by K. Z. Snow
She stepped toward him and leaned over to accept his embrace. They kissed each other on the cheek.
“You’re welcome. But I told you it wouldn’t be a problem. I’m on my way to Chicago. Swing off the freeway, swing back onto the freeway. No big deal.”
“Photo shoot?” Jackson asked.
“Mm-hm.”
“You’ll be out of my league pretty soon. All that high fashion and designer cosmetics crap, all those snooty fast-laners you’re constantly hobnobbing with.” He was teasing her, of course. Like Henry Higgins, Jackson was extremely proud of his protégé’s success.
Angelina tossed her head back and laughed. “You’re in a league of your own, Jackson. And you know I’ll still be devoted to you even if I get my own spread in a dozen magazines.” She curtsied. “So tell me, what is it you require of me?”
Nearly from the time they’d met, Jackson knew his friend had keen psychic abilities and even keener intelligence. Angelina occasionally served as his assistant when he worked in his Magic Circle. In addition, she could sometimes “see” people who were miles away. She could “read” people through objects associated with them or by tapping into their thoughts.
Jackson pulled Christy Kemmer’s business card from his shirt pocket. “I need you to hold this and tell me what impressions you get.”
Angelina took the card, face down. “I haven’t done psychometry in a while, you know. But I’ll give it a try.” She pressed the card between her palms. After a moment, she grimaced slightly. “Definitely female. Overdone…self-absorbed…likes attention.” Angelina smiled. “Not terribly bright. Still, she has some connection to occult pursuits. It’s one she doesn’t really deserve.”
“Why?” Jackson asked, idly stroking his beard.
Angelina’s brow furrowed as she rotated her palms over the card. “Because she’s so shallow. I get a sense of someone with no moral core to speak of, no spiritual depth. Or much dimension at all, really. She’s a poser. I get a feeling of promiscuity, too.”
“The schmoozy floozy. Queen of the Skanks. Is that what you’re saying?”
Laughing, Angelina pulled the card from between her hands. “More or less.” She became more pensive. Her gaze, tinctured with concern, turned to Jackson’s face. “Did she put the make on you?”
He chuckled and nodded.
“You didn’t cave in, did you?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
Angelina regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Which means?”
She was very protective of him. Jackson reached out and reassuringly rubbed her arm. “I’d rather not get into it. But believe me, I don’t find her in the least bit appealing. My impressions were the same as yours.”
“Good. Don’t trust her.”
“Hm. Pretty much my conclusion.” Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, here’s the scoop. This ‘Lady Alessandra’ is allegedly the High Priestess of some all-female coven. I believe I’ve heard of it. They want me to work with them for one night. Now, do you think the whole group is questionable or just this individual?”
Angelina held the card between her ring finger and thumb and tapped its edge with one perfectly manicured nail. Staring at it, she said, “Hard to say. This object is saturated with the essence of a very self-involved woman, so it’s not surprising I can’t read anybody else through it.”
Jackson took the card from her and slipped it back into his pocket. “But if Christy is their priestess, the coveners are bound to be led by her.”
“To some degree, yes.”
“Shit.” Jackson scratched his forehead. Why was this Passion Celebration so strongly tugging at him? Usually, if he felt hinky about someone, he would simply steer clear of that person and all of his or her associates.
“Well,” Angelina said, “do you think you’re going to go through with it?”
Jackson took a deep breath and expelled it. “If I do, I’m going to have to be brutally frank with Lady Alessandra and tell her to keep her hands off me.”
Angelina arched her eyebrows. “Is this going to be an esbat with sex magic?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Heedless of its scrim of dust, Angelina folded herself into the padded office chair tucked beside the drafting table. Her elegant form contrasted starkly with the puckered silver duct tape Jackson had slapped over rips in the green vinyl. In some places, the tape’s rolled-up edges exposed the underlying gray adhesive. But he didn’t bother cautioning Angelina. She likely wouldn’t care.
“Please don’t take offense,” she said gently, “but I hope you don’t do this, if you do it, for the wrong reasons.”
Jackson shrugged. “And those are…?” He already didn’t like where her intro was headed.
“You’ve admitted there’s somebody you’re seeing occasionally, somebody who’s already in a relationship.”
His gaze flickered over to her. “I didn’t have much choice but to admit it.”
“And I didn’t have much choice but to pick up on it. You know how it is between us.”
“Soulmates without the ‘mate’ part.”
She gave him an understanding smile.
“So what exactly are you getting at?” Jackson asked, flexing and extending his interlinked fingers. The subject was unsettling.
“It’s difficult having a part-time lover who has a fulltime other. I know. I’ve been there. It can be heart-wrenching. You’re in the same situation now. You can’t be with the person you really want to be with. Worse yet, you know that person has somebody else to fill the void when you’re not around. And you don’t have—”
“A void filler of my own?” Jackson’s clipped laugh was a tad too acerbic.
A furrow formed in Angelina’s smooth brow, precisely between those caring eyes. “That’s right.”
Jackson looked down.
The chair inched forward with a creaking snickety-snick as Angelina coaxed it closer to his stool. “I can also tell this somebody means a great deal to you, more than you’re willing to acknowledge.”
“Angie, I really don’t—”
She clamped her hands over his knees, startling him into silence. “So maybe you’re feeling shortchanged. Or undervalued. Maybe you want for yourself what that person has—some in-between action to tide you over. Maybe you’re even desperate to find a ‘significant other’ so you don’t have to deal with the frustration of this arrangement.”
Pausing, Angelina sighed. She briefly dropped her forehead to the back of one hand, which still rested on Jackson knee, then lifted her head after several seconds. “Those are some of the wrong reasons for doing the esbat gig. And here’s another. Maybe you need to prove to yourself that you’re desirable, because you’ve just turned forty and you’re not getting the attention you want and need from your lover.”
The truth in her theories stung Jackson into crankiness. “And maybe I just like practicing magic, especially when it helps people. Or maybe I just need to get laid. Maybe both in combination give me a big, fat rush, and that’s why Christy’s offer appeals to me.”
Silent, Angelina nodded. Jackson could tell she still clung to her maybes. He, however, only wanted to cast them aside.
“Please, don’t do anything rash,” she said, turning her imploring eyes up to his face. “And stop trying to ignore whatever it is you’re feeling.”
* * * *
It was definitely one of those stop-for-a-drink-after-work days.
Jackson didn’t do it often. Maybe two or three times a month. He’d pull up to a neighborhood tavern—some modest little hole in the wall that usually bore the name of its owner, like Bud’s Bar or Pete’s Place—and have a shot of Jack Daniels followed by a couple of beers. Sometimes he’d get caught up in conversation with one or more of the regulars. People, he’d found, would talk about most anything.
He wasn’t a wizard in these places. He was just another working stiff, a journeyman carpenter and furniture builder. Occasionally someone would ask for his business
card. Truth be told, though, most of the patrons couldn’t afford custom work…which was precisely why Jackson was drawn to them. He’d grown up amid such people and, before the accident that changed his life at twenty-six, was such a person himself. Even now—despite his comfortable income, despite his mastery of High Magic—a blue collar seemed to ring his soul.
Today he stopped at the Lobo Lounge, a joint he’d never been to before. As soon as he walked in, he realized it had the kind of half-assed pretension to classiness that put it a small step above a tavern. Décor consisted of padded red booths, amber swag-lamp lighting, barstools with backrests. It had mirrored tiles, threaded with gold veins, on the wall above the backbar. Smiling to himself, Jackson took a seat and leaned on the padded armrest.
Only two other customers were there. On the far left, closest to the front window, a man in a suit and tie read a newspaper. Just to the right of the bar’s center, a woman rifled through a briefcase that rested on the stool beside hers. Jackson, sitting between the two patrons, ordered his first drink.
Almost immediately he was aware of the woman’s scrutiny. He refrained from looking at her. This was not the time to invite attention. Jackson wanted to relax and think. Unbothered.
“Excuse me.”
Fuck. It was the woman. Hoping he looked only marginally attentive, Jackson turned his head in her direction.
“Aren’t you the same guy who was getting on that vintage chopper in front of Bud’s last fall?”
Huh? “Uh…maybe.” The question threw him. Usually it was men who asked about his Harley. Usually he encountered such interest only when he had the bike with him. But he didn’t ride it today. The spring air was too chilly, the streets too sloppy.
“I’m almost sure it was you,” the woman said. “Your face is very distinctive.”
For the first time, Jackson really looked at her. Maybe it was her interest in his bike that caught his attention. Maybe it was her politely neutral tone. In any case, he rather liked what he saw.
She was entirely average—on the surface, anyway—and a far cry from overtly sexy or glamorous. The clothing she wore was neatly casual and unrevealing. Her blond hair was carelessly clipped up, and her dark brown eyes regarded him over a pair of glasses that rested midway down her nose. It wasn’t a perky little minx nose, either. It had some ethnic character. The woman didn’t seem all that much younger than he.
“You have a good memory,” he said, aware of more expression creeping into his face and voice.
What was it about her face that intrigued him? Maybe the demure smile, not in the least bit flirty. Maybe those perfect, unpainted lips. Maybe those large eyes, warm and guileless and alert. She actually looked a wee bit like a younger version of his mother.
They talked about motorcycles for a while. The conversation ultimately led Jackson to mention his accident.
“How long ago did it happen?” the woman asked.
“Almost fifteen years.”
“Was it bad?”
“Yeah, it was bad.” Jackson tossed his second shot. “I died…for a while.”
“It must have changed your life.”
He laughed once, through his nose. “You can’t begin to imagine.”
There was a noticeable stretch of silence before any response came. “Still, you started riding again.”
“Not for a long time.” Jackson felt fidgety. He hadn’t anticipated a trip down memory lane. Moreover, he needed the mental space to ponder Christy Kemmer’s proposal.
“I’m Mikaela, by the way.” The woman leaned across the two stools that separated them, her hand extended. “If that sounds too formal, you can call me Miki.”
Jackson leaned to his right and clasped it. “I’m…Jack,” he said, inspired by his favorite liquor.
Regardless of how inadvertently she’d done it, Mikaela had trespassed on the private property of his past. Jackson’s first instinct was to seal himself against further invasion. He didn’t want to divulge too much. He never wanted to. According to his way of thinking, he’d already opened a gate he should’ve kept locked.
Alcohol—the bane of his guarded existence.
“Would you like to move to a booth?” Mikaela asked.
Jackson hesitated. He hadn’t intended this stop to be a long one. But Mikaela didn’t seem to harbor any ulterior motives. She hadn’t asked if he had a girlfriend. Her gaze hadn’t slid surreptitiously to his left hand to check for a wedding ring. She probably just wanted to socialize. After all, that’s what bars were for.
“All right. But I do have to leave soon.” Jackson ordered a beer as he rose from his stool.
Smirking, Mikaela gathered up her things and took a few steps toward him. “Don’t worry,” she said in a lowered voice. “This isn’t a come-on. Booths are just more comfortable and conducive to conversation.” She headed toward one. “Besides,” she tossed over her shoulder, “I hate those mirrors behind the bar.”
Blood rose in Jackson’s face as he followed her. Was his skittishness that obvious? “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s all right if you did mean to imply. Too many people do their mate-shopping in drinking establishments. I just don’t happen to be one of them.” Looking up at him, Mikaela slid onto the booth’s tufted seat. Her mouth wore a hint of a taunting smile. “I’ll even help you figure out what to say next. Why don’t you start by telling me what you do? For a living, I mean.”
Jackson sat across from her. “Carpentry. And, uh, thanks for letting me off the hook.” His smile was self-conscious.
“You’re welcome. And to reassure you further, I never mastered the art of seduction. Don’t want to bother, quite frankly.”
More intrigued by the moment, Jackson didn’t know what to make of her. That seduction statement mystified him. Had he inadvertently offended her? Whatever the case, it seemed more prudent to change the subject. He didn’t want to get embroiled in some prickly discussion about her psychic quirks. That would be way, way too personal to suit his current mood.
“So why do you hate the mirrors?” As soon as Jackson asked the question, he realized he just had stepped into psychic-quirks territory. It just didn’t seem quite as treacherous as Seduction Land.
After taking off her glasses and tucking them into her briefcase, Mikaela folded her arms on the table’s glossy red top. “For one thing, I don’t like looking at myself.”
“Why’s that? I sure don’t mind looking at you.” Jackson wondered vaguely if he just said that to be nice or if he was beginning to flirt.
The statement was enough to draw a faint blush from Mikaela. Uncharacteristically, she broke eye contact. “There’s just something weird about ogling oneself for no particular reason. Doing it habitually suggests egotism.”
Jackson toasted her with his beer bottle and took a drink. “Can’t argue that point.”
“And mirrors in public places seem to bring out the stealth in people. Rather than approach and talk to one another, they fall back on sneaking sly glances.”
Jackson couldn’t help but smile. “So you believe in the straightforward approach.”
“Usually.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Not all the time?”
“Of course not all the time. Some filtering is necessary. For various reasons.” Looking a tad edgy, Mikaela finished her drink. “Do you build houses?” she asked without transition.
A musing smile still on his face, Jackson studied her a few beats longer. “Used to. Now I build what goes in and around houses. What do you do?”
“Teach composition at Lennard.”
Although Mikaela’s gaze was direct once more, Jackson got the distinct impression she had reined in her spontaneity. She was almost certainly doing some “filtering” while they spoke.
Taking a long swallow of beer, he decided this woman was quite appealing, in an understated and unconventional way. And she was definitely bright.
“Lennard—isn’t that the community college?” Jackson motioned to
the bartender to bring him another drink.
Mikaela nodded. She adjusted the clip in her hair. A few strands came loose and fell against the back of her neck and along one cheek. Ignoring them, she sipped at her drink. Jackson considered reaching across the bar and tucking the fallen hank behind her ear. He’d done that sort of thing before, when he was in grab-ass mode. Today he balked.
Downing more beer, he hazily wondered what the hell was coming over him. Why had he even thought about touching the woman’s hair? Must be the alcohol, seeping into his brain cells and fueling his libido. That must be it. The feeling was a familiar one. He’d pissed away a good portion of his youth in this state or worse, feeling hormonally nudged toward some hook-up he’d either regret or forget the next day.
Then again, it could be that Angelina had perfectly pegged the nature of his needs. He didn’t want to dwell on that likelihood.
Mikaela’s face gradually took on a puzzled expression as she once again studied him. “You know,” she said, “there’s something different about you.”
His eyes focused on her. Different from the ordinary bar-fly? he almost asked. But he did have some sense left. “Oh? Like…good different or bad different?”
Mikaela seemed to consider this. “Mysterious,” she concluded.
Jackson realized he was indeed drinking too much too fast. His mind felt encased in a ball of fuzz. Worse yet…
Worse yet, a woman he found appealing had just pronounced him “mysterious.” Shit. He didn’t need to start losing his inhibitions with that word hanging in the air.
“I’m not trying to be,” he said, hoping he looked and sounded ingenuous. Unfortunately, it didn’t come easily. Not that he was lying—Jackson truly never made any effort to be mysterious—but he just didn’t convey innocence very well. He was too experienced.
Mikaela quite intently regarded him now, her chin resting in her hand. “No, I don’t think you’re trying.” She shook her head and shrugged. “Maybe it’s…some aftereffect of that accident you had. Maybe it changed you in ways you’re not aware of.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware of all the ways,” Jackson said. He put the beer bottle to his lips, tilted it steeply, and poured the rest of its contents down his throat.
