A distant spell from Celtic myth unites two lost lovers
as they reclaim their future...

Magic Man

Magic Man Book Reviews HERE
© 2015 Jacqui Jacoby, Body Count Productions, Inc.

Detective Peter Mackenzie knew crime and knew his job. With The Cemetery Man schedule to leave the next body on the next grave Peter doesn’t have time for the puzzling Alexandra Madison. Her wild stories of a stolen life and family and friends who don’t remember her. Her last resort, she tells him is him and the relationship they shared. Peter doesn’t need this nonsense and his eccentric father walking in only irritates him more. Until his father utters the name everyone forgot, giving hope to Alexandra for the first time.

Time is their enemy as the weekend grows closer and on Sunday, Peter knows another body will be waiting.

What he doesn’t know, what he couldn’t know, even with Alexandra delving deeper into his father’s past, the victims are not random. They are chosen with reason and the monster who takes them is not done. She is coming for one of them.

Enjoy the following excerpt from Magic Man:

He worked his jaw back and forth. “Are you saying I should know you?”

She nodded, her arms coming away from her body, jerking with frustration. “I tried everyone else. Everyone I could think of. I didn’t want to come to you. Not after—.” She cut herself off and bit her lip again. “But you’re it," she said. “If you don’t—”

“You think I know you?”

“You have to.”

“And why would that be?”

She scratched her forehead, her eyes closed tight, her chin tilted.

She didn’t answer him.

He searched the recesses of his memory and came up empty. He had never heard the name before, never seen that face. “Why do you think I would know you?”

Her hand dropped away and she stared at him. It was in her eyes. She was scared. Of him. Of whatever she had to tell him.

“Why?” he snapped.

Her voice was almost inaudible, her gaze fixed on the donuts. "We lived together for four years.”

Peter heard her. He couldn’'t believe she had said what she said, but he heard her just fine. Now he just had to figure out how to get the hell out of here without crushing that last bit of hope in her eyes.

“O-k-a-y,” he said, planting both his hands on the edge of the table and standing up.

“No,” she cried, moving faster than he had seen her move. She was in front of him, her hands on his forearms.

“Please. I’m not crazy. I swear to God I’m not crazy. We lived together. For four years.”

He broke her grip and took a step back, choking out a laugh. “I think I might remember that.”

“Your house. In La Canada. We bought it together. When I got transferred to Seattle eight months ago, I signed it over to you.”

Peter’s gaze snapped to hers as personal data became a chip in the pot.

“How the hell do you know where I live?”

“Because I lived there, too. Please,” she begged. “Please remember.”

“You know, I know what I said before, but I think we might need to talk to somebody. A specialist.”

She shook her head. “I’m not crazy.”

He reached up and cupped her cheek and she looked up at him. “I think we may have been wrong,” he said.

She shook her head again. This time hard. Jerky.

“You need help,” he said.

She took two steps back, pushing her fingers through her hair in desperation. “I know I need help. But not that kind. I’m not crazy. I’m lost and I’m alone and there is no one who will listen. Ah shit, Peter, you don’t even believe me.”

He looked at her face, now almost pure white, tears on her cheeks. He felt something for her—something he couldn’t put his finger on. It wasn’t a memory, though. That much he was sure. Peter kept his voice soft. “What you’re saying. It’s not possible.”

“I know it. Don’t you think I know it? But it’s happening. God, Peter, it’s happening and I don’t know what to do.”

“I'll get you help—” he reached for her, but she darted out of his reach, toward the back of the room by the coffee pot.

“I know you have a birthmark on your left hip,” she whispered. “I know your mom died when you were four. Shit, Peter, you take your coffee with milk in the morning. You like your eggs scrambled and hate them fried. Doesn’t that mean something?"

He nodded. “Yeah. It means you might be dangerous, too.”

She knew about his birthmark? His mom?

The sound she made sounded something like despair and she turned away from him, her face lowered.

The door behind him opened and Peter turned, his jaw dropping.

“Dad?”

Kenneth Mackenzie stood in the doorway, the knob still in his hand.

Peter stared at him. "What the hell are you doing here?”

“I thought I might be needed,” Kenneth said in his calm voice, the touch of Scotland still lining the edges.

Peter shook his head in disbelief. What he didn’t need now was his eccentric father walking in on the show. “Not now, Dad.”

Peter looked back at the woman in the far corner, she hadn’t turned toward them. He didn’t have time for her. He didn’t have time for his father. Wasn’t there a serial killer he was supposed to be catching instead of dealing with this shit?

Kenneth stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Alexandra?” he said.

The woman spun so fast, Peter was shocked she didn’t tumble over. Peter saw her eyes go wide, her mouth hanging open as the words formed almost silently on her lips.

“You know me?” she whispered.

How the hell had his Dad done that?

Kenneth ignored his only son and walked over to her, talking as he went. "Of course I know you.”

He spread his arms when he reached her. She didn’t even hesitate to step into them and fall against the old man’s chest. Peter just stood back and watched her crumble. When her knees gave way and the sobs racked her body, Kenneth went with her to the floor, holding her tight, rocking her as the pride completely evaporated. Peter stared blankly at them both.