by Melanie Rawn
“Then—you’re Catholic? But how can you, like, be that and be a Witch, too?”
Holly shrugged. “It’d take too long to explain. Look, kid, follow my friend’s excellent advice and think this through. Make your own decisions. You’ve courted the Darkness, and tonight you saw a bit of the Light. It all depends on what you want to see in the mirror every morning.”
“Go home,” Bradshaw told the boy. When he saw hesitation in the dark eyes, he summoned his own magic and commanded, “Now!”
Snow spewed up as Fleming ran down the hill. Elias paused for a deep, calming breath, then turned a scowl on Holly. But all at once he was too tired and cold to reprimand her as she deserved for her multiple interruptions—and for stupidly allowing the boy to see her face.
“Oh, the poor little thing!” Kate suddenly exclaimed.
He turned in time to see her freeing a scrawny lamb from the burlap sack. Its jaws had been taped shut and its eyes were dazed from its struggles. Kate carefully peeled the tape loose, and it bleated piteously before trying to hide in her cloak.
“The Lamb of God,” Holly murmured. “I don’t like this boy, Elias. I don’t like him at all.”
“It’s all right now,” Kate crooned to the exhausted animal. “I’ll take you home and you can play with Percival.”
“We’re done here, Kate,” Elias said. “Leave the cleansing for tomorrow in the daylight. And put out your fire before you burn down half of Long Island.”
“It isn’t her fire,” said Holly. “It’s mine.”
HOT FOOD AND HOTTER COFFEE were the work of a few minutes in Kate’s kitchen. Elias did the honors; Kate was busy settling the lamb in the spare bedroom. Holly banished herself from the preparations to go wash the stink from her hands and remove the robe. Her sinuses were still twitching unhappily as she left the bathroom, but three deep inhalations of the brewing Kenyan Blue Mountain cleared her head.
“Caffeine, I beg of you,” she told Elias.
He handed over a filled cup. “Want a kicker in it?”
“I’d love some brandy, but I’m driving. God, that’s good!” She drank, burning her tongue and not caring. “You think the Fleming kid will take the hint?”
His reply was a shrug. She watched as he set bowls of soup and a plate of fresh bread on the kitchen table, ducking around hanging bouquets of drying herbs as he passed from the stove to the table to the refrigerator for butter.
“I have to tell you, Elias, I didn’t think you had that kind of poetry in you. And don’t tell me it was just another prop. Who taught you those lines?”
“My mother,” he answered reluctantly. “Her grandmother came from the Old Country. County Kerry, to be precise.” He eyed her. “How many points do I get?”
“I’m not sure,” she teased back. “The pollution of all that New England Puritan blood—”
“Almost four hundred years of it in Connecticut and Massachusetts.”
“And probably with half the Bradshaws wanting to burn the other half.” She buttered bread for them both. “Speaking of blood, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been part of a Working and nobody wanted mine.”
“Is it also the first time you’ve ever meddled in a Magistrate’s work?”
Kate arrived, all smiles, saying, “I’ve tucked Guinevere up with Galahad, nice and snug. You’d never know he’s part sheepdog.”
“Guinevere?”
“She was almost burned as a sacrifice, too, remember? Oh, lovely, you found the bread. Can I get anybody anything else?”
“No, we’re fine,” said the Magistrate. “One thing, though—find out who this ‘preceptor’ person is. Someone may have to have a little chat with him.”
“I’ll see what I can do. No more talk. Eat.”
Perfectly willing to obey, Holly kept her gaze from brushing Elias’s for the next half hour. But with soup and bread finished, and the coffeepot empty, it was time for the drive back to Manhattan. Holly knew very well that along the way the Magistrate would rip her a new one—and her ass was already sore after that tumble into the snow. Kate as well was cognizant of Elias’s mood; as she walked them out to the BMW, she whispered in Holly’s ear, “I wouldn’t be you for the next hour for anything in this world—or the next.”
Sure enough, after five minutes of lethal quiet, when Holly stopped the car at a red light Elias spoke.
“Almost four hundred years in this country,” he said as if their earlier conversation had not been interrupted, “and in all that time I don’t think anyone has ever done to another Bradshaw what you did to me tonight.”
“All I did was —” She broke off as he made a gesture, and she realized two things with infuriating abruptness: that she couldn’t speak, and that for the very first time he’d used magic on her.
Into the enforced silence he spoke five words.
“Don’t. You. Ever. Interfere. Again.”
He released her. She dragged in a breath that filled her lungs to bursting.
“Light’s green,” he announced calmly.
Horns sounded behind her. She concentrated on driving, gained the expressway without breaking too many traffic laws, and settled into the calming rhythm of the engine.
“What, exactly, got up your nose?” she asked, her voice dangerously controlled. “Did I spoil the effect when you stormed in to kick that altar over like Jesus in the temple with the moneylenders? I timed the bonfire perfectly, I said what needed to be said to that kid —”
“You opened your mouth. That was enough. You let him see your face. The only thing you missed was calling me or Kate by name.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she exclaimed. “No—wait a minute, I see now. We’re anonymous, we Work in secret, it’s all part of the mystique — or is it that you’re ashamed of what we are? We hide our faces and our names—”
“—for damned good reason! What would happen if what we are became common knowledge? A writer and a judge—we’re public commodities. Though, granted, you’re for sale and I’m not —”
“Go fuck yourself, Magistrate!”
As if realizing he’d gone too far, he moderated his tone: “It’s not shame, Holly. It’s self-preservation.”
It was as close as he’d ever come to an apology. She knew that. She also knew that one day he would tell her he was sorry for something he’d said or done, and he’d damned well mean it. Deciding she could wait, and succumbing to a certain rudimentary honesty within herself, she said, “I know what you mean.” Then, because she was still angry: “It’s why neither of us has ever told Susannah.”
“Leave her out of this.”
Good, she thought. That got to him. One more, and I’m done for the night.
“And why neither of us ever will.”
One lean, manicured hand lifted — but the gesture was aborted before it truly began. In spite of herself, Holly held her breath until his hand returned to his lap.
“That’s enough, Spellbinder.”
“Whatever you say, Magistrate.”
Six
CHRISTMAS TO GROUNDHOG DAY CAME and went — or, as Evan was learning, Yule to Imbolc. Not that he gleaned much information from Holly. She would neither take him to a Sabbat nor perform ritual magic for him, and while she answered his questions readily enough he knew the subject of Witchery bothered her.
Well, it bothered him, too. Some. He’d forget about it for days at a time, but then she’d tell him she couldn’t see him that night because she had to Work. Her voice supplied the capital letter.
Her other work, the writing stuff, was lowercase. He met her agent, her editor, and her publisher at various dinners. Everyone, including the various literati at these gatherings, tried not to act surprised, curious, and/or bewildered, from which he gathered that he was the only man ever to accompany her on such occasions. Lachlan was polite, used the right forks and spoons, tried not to eat or drink too much even though somebody else was picking up the tab, and battled boredom by counting Holly’s freckles.
One evening in February—the fourteenth, to be precise, which was both Valentine’s Day and her birthday—they were dining late when she looked up from her veal and nearly choked. “What the hell are they doing here?”
“Who?” Turning in his chair, he saw a vaguely familiar pair—of course, the two men from the hallway last year. One blond, one dark, both bundled against the cold, they made straight for Holly and Evan’s table. Lachlan got to his feet, folded his napkin beside his plate, and gestured to the waiter for two more chairs. Holly set down her fork and looked unhappy.
“Holly Elizabeth,” said the tall dark one, in an accent redolent of Boston’s Beacon Hill, “you are a difficult woman to locate.” He bent, kissed her cheek, and started removing layers of expensive wool.
“Don’t blame Isabella,” the blond one added with a smile. “She didn’t want to tell us.”
“Let me guess,” Holly said. “You tortured her by reciting Alec’s recipe book.”
“Puritan gruel with molasses muffins does it every time.” Holding out a hand to Lachlan, the blond one said, “Nicholas Orlov — Holly’s Uncle Nicky. This is Alexander Singleton.”
“Evan Lachlan. Pleased to meet you.”
“At last,” Orlov appended wryly. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.” His accent was more difficult to place — the name was about as Russian as one could get, but the cadences of his voice were an odd combination of upper-class Brit, a touch of New York, and something that definitely wasn’t the Russian heard in Brooklyn.
Holly looked sour as all three men sat down. “I take it I can’t prevent you gentlemen from joining us.”
“How very gracious of you to ask.” Singleton grinned. “Caesar salad,” he told the waiter. “I’m watching what’s left of my figure.”
Orlov opened a menu and zeroed in on the pasta selections. “Alfredo,” he said blissfully.
“The only figure he watches is Uncle Alec’s,” Holly explained. “So why are you two here? What couldn’t wait?”
Singleton gave her a cloyingly sweet smile, dark eyes dancing. “We only wanted to wish you a happy birthday, my precious.”
“Right.” She attacked her veal again with a fork. “So where’s my present?”
“Patience,” she was counseled; Singleton paused as plates, silverware, and napkins were provided, and when the waiter departed, continued, “We stopped by the store today.”
“If you’re not doing anything tomorrow,” Orlov suggested, “why don’t you go take a look?”
“What am I looking for?”
Lachlan eyed Holly over his wineglass. She was sulky in tone and expression, a complete departure from her cheerful mood of ten minutes ago — well, admittedly his gift of her favorite perfume had mellowed her out very nicely.
Orlov appeared unperturbed by her annoyance. “You’ll know it when you see it. Alyosha, pass the butter.”
Holly folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. “I hope you have a better reason than that for spoiling our evening.”
“It’s not spoiled,” Evan said. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting—”
“So have they,” Holly interrupted. “This has nothing to do with the bookstore at all.”
“Ah, but it does.” Singleton paused again while a fume blanc was presented, opened, poured, tasted, and approved. When glasses had been filled, he and his partner toasted each other silently with, it seemed to Lachlan, a gesture half their lifetimes old. “Obsessed as we have been with conjecture about Deputy Marshal Lachlan, and rude as you have been, my darling girl, about not inviting us to dinner — still, the bookstore has everything to do with it.”
She sighed, picked up her fork, and plunged into her dinner once more. “Okay, okay. Regale me.”
Orlov shook his head. “After I eat. It’s been a long time since lunch.”
So, as food was brought and then consumed, Evan found himself making small talk with Holly’s honorary uncles. It turned out that they, too, were Knicks fans, and this topic occupied them during the whole of Alec’s salad. Holly didn’t bother to conceal boredom. As Nick polished off the last of his Alfredo, the men were agreeing to go to at least one game together this season.
“I don’t suppose,” Evan said finally, “you’ve ever considered giving them a little help now and then?”
Nick’s brows shot up. “He knows?” he directed at Holly.
“He knows.”
“Ah.”
“As for the Knicks,” Alec said, “it’s a matter of ethics. If Holly’s told you about us, then she’s also mentioned the rules.”
“It was just a thought.” Lachlan sighed wistfully.
“Don’t think I haven’t been tempted! End of the fourth quarter, down by two, one shot from outside the key to win —”
“Enough, already,” Holly chuckled. “Besides, it’s common knowledge about the ’69 Mets.”
“That wasn’t me,” Alec protested. “I’m a Yankees fan.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Lachlan advised. “She not only kissed the Blarney Stone, she bit off a chunk and swallowed it whole.”
“Noticed that, did you?” Alec turned to his partner. “Nicholas, old son, are you finally finished stuffing your face? If so, I suggest you tell the tale.”
“Dessert first,” replied his partner, beckoning the waiter.
“Hollow to the ankles.” The older man shook his head. “I’ve been waiting thirty years for him to get fat. I’ll wait another thirty if necessary.”
“Superior European genes,” the blond chuckled.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Evan ventured, “if your name is Russian.”
“Very. But in actuality I’m mostly Hungarian, somewhat German, and a quarter Gypsy. Long story,” he said in a fashion that indicated Evan wouldn’t be hearing it anytime soon. The waiter hovered; Orlov ordered something opulently chocolate, plus espressos all around. At last, replete and relaxed, he began.
“When we decided to retire — Alec from lawyering, me from books—I sold The Recommended Sentence. Which wasn’t easy. Suffice to say, my advertisements didn’t bring in the sort of person I was looking for. So I changed the manner of the listing.” Here he smiled a little at Holly.
“Uncle Nicky,” she said to Lachlan, “is what Aunt Lulah calls a Come-Hither, and other folks call a Summoner, and still others call a Coercer.”
Digesting this with a swallow of wine, Evan nodded. “Be useful in my line of work,” he remarked mildly.
The other two men blinked. For the first time since the pair had come into the restaurant, Holly gave a genuine smile. “Now you know why I adore him.”
“Peculiar you may be on occasion,” Alec retorted, “but stupid, never. Keep going, Nick.”
“Hmm? Oh—of course. My sign and doorway, properly prepared, brought in only qualified and interested candidates looking for a rewarding life with books. People who treasured the printed word, the smell of leather bindings, the luxury of fine paper—”
His partner interrupted. “—the stink of mold, the crumbling of ancient dogeared pages—and the art of the literary murder. Get on with it, will you?”
“Philistine,” Nick sniffed. “I had scant luck to begin with. The spell required some fine-tuning. For instance, there was the gentleman with masses of money and an abiding fascination with ritualized S and M.”
“And that mousy little guy who wanted to turn the place into a gay bookstore in the vain hope that he might get laid.” Alec reached over to scrape leftover chocolate from his partner’s plate.
“I’ve worked assiduously to blot him from my memory.” Nick grinned.
“And the gorgeous little leather blonde with the nose-ring who hit on you.”
“Most especially have I worked to forget her.”
Amused, Lachlan poured more wine and said, “I gotta say,
you people sure have interesting problems.”
“He’s just finicky,” Alec said.
Haughtily, Nick replied, “I spent half my life building up the business, the clientele, and the collection — damned if I’d let it be taken over by some idiot.”
“So who’d you end up selling it to?”
Alec snorted. “A six-foot-six blue-eyed beanpole. Stick him at one end of my granny’s garden, run a clothesline out from the house, and hang the laundry.”
“A beanpole with a Ph.D. in Literature,” Nick retorted, “erudite, charming, more than a little gifted, although unaware of it —”
“You only liked him because he recognized that Wilkie Collins first edition,” Alec put in. “Pushover for anyone who fawns over ancient pages. I can’t tell you how glad I continue to be that Holly had contributed to our Handfasting.”
“Moron. He isn’t my type. I like things older than I am,” Nick said with poisonous sweetness.
Holly laughed. “Get a room, you two. So you sold this guy the store?”
“I’m carrying the paper, and his payments are perfectly on time. That was that. Or so I thought.” The clear blue eyes darkened below a frown. “I visited the shop last autumn, that day we almost met in the hallway, Evan. Not much had changed. A new sofa in the reading area, some artwork, a little rearranging of the shelves. Not much new stock.”
“We were there again today,” Alec interrupted. “Me for the first time since the sale. I knew he should’ve had me scope this guy out in the first place—”
“The point!” Holly exclaimed, thoroughly out of patience.
“He’s turned it into an occult bookshop,” Nick announced in disgust. “All the other stock is gone. Conan Doyle, Sayers, Christie, Peters — Ellis and Elizabeth—Chandler, Hammett, Lindsay Davis, Laurie King, Steven Saylor—all my lovely mysteries and thrillers and historical whodunnits, all the critical studies and biographies and anthologies — gone.”
Holly sipped wine, then said, “He has a right to run the store the way he wants. He pays the mortgage. Esoterica is very chic, you know. Well, of course you know—you’ve dealt with enough wannabe Witches.”
