a PI, and not many of them would’ve trusted my word over it anyway.

In the end, curiosity won out. All right, you have my personal word of honor that I’ll keep your secrets to the best of my ability, I said. Good enough?

Indeed, Mister Kane. She rose from the chair and extended her hand. I shook it, and got another surprise: those delicate-looking fingers had a powerful grip, more like a man’s – a strong man’s – than any woman I knew. Very well, she smiled. The first task I have for you is to locate a missing man. Here is his photograph.

The guy looked like a school teacher in his late 40s, with a neatly-trimmed mustache, thinning hair, and wire-rimmed spectacles. His name is Reginald Garth, Fannie told me. He served as an intermediary between my family business and one of our customers. He may have been involved in tainting our product in a way that killed two people and caused considerable property damage. The City officials have been unwilling to tell me anything about him at all. That is interesting in light of persistent rumors that he has financial ties to the Council.

What sort of business is your family in? I asked.

For the first time, Fannie paused to collect her thoughts. We are designers of machinery, she replied. We sell our designs to organizations that build the machines and either use them or sell them for others to use. With a hint of pride: Our designs are highly regarded, and our reputation is very good. The recent incident has already damaged that reputation and cost us at least one large contract. I am looking for information to vindicate our design, or, failing that, to let us identify the flaw so we can prevent a recurrence.

When did this incident occur?

Three weeks ago, on the First.

I rubbed my chin. All right, I think I understand enough about what you want. But I still want to know more about you. And we haven’t talked about the fee yet.

Fannie leaned back a little, seeming more relaxed now that things were getting settled. About me: I do have some secrets I would rather keep, but I can tell you I am the first daughter of a family who are prominent in certain circles. And the design that failed was my own.

Why haven’t I heard of you?

What do you mean? There are two hundred thousand people in the City…

And you’re a one-in-a-million girl. Fannie looked taken aback, and not pleased at all. Well, I pointed out, For one thing, how many women do you see walking around with hundred-pound pussycats?

One hundred fourteen pounds. But who is counting? she replied, the perfect lips quirking with the first hint of humor I’d seen from her. Yes, I see your point.

You didn’t answer my question.

Oh, the reason is a secret. I may need to explain it in the future, but for now… it is better not to.

I sighed. All right. The fee.

She named a number, nothing extravagant but better than I’d seen in a while. All right, I said again. You’ve got yourself a PI. We shook again. Fannie pulled a folder and an envelope from the slim jeweled bag on her shoulder. Please keep this letter somewhere safe, she said. If anything happens to me, you are to open it and follow the directions inside, even if they do not seem to make sense. The folder contains all the information you should need to start searching for Mister Garth. My telephone number is there; call me any time, day or night, if you need me or find something important. And this, she added as she pulled a little glass flask of amber liquid from her purse, is to toast our new association.

I dug up a pair of shot glasses, poured, and downed mine in a swallow. I wasn’t surprised to see Fannie do the same. The whiskey was the best I’d ever tasted. It burned a little going down, but smooth as a baby’s bottom, and it left me tingling all over.

We shook again, and she was gone. Suddenly very tired, I stashed the letter in a hidden compartment in my desk and took the folder upstairs to study in bed. I was asleep before I got through the first page.

3: Shoe Leather

There was money in the folder, enough to restock the pantry and pay a couple of bills. With an effort I set aside personal issues: I’d see Viola in the evening. That freed me to worry about finding Garth.

I’d start the day with a visit to my old friend Bob Morton at Police Station Five. Bob had taken me under his wing when I joined the force seven years ago. When I quit two years later, Bob stayed with it, and over the years he and I had gotten into the habit of trading information. It had done us both good.

I parked the Fairview a discreet three blocks from the station and walked the rest of the way. Bob was in his office, griping about the pile of paperwork on his desk. He looked up at me with the usual mixture of pleasure and suspicion.

Bob, I need a favor, I said. Got a minute?

Jason, good to see you too! He ran thick fingers through his thinning blond hair, then gestured dismissively at the form he was working on. And I could use a break from this crap. What can I do for you?

I’m looking for a guy. My client says he’s been missing a couple weeks now. Says he’s got ties to the Council, but they won’t tell her anything. Thought you might recognize him. I showed him the photo.

Bob frowned at it and handed it back. This new client of yours: brunette, late twenties, high-class, looker?

I closed his door. You know about her?

Not much. Rumors that don’t add up. She’s supposed to be well-connected, but nobody’s heard of her before. Poking into things and stirring up trouble with the higher-ups. Goes around with some big animal, for protection maybe. And something else.

What’s that?

She’s a witch.

I stared. A what?

"You know, a witch. Hocus-pocus and all that."

You’re kidding me! I guffawed. But his eyes said he was serious. He raised his hands as if to ward off my skepticism. Hey, I’m just telling you what I heard. I don’t necessarily believe it.

But you don’t necessarily disbelieve it either.

He frowned again. Look, I don’t believe in witches. But weird things have been happening lately…

What sort of things? I demanded.

People disappearing… and appearing, for one thing.

He had a point. But what did that have to do with witches? Bob wasn’t done yet, though: You remember that big jolt last Friday? It felt like somebody ran a freight truck into the house. And yesterday was too long.

Too long? What are you talking about?

The sun set fifteen seconds later than it should have. The weatherman said so on the news.

I hadn’t been listening to the radio. Maybe there had been such a claim. But I was starting to wonder if my friend was coming unhinged. I changed the subject. You’re right about her being a looker, anyway. If it weren’t for Viola I’d…

Bob’s eyes widened. No! You be careful, Jason. Don’t go getting yourself involved with that one. She’s trouble with a capital T. Trust me on this.

What about the guy she’s looking for? Know who he is?

Bob rubbed his ear. Sorry, no, he answered. Have you tried Records?

That’s my next stop. I was hoping you could save me some time.

Digging through the archives ain’t the worst job in the world. I turned to go, but he gripped my arm. Jason, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you need to be careful. You’re on somebody’s list, and it ain’t for Winterfest presents. I think it has something to do with your new client.

###

The Hall of Records holds copies of just about every document in the world, from Council proceedings to marriage licenses, certificates of birth, death, and taxes, property deeds, and criminal citations. It’s a vital part of City government. It’s also agonizingly slow to get useful information from unless you go in already knowing almost everything you’re looking for. I had a name and a photo, the connections to the Council, a machine design firm (which Fannie had neglected to name), a rough date of disappearance, and not much else. It was going to be a slog.

Grimly I set to work. I started by pulling the public data on each of the forty-five Councilmen: biographical information, voting records, subordinates, and campaign donors. It made a twenty-pound pile of manila folders.

At this point I was basically fishing. It was blind luck that I started with Sam Dyer, one of several Councilmen on my personal list of crooks: in less than an hour I was looking at a record of a payment to Garth, authorized by Dyer’s office, for unspecified consulting services.

After several more hours I’d put together a list of payments at irregular intervals going back eight months. Most of those were for consulting, but there was one for travel, dated just two days after Fannie’s incident. That wasn’t proof of anything, but the timing was suspicious. And the payment was big enough for Garth to have gone anywhere in the world a dozen times over, even if he traveled absolutely top class.

On the way back to the car I passed a pay phone and realized I’d missed a trick. Garth had a listed number. I called it: no answer. But there was also a home address, and it was just four blocks away.

The house was modest in size, but the outside decor was ostentatious, as if its owner wanted to show the world he was a man of more substance than he’d been when he bought it. A pile of newspapers, saturated by the fog and rain of a few days ago, lay rotting on the front porch. The earliest of them was dated the sixth of August, seventeen days ago. The mailbox was overflowing, and the garden was starting to run wild. The driveway and the garage were empty, and the electric meter showed nobody had been charging his car here for a while. The blinds were shut, but a gap revealed a clean sink with the dishes left neatly on the drying rack. It looked like Garth had left in a hurry, but he’d had at least a few hours’ warning.

It was a decent day’s progress, and the sun was going down. Time to go see Viola.

She wasn’t home. I drove slowly back to the office, thinking through the day’s events. The case was going okay, but it was hard to focus on it. The strange way Viola was acting made me wonder if she was thinking about breaking it off completely. We needed to talk, and soon.

It was almost midnight when Fannie knocked. I hurried down the stairs and let her in, along with her bodyguard, or pet. She was a real distraction despite her modest calf-length dress. The effect was even stronger than it had been the night before. I felt a little guilty about that; it wasn’t fair to Viola to let my attention wander. So after a quick hello I tried to keep my eyes on Fannie’s case folder as I related the work I’d done.

Fannie nodded as I wound up the summary. This confirms that Mister Garth is involved with at least one of the Council, and that they are holding information back deliberately. This is not good news, she said seriously. She settled down and sat quietly for a full minute, then came to a decision. Mister Kane, I believe I know now where to find Reginald Garth. I would like you to join me in searching for him there, but if that is to be, there is much I need to tell you. This is information I had hoped not to share. It will change your life in ways that are difficult to predict, and surely irreversible. She sighed, and studied me a while before continuing. Then she stood, looking as if she might pace, but didn’t. I find myself with a dilemma: I cannot ask you to make an informed decision about this without first telling you things which would commit you to it. So I must ask you to choose the course of your future based on your own intuition.

Does anyone ever do differently? I asked.

She smiled at that. It was beautiful to see. I suppose not, she replied.

The door opened without a knock. It was Viola. She was dressed in her best clothes, and she’d put her hair up the way I liked it, but the look on her face was more determination than sweetness. Standing next to Fannie her beauty was strangely diminished. The word cheap came to my mind unbidden and unwelcome. It didn’t help that she’d just interrupted a business meeting; I was momentarily irritated. I met her eyes, and she didn’t like what she saw in mine. She flared, turning first to Fannie and then to me, and she looked like she wanted to start yelling but wasn’t quite willing to do that with Fannie there.

Then she noticed the cat, big and black and deadly-looking, sitting on its haunches in the corner and watching her silently with huge sapphire eyes. Viola squeaked and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. I flung it open and rushed out to stop her and maybe avert disaster, but I was too slow. Her car door slammed, and she was off in a cloud of burned rubber, leaving me standing in the middle of the empty road watching her taillights shrink into the distance.

Fannie was still in the office when I got back. She was downcast and apologetic; she must have figured out who Viola was from the way she’d reacted. There’d be hell to pay tomorrow, but that wasn’t Fannie’s fault. Mechanically I agreed to meet her in the morning to hear her mysterious life-changing information.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized I’d made the decision without thinking it through.

###

Later that night I got beat up. They didn’t take any chances this time: four men, all bigger than my hundred seventy-five pounds, wearing brass knuckles and carrying knives, though they didn’t use them. One had a rubber hose. When they were done and I was lying in the dark in front of my office – they’d smashed the porch light for privacy – one of them turned and kicked me in the ribs with what felt like as steel-toed work boot. Some kind of work. Probably revenge for the way I’d treated the last crew: I knew at least one of them was still on crutches. No need to ask who sent them: before the light went out I recognized one of the dirty cops I’d fingered for doing heavy work for Sam Dyer.

I crawled upstairs to my apartment and took inventory. Nothing broken, not even the rib, but half a dozen lacerations to bind up and bunch of bruises I couldn’t do anything about. I’d need a new set of sheets after tonight. I thought about sending Dyer a bill for them, but there’s a difference between being hard-headed and stupid.

4: Arcane Energies

Viola rang the doorbell before dawn. Bleary, aching, and hung over, I threw on a bath robe and stumbled downstairs to the office door. I must have looked like I felt: Viola took a step back when she saw me. But she rallied well enough, and sat down on the edge of my desk while she waited for me to settle into the old chair.

Good morning, I said, rubbing my eyes. You’re up early. I hope you’re feeling better now that you’ve had a chance to calm down.

She wasn’t very happy with me, and her bloodshot eyes kept darting nervously around the room. She still had her makeup on from last night, smeared in places now, and the pins in her hair were askew. Her smile looked painted on, a caricature of what I remembered from our first date just three months ago.

The silence was well into the awkward stage when she spoke at last. Who was that woman you were with last night?

Client, I answered simply. Three month contract, pretty good pay.

She eyed me skeptically. Nothing more than that?

I sighed. Honey, I’ve had female clients before…

Not like that! Not alone in your office at night. Not… She wiped at an eye with her stained handkerchief, regardless of her makeup, swallowed, visibly nerved herself, and spoke quickly in a low voice: Not prettier than me.

Did she expect me to deny it? She’s a client, that’s all, I repeated patiently.

Then she surprised me. Jason, I think she’s a witch.

What?

"A witch, Jason. She has power. Mistress Ratha taught me how to recognize them. I think she’s using it to, to influence you, make you do things you don’t mean…"

Mistress Ratha had been a point of contention between us as long as we’d known each other. Viola was convinced she was a wise woman who knew deep, dark secrets and could see the real world around her and alter it by the force of her will alone. I considered Ratha a delusional nutcase, and I wasn’t above telling Viola so. In fact, Ratha – I was pretty sure that wasn’t her real name – sounded a lot like my grandmother on my father’s side. Grandma had ended her life in a mental ward. Nobody in the family talked about her much.

The only power she has over me is her willingness to pay my fee, I said emphatically. "I needed the money, so I took the job. There’s nothing