by E J Frost
Chapter 4
The clinic is still locked up when I arrive the next morning, which is a surprise, since I’m late, having stopped on the way in to drop off the fruits of my midnight labors with Manny. But a quick check of the message machine reveals that someone had a later night than I did.
“Hi, Evonne, it’s Lin. I’m on my way, I’m just running a little behind this morning.” She yawns audibly into the phone. “Could you push my ten o’clock back an hour? Or, in the unlikely event that she’s in, could you ask Tsara to cover for me? I’ll see you soon.”
I giggle at the message machine, but my giggle turns into a frown when the next two messages are from Evonne and Ruth, both of whom claim they have the flu, and the final message is from Lin’s ten o’clock, more than a little miffed at having arrived on-time only to find the clinic locked.
I’m on the phone with Lin’s ten o’clock, sucking up and rescheduling, when she finally walks in. She gives me an embarrassed grimace as she listens to my conversation and lingers on the other side of the reception desk until I hang up.
“Sorry!” she says immediately. “What happened?”
“Evonne and Ruthie called in sick, so we’re on our own today.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Of all the days for me to run late!”
“It’s okay. I’ve rescheduled the Phillipses for tomorrow.” I grin at her. “So, late night?”
“Ooo, I don’t want to talk about it.” Lin rubs her temples. “I should know by now that two glasses of wine is my limit.”
“Tut, tut. If you’re nice to me, I’ll whip you up my Dala’s patented hangover remedy.”
“Oh, yes. Pretty please? I’ll be your devoted slave—”
I hold up a hand. “Never say that to a witch who doesn’t have a familiar. Something might be listening. Just take my one o’clock and we’ll call it even.”
“You got it.”
“You’ve got to man the phone while I cook, though.”
Lin looks at the phone the way she would a venomous snake. “Oh, you’re a mean witch. Mean, mean, mean.”
On cue, the phone rings and Lin grabs at it, wincing. I give her an Evonne-sized grin as I retreat to my office.
My twelve o’clock runs over and I race out of the clinic, painfully aware that I’m going to be late to meet Rowena. The rain hasn’t let up since yesterday, and it plasters my hair to my head as I dash to the T. The angel of transportation must be smiling on me, though, because the train gets me from Park Street to Copley in record time. So fast that I don’t even have time to repair my hair. I dash across Boylston and down Newbury Street, counting the numbers on brass plaques, until I come to three-sixteen, Rowena’s Closet.
I stand in front of the boutique for a moment, gaping up at it in surprise. The huge front window shows mannequins in delicate, lacy, racy, and heart-stoppingly expensive lingerie. A woman stands between the mannequins, looking out at the street. A Newbury Street woman. Slender, dressed in a chic little black dress, dark blonde hair expertly streaked and styled, understated make-up note perfect. She waves at me, and I realize that it’s Rowena.
I wave back half-heartedly.
She opens the front door and waves me inside. “Don’t stand there in the rain!”
I climb the short set of stairs into the boutique, feeling smaller and more bedraggled with each step.
Rowena steers me into the shop with a manicured hand. “Zee-Zee, don’t you own an umbrella?” She leans close to me. “Or a good water-repelling charm?”
I shake my head, and grimace when I spatter her. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I have a spare.” She waves her hand around the boutique. “Come in and have a look around. You’ve never been in, have you?”
“No.” Because we haven’t spoken in over five years. And because I don’t shop on Newbury Street. I can’t afford it, for one, and even if I could, I’d be too intimidated by the fancy shops and their fancier clientele.
“Well, have a look around, you goose.” She gives me a friendly elbow in the ribs. “Twenty-percent discount for old college pals.”
I still couldn’t afford anything in this shop. Not even a thong. And did she just call me ‘goose’?
“It’s gorgeous, Ro.” And I’m being completely honest. It looks more like an art gallery than a lingerie shop. “But do you mind if we go? I’ve got to be back for two and I’m running late.”
“Of course. Let me just grab my umbrella.”
She disappears between the racks of lacy, spangled and feathered underwear, leaving me stranded in their midst like a biker in a wine bar. Newbury Street women materialize everywhere. Behind the counter. Between the racks. Each one’s well-dressed enough to be a mannequin herself.
They look down their collective noses at me.
I turn, scuffing my Keds across the gleaming parquet floor, and drift towards the door. I feel the eyes following me, none of them friendly. Pulling my battered army-surplus jacket tight around me, I wish for a basilisk-repelling charm.
“Here we go,” Rowena says brightly. She takes my arm and steers me out the front door, snapping open a black umbrella over our heads. The edges of the umbrella shimmer slightly in my peripheral vision. A water-repelling charm. I sigh.
“I thought we’d grab lunch at Chanterelle,” she says. “It’s just down the block. Scrummy salads, and you’ll die for the coffee.”
Scrummy? Kill me now. I nod unenthusiastically and hope that my credit card isn’t maxxed.
We make our way down the block. The paving’s cracked underfoot and I watch my step. You’d think they could afford to fix the sidewalks in this part of town. Rowena’s absolutely sure of her footing, despite the uneven paving and her four-inch sling-backs. Maybe she has a charm for walking in ridiculously high heels.
She chatters as we walk. The weather. The upcoming mayoral election. I listen with half-an-ear. Make the requisite noises in the appropriate spots. But all the while, I’m wondering, what is Rowena doing running a chi-chi underwear boutique? She dressed well at college – when she bothered to dress, Ro always did prefer to cast skyclad – but she never showed any particular interest in fashion. Or retail.
Rowena steers me down a short flight of stairs – cracked concrete like the paving – and into the dark maw of a restaurant. When my eyes adjust, I see tables crammed into a long, narrow space. Tables filled with Newbury Street women, and circulating waiters squeezing between them with trays piled with leafy greens.
I’m so not having a salad.
Rowena gives her name to the maître d’. Of course, she’s made a reservation.
The pinstripe-suited maître d’ leads us to a table where we shoe-horn ourselves in between terrifyingly well-dressed people on either side. White linen and fresh flowers in bright colors on the table. Lively chatter in the air. The sharp smell of vinaigrette. It should be cheerful, but it feels oppressive. Give me pizza and beer any day.
“So what happened to politics?” I ask Ro, picking up the thread of her monologue. “I thought you’d be running for mayor by now.” Despite her leanings towards the demonic, Ro was president of our college class three years running. She’s still the secretary of our alumni association. Ever since we graduated I’ve gotten the annual hit for money signed with her scrolling ‘Rowena.’
She gives me a cheerful laugh. “Oh, I still dream of world domination. But for now I’m content being the chairwoman of my condo association.”
I grit my teeth. It’s probably a Back Bay condo. A world away from my duplex across the river in Slummerville.
“And how’s the fertility business?” she asks.
I glance up from the menu in surprise. “How did you—?”
She waves her hand airily. “I like to keep track of my old friends.”
I follow her hand with my eyes. There’s something about it . . .
When her other hand moves in my peripheral vision, I catch the faint shimmer. I look hard at her hands. Besides the perfect pale-pink m
anicure, they look lovely. White skin. Long, tapered fingers.
Ro always bemoaned her thick, stubby hands.
I lean towards her, a short distance across the tiny table. “You’re not using glamour, are you?” I whisper.
She lifts a dark eyebrow. “You never used to be able to see glamour.”
“I’ve learned a few tricks over the years. What’s the deal, Ro?”
She waves her hand again. A gesture designed to draw attention to how beautiful it is. “Oh, you know. Just giving Mother Nature a helping hand. Everyone does it. I just don’t need a plastic surgeon.”
No, she wouldn’t. Faerie dust would work just fine.
I bend my head over my menu, like I’m engrossed in the lunch options. Really, I want to check Rowena out in my peripheral vision.
The waiter’s arrival interrupts my survey, but not before I see that Rowena’s glittering in quite a few spots. Hair, eyes, eyebrows, cheeks, hands, boobs, waist.
She orders a Greek salad and Perrier. Figures. I order mushroom ravioli in cream sauce, which costs more than my monthly electric bill, just to see her wince.
“Zee-Zee, how do you stay so skinny, eating like that?” she asks as the waiter leaves.
“Good genetics,” I say, which is the truth. Unlike Ro, I don’t use magic on myself. Except for healing, the only magic which gives more than it takes.
She sighs. “I envy you.”
She shouldn’t. Not only because envy is a negative emotion. Skinny doesn’t necessarily equal sexy, no matter what Calvin Klein would have us believe. I’d gladly trade my ability to fit into a department store size small for a few more curves. Like the ones Rowena’s sporting. Although now I have to wonder whether they’re really hers.
I wait until our lunches arrive before I reach into my bag, pull out a small green gem that’s been carved into the rough shape of a flower, and place it on the table between us. Anyone eavesdropping on our conversation will just hear an unintelligible murmur as the moldavite absorbs our conversation.
Rowena sighs when she sees it. “And I was hoping this was a social call.”
“Yeah, it’s good to see you. Nice to catch up. But I could use your help.”
“Of course. What’s up?” She wipes her mouth. Her glossy lipstick stays note-perfect, although I can’t tell if that’s glamour or just one of those eighteen-hour lipsticks that you have to remove with a sand-blaster.
“Remember King Solomon?”
“Not the bad movie with Sharon Stone before she became famous?”
“No.” I don’t smile.
Rowena rolls her eyes. “Lighten up, Zee-Zee. Yes, of course I remember King Solomon.”
“Did he use an inferiarcus to control the demons that built his temple?”
Rowena goes very still. “Yes, I think so. I’d have to take a look at my old magical history texts to be sure. Goddess, Zee-Zee, why do you ask?”
“A friend thinks it turned up in a little old lady’s safe in Beverly. But now it’s gone missing. And since when do you follow Her?”
“It’s just an expression, goose. Honestly, it’s been years since I even thought about that sort of thing. I had a close call, and, well, I decided that path was better left alone.”
A surprisingly wise move from Ro. But then, we’ve both grown up in the last five years. “This friend asked me to help him find it. I hoped you could at least give me an idea of what I’m looking for.”
I hoped for a lot more than that, but there’s no point in badgering Ro. Particularly if she’s made a good choice about staying off the Left Path.
She shakes her head. “Sorry, hon. I can take a look through my books to see if there’s a description, but I don’t remember anything off the top of my head.” She takes a bite of salad. Chews meditatively. “You know, I think I know someone who could help, though. He’s a history professor at Tufts. We had a little thing a while ago. It didn’t go anywhere, but we still keep in touch. I could give you his number. Come to think of it, I think he still has most of my magical history books.”
“That would be great.”
“Look, I’ll gladly give you his number, but, Zee-Zee, do you think this is something you should be doing? I mean—” She gives a delicate little shudder. “Demons aren’t anything to play with. This isn’t like ritual class. We’re talking your immortal soul here. And I know you know you have one, for all your agnosticism.”
I shrug. “I never questioned whether or not I have a soul.” Just whether there’s a God. Or Goddess. “And I’m not taking this lightly. A good friend asked me for help, otherwise I’d have said no chance.”
“Well, just be careful. Here, I’ll get you Peter’s number.” She reaches into the slim, stylish handbag hanging over the back of her chair and pulls out a slim, stylish Blackberry. “Do you have Bluetooth?”
“I have a pen.”
“For Goddess sake.” Ro rolls her eyes and reaches into her bag again. Gold pen. Embossed card. She gets busy with her technology for a moment, and I take the chance to eat my three little mushroom ravioli, which are, despite the portion size, excellent.
She hands me the card, which has Rowena’s Closet stamped in gold letters across the silhouette of a corset on the front, and a Medford telephone number written in Ro’s curlicued script on the back.
“Thanks.”
“His name is Peter Buselli. Tell him I said ‘hi,’ and that he owes me dinner.”
The name rings a bell, but I can’t place it. The only downside of working at the clinic rather than consulting: I meet so many people that after a while everyone’s name begins to sound familiar. “Does he?”
“No, but it’s always worth a try.” She grins, and for a moment, through the glamour, I see the girl she was at college. Outgoing. Personable. More mischievous than Dark.
Suddenly, I think she’s ended up in the right place.
“It’s really good to see you, Ro,” I say. And I mean it.
“You, too, goosey. Don’t wait so long until the next time. Now you’d better run if you’re going to make it back by two.” She glances pointedly at the elegant silver watch on her wrist.
I follow her eyes. Ten of two. I’m screwed.
The waiter arrives on cue. Ro reaches one long, white, beglamoured hand for the leather folder he carries.
“I’ll get this. Kiss, kiss.”
There’s no way I’m leaning over the tiny table to give her the cheek-grazing that the moment requires. Instead I give her a genuine smile, collect my moldavite and my coat and rush back through the rain to the clinic.
Chapter 5
“Hello, this is Peter Buselli.”
I’ve waited until after three to call, figuring he’d be out of classes by then. But from the background clamor it sounds like I’ve misjudged how late classes at Tufts run.
“Hi. My name’s Tsara Faa. I’m a friend of Rowena Martin’s. She suggested I give you a call.”
“Oh, yeah? How is Ro?”
“She’s good. She says ‘hi’ and that you owe her dinner.”
He chuckles. “No, I don’t, and she’d better not be trying to set me up on another blind date.”
I gulp. I hadn’t thought of that. Ro wouldn’t do that to me, would she? “This is sort of a professional call.”
“Oh. Sorry. What, uh, what can I do for you?”
“I’m doing some . . . research on an artifact. A ring. Of some historical significance . . .” I trail off as I wonder how much to tell him. Propping the phone in the crook of my neck, I rub the bridge of my nose. Maybe I should have thought this out before I called.
“Oh, yes? What sort of ring?”
“Well, I’m hoping you can tell me that. Rowena said she’d loaned you some of her books, and I’m hoping there might be a description of the ring in there.”
Another masculine laugh. It makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve heard one. I really miss Saul sometimes. Dammit. “Ro’s books are . . . well, I hope I don’t offend you by sa
ying this, but they’re not exactly what I’d call reliable historical sources. They’re a little on the alternative side, if you get my meaning.”
Yes, I do. And it tells me that Professor Buselli is just a professor of history. Not a sorcerer, or a warlock. Certainly not a diabolist. And probably not going to be much help to me. I rub the bridge of my nose again and wonder if I should give the whacko in Philly a try.
“Right.” I give it once last shot. “Do you think I could borrow them? I’ll return them to you when I’m done, of course. Or I can give them back to Ro, if you’d rather.”
“Well, sure. But now I’m curious. Why don’t you tell me more and I’ll dig out Ro’s books and see what I can find? I’m sure I can find you something better than Aleister Crowley.”
I swallow, because that name gives me the same shivery, flesh-crawling sense that talk about demons gives me. Left Path. Dark Path. I can almost see the disapproving faces of my Dala and Professor Uela, my history of magic professor.
“That would be great. I, um, don’t know much about the ring. I’m just, uh, starting my research. But the ring might have belonged to King Solomon.” I finish in a rush, cringing at each word.
“The biblical King Solomon?”
“Uh, yes?”
He chuckles. It really is a nice sound. “You don’t sound sure.”
“Sorry. Yes, the biblical King Solomon.”
“Well, you might do better with a someone who specializes in biblical or Judaic history. That’s not really my area. I’m more an early American guy myself. But I’ll see what I can dig up—”
“There is kind of a link.”
“Oh?”
“I have a, uh, document which puts the ring here, in the Boston area, I mean, around the time of the Salem witch trials.”
“The sixteen-nineties? Really?” I can almost hear the cogs turning over the phone. “What kind of document?” he asks.
“A letter. I’d be happy to show it to you.” I wonder fleetingly if Manny would mind. Well, he didn’t tell me not to show it to anyone.
“A contemporary letter? Because there are still all sorts of wild theories about what happened in Salem—”
