The Poison of Ivy

  THE POISON

  OF IVY

  ----------------------------------

  THE IVY HART MYSTERY SERIES

  JESSICA KING

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica King

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  About This Book

  She thought the nightmare was over, but it was only just getting started...

  Detective Ivy Hart of the LAPD thought she had brought down the Kingsmen, a conspiracy organization that kills women they believe to be witches, but when several women begin showing up dead at a chillingly fast pace, Ivy realizes the nightmare is far from over.

  Accompanied by her partner, Detective Vince Benton, Ivy dives deeper into the dark and insidious world of the Kingsmen but this time the consequences are grim.

  Will Ivy overcome her demons and beat the Kingsmen once and for all, or will the darkness be too much for her to handle?

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Thursday, March 2, 2017, 7:05 p.m.

  Jayda Anderson was sure the witch event had been overhyped on social media. In fact, she was sure that it wasn’t happening at all. These ridiculous farces were always built up for weeks ahead of time and only ended up being a group of people who already knew each other shuffling in a tight circle, drinking away the shame of a failed party together, even as they promised each other that people were coming, that things would get crazy.

  But as Jayda left the studio, she could see the dusty look of the sky that meant something was happening on Venice Beach. She’d taken to parking far away from the tiny place she’d finally gotten enough money to rent for the label she was building after an accidental YouTube find she recorded rocketed to local stardom. She’d finally graduated from soundproof panels in her one-bedroom apartment (where the bed was in the living room still, since the actual room had been used for recording, said YouTube talent, Jazz Gould). She liked to remind herself that she’d taken the first step to “making it in L.A. as a music producer,” bypassing Venice Beach and its inherent L.A.-ness on the way back to her parking space—and it was a long walk back to the free parking spaces. But she liked watching people weave between one another and hearing the street musicians along the way. The Boardwalk’s “nurses” on roller-skates promised an appointment leading to medical marijuana, street performers balanced on objects that certainly had to deny physics in some way, and girls in shorts and bikini tops littered the area like colorful, still-hardening gum across the concrete.

  A loud beep Jayda knew all too well—the sound of a speaker angry with the microphone—had the crowd of tourists and locals alike covering their ears in the near sunset. “Hello, witches of Los Angeles!” There was a loud roar as a song from the Truly Twenties film blasted through the air loudly enough that Jayda could hear the stuttering echo of it moving in bursts down the street. Aline Rousseau’s breathy voice slipped in and out of the tiny places between shops and cracked car windows, her character promising the magic only flappers can provide, gone is that terrible social divide, come on baby and dance with me, enjoy some panther juice and be free.

  The heels of Jayda’s boots clicked in time as she took a roundabout path, moving toward the makeshift stage. A woman with flowing white hair and emerald, thigh-high boots stood on a platform in the skatepark, a sort of stage. With the orange and pink of the beachy sunset behind her, the white mist from the fog machines next to her, and the skateboarders around her using the attention as a chance to show off their best skills, she looked like she was preparing for some sort of spectacular concert. A crowd of several hundred had gathered at the lip of the basin of the skatepark, yelling to the woman on the skatepark island. She blew kisses, her hands clad in delicate lace gloves with frills at the wrists.

  Jayda opened her phone, trying to remember what the event was called. She scrolled, finding an event with a bright-green banner. “The Prophetess Reveal: Are You a Witch?” Pictures of Aline Rousseau and links to a site of a group called the “Kingsmen” were pinned at the top of the post, as well as a carousel ad featuring witch paraphernalia: crystals, collections of dried herbs, and gorgeously designed cards the size of a stretched-out hand.

  “We have arrived, have we not?” the woman yelled, her star-bright hair swaying around her waist.

  The crowd roared again, even as more people joined, standing on their tiptoes, trying to get a glimpse of the woman grinning behind the microphone.

  “We are not scared of these Kingsmen, these hunters of our kind, are we?”

  A louder roar, this one angry and fueled, shattered the sunset and rolled around the dips of the rinks along with the skateboarders, most of whom had not fastened their helmets, Jayda noticed. Instead, they had simply allowed the plastic clips to hang from either side of their gear like thick, spiked earrings.

  “My magical beauties!” she yelled into the microphone. “I’m so glad to see you all here!” She elegantly flipped her long locks over a shoulder, a seductive smile touching her lips. “And to my skeptics, welcome to the party.”

  The music blared from the speakers behind her, and a skater attempting a trick fell, sliding along on his knees until he landed at the base of the plateau the woman was standing on. He looked up at her, creating a vague picture of worship.

  “My name is Delilah Leigh, and I’m here to serve you, my enchanting people. I like to think I’ve been sent straight from the Female Goddess herself, as her … Prophetess.”

  Jayda squinted against the light, contemplating the woman’s—clearly fake—name, and how it would have made a great alias for a singer.

  “I’ve been working for years,” she said, leaning into a near backbend, as if she were exhausted from working, “to find the absolute best resources for my bewitching friends! Guaranteed results, charms with pre-cast spells for your convenience, and a name you can trust—mine!” She pointed to the neatly wrapped, green packaging next to her.

  Apparently, she had p
lanted several of the skateboarders because as she held out boxes, boarders rolled up to her, grabbed a box in their pause, and then tossed them out into the crowd on the other side. People screamed in delight; everyone wanted one of the gifts, topped in a shining bow. A loud pop sounded from either side of the audience, and green confetti rained down from the sky, each piece labeled with a website: enchanteddelilah.com. Subtle, Jayda thought, but the marketing worked; she navigated to the website.

  It was apparently more than crystals and herbs. The site had an entire library of magic-related books, not to mention everything from bracelets that promised to increase the intensity of a person’s power to jackets stitched with protection runes. And then there were the non-magical products—enchanting eyeshadow and muse mascara and sparkling headphones for the magical music-lover. But front and center on every page seemed to be the same product—a board that Jayda found reminiscent of both a Ouija board and Candy Land—but green. ARE YOU A WITCH KIT, a kit that would definitively tell you if you were a magical miss or mister.

  “Enchanted Delilah has everything you need to lead a magical life!” Delilah yelled from the stage. “You’ll find videos of yours truly, Prophetess Delilah, explaining each product and how to use it, as well as coupon codes and free shipping on your first order!”

  This the crowd loved, and they started clapping as another burst of confetti spewed from the canons.

  It had grown dark, and the sky was glazed over with a classic West Coast sunset. Out over the ocean, the sun was a bright cookie dunked into the silvering ocean. The crowd could barely make out Delilah’s form when the light in front of her blinked out. But, against the dying rays of sunlight, Jayda could see the woman raise her arms toward the sky. Waves of wonder undulated through the crowd.

  Her own phone had taken to blinking a bright-green color on her screen, and all around her, different shades of green lit up hundreds of phones. Jayda had seen similar effects at concerts … but never without the light having to be turned on by the phone’s user themselves. When she looked away from the crowd and back to the plateau of the skate park, Delilah was gone. The only thing left was a cloud of stage smoke rising against the light of a simple green bulb that had been left on the ground where the Prophetess had once stood.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Friday, March 3, 2017, 9:13 a.m.

  Ivy tried to smile politely at the group standing in the lobby of the LAPD’s office. They were outfitted in casual button-ups and ripped jeans, and they were dripping with cameras, lighting equipment, and microphones. Ivy had to press herself against the wall just to get around all the electronics, afraid that bumping into them would lead to a bunch of broken bulbs and thousands of dollars in damages. She walked to her desk, raising an eyebrow at her partner, Vince.

  “I have no idea what they’re doing here, but I’m guessing we’re going to have to answer interview questions about Aline,” Vince said. He ran a hand across his short-cropped hair and framed his face with his hands in an impression of “vogueing.”

  Ivy closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Can I say no?” Ivy asked. She dropped too far into her swivel chair, glaring at Vince as she maneuvered the lever so the chair rose back to its normal height. “Must you?” she asked.

  “Not my fault you fall for it every time.”

  “Ignoring that,” Ivy said. “Why do they want to talk to us and not Aline?”

  “You saved Hollywood’s favorite starlet from certain death due to her supposed reincarnated witch soul,” Officer Joyce Sell said, leaning against Ivy’s desk.

  Ivy smiled up at her friend. “Do you want to be Ivy Hart today?” Ivy asked, tugging at her name badge to switch with Joyce.

  Joyce laughed. “I’m not camera ready!” Joyce said, scandalized. She turned up the collar of her uniform and pulled her sunglasses over her eyes, pretending to hide from paparazzi.

  “I will pay you,” Ivy said, but Joyce just rolled her eyes and walked away. Ivy turned to Vince. “Maybe it’s not for us.”

  “It’s for you,” Chief Marks said, walking up behind her.

  Ivy rubbed her temples. The last thing she wanted to deal with while tracking down a group of killers attacking people they believed to be witches—people who had killed her own mother—was dealing with a series of drawn-out interviews.

  “How long?”

  “Few weeks,” Chief Marks said.

  Ivy swiveled in her chair.

  “I’m sorry?” Chief Marks tried to suppress his smile. “I know you’re not going to like it, Hart, but a documentary featuring the skills of our department would be—”

  “A what?” Ivy asked.

  “You need to clean your ears or something, Detective?” Marks asked, gesturing to the camera crew.

  Ivy gave him a flat look, and he laughed.

  “Look, they got a big budget from one of those streaming giants to make a documentary, following the witch-hunter-hunters, or whatever catchy thing they’ve decided to call you, and the department gets a nice cut and great publicity to boot.”

  Ivy ground her teeth. She usually loved watching those types of documentaries and had recently told Vince she wished they’d make more. This was not what she meant.

  “Did you tell them that we haven’t caught the Kingsmen yet and that there might be so many of them that we maybe never will?” Ivy asked.

  Vince whistled. “That was dark,” he mumbled.

  “Please, Ivy,” Chief Marks said. He did his best impression of a pout, the wrinkles around his eyes growing deeper as he tried to suppress a smile.

  “Who do you know?” Ivy asked, closing her eyes. Everyone in L.A. knew someone trying to break into the film industry, and she was entirely certain her chief of police was no different.

  “My grandson is the lighting assistant’s intern.” And that was the other thing about everyone knowing someone trying to break into the film industry. They only knew people who were some intern’s intern or an extra who volunteered to spend two sweaty weeks on set.

  Ivy pursed her lips at the chief, who smiled broadly enough to show teeth. “Fine,” Ivy said, her lips curling up at the edges.

  “They won’t be here every day, and they’re going to try to be as out of the way as possible,” he said. “Mikey said they’re just trying to get the vibe of your role.” He put air quotes around the word vibe, telling Ivy that the chief wasn’t quite sure what type of vibe policework would emanate.

  Ivy looked around the stuffy office of the LAPD—the worn wood and metal desks, the computers that really could have used replacements five years ago, and dust motes lazily floating along the rays of sunshine sneaking through the blinds.

  “I don’t know if the vibe here is really that interesting,” Ivy said.

  “You could fake a British accent for the whole thing,” Vince said. “Do a Sherlock Holmes thing,” he said. “I feel like I’d be a great Watson to your Sherlock, and I’d really be able to reinvent the character. Watson is no longer a squat, fair-haired sidekick. Watson is a suave, attractive, Italian-tan man.”

  “You’re more of an Inspector Clouseau,” Ivy said.

  Vince squinted at her.

  Chief Marks had waved to the crew, who lumbered over.

  A kid holding at least four bookbags and a coffee that didn’t appear to belong to him waved to Chief Marks, who beamed.

  “Ivy Hart?” A willowy woman in stylish combat boots and a messy bun shook Ivy’s hand. “I’m Lindsey Sloane.” She shook Vince’s hand, repeating her name. “This is Jordan, Audrey, Lorenzo, Cara, and Michael,” she said, pointing to each person of her crew in turn, who either waved or simply nodded, depending on how much gear was in their hands. “Don’t worry if you forget those.” Ivy was thankful she said that, as she had instantly forgotten each of the names. “We’ll do a few interviews, but for the most part, we’re just here to stay in the background and capture your work on camera. If you have a question, let me know, but by all means, please ignore us. It’ll make everyt
hing seem more natural.”

  Ivy figured she could do that, even though she felt that it was a bit rude to avoid eye contact with the camera that was already staring at her, even though it appeared that it wasn’t on.

  Lindsey was all business. She turned to her crew, pointing for different people to move to different places, and blindly held out her hand for her coffee, which Mikey delivered to her.

  Ivy felt like the whole office should suddenly be in black and white, and she should be smoking a cigar, and Vince should be wearing suspenders, but none of that happened.

  Vince’s computer just dinged angrily as he tried to open a file that wouldn’t open because it might have a virus. “We got a video featuring a witch from Venice Beach Boardwalk last night,” Vince said, “but I can’t get it to load.”

  “Are there similar ones online?” Ivy asked, her keyboard clicking under her too-long nails. When was the last time she’d had time to do something as simple as clip her nails without thinking about witches? The page loaded with images and videos of green mist and a woman who looked like a cartoon character with her long, white hair, tall boots, and dark dress. Ivy played the first video, and Vince rolled over to her desk.

  “A Prophetess of the Female Goddess?” Vince asked once the video had finished.

  Ivy was already dialing, and Vince pulled Ivy’s keyboard toward him, beginning to search for Delilah Leigh’s real name.

  “Hello?” She could hear a cacophony of voices in the background.

  “Hi, Cassiopeia, it’s Ivy.”

  “I’m sorry, who?” Cassiopeia’s voice was strained, a woman who was not used to having to yell into the phone. The sound of a door slamming, someone cheering, music, and a television created a symphony of chaos.