Tales of Aradia The Last Witch Volume 1 (26 page)

"I hear you've been
hanging out with Dax lately," Roy remarked to Aradia.

His timing was just as
awkward as ever. He and Aradia shared a long art table with Rhonda,
Calvin, Frank, Billy, Al, and D.
This is
exactly the kind of conversation I want to have in front of most of
the people I know in this school, Roy. Thanks for
that
.

Al and D were two of
the only non-freshmen in the room. According to them, when Aradia
had asked why they were taking the class, they needed an art
credit, and metal shop had been full. Roy had a different take,
suggesting it might be due to the fact that for two consecutive
years they’d failed the class.

Either way, they all
sat at the same table at the back of the room, wearing smocks and
attempting to paint half-decent still lifes.

Aradia had enjoyed the
company of Al and D quite a bit since she and Roy had outted each
other’s hiddenness. Quite of their own accord, they’d taken on the
role of her bodyguards. They knew perfectly well that she could
handle herself in a fight, but when she pointed this out, Al had
replied, “This is high school, Aradia. It’s your reputation that
needs protecting.”

Truth be told, she had
noticed that ever since the older guys had started hanging around,
no one had bothered her or her friends.

She had to wonder if
that was their only motivation. Even if they’d heard how she’d
bested Roy in his wolf form, and on a full moon at that, they
hadn’t seen her in action. Plus, several dangerous accidents had
happened to her over the last couple weeks.

At the track, while
running relays, Aradia had grabbed the baton from her running
partner, only to discover it was badly damaged and painfully
jagged. It gauged deep into her palm where she’d taken it. Her
partner had been deeply apologetic, and Aradia was sure she’d had
no idea.

The next day, in a
stairwell, Aradia was heading down amid the crush of students
changing classes. Another student, on his way up, tripped and his
books went flying. Aradia, caught off guard, slipped on one of his
textbooks and stumbled down half a flight of stairs. She was fine,
but bloodied her knee pretty badly.

Another time, a fellow
student had bumped into her while she was cutting a canvas with
heavy scissors. The unexpected shove knocked her off balance, and
she had sliced a thick bloody cut across her hand. It was after the
scissors incident that Roy and his brothers had started guarding
her.

She did feel touched by
Roy's concern for her safety, but she worried he might interpret it
as a sign that they were more than friends. Her concerns were
emphasized when, in front of everybody, he brought up her dating
Dax.

On the one hand, she
wanted to snap at Roy that it was none of his business. On the
other, the mixed signals Dax was sending made her want to spill her
guts so Roy might beat the crap out of him.

It was true she and Dax
had been hanging out a fair amount since their first date, but it
was always casual. In fact, whenever she tried to be more intimate
with him, whether it was an attempted kiss or even something as
minimal as placing a hand on his shoulder, he would grow cold and
hastily take her home.

"I’d focus on my
painting, Roy," Aradia said, dipping her brush in the water. “Maybe
you can break your family legacy and actually pass this
class.”

“Not cool, Rai,” D said
with a reluctant smile on his face.

“Hey, Al,” she asked,
attempting to change the subject Roy had so awkwardly raised,
“how’s your arm?”

He glanced at the cast
on his arm and shrugged. “Doctors say it is a clean break, no
complications. Another month and I’ll be good to go.”

Lowering his voice so
the humans at the table wouldn’t hear, D whispered
conspiratorially, “Ready to go show that punk clan of fledglings
what happens when you mess with the SilverMoon pack. Not to mention
what happens when you mess with my bro.” He and Al gave each other
a pound, then blew it up.

Aradia glanced around
nervously. Even if Rhonda or her human friends did overhear, they
probably wouldn’t make too much of that. She commented, “I think it
was that attitude that got your arm broken in the first place.
Look, guys, this whole thing hasn’t spiraled completely out of
control just yet. At least don’t spur on the violence,
okay?”

That was basically the
end of that conversation.

I’m not doing so well
with any of the Morales brothers today.

Roy just moped in stony
silence. He slid his chair closer to hers, propped his chin onto
his hand, and looked at her. After a few minutes of his intense
silent scrutiny, Aradia got up.

"Where are you going?"
asked Roy, grabbing her hand.

Aradia snatched it away
and snapped at him, "I’m going to get more paint. Is that okay with
you?"

Realizing people were
staring and that he was being really weird, Roy backed off and
turned back to his own painting.

She couldn’t take any
more of his staring, but she really did need more paint. She opened
the cupboard and perused the various bottles and colors.

Painting had proven to
be a real outlet for Aradia. Firstly, it was a subject she found
she excelled at. The instructor, Mrs. Mancini, gave the students
just enough guidance, but plenty of freedom. Aradia liked the mix.
Moreover, though, she found it therapeutic. She’d even picked up a
starter kit of acrylics and an easel for her home use.

Today, though, she just
wasn’t feeling the art. Thanks to Roy’s prodding, all she could
think about was Dax’s distance, Roy’s jealousy, and the unsolved
murder.

Of the three topics,
the Vampire Murderer weighed upon her most heavily. He or she had
been plaguing her conscience since day one. She knew she could
help, but she’d so far been unable to convince her father to let
her in on the investigation.

Now the murders were
creating tension amongst the factions of the hidden community.
Tension was always high, Aradia had determined, but the murders had
pushed things to a breaking point. Packs of werewolves were
beginning to act on their feelings, engaging in acts of vandalism
and violence. So far, there had been no vampire retribution, which
Aradia suspected was because they seemed to be slightly more
organized and a hell of a lot more patient. She knew the situation
could easily get much worse.

She’d even complained
about the state of affairs to Tristan, who had explained that
gang-like fights between the hidden races were not
uncommon.

“In fact,” he’d said,
“what you call justice is rare among our people. Secrecy is part of
who we are.”

“That doesn’t mean you
can’t have justice,” she’d replied.

“It’s not about
justice, simple girl. When an offense is perceived, you retaliate.
If you fail to strike back with sufficient strength, you will be
hit again and again and again.”

“That’s the way you see
it, maybe.”

“That’s the way it is.
The only way a major conflict could be resolved is for the culprit
to be found and put to death. Until that happens, the violence will
continue. It’s not unheard of for whole clans or packs to feud
practically to extinction. More often the pack gets wiped out.
Vampires are cold bastards, but they know how to wage war. Whoever
wins, though, as long as they leave the humans alone, no one will
stop them.”

Aradia did not know
what bothered her more: the fact that such behavior was considered
acceptable in the hidden world or the fact that she’d spent so
little time trying to fix it and so much time fretting about boys.
She found herself torn somewhere between guilt and the
incredibility of the whole matter.

As if on cue, who
should glide up to her but Dax. She was holding a bottle of red
paint. She had opened it to see the paint itself. He surprised her
with his stealthy approach and said, "That’s a good color. It is
the color of love and passion."

"Huh?" Aradia said,
startled. She was so surprised that she dropped the bottle. Dax not
only managed to grab the bottle midair, but also grab the lid that
she’d set on the countertop. He screwed it on tightly and held it
out to Aradia, smiling. This he all did without spilling even a
drop.

Aradia was not
impressed.

"Yeah, well," she said
as she grabbed the jar from him. "Red may be the color of all that,
but I think it's also the color of dishonesty."

"No, that's yellow,"
Dax countered, still smiling with irritating charm.

"So what are you, then?
Red or yellow? Passion or dishonesty?"

Dax was no longer
smiling.

"What do you mean?" he
asked.

Aradia threw him a
sarcastic look and said, "Dax, I like you, but I’m getting the
feeling that the reason you are hanging out with me is not because
you like me back."

Crap,
Aradia thought,
I
really didn’t want to have this type of conversation in art
class!

"I like you, Aradia. Of
that you can be certain."

“That doesn’t exactly
answer my question. I want you to be honest with me, Dax. What
exactly do you want from me?"

"Do you really want to
know?"

"Yeah, I do," Aradia
replied.

"Well," said Dax as he
leaned in seductively. "The truth is, what I really want from you
Aradia, is to know all of your secrets."

"You want to know all
my secrets, Dax?" she finally asked him.

"More than you know,"
Dax replied.

Despite his eagerness,
he maintained his seductive tone.

"Well," Aradia began as
she lowered her voice and leaned in towards him. She brought her
face right next to his chest and tilted her head to look up at him.
She appeared as innocent and naive as a baby lamb. "I don’t have
many secrets, but I do have one that I guard with my
life."

"What is it?" Dax asked
his voice now low but positively tingling with
excitement.

"My biggest secret
is..." Aradia paused for dramatic effect and then rushed on to say,
"I think you have a staring problem."

Dax’s jaw dropped open.
Aradia turned on her heel and sauntered back to her
table.

Chapter
Twenty-One

If there was one thing
the conversation with Dax accomplished, it was to expose to her how
truly trivial the whole situation with him and Roy really was. The
unsolved “vampire” murders had weighed increasingly heavily on her
mind for over three months, and the police had not so much as a
person of interest. In fact, according to her father, the
probability of solving the murders was growing increasingly
slim.

The poor victims would
never get justice. Kaiser, fueled by his rage, was that much closer
to becoming exactly the type of criminal he so despised. Yet what
bothered Aradia the most was the sad truth that if this person got
away with the murders, there was an alarming chance that he would
kill again.

And what if the killer
really was trying to send a message, like Dax had proposed? To get
the message across, who might they kill next?

As she dabbed some more
red onto the gala apple in her still life, she vowed she would
postpone her boy troubles and focus all her attention on solving
the murders.
Unsolved isn’t
unsolvable,
Aradia quoted one of her
father’s favorite sayings.

“Dad,” Aradia said the
moment her father got home. She ambushed him in the garage; he
hadn’t even gotten out of his car yet. “I want you to take me to
the crime scenes.”

Aradia figured most
fathers would either scoff or explain in a parent-to-child way that
it was not possible, or too dangerous, or some other such response.
Ross Preston, however, did neither.

They’d had the
discussion more than once. Aradia knew all of his concerns, and
Ross knew all of her arguments. This time, though, he could tell
something was different. He was seeing in her his own relentless
determination to come as close as possible to righting a wrong. For
whatever reason, he replied, “Alright. Tell your mother where we’re
going and put on something warmer. It’s chilly.”

First they drove by the
second crime scene. It was a law office. “A place of business,”
Aradia muttered. “No invitation required.”

She’d told her parents
everything about the hidden world. She also impressed upon them the
importance of keeping what they knew as closely guarded of a secret
as they’d ever held.

Ross
grunted.

The office was part of
a small strip center, wedged between a kids’ shoe store and a
Quiznos. “The Quiznos has actually benefited from the murder, from
what I understand, between the police, the press, and the
onlookers.”

“Possible suspects?”
Aradia asked.

“Nah,” her father
replied. “Too Daphne du Maurier to be a real suspect. Or maybe
Scooby Doo. I looked them up all the same. Straight as
arrows.”