by Phil Gabriel
Akiko covered her mouth to hide her grin, then went back to eating her Ghost Toasties.
“No, thanks,” said Kitty-Sue. “We’ve made other plans. Since the job is done, the pack is happy, and the witches don’t know where we are, we should be fine without you.”
She gave me a cool look that let me know they were not without resources. To be honest, anyone that tried to cross those two would encounter serious problems.
Then she stared at me intently, before adding, “And you should be fine without us.”
Apparently, they had been chatting for most of the night, because they had already planned out an entire day of shopping. A day that did not include their protectee and teacher.
In the face of their exciting plans, it would be petty to insist on them following me around to museums.
Finished with our breakfast, we headed back to our rooms to freshen up. We walked down to the lobby. “So, Scott-Sensei,” asked Akiko, “what are your plans?”
“Well,” I responded, “I plan on a long meditation session in Central Park. Followed by a large lunch, and maybe a trip to a museum this afternoon.”
Looking at me with the gaze of a mother of an always-in-trouble toddler, Kitty-Sue said, “You might need us to guard you...” She trailed off with reluctance.
Returning her gaze, I said, “I got along without a bodyguard for many years. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides”—I held up Princess in her walking cane form— “I will have the deadliest blade in existence to watch over me.”
A sniff and a turned away head as Kitty-Sue said, “So you don’t need me, after all.”
Of course, I need you, Kitty-Sue, I thought, but didn’t say; better to let her get her shopping day out of her system.
The girls left quickly after that and I continued to Central Park for my meditation, placing Princess on her rock to watch over my body while I worked on my magic.
Unfortunately, either due to the absence of Akiko and my bodyguard, or the feeling that the other shoe was about to drop, the session wasn’t as fulfilling as my previous sessions. After an unsatisfying two hours, I gave up, opened my eyes, and rose from my position.
Princess in hand, I strolled down the street, intent on touring New York. For some reason, I found my grip on Princess getting tighter and tighter, until my white-knuckled hand hurt. It wasn’t until I punched a hole in the side of a panel van that cut me off that I decided I needed to return to the hotel.
Back in the room, the stereo turned on as soon as I entered, playing an old Queen song.
I made to set Princess down, but my hand refused to let go. “Come on, Princess,” I muttered in time with the song, “in the end, there can be only one”—I forced my grip to open— “of us in charge.” Princess dropped to the carpet.
That’s the problem with magical weapons, sometimes they take on a mind of their own. Using a towel from the bathroom, I gingerly picked up Princess by her hilt and placed her in my satchel. “Princess,” I said, “you’re a great girl, but you need a time-out.”
Once she was safely in ensconced in the timeless folds of space-time inside my satchel, I sat on my chair with the satchel on my lap while thinking. If Princess couldn’t make a change in her attitude, I would have to do something serious. Destruction would be riskier than dismantling a nuclear weapon. Maybe she would respond to positive reinforcement. Maybe a nice new scabbard?
Putting the satchel over my shoulder, I turned to more pressing matters and went out to lunch. My waitress was a snarky blond who screwed up my order, never refilled my drink, and ignored me when I asked for my bill. The thought of blasting her through the plate glass window of the restaurant came up. I had my hands up to make the signs and had even started to mutter the words, when I stopped suddenly.
Are you fucking crazy? asked my inner conscience.
Well, yes, actually. But the inner reprimand stopped my silent tirade.
Injure a waitress because she was being a typical New Yorker? No way.
One of the benefits to enforced truthfulness is that you can’t lie to yourself. The truth was that I was upset about Kitty-Sue, Akiko, and Princess, as well as that damned prophecy by Elvis.
I left the crappy waitress a one-hundred-dollar tip, rewarding her bad behavior, and headed back to the hotel.
Some serious meditation would be needed before I could be fit for company. Time to wrestle some demons into submission. The hotel room wasn’t perfect for this, but it would do.
I came out of my trance at about 5:00 p.m. feeling more centered, but still not balanced. I missed the calmness and certitude I had had before. A check of my psychic links to Akiko and Kitty-Sue showed no signs of trouble, so I figured they would continue to ignore me. For some reason, the thought made me angry. I really needed to clear the remnants of Princess out of my head.
A knock at the door of my hotel room surprised me. No one should have known where we were.
Grasping the knob, I prepared mentally for an attack as soon as the door opened. Standing in the hallway was a vision I had never expected to see.
“Ms. Cappuccetto,” I said, “how the hell did you find me?”
“Jackie told me,” she responded.
Why the hell would Jackie be helping her?
I examined her through narrowed eyes. She was wearing her trademark knee-length cape with hood, in the deepest red velvet. The hood was up, surrounding her head with soft folds. Her red hair escaped the hood, framing her face. In her hands was a small picnic basket, the kind that Yogi Bear would find irresistible. One side of the covered basket was raised, and the neck of a wine bottle peeked out. The smell of fried chicken and homemade biscuits wafted from the basket. Completing my inspection, I saw she was barefoot, with her toes nervously curling on the soft hallway carpet.
“If that cape was fur trimmed,” I said, “you’d look like a sexy Santa.”
She raised the basket slightly, causing the opening in the front of the gown to part, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath. “I do have fur trim,” she said, “but not on the cape.”
“Nice to see that the carpet matches the drapes,” I replied, “but you’re no Santa.”
“But I did bring you gifts. Have you been a good boy?” she asked “Or a bad boy?”
“Very bad,” I said.
“That’s my kind of man,” she said.
Her eyes darted back and forth. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Let’s see; a sexy, half-naked woman bearing enticing gifts shows up on my doorstep with a flimsy excuse. Can you say “honeypot”? Whoever sent her knew my weaknesses. But they were my weaknesses. “Come on in,” I invited, opening the door fully.
After closing and locking the door behind her, I followed her to the sitting area. I turned on the stereo system, and the strains of an old ’60’s tune came up: “Hey there, Little Red Riding . . .”
Red glared at me, so I muted the song. “Hey, I had nothing to do with that! I’ll skip to the next song.”
Another click of the remote and Johnny Rivers started singing: “...talkin’ bout the seventh son...”
She looked angry for a moment, but finally grinned as she set the basket on the table. “You sure know how to set a mood.”
As she walked past, I smelled the light touch of an expensive perfume. “You smell good,” I said.
“Good enough to eat?” she asked, then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I can’t believe I said that!”
“It was naughty,” I said, “but not too naughty.”
“Oh,” she said, pulling a chair away from the table and sitting, “not because of that. Because a wolf would consider it an invitation to attack.”
Remembering Frost’s tightly wound demeanor and hair-trigger temper, I could see members of his pack taking common jokes the wrong way and reacting badly.
Changing the subject, I said, “Is that a new perfume? You weren’t wearing it yesterday.” I breathed deeply of her scent. “Mandarino di Amalfi?” I
guessed.
“My, what a big nose you have,” she quipped. “I wasn’t wearing any perfume yesterday,” she said. “Mr. Frost has a very sensitive nose and insists I don’t use perfumes, scented soaps, or scented shampoos.”
“And if you do?” I asked.
“He would get very angry,” she said, biting her lip and looking down. “One day he sent me to a Chinese Triad office to pick up a package. The office was filled with men smoking those horrid Chinese cigarettes. I knew I should have gone home to shower and change, but I had a strict time limit.”
“So, you delivered the package on time?” I asked. “Was he understanding and forgiving?”
She gave me a “have you met Frost?” look and continued her story. “No. Not understanding or forgiving,” she said. Then she turned very red and finished, “He made me strip naked and complete my workday that way.” Her hands trembled with remembered anger.
I laughed, breaking the tension. “Sounds very Fifty Shades of Gray Wolf,” I said, then continued as I peeked inside the basket, “At least you were up there in his private office.”
“He. Sent. Me. Down. For. Coffee,” she said, through gritted teeth. “Five. Times. I had to parade around in the lunchroom like that for the entire company to see.”
“Funny,” I said, “I can’t remember him drinking coffee.” I would have smelled it on his breath.
“He doesn’t drink coffee!” she said, shaking with rage.
I didn’t have much sympathy. She had chosen this life and could always walk away.
“Lie down with dogs,” I quoted, “get up with fleas.
“Lie down with wolves, get up with even bigger fleas.”
I grabbed two glasses from the hotel’s minibar, uncorked the bottle of wine, and poured. The earthy scent of red wine filled the room. A Valpolicella Rosso; good choice. I held out a glass to her, but she just nodded her head at the table to let me know to set it down.
Placing the glass near her, I held mine up in a toasting gesture. Although I could scent no harmful additives and most poisons wouldn’t affect me, I was cautious around members of the pack. The Oath not to harm me might have some loopholes.
The precaution was unnecessary; she picked up her glass and dashed off the contents.
Taking a large sip of my own glass, I said, “So why are you afraid to touch me?”
She started suddenly, jerking her arm back. Luckily, the wineglass was empty, or she would have wasted some fine wine. She set the glass down on the table. “What?” she said. “I’m not afraid! I just prefer to maintain proper decor-deco-decorum.” She was already feeling the effects of that hastily gulped glass of wine. What would a gentleman do in this situation? Hell if I know, I thought. I’m no gentleman. I poured our glasses full again.
Sitting back in my chair, gazing at her over the rim of the glass, I said, “So you came here barefoot, naked under that cloak, wearing an enticing scent, and bearing gifts of food and drink? So that you could maintain proper decorum?” I laughed at her.
She had the decency to blush slightly, then leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, revealing a lot of ankle (up to her hip). I noticed a slight wince when her back hit the chair.
Looking at me over her glass, she tried to give a sultry smile. “I just happen to like walking barefoot, wearing a cloak and perfume, and feeding magicians.”
Yeah, and I liked being lied to. “And would you like touching a magician?”
Before she could think, her head was shaking and she pulled back even further in the chair. “Maybe,” she lied.
“Let’s eat while it’s hot,” I said to change the subject, opening the basket and pulling out the fried chicken, biscuits, and side dishes. Another bottle of the fine wine was also in there.
I set out plates and silverware, portioned out the food, and refilled our glasses. Instead of scooting closer to the table (and me), she picked her plate up and sat it in her lap to eat.
After finishing the meal, I opened the second bottle of wine, once again having her drink first. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling to herself.
“Is it true what they say about magicians? That you can’t tell a lie?”
“Not can’t,” I said, “won’t. And not all magicians.”
“And, and, if you touch someone,” she whispered, “they become your slave?”
“What? No,” I scoffed. “That’s not possible. As far as I know.”
“Or, or, if you touch someone,” she said, “you can read their mind?”
“Mood, yes,” I replied, “individual thoughts, no.” I took another sip of wine as she fidgeted. Where was she going with this? “There might be others with that talent, but not me.”
“Sooo,” she said slowly, then all at once, “what’s your greatest weakness?” She leaned forward suddenly. The cloak opened, and I got a look at her sizable breasts. Very nice.
“Kryptonite,” I replied calmly, watching as she absorbed the answer and her face got red.
“So, you can lie,” she said like an angry prosecuting attorney. I was suddenly certain she was a lawyer.
“Not a lie,” I said. “If kryptonite existed, I’m sure it would weaken me.” I finished off my glass of wine. “Just because I don’t lie, doesn’t mean I have to answer every question thrown at me like Eugene the Jeep.”
“What do off-road vehicles have to do with this?” she wondered aloud. So much for her fancy education. Didn’t anybody remember Popeye?
“Never mind,” I said, dismissing Eugene. “If I choose to answer a question, I will always tell the truth to the best of my knowledge or ability.”
“How can you prove that?” she asked.
“I don’t have to prove it,” I responded. “I don’t really care if you believe or not. I don’t take fancy Oaths or drip life’s blood onto a contract to seal a pact. I say what I will do and do it.”
“So, this Oath between you and Frost?” she asked. “Can you break it?”
“If he or a member of his pack attacks me or my team, the Oath is nullified,” I said. “If we meet outside of New York, the Oath is not in force.”
I stood and went to the minibar. Pulling out one of those tiny bottles of brandy for me, I offered her a Coke, but she shook her head. I popped an ice cube into a clean glass and poured the brandy. I know, I know, you’re not supposed to drink brandy like that. I have bad habits.
“So,” said Red, “how about if you were on an island with two tribes? One tribe—”
I stopped her with an upraised hand. “I’m always on the tribe that can only tell the truth. I’m tired of talking about magicians, Oaths, and logic puzzles,” I said. “Didn’t Frost send you here to seduce me?”
Once again, her body reacted before she could speak, nodding quickly. Then she bit her lip in frustration.
“So, how’s that supposed to work if we don’t touch?” I laughed. “Are you going to do a dance of the Red Velvet Cloak so hot I’ll become your sex slave?” Kitty-Sue’s sister had already tried that and had failed.
“I know what I’m supposed to do,” she said. “I just can’t.”
“No problem,” I said. “You don’t have to.” I picked up the plates and scraped the leftovers into the trash, then put the plates back in the basket. I cleared the empty bottles off and dumped them into the trash. Sitting back down, I took another sip of brandy.
“Is it true a magician’s touch can steal your soul?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, tired of the game. “Luckily, you’re a red-haired soulless temptress, so that won’t work on you.”
She smiled at my jest, then turned thoughtful. “Wait, wait,” she said, “you just said you could steal my soul!” She pushed back into her chair.
“Calm yourself down,” I said. “I can drain your life with a touch, recharge my psychic batteries with your life force, and end your life. But so could any random person you pass on the street.”
“But you could,” she persisted.
“But I won’t,”
I said. “I’m not a fucking vampire. I don’t hurt the innocent, I don’t steal souls, and I only take life energy as part of a Deal.” I opened the minibar and got another tiny bottle of brandy. While I poured, I said, “Anyway, you’re protected by the Oath I made with your pack.”
She was staring at the minibar, and it took me a second to realize she was ready for a drink. I offered her a brandy and she accepted.
After a few sips, she asked, “And redheads don’t have souls?”
I laughed, then replied, “That’s just an old superstition. I don’t know if it’s true or not. Probably not.”
Sitting back in my chair, I continued, “I’m sure you have a very pretty soul.”
However, come to think of it, I had never seen a red-haired ghost.
She seemed to calm down somewhat, took a long drink of her brandy, and then held her hand out over the table. “OK,” she said. “Touch me.”
Her hand was shaking slightly with nervousness, and she almost pulled away when I took her hand in mine, sandwiching her small hand between my palms. I formed a disk of vibrating air in each of my palms, a Healer’s Sonogram, much more precise and subtle than any man-made device.
I saw her eyes tilt up and to the left and I said, “See? Your thoughts are still your own.”
She jerked her hand back and said, “You’re reading my mind!”
“No,” I said, “just putting two and two together.” Although I had to wonder what secret she had that required such paranoia. I held out my hand patiently, and she slid her hand into mine.
I pulled her towards me. She hesitated an instant, then slid into my lap. I put my hands under the velvet cloak and stroked her torso. Automatically, the healer in my mind started cataloging her injuries. A cracked collarbone was the source of her greatest pain, one of those injuries that can’t be splinted, only endured. A litany of bruises and cuts on her back, evidence of a recent beating, caused a flash of anger at Frost.
Then my paranoid side whispered, “Frost could have done that so you’d feel sorry for her.” Didn’t matter; the curse of being a healer is that you always want to fix injuries. One of the reasons I avoided human lovers.
