Remains to Be Seen Read online

  Remains To Be Seen

  Phoebe Monday Paranormal Cozies: Four

  Kobo Edition

  Patti Larsen

  Copyright 2021 Patti Larsen

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  Kobo Edition, License Notes

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  Chapter One

  My grandmother’s door shouldn’t have felt like I faced a firing squad instead of the rather rude naked man dangling in the center of the black-painted space, urging me to use his impressive and repulsive self to announce my presence with a wriggle of his bronze hips. Why then was I so nervous I hesitated a long moment, hand half-raised, power contained, shuffling my feet on the hardwood floor in front of her suite while debating this idea?

  Thing was, I hadn’t spoken to—or had any kind of real contact with—Isolde since I’d moved out and into the Earthhom warehouse complex where I now lived and worked at Lofty Aspirations as a full-time painter. My dream to be an artist for a living had come true, and though I adored the fact I now had a place of my own, surrounded by other creators who inspired me and encouraged me, the move hadn’t happened without trepidation and anxiety.

  I loved my family, didn’t really want to leave them, per se, despite my desire to make my own way. They always made me welcome, never once suggested I, fourth female of the traditional triunity that never in the history of the Monday family went past the three necessary to fill the roles assigned our bloodline, didn’t fit in. While I knew ultimately, I didn’t. That didn’t mean I wasn’t missing my acts-younger-than-her-age sister, Selene, with her gorgeous blonde hair and perfect figure, mistress of the Maiden persona and bubbly optimist extraordinaire who never judged and adored me like no other sister could have. Or my gorgeous, dark-haired and blue-eyed Mom, she of the voluptuousness that was the Mother, with her talent for baking and mixing potions like a boss. And, of course, my incredible, snarky and biting grandmother, Isolde, the Crone a perfect fit for her in every way, the celebrated creator of the most sought-after besoms in North America as cutting as she was clever, who loved me unconditionally.

  At least, so I thought. I sighed as I lowered my hand, chin dropping, wondering if this was a terrible idea. I’d initially believed Isolde (do not call me Granny or any derivative thereof) was merely busy when she’d failed to answer my messages or respond when I tried to contact her, though, I suppose, I really was deceiving myself initially.

  No longer. Her lengthy silence, now achingly cold and distant and impossible to ignore, had begun when I’d told the threesome I loved I was moving and hadn’t budged an inch since.

  Of course, I missed her, missed all of them. But Isolde most of all. I hadn’t realized until that morning when I’d woken from an odd dream, she the focus of it standing far away on a wind-swept hill and unreachable despite my desperate attempts to get to her, just how much it ached to be without her constant teasing and steady presence. Which led me to the brownstone that housed both my family’s apothecary, The Heathenry, as well as the living quarters, to the top floor that my grandmother had overtaken completely as her own, to stand here, shaking a little, heart hurting, as I pondered the silence between us.

  Inhaled finally, sighed it out slowly. And knocked with my knuckles, ignoring the dancing man.

  Tried to. My skin never touched wood. From one instant in that dark and quiet door at the top of the stairs to the next on the street outside the house, I felt my breath whoosh from my lungs as my grandmother—it had to have been Isolde, who else?—rejected me in the most complete and final way possible.

  I stared up at the top floor from the sidewalk, tears welling, throat tight, chest aching as my hand fell with a thud against the thigh of my jeans before I hugged my denim jacket around me, a faint wind rising, cool despite the fact it was only late summer.

  When I released myself, I dashed angrily at the tears trickling down my cheeks and, jaw set, tried to take a step toward the door to The Heathenry.

  Only to feel myself gently stopped with power I knew as well as my own breath, this time from my mother’s soft touch.

  Sweetie, Mom sent. Mother’s a little… just give her some space, all right? I’m sorry, darling. I could see glimpses of her in the massive remodeled kitchen she’d had installed in the old building, dozens of pots and pans and trays of sweets dancing around her as the magic of the triunity she commanded did her bidding. We love you, Phoebe. It’s been an adjustment, that’s all. Did you want to come in for a hug? I could feel her tension as the power swelled while she worked.

  It’s okay, Mom, I sent back, retreating a step, physically as much as emotionally, shutting her off from my hurt. I know you’re busy. I’d felt it the moment I’d arrived and bypassed visiting her on purpose because of it. And because I really wanted to see Isolde.

  You know you’re always welcome here, Mom sent, pausing, just what I hadn’t wanted to cause. She never failed to amaze me or make me the priority even when she had her own work to do, and I kicked myself for interfering. I hated taking advantage of the fact Mom would do anything for me, to her own detriment. I was a grown woman, for the element’s sake. I could take care of myself. This is your home, sweetie. It always will be.

  Thanks, Mom. More tears, but I masked them from her, grateful Selene was out. My sister would have been all over me and this situation if she’d been home so at least my luck was with me for once without me having to do anything about it.

  Small miracles, right? As I turned away, I had to admit my luck had been much better the last few weeks, especially since I’d figured out how to trigger it without actually hurting anyone. And some experimentation proved I could avoid the bad luck I’d usually been the brunt of when I helped others, at least to a point. So, things in my own magic department were looking up a little, something that came from me having to fend for myself. I just wished Isolde would hear me out.

  Another time, I guess. But I knew my grandmother and grudges—didn’t she keep a homunculus of my grandfather in a small, golden cage? Yes, yes, she did—so I wasn’t holding my breath.

  I left then, head down, hands in my pockets, almost missing the fact I’d spoken up about my luck too soon. Because, as I paused on the corner, contemplating the bus or splurging for a cab, I caught sight of a familiar car cruising toward me, though as it paused, windows rolled down, it wasn’t me the driver targeted.

  To my shock, it was Selene who Jericho Richmond—and his nasty little girlfriend, Circe—chose to torment while I stood and gaped.

  For about half a second, that was, and just out of shock. Anger kicked in, tied to the conversation I’d had—okay, the bullying confrontation, but that’s just semantics—with him a few weeks ago as well as the present emotional situation I’d just endured all binding together into a knot of rage that had me stomping my way to my sister’s side while she glared at the couple in the car with her own feelings showing.

  I hadn’t heard what he’d said, what cruelty Circe spewed, but from Selene’s pink cheeks and sharp inhale, it hadn’t been a nice exchange. Which more than justified my intrusion, as far as I was concerned, not that Selene needed me to defend her. Except Jericho had been warned to stay away from my family, hadn’t he?

  I didn’t even have to speak, his gaze flickering to me and the most satisfying flash of fear crossing his face I’d ever seen before his expression tu
rned to flat frustration. He gunned the engine, almost colliding with another car as he pulled out into traffic without looking, the ensuing horn blaring and shouting from the other driver distracting.

  Until Selene grabbed my arm and caught my attention, her usually bright and cheerfully happy expression one of serious depth that had me biting my bottom lip in concern.

  “Inside,” she snapped, pushing me toward the door of the small coffee shop that sat on the corner across from The Heathenry. “Now.”

  I’d never seen Selene like this before and, my heart already hurting thanks to Isolde and now dinged by her anger—aimed at me? But why?—I obeyed like I was fifteen again instead of twenty-five, as my sister marched me into the aromatic interior of Beano as if going to an interrogation.

  From firing squad to fire? Just my luck.

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  Chapter Two

  By the time we had our two cups of preferred java in hand, Selene seemed to have settled down from her agitated anger, though that lingering seriousness remained as she perched next to me on the stool at the window, her long legs elongated by her skinny jeans, tiny waist accentuated by the tight t-shirt she wore under a hip-length pink overcoat. Always stylish, her blonde locks in a casual pony over one shoulder, she tapped her long, pink nails—manicure fresh, of course—on the paper cup, one pink high heel tapping on the floor as she fixed me in place with a purposeful stare, full lips pursed.

  “Why,” she said, lovely voice low and humming with the power of the Maiden, “has Jericho Richmond been a pain in my ass the last few weeks and why,” she leaned in, one of those fingernails poking me in the collarbone, “is he afraid of my little sister?”

  I had held off telling anyone in my family what I suspected (come on, Phoebe, what I knew) about Jericho because I didn’t have the kind of proof I needed to either take him to the Academy of Adepts (dudebro’s parents were our rulers, after all) or the regular authorities (how fun if Detective Anna Morales could arrest his ass for me) and I wanted to keep the triunity out of my mess. I’d already put them into an uncomfortable position last Christmas when my curse had been revealed, the reason for it, while not necessarily my fault, still placing them in jeopardy with the Academy.

  But it was obvious to me now if Selene was under fire, my warning hadn’t had the effect I’d hoped, and my sister was the ideal person to share what I knew with. Well, okay, Mom would have been my first choice. Actually, Isolde, and we both know that wasn’t going to happen. Selene was here, and that put her at the top of the list.

  I told her everything I’d uncovered, and while it wasn’t much, my amazing sister simply nodded and accepted, her temper cooling somewhat but her quiet focus not going anywhere, making me uncomfortable just from this shift in her personality. I had to admit, as I wrapped up with my little confrontation at Richmond House and how I’d uncovered some truths about my own power as well as Jericho’s, I’d always underestimated Selene. She came across as flighty and rather adorably youthful, and there were times it was hard to take her seriously. This Selene, however, reminded me I was the younger sister as she sighed and stared down at her cup, lovely blue eyes tight, jaw unclenching as she spoke.

  “I wish you’d come to me,” she said, voice still subdued, but waved off my attempt to again explain myself. “I do get it, BeeBee,” she said. “I understand completely. But we’re your family.” Those eyes pinned me and made me squirm. “We’re in this together.” She hesitated then. “Like it or not.”

  That made me gasp, while she reached out with a hasty hand, her face now twisting into sadness, tears welling in her own eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  But she did. “I didn’t abandon you,” I said, my own words thick. “I’m a fourth wheel, Selene, you know it.” She shook her head, blonde hair sliding over her jacket, but I pulled away before she could deny it with words. “I have to find my own way. Out of this curse.” She stared, mute and hurting. “You three have your path. I need to figure mine out. And if you and Isolde and Mom,” mainly Isolde, but there you go, “can’t see that, I don’t know how to change your minds.”

  My sister’s hand settled on my knee, love pouring through the physical connection, but for the first time in my life, I shoved her away. Pushed her fingertips from my leg, sat back, a wall of my own rising as the power I kind of now had control over answered me with a faint hurt of its own. She seemed startled by its presence but accepted the rejection with more composure than I expected (or felt myself), sitting up straight and nodding.

  “We love you so much,” she said. “I never thought about how hard it has been for you, Phoebe.” She never used my real first name. Caught my attention more than her touch, held it. “We just want you to be safe and happy, to find yourself.” Selene met my eyes one more time as she stood, bending to kiss my forehead. “I’m very proud of you, you know. And I’m glad you told me about Jericho.” I stared up at her, unable to think of anything to say as she gathered herself to leave. “I’ll speak to Mom and Isolde about it. Something should be done and the triunity has the power to act. Now that we know.” That final line could have sounded like an admonishment, but it didn’t. “She’ll come around, you know,” Selene said. “You’re her favorite.” And then, she left, the scent of her perfume vanishing last, striding out the door and past the glass where I still perched, heading for home while I choked on tears that fought to overwhelm me.

  Isolde. So, Selene knew?

  Guess I was the only one who didn’t. And whose fault was that?

  I took the bus home, not wanting to have to make conversation with a cab driver, the anonymity of public transit—aided by earbuds and some new music my bestie, Pickle Pickford, uploaded on my phone—helping me regain a bit of perspective. As did the twenty or so minute drive, though I was still heavy of heart when I entered the main warehouse and headed for my apartment.

  Maybe like attracted like, or perhaps it was just my luck, but when I finally arrived at my door, shoulders bowed, head down, it was to find I had a visitor who, in my estimation, was having a worse day than me, and that was saying something.

  But if the look on my friend’s face said anything, Mirabelle Whitehall was at her own emotional cliff face, and I could either crack open a pint of ice cream and commiserate with her or pull myself together and try to help.

  Her tears as she hugged me decided the moment, as did her words.

  “I hate him,” she hissed as she pulled back, the necromancer coroner’s assistant I adored and had only reconnected with in the last six months requiring no further information to tell me who she was referring to. Because if there was anyone Mirabelle complained about regularly—and only one person—it was her boss, Dr. Ian Percy. Case in point. “He’s horrible and a jerk.” Her black eyes narrowed, giant corkscrew curls vibrating with magic as she snarled her next words that had me shivering. “I wish he was dead.”

  Oh boy. Please, no prophecy. Another corpse was all I needed.

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  Chapter Three

  When nothing untoward came from her fury and the world didn’t crumble (and we didn’t get a call he’d dropped like a stone at her pronouncement, so there was that to cling to), I quickly dumped food in Jinks’s bowl (the adorable house fox absent but an open window there for him to use as he chose, the whole warehouse now his home) and headed back out again with Mirabelle in tow.

  We’d barely made it to her car when her cell rang, her aggressive sigh and eye roll unable to hide the tension fed by visible anxiety as her shaking hand lifted the phone to her ear. I climbed into the car as she did, the sound of Dr. Percy’s furious voice easily audible from the other end of the line, my friend’s lovely face pinching in her own angry reaction to the shouting coming from her boss.

  “I’ll be right there.” She hung up on him mid-shout, slamming her car into gear and peeling out without checking for oncoming traffic, earning a honking response from another d
river who barely swerved to miss her. I offered an apologetic wave to the fist-shaking man before turning back to Mirabelle. She didn’t even seem to notice she’d almost caused a car accident, so shaken and upset by the call she’d just received I wondered if she should even be driving.

  “Mir,” I said, one hand reaching out to soothe her, but not sure anything would at this point. “What happened?”

  “I have to stop at the morgue,” she growled between clenched teeth, hands fisting on the wheel so tightly her knuckles grayed out. I didn’t get a chance to ask anything else before she snarled, “It’s fine.”

  Sure, it was. Okay then.

  I almost stayed in the car but couldn’t bring myself to let her go into the morgue alone, not knowing she was probably walking into more trauma. Not that I could do much to help her or anything, but maybe a bit of moral support might shore up her self-esteem enough that she wouldn’t do or say something that would get her fired.

  I’d never seen Mirabelle so furious, I have to admit and hesitantly followed in her stomping footsteps through the glass door, shivering at the intense blast of icy air as we entered, the air conditioning cranked for some reason. Even Teddy, the daytime security guard behind the front desk, had a jacket on in response to the chill, waving us both through. Not that Mirabelle even noticed, leaving me to yet again raise my hand with that same apology on my face while she stormed her way down the cold hall to the office door.

  Before she reached Dr. Percy’s office, however, a young woman emerged, hurrying past Mirabelle (again with the fury blinders, she never batted an eye). I realized far too late, as the young woman in the white lab coat turned to watch Mirabelle, that I was on a collision course and didn’t have time to step aside before she ran right into me at the exact moment my friend slammed the door shut behind her.