Moon Bound
Page 31
Leo’s eyes widened as he nodded, but he held out his arms for his morning hug first. She was already halfway there and wrapped his skinny little body against her.
So small. He was so small.
No, she couldn’t let fear screw with her mind right now. They had a spell to perform.
“Okay, then.” She opened the grimoire to the spell her mom had mentioned. “Let’s see what we need.”
She and Leo headed to the window. Since empathic healing was her only Goddess Gift, and headaches and migraines hampered her spell-working abilities, she needed Leo’s unusual strength to feed most spells.
It used to scare the shit out of her, that sense of helplessness she got whenever she tried and failed to work a spell.
Her dad had always said, “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.” He’d never given up on her. Her mom…
Since she couldn’t think about that without getting depressed, she pushed it out of her mind and focused on the task ahead. Setting an unopened phone book on the window sill, where the sun shone directly through, she dropped a pinch of saffron, a pinch of cinnamon and a topaz stone to draw the light into the bottom of her moon bowl, which would capture and hold the spell’s energy until she released it.
Lifting her face into the sun, she said, “Usil, Lord of the Amber Light, hear our humble plea. Illuminate the abode of Mr. Brown with your soft breath.” She bit down on her bottom lips as a sharp pain knifed through her temples. “Okay, Leo, blow.”
Leaning close, Leo blew the dry ingredients over the phone book, the scent of the spices strong in the morning air. When they’d settled on the book, Shea opened it somewhere near the middle.
Please, let me have done this right…
Shea breathed a sigh of relief when the soft breeze they’d called with the spell blew across the pages for several seconds. As quickly as it started, it stopped again.
Starting at the left, she ran her finger down the columns of names and numbers. And there, in the center of the left page, listed under appliance repair in the yellow pages, was a number for G. Brown. A number with eight digits and a street name but no building number.
It looked like a misprint, but Shea knew better. Since she couldn’t use a regular phone to make this call, she’d have to wait until she got to Harry’s to use the old black rotary phone in the dressing room. That phone was connected to the communication system only Etruscans could use.
More waiting.
Please don’t let it be too late.
She turned to Leo with a smile, this one more natural. “Looks like it worked, babe. We’ll give Mr. Brown a call later, okay? You and me, we’re a great team, huh?”
Leo nodded but he didn’t smile. He never smiled. He barely ever spoke.
And it broke her heart.
She took a deep breath. “Alright, then, how about some breakfast?”
Leo’s big dark eyes, so like their dad’s, just watched her. Silent. Waiting.
Shea wished she knew for what.
* * *
Another dead end.
Gabriel Borelli slammed the front door behind him and threw his coat at the nearest chair. It missed and fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
Fuck it. He’d check the weapons later.
Right now, he needed a drink. That bottle of Mezzaluna vodka in the cabinet didn’t stand a chance. Not after the month he’d had.
Four fucking-endless weeks chasing a rumor that turned into a dead end. The versipellis Harry had put him in touch with had been positive she’d seen a man who fit Dario Paganelli’s description in a restaurant in the Outer Banks. It’d been his first lead in more than a year, but it’d been a damn bust.
And now it was time to face the music for his absence.
Bottle in hand, he took a healthy swallow before he picked up the black handset from the 1940s-era phone and dialed the eight-number code to get Phil.
“May I help you?”
As always, that high-pitched female voice made him think of the old Lily Tomlin phone-operator skit on “Laugh In.” His dad had loved that show.
“It’s Brown. Messages?”
Phil’s purely feminine sigh made his temples throb.
Damn, this is gonna suck.
“There are several, as you would know if you’d checked in every week, as you’re supposed to. Not once a month, Gabriel.”
Gods be damned. He was a grigorio, a lean, mean, Etruscan bad-ass whose enhanced senses made it damn-near impossible for anyone to get the drop on him. His affinity for all metals but iron gave him the power to slap bullets out of the air with a simple spell. And his unusual strength made him hard to kill and nearly impossible to beat in a fight.
And Phil was not his mother so why the hell did he, a twenty-eight-year-old man, feel like he had to apologize?
No way. He wasn’t gonna do it. He didn’t need to—
“Look, I’m sorry.” Shit, you’re an idiot. “I’ve been out of touch—”
“And where exactly have you been?”
Not in this lifetime, babe. “Personal business. What messages?”
Phil huffed and, for a few seconds, he was sure he was going to have to apologize again and that might just make him chug the rest of the bottle.
“Crimson Moon called three times.”
Yeah, he’d figured his mom would call at least once while he was gone, even though she had his cell number.
“Lupe’s Low End called twice.”
Goddamn Quinn. His best friend needed to get over his distrust of cell phones, too.
“And one attempt was made to procure your services.”
Fuck. For Phil to forward an outside call to him meant someone had asked for him by name. That usually only happened when another grigorio wanted his help.
“Who was it?”
“Unknown.”
Huh? “What the hell does that mean?”
“That means,” Phil huffed, “she didn’t leave her name.”
“And this female asked for me by name?”
“Yes, she asked for Mr. Brown. When I told her you were unavailable, she hung up.”
Well, shit. The existence of the grigori and the cursed streghe they protected was a carefully maintained secret, even among the Etruscans. The story of how the women had been cursed by Fabrizio Paganelli to unending life had become myth. How their sons were born grigori, the great warrior protectors thought to be extinct, a legend.
For someone to ask for him by his call name…
“Christ, Phil. Did you find out where she was calling from? Did you—”
“Do you think I don’t know my job, Gabriel Borelli?”
Fuck. Second rule of being a grigorio—Don’t piss off Phil.
“Of course you know your job. I’m sor—”
“Don’t bother,” she snapped. “I don’t appreciate your language or your insinuations, Gabriel. You are expected at ritual in four nights. I suggest you get some sleep before you get your ass over there. And the next time this phone rings, I expect you to answer it.”
Gabriel took another slug from the bottle as Phil hung up on him. Loudly. And not before shoving a tiny spell through the line to make his head ache. Damn, that woman was vindictive.
Still, he should have checked in. It was part of the deal. Grigori were to be available at all times, any time. His father, the former Mr. Brown, never would’ve missed a check-in.
No, Davis Borelli had been one of the best grigori ever.
Before he’d been murdered by Dario Paganelli.
No, Dario hadn’t pulled the trigger. But the bastard was responsible for his dad’s death. Just as Dario’s father Fabrizio had been responsible for the curse that had arrested the lives of the streghe.
Maybe Fabrizio would have been more careful if he’d known the curse would screw his son, too. The deities could be spiteful when they granted your wishes. Fabrizio had cursed the thirteen streghe but that curse had trapped his son Dario in eternal life, as well.
; And now Dario hunted the streghe with a bloody vengeance. The bastard had a lot to answer for. And Gabriel would make sure he answered in blood.
Another few slugs and the bottle surrendered its last drop.
Gabriel’s gaze slid to the cabinet. No more Mezzaluna. He had a bottle of Grey Goose, but on top of the Messaluna, it might be lethal.
He sat there for a few seconds, wondering just how drunk he needed to be to take his mind off the fact that he wasn’t any closer to finding Dario and murdering him.
Pretty damn drunk.
He definitely needed a change of scenery.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One