Raine of Fire
A Wickney Mystery Novel
by Susan Stradiotto
Genre: Epic Fantasy Mystery, Paranormal Romance
Sparks fly when an exiled Fae prince and a straight-laced detective team up to solve a murder.
Banished by his mother from Faerie, Raine Abarta wants nothing more than to entertain people on the streets of Wickney, Wisconsin. But when the daughter of a prominent senator stumbles upon his show, he’s drawn into her world and her mother’s murder.
When Raine takes his act down to the police department with intentions of helping solve the puzzle–or, uh, the “case”–he meets the ultra-serious Detective Kennedi Craine. To his dismay, she views him as nothing more than a charlatan, but when has that ever stopped him?
Kennedi’s latest case is open and shut, more of a paperwork and media hassle than a case. Senator La Point, after all, was holding the smoking gun over his wife’s lifeless body. So, when a random guy off the street walks in telling her she’s wrong, she sends him on his merry way. At least she thinks she does. As he keeps popping up, she begins to wonder if he’s on to something. And when he broaches a situation from her past, she just can’t leave him alone.
Raine helps her solve another small case, and she starts to wonder if there might be something more to both mysteries before her.
Fabulous read for fans of the TV shows Castle and Bones.
Raine of Fire © 2022 Susan Stradiotto All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are either a part of the author’s imagination or used ficticiously. 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. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below. Published by Bronzewood Books 14920 Ironwood Ct. Eden Prairie, MN 55346 Cover Design: MIBLART & Bronzewood Books Interior Design: Bronzewood Books Edited by: Sonnet Fitzgerald Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-949357-30-1 eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-949357-35-6 Printed in the USA
Chapter 1 Raine APPLAUSE.
Flames licked a hot trail across his forearm as Raine caught the third baton, then the fourth. With two blazing torches in each hand, he held his arms wide and bowed to the congregating audience, soaking in the cheers as if they were sweeter than the air he breathed. At times, the ovation was indeed better than air. It sent a surge through his body and made stars twinkle at the edges of his vision, as such a thrill did with all his kind. If shelter and sustenance weren’t necessary, a solid dose of human delight each day in reaction to his performance would be enough to sustain him eternally. Alas, survival in the mortal realm required him to behave . . . well, mortally. He had to eat, had to earn money to buy food. So, ever so careful not to allow his pinky finger, the one he created with glamour, to get in the way, he palmed the flaming torches in one hand and took off his top hat with a flourish. Rather than simply placing the hat for coin, he dipped his wrist to spin the batons again and elicit an encore of oohs and ahhs before he laid the hat near the crowd. From his array of performances on the northeast corner of Wickney Square he made enough to pay rent on a tiny flat just down the street from the square and have a meal or two a day. On a good day, he’d be set for the week with his low-key lifestyle, but those days were limited to the weekends when shoppers gathered around the gagworthy boutique shops in the city’s center square. Why humans paid good money for the crap these shop owners sold—frilly clothes, smelly candles, and mutilated hunks of clay they called stoneware—was truly beyond his comprehension. But why in Ifrinn did he care, as long as they dumped their fair share of coin into his hat too. Raine turned toward his equipment, smiling to hear several coins and the rustle of a few bills drop into the hat. He dropped the torches flame-first into a metal canister where the reservoir of fuel extinguished the fire, then he retrieved a set of staves. As he dipped both ends into the fuel, he scanned the crowd and pitched his voice in precisely the manner the humans thirsted for. “For the next sequence, I’ll need a volunteer.” Eyes previously bright with amusement turned to the sidewalk. How utterly predictable. It was a rare mortal who embraced performing, one who likely had been touched by Raine’s kind in one way or another, or a síobhra who’d yet to embrace his or her own power. Raine squinted, as much to hide the shifting sands in his eyes as to block out the rays of the sun. He used the sight—or what he called faedar—to interrogate the individuals who’d gathered, but none immediately popped out at him. Strangely, not one single person amid those gathered called to his nature, not a one emitted the telltale aura that signaled the need for levity or being worthy of a quaint little prank. “No one?” he hawked to the onlookers. Then, playing their emotions like a finely tuned faelute, he added, “Is there not one sympathetic soul who will assist a poor performer in need?” Raine turned before the crowd, slowly twirling the staves as they heated to the proper temperature so they wouldn’t flicker out as they sailed through the air. Brilliance, it had to be. Garnering applause and money required brilliance in his performance, and he remained patient enough to ensure his audience would be dishing out a good deal of both. Finally, as he made his way to the far edge of the crowd, a silvery light above someone’s head marched through the crowd. Raine strained to see the passerby, and when he caught a glimpse of the pinch on her face under her blonde hair and brows, he pointed a staff. “You!” He paused as people gasped and looked around, all turning to where he pointed after they’d assured themselves he wasn’t calling on them. “Miss?” he said louder still. The blonde woman stopped, her pinched expression opening in sheer surprise, and she hugged a khaki trenchcoat closer and locked eyes with Raine. She pushed the shoulder bag up higher and under her collar with the other hand. The woman’s mouth formed a little O as she started to shake her head, but the silvery aura kindled. Yes, she was the right person for the job. He nodded and stepped through the parting crowd with a hand outstretched. She tried to retreat, but her heels and the steps caught her up while Raine easily closed the distance. “What is your name?” he asked. “I-I’m sorry, but I . . .” Blonde curls swung around her head as she shook it no. Never releasing his smile, Raine narrowed his eyes and reached for his ability to bend someone toward his will. With the nudge, the woman eased, her shoulders fell from her ears, and she placed a hand in his. But she still hesitated. “Vanessa,” she said, her voice hollow. She drew her brows together as if she didn’t quite understand why she relented. He turned to guide her to center stage, but through their touch, an overwhelming sense of shock and mourning accosted Raine. Something extraordinary and tragic stabbed into him so hard he couldn’t make out the cause. He tasted metal, and a deep-seated need within him to transform her situation almost threw him off his game. He sighed. That was something he hadn’t succumbed to in a very, very long time. Most of the time, he wouldn’t get visions or feelings around the mortals unless he opened himself up to it. He blinked several times. The performance—he needed to focus on his show. He dropped her hand as soon as he had her situated and took another deep breath to center himself. Their connection severed, Vanessa made a move to walk away, so he stepped into her path. He reached again for the gifts granted by the Goddess and allowed his irises to shift, easing the familiar contortions flashing across her face. “You don’t wish to leave now, do you?” Over so many years, that sequence of brow bunching, eye widening, and lip pursing had become familiar when he nudged a human, swayed their will to match his own. And at last, her dismay no longer distracted him. The audience murmured, oohed, and ahhed again. Smiling, he turned back to the crowd and twirled the staves in several long arcs with the intent of soaking in cheers from the onlookers, fueling his performance toward the finale. He’d deal with whatever that was RAINE OF FIRE 5 later—maybe. As the clapping and enthralled chants urged him on, Raine once again felt the surge . . . the high of praise and appreciation rushed back through him. Relieved for the moment of Vanessa’s trauma and his unwanted urges, he turned back to her and asked her to remove her handbag and raincoat. Vanessa stared at him with her brows drawn together and her head angled. “Two minutes, love, and you’ll be on your way and feeling a mite better,” Raine whispered. She removed her coat and purse and handed it over. He thrust the staves toward her, handle first. “Hold these.” She staggered a bit under the weight, so he reached to help. “They’re heavier than they look,” he teased, a brow raised. “Got ’em?” Vanessa nodded with a twitching smile, which Raine returned with more vigor. Good enough. He’d distracted her from whatever had been sapping her good humor. Small trick, but it also sated his urges a little. He draped her coat and purse over the small suitcase he used to transport his equipment. Before he stood, he sighted his gloves. Aye, those would insulate him from her trauma leakage. Needing no further distractions from his performance, he slowly donned the gloves. The motion was awkward with the extra numb digit on each hand. Standing, he joined Vanessa at center stage and positioned her to face the majority of the crowd. “Relax now, follow my lead sure, and don’t let go of the staff unless I tell you.” She was his tool now, and there wasn’t need for her to know that he’d enhance her movements throughout the entirety of the performance. As was the case with most people he influenced, Vanessa would likely be impressed with her own abilities when it was all said and done. He smirked. Of course he’d allow that too. Raine faced her and lifted his staff into a horizontal position over his head, then suggested with a look that she do the same. He twirled the staff in several arcs to one side then the other and flowed straight into the next flourish, which finished with the staff wrapped around the back of Vanessa’s waist. The lit ends painted trails of light that would have been so much more satisfying had it been dark, but this would do. In natural response to Raine’s pull, the staff Vanessa held above her head moved down and behind Raine’s shoulders so that they stood in a semi-embrace completed by the staves. Then, Raine began to move, a dance. Her feet followed his as if they’d practiced together for long hours. Hoots and hollers from the crowd ensued as he twisted and twirled in the dance, all the time looking deeply into Vanessa’s eyes to hold the connection and lead the choreography. He absorbed the levity from the crowd while he placed footwork carefully to ensure the trails of flame followed with exacting arcs and precision. After several twists, turns, and reversals, Raine commanded, “Release your right hand.” Vanessa did, and she grew a bit breathless as Raine grasped the other end of the staff, sending her outward so that they stood apart with one hand holding on and the other outstretched. Then, at precisely the right momentum point, he barked, “Release,” and pulled. When her hand freed, she elegantly twirled back toward him as if she’d practiced ballet since the day she’d taken her first steps. Meanwhile, Raine extended his arms and pivoted so that he’d end up directly behind the spot where she would stop. As he made the final swoops and planted both staves to one side, Vanessa fell toward his now-empty arm. He went to one knee and caught her in a dramatic dip with her blonde hair brushing the concrete, and bent his head to her chest. High on the mortal excitement, Raine breathed in the delight erupting from the crowd. Afterward, he helped Vanessa to her feet and bent at the waist several times, devouring the ovation. He indicated his partner, because that was the performerly thing to do, or so the guild said. She offered a weak smile and patted her hair as if to ensure it was still coiffed. It wasn’t. Raine returned to his bows. The crowd started to disperse, several of the watchers dropping money into the top hat as they went. When he turned back to Vanessa, all that remained where she’d stood was an empty space on the sidewalk. Her coat and purse were gone too. He looked over the heads, squinting until he found the silvery cloud moving away at a quick clip. Metal flooded his mouth again, and his stomach growled. “Danu help me,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He dunked the ends of the staves to put out the flame, collapsed them, and dropped them into the suitcase. He looked back over the crowd to make sure Vanessa’s aura was still in sight. Following the cloud over the heads of the people in Wickney Square, Raine dumped the lighter fluid in a nearby garbage can. Yeah, that’d cause him trouble, but why not? He slid a match from his pocket, flicked a nail across the sulfur, and smirked as he tossed it inside. BOOM! Screeches. Chaos. Perfection. He grabbed his case handle and hurried after the silvery cloud just as it took a right at the next corner. “Shite.” Raine dodged one group then the next until he passed the crowd and turned at the corner. To his good fortune, he had a higher vantage point looking downhill toward the college at the low end of High Street. He caught the glimmer just as Vanessa, aura and all, ducked into a prominent pub in Wickney, the Local. That slowed his step back to normal and painted a smile across his lips. With a single nod, he took the first satisfied steps toward his normal after-performance routine: a whiskey with Dick, the afternoon bartender and a close friend. Raine pushed into the pub through the ornately carved doors, dropped his suitcase at the coat check, and headed for the long, dark-wooded bar. Beyond, Vanessa’s aura glinted but faded fast—a clear indication that she was coming to terms with whatever had her shaken so badly in the square. As Raine approached the bar, Dick lifted a towel-covered hand. “Neat?” “Is there another way?” Raine took his normal barstool at the end where he could see the door. Vanessa sat in the booth behind and to his right, close enough that he could eavesdrop if he felt so inclined—and, at the moment, he did. Dick slid over an empty glass and poured the whiskey. “How was the show?” “Good turnout. I haven’t counted, but I think I made twice the normal Monday haul.” Raine downed the dram. “Another?” the bartender asked, then refilled the glass without waiting for confirmation. Raine’s attention piqued when the door opened again and a shadow stepped inside. Wearing a knee-length raincoat expensive enough to match Vanessa’s, the man marched directly down the length of the bar. Raine kept his nose pointed toward the glass but glanced up and tried not to react as Vincent La Pointe—a prominent candidate in the current elections and someone who’d never, ever frequent the Local—made it into viewing range. Just then, everything clicked. Vanessa had looked familiar, and the reason behind that? She belonged to the most powerful family in the city, the La Pointes. So Raine had danced with the little sister of Wickney’s future mayor. Raine looked up at Dick, curling his fingers into fists and releasing them. The desire to move in on whatever was happening almost overwhelmed him. His tongue twinged with metal, his instincts begging to be set free. Puzzles, a new scheme, something twisted, manipulative . . . and fun. His mouth watered. But, no. He wouldn’t give into that nature now or ever again. He’d sworn it off. He downed the second whiskey, needing to chase away the taste of metal along with the urge that’d certainly get him thrown into lockup down at WPD. Just being who you are is illegal in this realm, wanker. Remember? But that didn’t stop him from stretching his ear, trying to listen in on the La Pointe conversation in the booth. Brother and sister exchanged hellos, and Vincent scolded her. “Do you know how poorly this could reflect on me and my campaign? Frequenting pubs isn’t something that the good people of Wickney accept easily.” “I needed . . . ” Vanessa started then lowered her voice to a point the remainder only came in unintelligible murmurs. Vincent sighed audibly. “Very well.” then his voice took on the same mumbling tone. Raine rolled his eyes and tapped a finger on the glass. A third wasn’t the norm, but the frustration and curiosity egged him on. As Dick reached for the bottle, a news bulletin interrupted the game on the TV. In front of the Wickney Court House, a group of reporters hoarded around a pair of police officers escorting in an older version of Vincent La Pointe into the building. Raine lifted his face to the television as his mouth gaped. The man wasn’t in handcuffs, so not arrested—yet, but it seemed ominous. A headline in a red bar across the bottom of the screen read, “William La Pointe Named Suspect in Wife’s Murder.” Well, well, well. The murder of her mother would certainly explain Vanessa’s agitation in the square, as well as why the La Pointe siblings were having hushed conversations in a pub. Raine tried to listen to the conversation again but came up empty. Too bad being Fae didn’t come with a heightened sense of hearing. When the two officers and the senior La Pointe disappeared into the building on the TV, a woman stepped forward, and the headline switched to read, “Detective Kennedi Craine, Wickney Police Department” across the bottom. Raine listened, but Detective Craine answered very few of the questions shouted out from the cloud of reporters. With a hand raised in a motion to silence the questions, she said, “We are merely questioning Mr. La Pointe at this time. When we have narrowed the suspect list and charges are filed, a formal statement will be issued. Thank you.” “Detective Craine!” one reporter shouted. “Can you tell us about the affair Mrs. La Pointe was having?” The detective replied, “No further comment at this time,” turned away from the cameras, and marched up the few remaining steps into the courthouse. The camera switched to a young reporter, maybe fresh from journalism school, who adjusted his glasses before he realized the camera was focused on him. “Oh.” He perked up and put on a mask that clearly showed his hunger to break the next big story in Wickney and make a name for himself. “Stay tuned to Channel Four for the latest updates.” The game resumed. “Hell in a hand basket,” Dick said, shaking his head as he poured the next shot of whiskey. Raine turned on the stool and scanned over to the booth. He locked eyes briefly with Vanessa. She tilted her head, and he replied with a small smile, then pretended he was looking for the restroom. He asked Dick in a loud voice to further the rouse. Dick furrowed his brow, clearly confused as to why Raine—an afternoon regular—would ask such a thing, but he pointed to the front of the pub. Raine downed the last dram and slapped a bill on the bar. “Thanks, mate.” As he walked to the door, he pulled out his phone. Careful to hold it only by the rubber case, he pressed a side button to wake it up, held it so the face-recognition would work, then tapped the voice icon and said, “Text Morgana” quietly into the speaker. The electronic voice replied, “Did you mean M-ZeroR-Six-Four-N-Four?” Raine said, “Yes.” Because he couldn’t touch the device for long, he’d done this enough times that the thing was learning, and he was grateful that he’d finally found a way to use the latest tech. “What would you like to text?” the voice asked. Continuing with the voice-to-text feature, he started the conversation. Raine: Need a lookup M0R64N4: Not now. Busy. Shite. She was the only person he knew who could get the info quickly. Raine: Please? I’ll make it worth your while. No reply. Raine: Name your price. Nothing for a minute. More seconds passed. He sank to begging. Raine: I said please. Silence burns. Three little dots scrolled across the bottom of the screen, and Raine pumped his fist and hissed, “Yesss!” M0R64N4: Fine. What? Raine: Address for Vanessa La Pointe M0R64N4: 100 Devereux Court #3 That reply came too quickly. Raine grabbed his suitcase from the coat check, pursed his lips, then texted back. Raine: You know her? M0R64N4: Seriously, Bard, next time you need such common intel, ask that bartender you just passed. Raine could feel the eye-roll in those words as he looked back down the bar at Dick. Shaking his head, he pushed through the door and lifted the phone again once he had both feet pounding the pavement. Raine: OK what do I owe? M0R64N4: Some peace and effin quiet. OUT! Raine shoved his phone into his pocket and marched up the hill, catty-corner across Wickney Square, navigating around the plethora of creepy statues and the fountain. He went two blocks up Main Street, then turned onto Aldgate. He ducked into the third doorway, typed in a door code, and climbed the stairs to his tiny flat above a cheap lawyer’s office. At the sink beside the closet-like room that barely contained a three-by-three shower and toilet, he splashed a little water on his face. If he were mortal, that third shot probably would have done him in for a good afternoon nap. As it was, his Fae constitution was only a little fazed by the human distilled spirits. No, his conundrum was whether or not to fight the desperate need to interfere with the situation that’d presented itself to him when he’d made contact with Vanessa La Pointe. Unfortunately, he feared he’d already lost the battle with his nature. Raine ran a towel over his face, opened his suitcase, and counted his proceeds from the performance. Indeed, it’d been a fantastic performance and overly profitable to boot. “Thanks, Vanessa!” he called to the empty room. Raine tucked half the cash into the puzzle box he stored under his nightstand, closed it back up, and glamoured it to look like just part of the furniture. Beyond the glamour, the intricate series of steps required to open the thing could only be discerned by another royal Fae. His wealth was safer there than in any of the mortal institutions that touted to hold someone’s money but really invested it somewhere, charged the account holder tons of fees, and got richer and richer off the dividends the tiny print allowed them to collect on everyone else’s money. Somewhere deep inside, Raine admired these bankers for pulling one of the better hoaxes ever on the unsuspecting public. Yeah, he had a bank account, but he only put enough cash in to be able to use those little pieces of plastic where cash just wouldn’t do. If anyone was going to invest his money, it’d be him, so that he could manage his returns with better precision. He paced for several moments, then gave in to desire and left his flat, bound for Devereux Court. By the time Vanessa finally arrived back at her home, it was well past dark and likely past most normal mortals’ bedtimes. Raine had wandered her entire townhouse—a British terrace-style home similar to the brownstone townhouses in New York City. The facade looked unoriginally identical to the other four homes in Devereux Court, and Raine double checked the number before letting himself into #3 with little ordeal. The standard steel lock was the cheapest puzzle in the book, and to any onlooker, it would have certainly appeared as if he just used a key and walked right inside—another resident of said home. Raine sat on a stool at the uncharacteristic high-top table in Vanessa’s breakfast nook, just on the other side of the modern kitchen. Mortals always went to the kitchen first when they came home, so he’d determined that was the best place to await her arrival. At the front of the townhome, the door closed and papers rustled, then everything fell still. Presumably she’d dropped the mail on the foyer table. Her heels clicked on the hardwood toward the kitchen for three, four, five steps, then she stepped onto the tile, dropped her purse on the counter, and flipped on the light. She didn’t look up immediately, so Raine cleared his throat. Vanessa gasped and stumbled backward into the door of her stainless-steel refrigerator. Raine stood, holding up his hands. “Nach tú, Vanessa.” She scrambled for her purse, but she’d left it too close to Raine. He snatched it up before she could. Jerking backward with jitters in her voice, she demanded, “Wh-what are you doing in my house?” “Calm down,” Raine said as a knee-jerk reaction, then slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Shite—that’s what all the crooks say, right? Vanessa went for the drawer beside the cook top. Raine stepped closer. “Please. I’m sorry to scare you.” That wasn’t true. He didn’t care if he scared her in the least, but it’s what he wanted her to believe. Narrowing his eyes, he nudged her a little. “Just listen for a minute.” Her shoulders dropped “You’ve been following me since that spectacle in the square earlier. You were in the bar. Why are you here?” Her hands trembled as she reached slowly for the drawer. “I-I . . .” He faltered on what came next. Strange. He never came up short of words. He looked around the room, over the whitewashed cabinets, and along the darker grout lines between the lighter floor tiles. What did he want? Why was he here? This Danu-damned Fae addiction was going to land him in more trouble than he’d been in since New Orleans. What words could he possibly use to explain? Suddenly, it struck. Truth, kind of. His eyes stretched to their fullest extent then narrowed again as his lips peeled back. “You believe your father is innocent, sure. I can help you prove it so.”
Creative Inspiration for Raine of Fire
By Susan Stradiotto, author of Raine of Fire
I find that life and sometimes the tiniest situations offer much in the way of creative energy for me. The world and characters in Raine of Fire are no exception. In truth, the book does have some little gems that crept in from my day-to-day life. I probably have no way to name them all, but I thought I would share a few in this article.
When I wrote this novel, I had recently visited Glasgow, Scotland. Wickney Square, where Raine performs, is greatly inspired by George Square in Glasgow. Many photos of that can be found here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Square. I took liberties with what kinds of statues were in place and the shops on the northern length of the square, but WPD (Wickney Police Department) and the courthouse are largely based on the buildings you see in these photos.
I live in a suburb of Minneapolis, and we have a bar downtown called The Local. So, I’m sure you can guess where Wickney’s Local and Local U came from. It’s namely the inspiration for the upstairs portion of the club in Wickney. The lower level could really be attributed to any nightclub you might have visited. There are some fabulous photos of the inside of Minneapolis’s Local on this website: https://www.minneapolis.org/directory/the-local-an-irish-pub/.
When I conceived of this series, my aim was to create characters in the vein of Richard Castle and Kate Beckett from the TV series Castle or Bones and Booth from Bones. I wanted it to be that kind of romantic banter that teases people into “shipping” the characters and craving the next episode to find out if they’ll ever have the first kiss or date. The one I never planned to emulate was Lucifer. In fact, I’d never watched it before I started getting reviews telling me how similar they are. I agree, but I do assure you it’s total coincidence.
Raine’s love for whiskey is greatly based on my son, who doesn’t drink but found his love for Scotch while we visited Scotland. Kennedi’s mother’s name is a family name. And her migraines, well, I suffered from those for many years.
The choice of Wisconsin for placing my fictional city was entirely random, but I once traveled to Minocqua to visit a friend and loved the area. So placing the Minocqua Mental Health Center there was because I found it quite peaceful in northern Wisconsin.
Susan Stradiotto is passionate about the written word, whether it is in her own writing or her editing practice. She is a fan of well-told stories. Susan is always searching for unique voices and stories that tell a truth. As Neil Gaiman said in his master class, “Write the truest story you can.” She believes that is what makes a story sing.
Susan is an author of fantasy and romance and has professional editorial experience with genres such as romance, memoir, mystery/thriller, cozy mystery, fantasy, and women’s fiction. She attended Capella University for her BS in Information Technology and the University of Chicago’s Graham School for her professional editing certification. She lives in Eden Prairie with her husband, a hoard of Bernese Mountain Dogs, and one Miniature Dachshund.
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