Arrest, Search and Séance : Book 1 of the Fringe Society, R.D. Hunter [good english books to read txt] 📗

You might know a poppet by its other name; a voodoo doll. It’s a small doll, usually made from cloth or wood, that has been magically linked to a person through something of theirs; usually hair, fingernail trimmings, or some of their blood. Gross, huh?

Basically, the doll acts like a miniature version of them. Whatever happens to one, happens to the other. And, just like most magical workings, it can be used for good or for evil. Not so long ago, it was used to perform surgery on patients without actually having to perform surgery on the patient. Other uses included wrapping the doll in cloth to keep it protected or combing its hair to prevent it from falling out. Judging by the cruel expression on Trisha’s face as I felt the spell begin to coalesce around her, I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to use it to give me a makeover.

I launched myself at her in a panic and drove my palm into her nose. The nose is a great target because it breaks easily, bleeds profusely and causes the eyes to water uncontrollably. If you were expecting me to conjure a fireball or summon lightening from the heavens, sorry to disappoint. Those kinds of feats require an enormous amount of energy and preparation, and I’m shit at elemental magic anyways.

Trisha screamed and clamped her hands over her face, dropping the poppet as she fell backwards. I managed to catch it on the way down and Those kinds of feats rip the strands of my hair away. The completed spell swirled around us at it attempted to take hold. But with no tag lock to connect the doll, it had no purpose. Time to give it one. I hated to see a good bit of magic go to waste.

My hand was sticky where I’d just given Trisha a new nose job, so I wiped a bit of the red stuff on the doll and let the spell do its thing. There was a sense of something clicking into place, and Trisha stopped rocking back and forth to look up at me with tear-stained eyes.

“You…you didn’t,” she stammered. Her voice sounded nasally through her swollen nostrils.

“Let’s find out.” I thumped the doll in the forehead and watched with some pleasure and Trisha rocked back from the force of the blow and laid flat on the pavement, staring dazedly up at the sky. “Appears so.”

“But you…you can’t…” I wasn’t interested in hearing Trish the Bitch tell me what I couldn’t do. I was hurting all over, especially in my right arm where the second blow had connected at the onset of the fight.

“I just did,” I growled. “And if I ever see you or your cronies at the Candle again, or hear about you causing trouble, I’ll drop this poppet in a bowl of battery acid and watch it dissolve into a greasy puddle. Understand?”

I wouldn’t really have done it…probably. But I would have shaved all it’s hair off and left it sitting out in the sun for a few hours. Being bald and sun burnt would be no picnic, and Trisha was smart enough to know it.

She nodded glumly, tears still leaking from her eyes. Behind me, the Things were still on the ground, not looking to get up anytime soon. I jerked my head in their direction.

“Help your friends, then get the hell out of here.”

I watched as she struggled to her feet and went over to the Things. Instead of helping them up, her idea of assistance was to kick and curse at them until they both shambled to their feet, glaring daggers at me and her alike. Then they hobbled into a white SUV and pealed out of the parking lot, causing me to breathe a sigh of relief, then wince as more pain shot up my side.

I could have arrested them, I supposed. Charged them with assault and battery on a law enforcement officer. But this was a Fringe matter, and we handle our own whenever possible. Besides, I had enough paperwork to do already and Nichole Basset’s killer wasn’t going to sit around and wait while I was padding my arrest count.

Of course, that’s not to say that I didn’t memorize their license tag on the way out and wouldn’t pass it down to some of my buddies in traffic enforcement. Not all battles had to be fought fairly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The funny thing about being in a fight is that most of the pain doesn’t hit until the fight is over. Don’t get me wrong; being punched or kicked by someone who knows what they’re doing hurts like hell, but in the heat of the moment, with all the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the pain takes a back seat to everything else. Of course, it comes back later with a vengeance, as I found out shortly after I made it back to my car.

I was sitting in the driver’s seat, recovering my breath, when the full scope of punishment I’d endured began to show itself. My whole body felt like one big bruise. The Thing sisters, while not overly concerned with the quality of their blows, had more than made up for it in quantity.

My chest felt like I was breathing in liquid fire every time I took a breath and the slightest movement made me want to sink down into a bathtub filled with Ben Gay. By far, though, the greatest pain I felt was in my right elbow that had been whacked at the onset of the fight. It was swelling nicely and made a little clicking sound whenever I straightened it. That wasn’t good.

I checked myself in the mirror and instantly felt worse. I looked like I’d been in a plane crash. My hair hung around my face