Trifles and Folly 2

by Gail Z. Martin

  “You tell Sorren that we’re going to have to do this meal over right when this is done,” Mrs. Teller said with a look that wasn’t about to take no for an answer. “I get that you don’t want caterers involved since they’ve got no way to defend themselves. We’re happy to help. But Lord Above! Thanksgiving dinner was meant to be eaten.” She shook her head. “So this Sunday, Niella and I are doing this all again at my house, and you’re all to come over and eat.”

  I grinned. “You don’t have to twist my arm,” I said. “That sweet potato casserole looks marvelous, and the collard greens are making my mouth water.”

  Mrs. Teller beamed. “Child, that’s nothing compared to how that turkey is going to look when it comes out of the oven. Niella and I do Thanksgiving right!”

  I thanked them profusely, still feeling guilty about wasting the food and their preparation. But if we wanted Alia and Brevard to fall for the ruse, it had to look like the real thing. And if they did, that beautiful food would end up drugged.

  When I walked into the dining room, I stopped in my tracks. Teag was setting out the china from the auction on the table. He grinned as I came in. “Don’t worry—I’m not expecting you to help. But I thought it just seemed right to have the set here. What do you think?”

  The dining room, like the rest of the house, had seen better days. Scuffs and dents marred the wainscoting, time and disuse dimmed the paint on the walls, and the elaborate tray ceiling had some water damage. But the table down the middle of the room was set with a beautiful tablecloth and runner, crystal candlesticks from the store, and the murdered family’s china and silverware. Despite everything, it looked beautiful.

  If Alia Corona was as powerful as we thought she was, she would be able to sense Sorren and Rowan from a distance. The plan was for them to barge in when the going got rough, but not until Alia made her move. That meant the “guests” had to have special abilities to protect themselves without having too much magic to tip our hand.

  Fortunately, we have a lot of friends who are good at kicking supernatural ass. Father Anne is an Episcopalian priest who’s also part of a secret society to battle paranormal bad guys. Chuck Pettis is a retired special ops soldier whose unit specialized in neutralizing occult dangers, and he’s helped us out from time to time. Lucinda is a powerful Voudon mambo, and so is Caliel. Mrs. Teller and Niella had orders to serve the food and then fall back to a safe distance, where they could use their root magic to help us without putting themselves in danger.

  “Everything’s ready,” Teag said, standing back to admire his handiwork.

  “It looks great,” I replied. “Here’s hoping we don’t have to destroy the house to save Charleston.”

  It gets dark early on Thanksgiving. Teag and I left the Wilmot House after we had made our preparations, and went home to get changed. That’s the kind of dilemma I face on a daily basis. What can I wear that looks suitably dressy or professional, and still gives me maximum flexibility for a fight to the death with a dark witch and a rogue vampire?

  Niella and Mrs. Teller had borrowed uniforms from friends at a local catering company, so they looked the part. They were waiting to welcome us as our “guests” arrived. Teag and I were first. Teag opted for a more casual look that would give him better freedom of movement. I had chosen a pantsuit with a lot of give in the fabric and a pair of flat shoes. All of my jewelry included gemstones known for magical protection.

  Teag is a competition-level martial arts fighter. His wooden fighting staff packs a real punch, especially after he souped it up with runes and magic. He put it to one side near his chair, where it would be handy if needed. I was sure he had more weapons in his messenger bag, which he put on the floor next to his chair, and I saw the hilt of one of his Spanish daggers protruding from the bag.

  I had my wooden athame up one sleeve and the old dog collar that called my protective familiar spirit on my other wrist. I’d brought a huge purse, the better in which to hide a couple of nasty weapons for hunting supernatural bad guys.

  Lucinda and Caliel arrived next. We had to pretend like we didn’t know them, in case the witch was watching. Lucinda had opted for an elegant blouse and pants in navy blue and blood red, the colors of Voudon Loa Erzulie Dantor. I caught a faint whiff of Reve d’Or perfume, that Loa’s favorite. Lucinda was ready for the fight. Caliel wore a loose-fitting guayabera shirt over slacks that would give him room to move.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I said, doing my best to play my part.

  “And to you, also,” Lucinda replied, then I heard her murmur a blessing under her breath. “The Loas are watching,” she added, just loud enough for Teag and me to hear.

  Next came Chuck Pettis. Chuck looks like a grumpy middle-aged man, and that’s exactly what he is—except that he also has some kick-ass fighting skills. I could hear him ticking when he walked in. It wasn’t a bomb; Chuck has an odd superstition about clocks and never leaves home without a vest that is covered with small, working watches. He wore a baggy jacket over jeans and a rumpled shirt, and I was certain that he had a full armory of weapons under that jacket.

  Father Anne was the last of our group to arrive. She was wearing an all-black shirt and slacks combination but without her clerical collar tonight. Father Anne’s dark hair was cut short in a spiked pompadour. Her shirt hid the beautiful tattoos of St. Expeditus and her other patron saints that covered both arms. Seeing that might have been a giveaway for Alia.

  We were already seated when the last guest walked in. I tried to study her without being obvious. Alia Corona had an average build, and her brown, short hair was unremarkable for cut or color. The outfit she wore was dowdy, and she looked around tentatively, as if unsure whether she was in the right place. It was a good disguise, and it might have worked if I hadn’t accidentally met her eyes. The same malice glinted in them that I had seen in the vision. Game on.

  “Everyone here? Let’s have Thanksgiving!” Mrs. Teller said, poking her head in from the kitchen.

  I rose in my chair. “Mrs. Morrissey asked me to thank all of you for coming tonight to benefit the renovation of the Wilmot House. Her hope is that we will enjoy the food and the company and know that she is thankful for us and our support this holiday season.”

  The others played along, commenting on what I had said and making small talk as if we had never seen each other in our lives. Mrs. Teller and Niella brought in the food, and it smelled so good that it was difficult to remember the danger. My stomach growled, although I’d eaten before we came. Has Alia managed to taint the food yet? Does her magic make everyone hungrier than usual, too?

  As in the vision, Alia Corona said very little, even as the others attempted to engage her in conversation. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have bought into her portrayal of an introverted, slightly awkward person who was content to let others do the talking. Watching her eyes, I saw her sizing each of us up. Her eyes were calculating and shrewd. She was going to be a dangerous enemy.

  Conversation continued as we passed the serving dishes. Pretending to eat but not actually consuming anything was going to be tricky, but I figured that if we kept up a lively discussion and the focus of attention constantly shifted, the rest of us could hide our food in our napkins or under our plates. Alia nodded when the conversation turned to her and murmured the minimum possible to be polite, quickly deflecting the discussion.

  Yet as the meal stretched on, I spotted Alia drumming her fingers. She was restless, anxious for the kill. Maybe wondering why we hadn’t started feeling the effects yet. I rose from my seat. “Let me see what’s keeping the dessert,” I said, a phrase we had agreed would be our cue.

  I took two steps toward the kitchen, and staggered, reaching out to the table to steady myself. Teag stood up to assist me, but he crumpled to the floor next to his chair.

  I slumped to the ground, still in reach of my purse full of weapons. “I really don’t feel good,” I said in my best seasick voice.

  Chuck slid out of his chair, lan
ding on his side. Lucinda remarked in alarm and headed for the door, but staggered and fell before she reached it. Caliel went to help her but only got as far as the end of the table. Father Anne slid down in her chair, head back and eyes closed.

  Through it all, Alia had said nothing, made no move to help, seeming unsurprised by our sudden distress. She hesitated for a moment to make sure we were all down, and then rose from her seat, stepping over Lucinda. She opened the door to welcome the final guest.

  “Come in,” she said in a voice full of energy and purpose, no longer the mousy visitor. “Thanksgiving dinner is ready.”

  From where I lay, I got a look at Brevard LaRive. He had the body and face of a ten-year-old boy, but the eyes of a hit man. His mouth was a cruel line as he walked past our prone bodies, taking in the scene with absolutely no emotion except one: hunger.

  A loud boom rattled the windows, and then a flash of light flared as one of Chuck’s whiz-bang incendiaries triggered. Alia and Brevard froze, but the rest of us were expecting it. Sorren burst in through the front door, while Rowan appeared in the kitchen entrance.

  Everyone moved at once. Chuck kicked his chair hard, sending it airborne—aimed right for Alia. Sorren went after Brevard in a blur of motion. We’d already agreed to let him handle the vampire.

  Rowan raised one arm, and the air between her and Alia shimmered and rippled, a blast that took Alia off her feet and threw her against the wall hard enough to crack plaster. Alia struck back with a bolt of blue energy that would have fried Rowan if she hadn’t dodged out of the way. It splintered the wooden doorframe and put a crack down the length of the solid oak door.

  Teag came up with his fighting staff in one hand and a net of silver mesh in the other. His Spanish fighting daggers hung from his belt. He wheeled the net once and let it fly, but Alia batted it away before it came close. I let my spoon athame drop into my hand and called to the strong memories it evoked, channeling my will to send a cone of cold, white force that sent Alia tumbling. In the same breath, I let the dog collar rattle on my left wrist, and the ghost of a large, solid and very angry Golden Retriever materialized beside me, my old dog, Bo. Bo snarled and lunged, snapping his teeth and landing on Alia, harrying her as she tried to get to her feet.

  Teag swooped in, landing a solid thwack across Alia’s shoulders with his staff that sent her sprawling. He reached for the net, but Alia was already rolling with the blow, and sent a torrent of fire in Teag’s direction that barely missed him, singing his hair and blackening the wall where it struck.

  I had pulled another weapon out of my huge purse, an old walking stick that once belonged to Sorren’s maker, Alard. I leveled it at Alia as she took aim at Teag, and a split second after she loosed her fiery blast, I shot off one of my own. She didn’t see me, since she was focused on Teag, and the flames blistered her shoulder, burning away her jacket and setting one side of her hair on fire.

  Alia shrieked and rolled to snuff out the flames, then sent a blast of power toward me that took half the dishes off the table, throwing me against a built-in china cabinet and shattering the glass in one of the cabinet doors. Alia stalked toward me, but she forgot about Father Anne, who had taken the opportunity to shift positions while everyone was busy blowing someone up. Father Anne crouched beneath one side of the table, and as Alia moved past her, Father Anne dove forward, driving Alia to the ground and bringing a slim, bone-handled boline knife down with single-minded intensity.

  That knife was blessed, and it packed a punch, but Alia seemed to realize her danger. She grappled with the priest, one hand clamped around Father Anne’s wrist to hold the knife away, while her other hand wove sigils in the air that blazed like fire.

  Father Anne brought her knee up sharply, grinding it into Alia’s thigh. Alia yelped in pain and Father Anne wrested her knife free, stabbing down toward Alia’s shoulder. Alia barked a curse, and Father Anne’s skin turned beet red, blistering like she had been burned. Alia took advantage of the distraction to tear loose, avoiding the knife. But as she got to her feet, Teag’s silver net dropped down over her, tangling her in its folds.

  Silver works great against certain kinds of supernatural creatures like nephilim, but it had no special power against witchcraft. Still, Alia had to fight her way free of it, letting me get in a solid blast of cold power with my athame. It threw Alia across the room, where Rowan got a clear shot. This time, Rowan’s magic lifted Alia off the floor, suspending her in mid-air.

  “Not so tough now,” Rowan muttered.

  Alia snarled. She threw off the silver net and flung both arms out wide, then brought her palms together with the sound of a thunderclap, rattling the entire house. Alia dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, while Rowan stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. Alia went after Rowan, but Teag scythed his fighting staff, taking her out at the ankles. I got in a blast from my walking stick that blistered Alia’s left leg as she rolled beneath the big dining table.

  Chuck had thrown off his jacket, revealing a bandolier filled with enough spy-gadget weapons to singlehandedly stock a whole covert operation. He had a huge gun in his hands and was circling where Sorren and Brevard fought, waiting for an opportunity. I couldn’t spare much attention for the fight since Alia was proving to be a real handful, but Chuck was squeezing off a round now and again when he could get a clear shot at Brevard. Chuck’s an ace marksman, but it’s difficult to hit someone who can move in a blur. So far, I guessed Chuck hadn’t managed to get in a headshot or get Brevard in the heart since the vampire was still moving. Or maybe, subconsciously, Chuck was unsettled shooting someone who looked like a little boy.

  Sorren had obviously made his peace with Brevard’s appearance. It wasn’t slowing him down. Sorren’s shirt was ripped and bloodied, and his eyebrow and lip were split. Parallel cuts, like deep fingernail scratches, scored down one arm. Brevard was equally battered, with bloody gashes showing through the tatters of his clothing. At least four bullets left their mark, but he was healing rapidly enough that anything that didn’t kill him wasn’t going to stop him for long.

  Still, Brevard was less than a century old, while Sorren was close to six hundred. I wondered if Sorren was holding back since I’d seen him go up against much bigger monsters. Perhaps Sorren wanted the chance to question Brevard. But somehow I didn’t think Brevard would cooperate.

  Lucinda and Caliel were chanting, and I realized that while our attention was elsewhere, they had already sown salt in a circle around themselves and were opening their connection to the Loas, and to Erzulie Dantor, protector of families, a Petro Loa with a volatile temper.

  Rowan and Alia had squared off at one side of the dining room. They stood across from each other, cut off from the rest of us by an iridescent curtain of power, locked in a battle of magic and will. From my vantage point, it didn’t seem like they were doing much, just a twitch of a finger or a subtle hand motion, or the muttered words of a spell. But whatever was going on inside that bubble was consuming their full attention. They appeared to be equally matched.

  Alia’s disguise was gone completely, revealing the hatred in her gaze and her contempt in the twist of her mouth. Rowan’s expression didn’t betray her feelings; instead, it was a mask of cool concentration. Now and again, the energy field around them crackled and sparked, a hint to the deadly power they were wielding within its confines.

  Brevard tore loose from Sorren’s grip and staggered into Teag, throwing him out of his way. Teag careened into the iridescent curtain of power, sending up a shower of golden sparks and wisps of smoke as his clothing smoldered from the contact. The force field bubble wavered. Father Anne had regained her feet, and when the shimmering curtain faltered, she dove for Alia, knife out, sinking her blade deep into the witch’s back. Just for good measure, I leveled my walking stick and blasted Alia with a stream of flames.

  Alia’s body contorted in the fire as she tried to pull the blessed knife from her back. She burned, but she was not consumed by the flames. I had
no idea what to do next if fire and a sacred knife weren’t enough. Father Anne was thrown several feet. She landed on her back, hard enough I was sure it had knocked the wind out of her. I kept the stream of fire going, but my magic wouldn’t last forever. Drawing on the memories and power of an object drains me, and I’m still pretty new at this. But I was determined not to let Alia get away again. Bo’s ghost leaped and charged at Alia, but he couldn’t get through her defenses, even if his spectral teeth could have taken a bite out of her.

  Rowan looked worse for the wear, and I could see the toll her battle with Alia had taken. But she set her jaw, adding a ripple of magic to what I was sending Alia’s way. Encased in power, bathed in flame, Alia began to laugh, taunting us.

  Blood streaked down Brevard’s face. His eyes were wild with madness and hunger, his mouth twisted in a feral howl of anger. No one would have mistaken him for a choirboy now. A cruel glint came into Brevard’s eyes and he dove toward Teag, not Sorren. Hitting the witch’s curtain of power had rattled Teag, and his reactions were just a fraction of a second too slow. Brevard grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off his feet.

  I nearly needed an instant replay to make out what happened next. Sorren moved in a blur, ripping Teag out of Brevard’s grip. Chuck got in a clean shot, and the bullet tore off the back of Brevard’s head. Teag spun as he landed, sinking one of his daggers into Brevard’s heart. Brevard collapsed, his body turning to dust as it fell.

  Before I could get my wits about me, I realized the feel of the room had changed. The air was heavy with the smell of cigarettes and a sweet perfume, the same scent Lucinda was wearing, the favorite of Loa Erzulie Dantor. Power swelled around us, not from Alia or from Rowan but from elsewhere, not of this world.