Nicky stored some of Felicia’s effects in a third floor room at the LaNeau, some were inside a sewing machine drawer; decks of cards, photos, herbs, stones and strange leather-bound books, hidden beneath sewing notions.
One night when Nicky was out with friends, Diana picked the lock with a hair pin. After sorting through stacks of oddities, she discovered a book buried beneath old photos, paperback novels and handwritten recipes—a tome filled with incantations. And on the timeworn cover, emblazoned in bold print, was the word GRIMOIRE.
She felt a chill when she began to read the spells, some were tricks for baiting desperate women, but there were others, written with red ink; and there was a warning where a stained ribbon marked a yellowed page. It read, “Don’t read any further unless you really want what you’re wishing for.”
Diana felt foolish for a moment, thinking about low budget horror flicks, where such actions brought forth demons and killers. She chided herself for being irrational, and then excitement filled her as she continued to read chants. She ran her hand over drawings of winged creatures, cat people and beings, with curling tentacles, rising from the sea.
There was a drawing of the LaNeau, and creatures—humanoid and beastly—knelt on the rolling hills leading to the hotel. A large black panther sat atop the hotel’s highest spire. And there were curious renderings of a crone, piercing a man’s skin with a dagger-like sewing needle; blood droplets splattered on the walls behind the two figures, and feathers had been stitched on the man’s flesh. The progression of the old woman’s work went on for several pages, like a surreal movie clip. And in the end, the man’s torso, arms and legs were thick with feathers; and the hoary woman had created macabre wings on his back, stretching to a cobwebbed ceiling.
Esoteric charms were abundant in the Grimoire as well, intricate sigils with Astrological symbols, and Latin phrases entwined within ornate circles.
About halfway through that volume, Diana discovered a section of forbidden love spells. One, labeled, Enchantments of the Oldens, caught her attention. One page had been folded at the corner, and what looked like blood stains spattered over the words. Someone had drawn small pen and ink felines around it; and their eyes were dark and intelligent. A rush of adrenaline filled her, and she told herself, “This is the right one. I know it.”
At that moment, rain began to pummel against the hotel windows, and blackbirds screeched, flapping their wings against the darkened sky. Ancient radiators clanged and hissed, releasing spiraling steam across the floor. Her instincts told her to shut the book, return it to where she’d found it, but she told herself, “I’m just a young girl playing a game.” But her gut told her a different story—it said that true magic existed within that grimoire, and she felt magical—as though she had gained access to other realms—to things that few people could obtain.
“No harm done, and if it really works, then it’ll be cool,” she whispered to herself.
So she memorized invocations written in Latin, hoping she pronounced the words right, and then she followed the instructions.
She laid two sewing needles of the same size side by side, with the point of each one facing the eye of the other. Next she wrapped the needles in a rose leaf she’d grabbed from a vase in the hall, and then tied it with a red ribbon. She put everything in a pouch, fastened a string through it, and knotted it around her neck. It needed to be fed, two drops of whiskey a day, but a footnote instructed: “Two drops of your own blood--once a day--will enhance the outcome. This spell is strong…and later your dreams may invoke you for another offering."——
So, Diana nourished the magical potion with her blood, and once more she said the Latin words as best she could. She pricked her index finger for two days. When it became sore, she pricked her thumb, and then her other fingers. After three weeks, she dreamed of her home—the hotel on the hill during an elaborate party, with fresh bouquets on mantles and tables. People wearing masks danced, threw flowers at a man dressed in a black tuxedo. He moved toward Diana, stood by her side, and then he whispered in her ear, “I want something from you, something that may be hard to do.” He waved his hand, and then showed her what the little sack needed next. Diana woke with a start, and then remembered the words--"...your dreams may invoke you for another offering."
Once again euphoria filled her, because the book possessed true enchantment. Why else had it been locked away? So, she obeyed the dream man with the next moon's waxing, pressing a sharp kitchen knife to her belly, cutting her skin until only raw pulp remained—a small spot, only an inch or so, but it hurt like hell, and it bled copiously. And she gathered that blood in a small copper cup.
On the next full moon night, she repeated the act, crying in pain when she opened the self-inflicted wound. She poured the fresh blood into her bag, and then felt faint, as crimson droplets trickled down her stomach. She allowed her lifeblood to flow, gazing at the rawness of her wound. With every drop she imagined Tyler holding her, kissing her—and she convinced herself that the spell had worked. “So be it,” she said when thunder boomed.
Before long, blackness overtook her, and voices echoed in her head. Images of things with pointed teeth and yellow eyes taunted her, but they dissipated when Nicky's voice awakened her. He stood over her, anger in his voice when he asked, “What have you done?” He put his hands on his hips, thought a moment before he spoke, and then told her, “I’m taking you to the ER…and the rest of it. Well, I'll handle it later. There are things that have to be done now."
She questioned what—if anything—Nicky had done, but as time passed, she rationalized that she’d been a thoughtless young girl, and believing in magic had been just as absurd. No matter what she did, Tyler Bane might be unobtainable endlessly; but years later, as Tyler lay in a covered casket, she wondered if she’d paid a price for her foolish deed.
6.
Tonight privileged friends and associates threw roses on Tyler’s coffin, and selected photographers captured their final shots.
Despite the outwardly tough demeanor Diana had learned to cultivate over the years, on this night she let it slip enough to cry for her husband in public. Though she loved him, she also harbored deep anger and resentment for Tyler. She’d stored it up for years, but now tears trickled down her cheeks freely, part sorrow and pain, part release. She had a secret, and she kept it gracefully, never letting on that this aching was rawer, more unbearable, than any other she’d known. She’d wept through the night of his murder, until tears would come no more, until her eyes stung; and her legs and arms ached from knelling on the floor within a shrine she’d made for him of old photos, life-sized posters and CD covers. She thought she’d die too, that she belonged beside him, their bodies cold like stone and still; waiting for some lyrical ferryman to take them to another place, but this had been one of many nights she’d spent this way—waiting for him, agonizing over whom he was with, and what acts they performed together, but he’d always come home. This time he wouldn’t—and this time the world watched her sorrow.
As news helicopters hovered above the graveyard, Bruno spoke to her as though in a dream. “Going back to New York any time soon?” His voice was thin, sad, stripped of its usual strength.
“I’ll stick around here a while, clean up the old house. Nicky can handle things from there; maybe get the place on the market for sale. I need to get back to the clinic.”
Diana bit her lip, gazing at a somber Nicky Bernardo—the man she called father—throw silver coins on Tyler’s casket. He stood there a moment shaking his head, and then suddenly plucked a red rose from his lapel. He knelt, placed it at the edge of the grave, and then got up slowly.
He made his way through the crowd, shaking hands with people, speaking for a moment, and then moving on. Even though celebrities were plentiful, Nicky was a bright star in the crowd, charismatic and unique. He had an air of authority, and of one who demanded instant obedience, and his eyes shined with curiosity and intelligence. He removed his hat, and smoothed down h
is hair when a young blonde woman approached him. They spoke for a moment, and then he sauntered away from the girl, his eyes moving over the crowd.
“He’s looking for me, I’m sure of it. Such a vain bastard. He had work done.” Diana shook her head.
She couldn’t rationalize any other reason for her father’s appearance. She envisioned him going for Botox treatments and a hair transplant. He awed her as always, so arrogant and calm. He was handsome man with penetrating eyes, dark brown hair tapering neatly to his collar and richly tanned skin. She knew that he courted women years younger than himself, and that he brought them to the bed he’d once shared with her mother at the LaNeau.
She saw young women at the hotel when she was a kid, dancing with Nicky in the ballroom, and sometimes leaving at dawn, taken away by one of Nicky’s drivers—and quickly replaced by another girl when he grew restless.
“He is my father though,” she said softly.
Bruno nodded, and told her. “Blood is strong. Hey, I’ll see you in a bit,” Then he stepped into the mass of mourners.
At that moment Nicky caught Diana’s gaze, smiled slowly, and then quickened his stride, not bothering to stop to chat with people who touched his shoulder or greeted him.
He’d be beside her in a moment, and she realized that, despite all that had gone down, she felt safe, warm in his presence—and despite his faults—she hoped that he could make things right.
7.
February 1988
Diana slowly overcame the embarrassment she’d felt for tinkering with so-called magic, and Nicky advised her to begin to think about going back to school, so she indulged him, studying college catalogs and signing up for a few classes at the community college. She no longer pined for Tyler, until a chilly day in February, when she walked the boardwalk, peering into shop windows.
A stringed instrument sounded, a familiar tune wafting from the beach, a song she’d heard Tyler play at Club Solomon, and then his deep bluesy voice accompanied the haunting guitar. She went to the barrier separating the boardwalk from the seaside, and there he was, standing on the beach, lost in his music--and birds circled above him, seemingly flapping ink-black wings to his melody. And she climbed the wall, tramped over sand, and then sat cross-legged in front of him, swaying to melancholy notes; and he didn’t question her, as though he’d been waiting.
Her father watched from his boardwalk shop, later telling her again to stay away from Tyler, but they began to meet in cafes, drinking espresso and speaking about his music, and how he wanted to go to New York, play in downtown clubs and become a star.
After a few weeks, in a boardwalk coffee shop, he sipped from an ornate cup, gazing at the sky, flinching when a black bird flew past the cafe window, and then a trio of stray cats slinked by the window. “Damn mousers are everywhere. I see more and more every day,” he said.
She grimaced as the felines strutted off the pavement, onto the shore, seemingly heading toward the LaNeau.
“Cats are interesting, worshipped by Egyptians and supposedly able to transcend time, but they have a creepy side.” Tyler shook his head.
“I don’t care, I love them. Nicky does, too, and allows them in the hotel.”
Tyler shrugged, looking thoughtful, and then he asked, “Do you know the history of Talbot’s Bay?”
“So many stories. And who knows what really went down?”
He tapped his fingers on the table, “Book I found in one of the shops on the boardwalk said Talbot's Bay was established by a dude named Herman—or Harold-- Talbot, after Providence was founded by Roger Williams in 1636. They scored a royal charter, along with other Rhode Island communities back around 1663. It said that Talbot practiced black magic, and he sacrificed his first wife during a ceremony on a December solstice.
“And settlers found weird paintings in caves by the ocean. Stone carvings of demons with feline faces; and a curious statue of a sea Goddess sat in the middle of those carvings, supposedly stained with human blood.”
“Native America stuff?” she asked, awed at his talent for narration and history.
“No, different than that...and that’s what’s so weird… and sightings of cat people have been recorded since old man Talbot’s day. The stories vary, mostly told by children, and by guys who hunted in the hills, around where the hotel is now, and supposedly another place of worship was there before that monstrosity, but it burnt down—temple built by a French sorcerer, named Cecile LaNeau —and that’s why they come every year…the dudes in the caravan.” He smiled; proud of the information he’d shared.
But then his eyes grew dark, and he said eerily, “They’ll always come…”
“You must have done well in school. You remember all those dates like it’s nothing.”
“Didn’t do that well in school,” he laughed. “I like reading books, but on my own terms—and one of the travelers—guy named Magician—told me a bunch of stuff.”
Flashes of a long ago winter solstice flickered through her mind—Tyler, Nicky, Magician and a mysterious woman in Nicky’s office--and then she said, “I like books, too.”
Tyler pursed his lips, and then spoke softly. “Hey, do you know anything about the one that they talk about—Nicky and the others—a Grimoire? I’d love to take a look at it. Maybe you know--”
“I’ve seen it.” She thought about the tome, locked away in Felicia’s drawer.
“You do know where it is then?”
She nodded. “My mother used it. Nicky locked it up in her old sewing machine. Just ask him. I know that he considers you a friend.”
“I did ask, and it seemed like he’d be okay with it, but he’s hard to pin him down with certain things…I hate to keep bugging him about it. Oh, if I could just look at it, maybe study it for a while,” he told her. “I can meet you at the hotel…tonight. I’d give it back in two days—I promise.”
“I don’t know. He gave me orders not to touch it. There was an incident a while back and…”
Tyler slid down in his seat, disappointment etched across his face. And he whispered, “It’s okay. I understand.”
She’d do anything for Tyler, and feared that he’d stop seeing her if she refused his request. A young girl’s love often lacks rationality, and her desire for Tyler had already driven her to desperate acts—and she admitted to herself that she was already in too deep emotionally. And Nicky trusted Tyler enough to employ him—to befriend him—so it had to be okay. Or would it? Nicky would be livid if he caught her with the grimoire again. But she’d made up her mind, and told Tyler, “I guess…if you gave it right back. I know how my father can be when he gets moody…or if he thinks he’s being disrespected. Best not to say anything to him for now, I guess. It would be my ass more than yours.”
His face brightened, and he reached over, took her hand, telling her softly, “It’s our secret. He won’t find out.”
So, later she picked the sewing machine’s lock, fearing that Nicky might have hidden the book elsewhere, but he hadn’t. And she retrieved the volume, balancing it on her palms for a moment, afraid that any moment Nicky would storm into the room, and she’d know his wrath.
Chills ran up her spine when she heard voices emanating from the one of the bedrooms. She stopped a moment, listening, then realized a radio played in one of the servant’s quarters. And she trembled when she moved down the stairs and through the main hall, quickly walking to the door, feeling relief that her father was nowhere in sight. Tyler waited in the garden, and she went into the rain to meet him, elated when he smiled. She laid the grimoire in his open hands, telling him breathlessly, “Please keep your promise to me.”
“I’ll meet you back at the café in two days—noon.”
And he kissed her, telling her, “You’re special, Diana. You were too young before, but now...” And then he turned, moving down the hill, humming softly. She watched him disappear within thick brush, and she stood there a while watching steam rise from the earth, and rain splattering on cement. Something
flickered out of the corner of her eye, and when she turned, she spied a large black cat rubbing against one of the worn stone effigies. Thunder boomed and the animal bolted into the woods, yelping and hissing, and she heard Tyler’s words echo in her head, “…able to transcend time…”
She went to Club Solomon later that evening, and stood in the doorway, listening to Tyler’s guitar, afraid to venture inside, and then she split when Nicky emerged from behind the bar, and when a familiar throbbing in her right eye began, a warning that a migraine would soon afflict her.
She’d parked her car in the alley between Club Solomon and Cheng’s Chinese Laundry. A wave of dizziness assaulted her as she jogged to the vehicle. Diana quickly threw open the door, and slid inside. Then she sat there, gazing at rainwater streaking the windshield, and thinking of Tyler.
Her eyes grew heavy, and then pain seared through her head, numbing her, as though she’d fallen through a black hole.
Falling, arms limp by her side and blackbirds screaming as she sailed through pitch-black night. And wild cats roared, chasing Diana through a wicked wonderland, where the dead rose from ancient graves.
“Daddy,” she called out, and Nicky took her hand, whispering incantations from that secret grimoire. Blood poured from the sky, into a copper cup and her father pressed its lip to her mouth. Warmth filled her. and someone said, “The spell is sealed…you’ll pay the price.”
And eventually blurry vision ceased; and the beauty of night displayed a blue velvet sky and jewel-like stars, lights flickered behind shaded windows and ocean waves rushed to the shore.
Suddenly Club Solomon’s backstreet door opened, and someone laughed. Exotic dancers made their way past Diana’s car, their fingers tapped playfully on the windshield, and mocking eyes glared at her. Sequined scarves fluttered, and silver beads and lace shimmered; and feathered earrings swayed back and forth, as if in time to a distant rhythm.
City at the Edge of the Earth Page 3
