Belle, Book and Candle: A Fantasy Novel by Nick Pollotta

by Nick Pollotta

  The unbidden memory of him grinning in triumph as the subway train raced away galvanized Rissa into action. Swiftly returning to the hallway, Rissa gestured at the door to the workshop. Aiming her ring, she couldn’t think of what words to say, and just imagined what was wanted. Power seemed to flow from her entire body, warm and tingling, into the ring and the eyes of the dragon glowed brightly.

  Slowly the plaster wall began to extend over the doorway, stretching like warm taffy until the opening completely disappeared and there was only a seamless expanse of off-white plaster.

  Deciding the empty wall looked suspicious, Rissa used the ring to summon a couple of pictures and hang them alongside the location of the door, but not directly in front. A natural flow was the key to successful camouflage. She learned that from watching old war movies and RuPaul. It wasn’t much, but all that she could come up with on the spur of the moment.

  Unable to think of anything else she could do to protect the mansion, Rissa returned to the closet and concentrated on going through the vast array of outfits. She soon learned that her grandmother was a tad conservative for her tastes. But in spite of that, Rissa was able to find several possible blouse and skirt combinations, along with a beautiful green dress. Simple and slinky, it was the perfect color for displaying silver jewelry, with the hem just short enough to display her legs without risking an Internet photo-op if she sat down incorrectly.

  Trying on the dress, Rissa was pleased with how the color complemented her hair, but it was much too loose on top. Apparently her grandmother still had a lot of sand left in her hourglass figure. More than Rissa, anyway.

  However, a single pulse of the ring fixed that easily enough, and suddenly the dress fit Rissa as if tailored to her exact measurements. Perfection! Plus there were no creepy guys lounging near the dressing room pretending to shop for their nonexistent wives.

  Sliding the straps down her arms, Rissa wondered what to do with her hair when she happened to glance at a wall clock and bolted from the closet. Late! She was already late!

  Yanking up the straps, Rissa heard one rip and almost exploded with frustration. “Fix!” she bellowed, dashing through the bedroom. The ring warmly throbbed in reply, and the damage was repaired as if never existing.

  “Nylons! Shoes! Hair!” she commanded, charging down the stairs. “Nails! Perfume! Makeup! Corsage! Restaurant!” Money—ticket—passport! Her entire body tingled as the ring obediently pulsed with power until becoming uncomfortably hot ...

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jumping down the last few steps, Rissa landed fully dressed on a wooden boardwalk, surrounded by strolling people. When nobody seemed to notice her abrupt arrival, Rissa strolled casually away, waving her hand at imaginary friends to try and cool off the blazing ring. It visibly glowed with power, and smelled faintly like metallic sulfur. Brimstone? Nyah.

  An ornate brick building, The Grotto stood by itself, the empty space on either side quietly proclaiming its vaunted position in society, while the parking lot looked like the main display at the annual auto show in downtown Chicago. Every car there either looked imported, had a chauffeur, or both. She could recognize a few of the models from movies—Lamborghini, Aston Martin, Rolls-Royce, and such. The rest were just rounded shapes with giant headlights and oversized tires. Covering her mouth, Rissa tried not to chuckle. Freud would have had a field day with this group. Overcompensating much, guys?

  The only exception was a long car painted a bright electric yellow, and covered with multiple exhaust pipes. Coming closer, she saw that it was a Duesenberg, and guessed that it belonged to Colt. The man had mentioned his love of antique automobiles, and this thing looked like it had been assembled by cavemen and used by the Vikings to land on Plymouth Rock.

  In front of the restaurant was a long line of extremely well-dressed people waiting to get past a velvet rope. It was guarded by a doorman in a liveried uniform and armed with the mandatory sunglasses and clipboard.

  Pausing on the boardwalk, Rissa covertly blew on the rapidly cooling ring and looked about for Colt, hoping that she was not too late and he had left already. There came a brief stab of fear when she realized that he was nowhere in sight.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the doorman said, touching two fingers to his cap. “Are yawl Miss Harmond by any chance?”

  She nodded and he unclipped the velvet rope. “The boss had to answer a call, miss. Told me to keep a sharp watch for a redhead from Chicago.”

  “Auburn,” Rissa replied automatically, walking closer. “How could you possibly know where I’m from?”

  “I don’t,” he grinned, displaying a gold tooth. “But you’re the only lady here without an escort. Ipso facto.”

  Clever fellow. “So, why didn’t he just answer the call on his cell?” Rissa asked, pausing at the velvet rope.

  “It was a call of Nature, ma’am,” the doorman whispered, ushering her inside ahead of the others.

  “Fair enough.”

  A score of frowning faces watched Rissa pass by, and she allowed herself to preen a little under their collective annoyance. That’s right, bitches, there’s a new sheriff in town.

  Passing through the main room of the restaurant, Rissa was enveloped by a warm cloud of delicious smells wafting from the busy kitchen. A low hum of conversation from the patrons mixed with the tinkling of a grand piano playing something classic—and there was Colt swiftly coming her way. The man had changed into a white linen suit, with a dark blue shirt that almost matched his eyes. His hair was damp and slightly tousled, a tiny nick on his jaw still moist from a very recent shave.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Rissa apologized, slowing her advance to human speed.

  “On the contrary, you’re right on time,” Colt said, with a wide smile. “It’s good to see you again so soon.”

  “Same here.”

  “I’m glad you’re wearing the corsage,” Colt said. “I know they’re out of fashion, but I’ve always liked them a lot. No idea why.”

  Tactfully, Rissa said nothing, wondering if this was a test or if he simply did not recall the dream they shared. Maybe only she did because of the ring?

  “You know, I had a dream about my prom last night,” she said as an experiment.

  “Me too!” Colt laughed and started to say more, then stopped talking and turned away, his cheeks bright red.

  Yep, he remembers!

  Maneuvering adroitly through the sea of tables, Colt led the way to a private section on the outside balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The table was decorated with more flowers, white roses this time, and there was a bottle of French champagne cooling in a silver bucket. As a sea breeze ruffled her hair, Rissa dimly recalled that the bucket-thing had some sort of name, but could not drudge up the information. A Silver Hat? High Hat? Top Hat? No, that’s a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film ...

  “Milady,” Colt said, pulling out her chair.

  “I can do that myself, you know,” Rissa said, sitting down and smoothing her dress.

  “Not on a date,” he scoffed, also taking a seat.

  Innocently Rissa inspected the roses. “Is that what this is?”

  “Absolutely!” Colt laughed, then paused uncertainly, his expression sagging slightly.

  “Well, it’s a lovely date so far,” Rissa said quickly, to correct any misapprehensions.

  As his smile was reborn, she reached out to touch his hand, and Colt took hers. His fingers were strong and covered with a lot of scars, but the touch was amazingly gentle.

  “Lovely,” Colt whispered, looking directly at her.

  Flustered for a moment, Rissa squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, their fingers performing an ancient dance for a delightfully long time.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Coltier! Miss Harmond!” a server interrupted, seeming to appear from out of nowhere.

  As Colt and Rissa dutifully broke apart, the man efficiently laid out plates and silverware, and turned away just as another server materialized to lay down their me
al. Before the plates had stopped vibrating, both servers were gone and the velvet barrier reestablished.

  “It’s good to be the king,” Rissa smiled, unfolding a napkin across her lap.

  “I prefer the term grand poobah,” Colt said, dropping a napkin into his lap.

  “Who wouldn’t?” she laughed, curiously sniffing at the huge pile of fruit salad. It sort of resembled ambrosia, except there were no marshmallows, which was just fine as she hated the little sickly-sweet hassocks. She could recognize diced apples, raisins, and maybe chopped walnuts, but the rest was masked by some sort of thin white sauce that actually smelled all kinds of wonderful.

  “What did you call this again?” she asked, spearing a tiny portion with her fork and giving it a try. At the first taste, her tongue immediately demanded more. This is awesome!

  “Waldorf salad, the best in the south,” Colt stated proudly. “It’s one of my favorite dishes, and the house specialty.”

  “Is this the appetizer?”

  “Appetizer, main course, and dessert combined. A cool meal for a warm afternoon.” He paused. “Although, if you want something more substantial, we have amazingly good lobster, and a roast quail in honey that’s won several awards.”

  “No, thank you, a light lunch is fine,” Rissa said innocently, taking another forkful. “Especially if we plan to do heavy lifting later on today.”

  Caught with his mouth full, Colt choked and started coughing. Feeling incredibly guilty, Rissa rushed around the table to help when he grabbed a glass of water and drained it in a single draft.

  “You okay?” she asked, pounding his back a few times.

  “Never better,” Colt squeaked, reaching for the champagne.

  Brushing his hand aside, Rissa grabbed the bottle and peeled back the foil. Twisting loose the wire cage, she tried to push the cork out with her thumbs, but apparently it was perfectly happy in its current location and had no wish to leave.

  “Watch where you aim!” Colt warned, dodging to the left.

  “Not a problem,” Rissa muttered, sending a mental command to the ring.

  It pulsed once, and as if it were well lubricated instead of under tremendous pressure, the cork eased out of the bottle with the tiniest pop. Rising fast, the champagne foamed, but did not overflow onto the tablecloth.

  “Impressive,” Colt said in an almost normal voice, massaging his throat. “You’ve done that before.”

  “No, I just watch a lot of Cary Grant movies,” Rissa said, filling their glasses.

  “Fair enough.” He took a sip. “Did you know he never won an Academy Award?”

  “Yes, I did! What a total crock.”

  “Agreed,” Colt stated, offering his glass. “Here’s to the amazing Mr. Grant!”

  They clinked, drank, and returned to the salad.

  As Rissa expected, the champagne went perfectly with the salad, and the rest of the meal was passed in friendly conversation about movies, old cars, and then old cars in movies. The sun had dipped low toward the horizon by the time they finished the bottle and rose to leave.

  “Remember that comment about hard labor?” Colt asked, signing the check.

  “Yes ...” Rissa said, surreptitiously slipping a twenty under her plate. She had worked her way through college as a waitress, and if there was a tougher, more menial job, she prayed to God it never found her.

  “Well, I had been thinking about a stroll on the beach,” Colt said as a question, offering his arm. “If you’re not too busy, that is.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Rissa said, taking his arm.

  As Colt led her along the balcony and down a private staircase, she could feel the play of his hard muscles; she let her mind entertain some highly erotic thoughts until her heels sank into the soft sand and she nearly went flying. Sonofabitch!

  “Are you okay?” Colt asked in concern, easily helping her upright.

  “No damage,” Rissa replied, commanding the ring to remove the heels.

  As the shoes became flats, she shrank several inches, but now was able to walk without risking a major injury. Staying close, Colt eased an arm around her waist for additional support.

  With his hand resting on her hip, Rissa started to grow warm all over in a manner that had nothing to do with the champagne. Shifting position, Rissa slid an arm around his waist, and Colt hugged her in response. Nirvana.

  The beach was wide and clean, uncluttered with debris or garbage, unlike the rocky shoreline of Lake Michigan back home. The white sand was soft underfoot, and the gentle ocean breeze deliciously cool. Even if it did threaten to muss her hair.

  “Not a lot of people out today,” Rissa said, wondering what his response would be.

  “This is a private beach,” Colt replied before glancing sideways. “I ... ahem ... that is ...”

  “You own it?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Good!” Rissa replied boldly. “That leaves more room for us.”

  Laughing in relief, Colt ran his palm across her shoulders, then back to her hip. Rissa noted that he didn’t seem to be checking for anything, just savoring the contact. Unbidden, the catalogue of her former boyfriends and sex partners flickered through her mind like riffling a deck of poker cards; all of them suicide kings, jokers, and the occasional queen. Sad, but true.

  “So tell me, how much did you leave as a tip?” Colt asked, glancing out to sea.

  “You saw that, eh?” Rissa asked, sidestepping the details.

  “I see everything!” Colt said in a spooky voice, wiggling his fingers in the air.

  “All right, Grand Poobah, answer me this,” Rissa asked in a surge of bravado. “Are my bra and panties the same color?”

  Furrowing his brow, Colt said nothing, but the pulse in his throat visibly quickened. Just for a moment, Rissa thought she had gone too far and ruined the delicate bond growing between them. Then Colt relaxed and snorted a laugh out his nose.

  “Answer hazy,” he said with a ghostly moan. “Ask again ... tomorrow ...”

  “Is that the best you can do?” she softly demanded.

  Stopping in the shadows of the boardwalk, Colt looked down at her for a long moment, then pulled Rissa close, silk dress crushed against linen suit.

  “No, this is,” Colt whispered, and kissed her for a very long time.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, Rissa thrilled to the sheer physical power of the man. Briefly her mind replayed the dream about Zenobi, but this was totally different. The two of them had been awkward teenagers, while Colt was now a grown man. His hands were gentle on her arms, asking, not demanding. His lips, soft and smooth. His breath smelled of champagne, his cheek of aftershave mixed with tangy salt from the sea.

  If there had been anything resembling a bed in the dappled shadows, she would have departed immediately. Her hard years of bitter experience in the brutal world of the Chicago dating scene almost overpowered the magic of the moment. However, there was no suspiciously convenient pile of canvas, inflatable life raft, or anything else serviceable, only the sand, rocks, and a few scuttling crabs.

  Scram, boys, this is a private show! Rissa commanded, the ring flashing rainbow bright. Instantly the crabs departed in hopping jumps normally impossible for the species. In their wake, a large blanket rippled into existence on the sand.

  Startled, then pleased, Rissa tried not to smile. Apparently her subconscious had summoned that all by itself. Sex on the beach sounded wonderful, but without something to place over the sand, the tiny particles crept into the most amazingly uncomfortable places ...

  Releasing his hold, Colt pulled back slightly to ask a silent question, and Rissa smiled invitingly in a form of communication created long before the invention of words. The kiss continued, longer and more intensely.

  Feeling slightly drunk on the rush of emotions, Rissa ran her fingers through his thick hair and Colt moved to the hollow of her throat, kissing his way back to her face, bestowing a feathery touch on each eyelid. That made her feel
little, and girlish, and silly, and shy, and a heated rush of need surged through her entire body.

  “Everything is black lace, Emile,” Rissa said breathlessly, almost deaf from the pounding of the blood in her ears.

  “Really? Me too!” he chuckled, kissing the tip of her nose.

  Feeling his rising interest, Rissa had to laugh, then they moved together once more, kissing sweetly and gentle, tokens and suggestions, hints and promises.

  As they paused to breathe, Colt slipped off his jacket and gallantly laid it down on the sand. Instantly Rissa banished the nearby blanket, kicking off her shoes to kneel on the garment.

  Sitting down, Colt yanked off his own shoes and tossed them near hers, then patiently looked at Rissa, demanding nothing, only asking, giving her the power to decide. That filled Rissa with emotions for which there were no words.

  Her heart beating fast, Rissa leaned in to kiss the man again. Then they abandoned any pretense at teasing or foreplay and gave themselves wholly to the glorious cascade of indescribable needs, primordial and perfect, overwhelming and eternal. Their hearts beating in wild unison, the world soon disappeared until there were only the two lovers, alone and secure, in their shadowy universe ...

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The pebbled-glass divider slid aside and a matronly woman stuck out her head. “Miss Stone? The doctor will see you now.”

  “About damn time,” Laura muttered, rising stiffly off the pleather couch.

  The taxi ride to the clinic had been the most embarrassing thing in her entire life. The driver had almost not stopped at her incredible state of dishevelment: covered in scratches and bruises, a tooth missing, dress torn, shoes gone, nylons ripped, hair matted with mud, and most of the ceramic nails on both hands either cracked in half or MIA. She didn’t know how, but it was all the fault of Rissa Harmond, and that little Northern bitch was going to pay for this. Big time!

  Hobbling across the waiting room, Laura entered an examination room and carefully sat down on the butcher paper. She knew the stuff had another name, but it always looked like the paper her butcher used to wrap lamb chops. To her, it was a grim reminder of a patient’s true status: meat with feet.