The Evil Inside

broad daylight, and not when the streets were filled with people.

Then again, she had to admit, protection wasn’t exactly what she wanted when she looked at him…

Not good.

“All right,” Sam said, “but you need to stay out of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble could I possibly get into?”

“Legal trouble, too,” Sam said gruffly.

“Seriously, there’s nothing for you to worry about. The killer honestly can’t act at all. We’ve agreed we’re not dealing with an all-out psycho who’s acting willy-nilly, but with someone possessing very specific, material motives. So, you see, in the devious little plot-whatever it might be-that’s going on, I couldn’t possibly be safer.”

Soon after, she walked Sam to the door. She found him hesitating as he said good-night; he looked at her awkwardly, which seemed odd-he was so totally a man of the world. She couldn’t imagine that he had ever been awkward in a social situation.

But they weren’t exactly in a social situation.

He started to say something, and then didn’t. Then he touched her cheek again, and his fingers seemed to linger just a minute.

“Be careful, kid, really,” he said, and his voice was gruff.

She smiled at him. “In my experience, honestly, a ghost never killed anyone.”

She hesitated. “The scariest unknown in the world is the human mind,” she continued on. “But in that, a ghost is no scarier than a dog, really. But any kind of suggestion is like hypnotism. People have claimed that all kinds of things have ‘made them do it.’ A dog, video games, television, the movies, ghosts-or the devil. I’m not afraid of ghosts. I can be very leery and careful of people, but I won’t do anything that could remotely be considered dangerous, okay?”

He nodded. He stood there another minute, looking at her, and she was surprised that, although he no longer touched her, she could feel warmth emanating from him that almost reached out and stroked the length of her body. Heat rushed through her, and it was very hard to maintain her even eye contact with him, to give nothing away of the sudden longing that rushed through her.

Was it him?

Was it wishful thinking?

She wasn’t without self-confidence, but she knew his type.

Type? she mocked herself. Wasn’t that judging unfairly?

He was wealthy; he was a powerful man, and he had the kind of steadfast assurance that was sensual in itself. He drew attention when he walked into a room. Men admired him, and women fantasized about him.

Which, of course, she was doing right then.

And women would easily come, and just as easily go, out of his life.

“Good night,” he said somewhere in the middle of her internal monologue. And then he was gone.

That night, she felt something on her bed. And again, despite her assurances about ghosts to Sam, despite her beliefs, she felt an odd sensation of fear. She wanted to reach for the light. She wanted to run out of the house.

There was an old woman sitting at her bedside. A very sad-looking old woman.

For an insane moment she thought that the ghost, apparition or figment of her imagination was going to say something incredibly grave and overused, such as “The truth is out there!”

But the figure simply stared at her with dignity, and then spoke softly. “You must save the innocents. Let not the blood of the innocent be shed.”

And then, Jenna felt a stirring of the air, and something that seemed cold and warm at the same time touch her cheek.

An old woman’s gentle touch.

“Let not your blood be spilled-for the devil lives, he lives in all of us. Sometimes his name is Envy, and sometimes it is Greed. Let not the blood be spilled…”

It was everything she could do not to scream.

The vision faded into the night.

Jenna leaped from her bed and hurried into the kitchen. As she knew, Jamie always had a bottle of good Irish whiskey on hand.

She found the bottle and gulped down a burning shot.

And then she took another. She noted that the darkness of night was just beginning to break. Morning was coming. Sleep, just a few hours, brought on by the relaxing quality of the alcohol, would be great just about now.

At his office, Sam thanked God for the competency of Evan Richardson, legal assistant extraordinaire. Sam inspected the paperwork on the motions filed. The prosecution would fight many of his motions regarding what could and could not be brought into evidence. In defense of his client, Sam would make court appearances himself, but Evan was exceptional at keeping the legal paperwork moving at an expert rate. Since they were not going for an insanity plea, Sam had planned to deny the prosecution’s request for their expert psychiatrist’s opinion on Malachi’s mental stability.

“But what if you do have to switch over to a mental competency plea?” Evan asked worriedly.

Sam smiled. “At that point, we’ll allow them their expert. Not now.”

“All right. Are we moving to keep allegations regarding the other murders out?” Evan asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, because we have a discrepancy on that. If the prosecution wants to bring up the other murders-which I don’t believe they’re willing to risk at this time-we have witnesses that will cast the shadow of doubt, affecting their entire case.”

“Well, all right,” Evan said. He chewed on the nib of his pencil. “Sam, you’re taking a huge risk here, you know.”

“If it comes down to it, I won’t risk sending my client to prison. We’ll plead insanity,” Sam assured him.

Evan still looked glum.

“Cheer up, I’m not going down in an earthquake. I can win this, man. I won’t take you off a cliff with me.”

Evan still didn’t look convinced. Actually, he looked like a young man whose older mentor had gone entirely senile.

Sam had to wonder if he was crazy himself.

When Jenna walked into A Little Bit of Magic that morning, both Cecilia and Ivy were working. After allowing her to get reacquainted with Ivy, following Ivy’s massive, enthusiastic hug greeting, Cecilia finally asked the question it looked like she was dying to ask.

“Hey, how’s it going with Malachi?”

“Slowly,” Jenna admitted.

The shop was busy, but both the owners seemed to have the ability to have a conversation and keep an eye on their clientele, as well. Ivy hadn’t gone with the completely black look as Cecilia had done; her hair was still a shaggy mix of brown and blond, colors that complemented her hazel eyes.

“Well, if you are trying to prove his innocence, that’s going to be hard,” Ivy said, making it obvious that the two women had discussed the situation.

“Actually,” Jenna told them, “I came to ask you two a few questions about Wicca.”

The warmth left Ivy’s eyes. “If you’re trying to say that this is the result of witchcraft-”

“No, no, no! Not at all,” Jenna assured them quickly. “I know that-”

“Our beliefs aren’t so different!” Ivy said. “All gods and goddesses are part of the Source, and the source is like the one god of Christianity and Judaism and Islam. Catholics see saints-we see other gods and goddesses. Praying in itself is important, as is the goodness that we are supposed to practice in everyday life.”

“I know, I know-honestly, I know,” Jenna assured them. “But we all know that other people-in any time-can twist and contort what is supposed to be good and pure into other things, or try to make it appear that what is