Dead Sexy

by Tate Hallaway

  An hour later, I stood at the bus stop. Rain dripped off my umbrella. I'd dressed for the weather: simple wide-cuff black jeans, an oversized wool sweater, and combat boots. If it wasn't for the scarlet bat on the back of my ankle-length coat, I'd have looked positively normal.

  The interior of the bus smelled of wet, grouchy people. I wedged into a hard plastic seat next to a businessman balancing his laptop on his knees. The strong odor of his cologne mingled with the stink of warm bodies. Steam obscured the passing scenery so badly that I overshot my stop by three blocks.

  I stomped through the puddles as I made my way back up State Street, cursing all the overhanging awnings that sent down unexpected splatters of water. By the time I reached the coffee shop, I felt like a drowned rat. I probably looked like one too.

  But the coffeejock behind the bar took my order with a smile. I guessed the trivia question right and got twenty-five cents off my latte, and according to my watch I had a whole half hour to kill before I had to start the process of opening up shop. I put my feet up on a nearby chair and scanned the latest issue of The Onion for something funny. Despite myself, I got caught up in one of their crazy pothead columns. I was chuckling to myself when the door chimes caught my attention.

  The rain did beautiful things to Dominguez. Curls plastered themselves to his head in a way that made me want to be the bearer of a warm towel and a hot cup of cocoa. Our eyes met. He smiled.

  My hand strayed to the spot under my sweater where the spell charm hung around my neck. I smelled the faint scent of roses as he pulled up a chair to sit by me. "We meet again, Ms. Marlena Ito."

  I laughed. "Indeed."

  "Any progress on my astrological chart?"

  I'd forgotten I'd promised to cast his chart. "No. I had a family crisis last night."

  I tried to sound light, but he must have caught something in my tone. He leaned closer, and those crystal blue eyes sought out mine. "Nothing too serious, I hope."

  "My boyfriend broke up with me."

  I swear I saw a twinkle in his eye. The corners of his mouth twitched like he was desperately trying to hold back a smile. "That's terrible," he said unconvincingly.

  I couldn't help but grin at him. His enthusiasm was so cute.

  The table was narrow enough that his knees brushed against mine. Instead of making all the usual apologies, we just smiled stupidly at each other. I ran a finger along the edge of my coffee cup trying to remember why I'd been so freaked out when I first saw him. Sure, he had a few rough edges, but the more I looked at them the more I decided they were really hard angles, the kind I liked on a man.

  "You're at loose ends today?" He asked.

  "I wish," I said. "Work."

  "For a sub, you work a lot."

  Go with the truth, Garnet. "I need the money." He nodded as though he completely understood. I suspected he might. He didn't have the demeanor of someone who'd had life handed to him on a silver spoon. He seemed like the sort who took odd jobs, maybe several of them at once, to pay for college.

  Not like Sebastian, who died before universities were invented, or Parrish, who lived the kind of rough-and-tumble life where reading was only important as a survival skill. Dominguez was normal. It was strangely appealing on this dark and rainy morning.

  "Take me to lunch." As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Sebastian and I always had a lunch date. I couldn't believe I was replacing him so quickly. Then I reminded myself that this wasn't a real date. I was trying to keep Dominguez in my romantic thrall. His broad, sexy smile made me fairly certain the spell was working.

  "Sounds like a plan," he said. "What time do you get off?" I had to bite my lip to keep from saying something wildly inappropriate. "Noon."

  "Great. I heard about this excellent pizza shop I want to try."

  At least it wasn't the deli. "I look forward to it."

  As he got up to find a place in line, I watched the way his pants hugged his backside. It was far too easy to imagine his body hardened by FBI training underneath those wet, clinging clothes. I found myself actually serious about being excited to see him again. It wasn't going to be any kind of hardship to spend time with this man.

  * * * *

  The pre-Halloween/Samhain rush was on at the store. In between customers, William and I spent the morning decorating the front window with seasonally appropriate books and plastic jack-o'-lanterns. I hung up a cardboard cartoon Witch, and set out a cauldron filled with an aromatherapy steam machine. It was a nice effect. No doubt we'd soon be getting the call from the local Madison paper for an interview with a real Witch for their Halloween human-interest story in the next few days.

  So many people came and went that before I knew it, the morning was over and I was looking into the startlingly blue eyes of Gabriel Dominguez again.

  His smile gave him dimples. I liked how it made him look younger and more approachable.

  William nearly choked when I told him we were off to lunch. "Are you sure? I mean, we've been so busy."

  "Garnet out sick again?" Dominguez asked.

  "It's a head thing," William said, giving me a disapproving purse of his lips. "I think it's serious."

  "Are you ready?" To distract Dominguez, I tucked my arm into his elbow. My fingers curled around the solid form of his forearm and something passed between us. Our eyes met. His were wide, searching. He'd felt it too.

  "Uh, yeah." He blinked. Dominguez looked down at me like he wanted to say more, his lips parted as if he might kiss me.

  I leaned closer, inviting him to do just that.

  William cleared his throat.

  Dominguez broke eye contact, and suddenly the heat between us vanished, only to be replaced by a warm flush at my cheeks.

  Whoa. This spell was a little strong. It was affecting me too.

  I needed to keep a clear head if I was going to convince Dominguez to go easy on me. I smiled at that thought. He was already easy on my eyes, and it didn't take much to imagine how easy it would be to run my fingers through those thick, dark curls.

  Suddenly, my fingers were there, feeling the curl of short hairs at the back of his neck and the corded muscles of his shoulders.

  "Jesus, Garnet. What would Sebastian say?" William said with a shake of his head.

  Dominguez's gaze, which had been focused on my lower lip, narrowed suddenly and sharpened. "Garnet?" He broke from our embrace to flick his eyes over me, and then he added in a tone full of self-congratulation, "I knew it."

  5

  Leo

  KEYWORDS:

  Theatrical and Romantic

  The look I shot William should have killed him, but instead he stared back at me with eyes wide and full of regret.

  "I mean…" William's gaze darted around as though frantically looking for a way to take it back. Finally, he stared hard at Dominguez, puffed out his narrow chest, and said, "I swear to God I didn't say that."

  Meanwhile, my hand strayed to the amulet hidden under my sweater. Pulling it out into the open air, I pinched the fabric between my fingers. The barbs of the burrs poked my fingers sharply through the silk. The smell of jasmine and roses filled my nose.

  Dominguez's eyes followed my movements intently, like a predator tracking prey.

  William came out from behind the register. A customer with a handful of incense sticks watched with a mixture of annoyance and rapt attention. "Don't arrest her," William said. "You can't. She didn't do it."

  I shot William the for-Goddess's-sake-stop-talking look.

  "Sounds like you know a lot of details," Dominguez said to William, even though he continued to face me. "I'll be talking to you later."

  William turned white as a sheet. The customer leaned on the counter to listen more closely.

  "It's okay," I told William. Then, when that didn't shake him out of his stupor, I jerked my chin in the direction of the eavesdropper. "Customer."

  William hesitated. I could tell he didn't want to leave me undefended.

>   "No, really," I insisted. "It's okay. I'll be back after lunch."

  "You're awfully confident," Dominguez said.

  Remembering Parrish's advice from last night, I used my most innocent voice to say, "I've got nothing to hide."

  Even if I didn't convince Dominguez or myself, William slowly moved back behind the counter.

  Releasing the spell bag, I reached for Dominguez's hand. I felt a rush as our skin connected. His palms were warm and smooth. "Do you still want to go out? We could talk."

  He stared at our intertwined hands like they were writhing aliens. Then he looked into my eyes. "Uh."

  Pausing from counting the packages of incense, William's eyes darted between Dominguez and the charm around my neck. "Magic?" he mouthed.

  I gave William a curt nod in response. To Dominguez, I said, "How about pizza? You said you knew a good place?" I gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

  "Uh."

  "Come on, Dominguez." I pulled him gently in the direction of the door.

  "Yeah. Uh, sure. Yeah," he muttered as he got his bearings. With his free hand, he fished car keys from his pocket.

  I grabbed my umbrella from where it was propped near the door, tucking it and my coat under my arm. Opening the door spattered my face with cold wind and rain. I desperately wanted to put my coat on, but I was afraid to break skin-to-skin contact with Dominguez. Instead I struggled awkwardly one-handed with the umbrella as we stepped out into the downpour.

  We paused under the store's awning. Dominguez seemed to be trying to remember where he parked, so I gave him a moment to think it through, though I never let go of his hand. The storm was still so intense that even though it was noon, the sky was dark as night. The neon sign cast nickering sickly green shadows on the wet stained concrete at our feet.

  "This way," he finally declared, though he sounded less than convinced. I made a mental note to tone down the effect of this spell. I wanted Dominguez smitten, not addled.

  The rain muffled the sounds of our footsteps. State Street was eerily empty of its usual traffic. The only person we passed was a middle-aged homeless man huddled in a doorway with newspaper over his head who watched our progress with tired eyes. I ducked my head to avoid a gust of wind. Raindrops battered the umbrella, sounding like a drum.

  Before I knew it, we were standing in front of Dominguez's car. Practical, black, boring, and just a little too tidy, I could have marked it as a government-issue vehicle a mile away. The new-car smell clung tenaciously to the interior, despite the fact that it had clearly seen a few occupants and more than its share of miles. I had to move aside a thick file folder before I could sit. Dominguez took it from me and held it close to his chest possessively. When he slammed the door and glared at me, I remembered I'd had to let go of his hand.

  "Lying to a federal investigator is a crime, Ms. Lacey."

  How about lying underneath one? I almost said, but luckily I stopped myself in time. I tucked the spell charm back into my shirt; it was clearly interfering with my ability to concentrate.

  "It wasn't really my intention to lie to you," I said. "At first, I thought you knew who I was, and then when I discovered you didn't, I kind of took advantage of it. Cops make me nervous." My sheepish smile died when I saw Dominguez's expression.

  "Why lie at all? Are you trying to protect yourself or someone else?"

  Oh, he was good. I felt completely cornered. So, instead of answering, I asked: "Is it my fault you're a blocked psychic?"

  Dominguez started to say something, then did a kind of double take. "What?"

  "You knew who I was when you first asked," I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "Deny it."

  "I had my suspicions," Dominguez offered tentatively.

  Before he could go on, I cut him off. "You knew. You've been psychic your whole life."

  He studied the steering wheel, resting his thumbs on the leather grip. "Not my whole life. Only since I turned twenty-eight."

  His surprise confession killed the hot retort I had ready. "Twenty-eight?" I repeated. Though he didn't look up at me to confirm it, I took his silence as consent. "Saturn Return," I said as though that explained everything. To me, it did.

  A Saturn Return is when that planet moves into the same position in the sky as it was on the day you were born. Because Saturn is associated with maturity, fate, and discipline, a lot of people's lives go to hell in a handbasket. It's a time of high stress. People tend to make major life-defining choices during their Saturn Return: buying a house, getting married, having kids, getting a divorce, moving across country, taking a new job, joining the French foreign legion…

  And some of them, apparently, become psychic.

  When I put it that way, it sounded a bit ridiculous, but I could see it. Saturn's role in astrology was as a kind of a personality crucible. Saturn was the voice of the parent who says shit like, "If it doesn't kill you, it'll make you stronger." You know, that dreaded "character building."

  Whatever Saturn Return pressures hit Dominguez must have broken down some defenses. The walls came down, and out poured his psychic abilities.

  Turning thirty sucks on general principles. But, man, finding out you're also a psychic must have really blew. "Saturn Returns are life changers, all right," I muttered sympathetically. "I guess you really got hit, eh?"

  "That's what Madame Zostro told me." I had no idea who this madame was, but I could guess she was one of those storefront fortunetellers who always advertised that walk-ins were welcome. I was beginning to understand why Dominguez was willing to let me do his astrological chart. He was looking for some answers.

  He nodded as though to himself. "While all that might be true, you still lied to me about who you were, even after I identified myself as an FBI agent." He glanced up at me mischievously. "Even after you thought I was psychic."

  I was getting pretty tired of being accused of being a liar, even if, in this case, it was true. "If you know all that, you understand my motivations."

  "I don't, really." Dominguez put his hands on the steering wheel in the two-and-ten position, but didn't move to start the car. "Now that he broke up with you, why are you still protecting him?"

  "Who? Sebastian?"

  "Parrish," Dominguez said. "Daniel Parrish?"

  "Parrish isn't my boyfriend. Not anymore."

  He squinted at me and scratched behind his ear. "Isn't that what I just said?"

  "Parrish and I broke up a long time ago. Way before last night."

  Dominguez nodded, but his eyes looked at me as if he didn't believe a word I said. I felt like I was having this argument with Sebastian all over again too.

  "Seriously," I insisted.

  Lightning flashed, lighting the street for a split second. Lilith tightened the muscles of my stomach. It bothered me deeply that Dominguez had connected Parrish and I.

  Dominguez continued, "Maybe it's just a coincidence that Parrish happened to move to the very town you relocated to. Maybe your defensive behavior has nothing to do with him. All I know is you seem guilty of something." His tone was cold and his eyes colder. I had to figure out a way to initiate a little physical contact, which clearly intensified the power of the spell. "Do you want to tell me of what?"

  The wind tossed a wave of rain across the hood. Our breath had begun to fog the windows. I twirled the umbrella between my knees. "No?"

  "What happened last Halloween, Garnet? What made you leave town?"

  The concern in his eyes made me turn away. I watched rivulets of water make their crooked way down the window-pane, like tears.

  The desire to confess overwhelmed me. All the death, all the secrets pressed like a stone on my chest, constricting it. I swallowed hard.

  "You can tell me," Dominguez said, putting a hand lightly on my thigh. "I'll understand."

  "My coven…" Images from that night came back to me.

  Naked bodies lying on the floor, dead, inside what was meant to be a protective circle. Nightingale's glassy gaze capturing
mine, and that horrible, creeping realization of the meaning of the dark stain of a bullet hole marring her beautiful pale face. The smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies mingling with the coppery scent of blood. Then the click of guns, the sense of being caught in the crosshairs with nowhere to run. Blackness. Waking up to even more death, alone.

  I didn't realize I'd started crying until Dominguez handed me a tissue. "Do you know who killed them? Are you still in danger?"

  I almost laughed. Where was the FBI six months ago, when the Vatican came here looking for Sebastian? I was alone then too.

  A tremor rippled across my stomach.

  No, not alone, Lilith was there. She was still here.

  I dabbed my nose and tried to pull my thoughts together. I decided to stick to as much of the truth as I could.

  "There's a group—a religious order—that take the whole 'thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live' thing seriously. The Order of Eustace they called themselves, but really they're a modern Inquisition. Their members all have a tattoo of that chapter and verse—Exodus 22:18—somewhere on their bodies.

  "My coven always lived in fear of discovery," I said. "We were strict about using craft names. Even so, I guess the order found them."

  Dominguez had nodded encouragingly all the while I'd been talking. He didn't seem all that shocked to hear about a secret order of assassins running around. I got the impression that maybe the FBI knew something about the Witch hunters, but he'd wanted to hear my take on them. Before I could ask him about that, he said, "And now those priests are dead."

  "Well, good riddance," I spat before I could stop myself. "I didn't know those guys, okay? My friends are dead too."

  Dominguez pulled a file folder from somewhere behind his seat. And tossed a pile of papers in my lap. "You want to know them? Here they are."

  I looked down at the faces I hadn't seen since that night. They all looked so young… so grumpy. To be fair, the images had clearly been blown up from passport mug shots, so most of them had that vaguely disgruntled look of someone required to jump through a bureaucratic hoop.

  On their own volition my fingers moved through the papers. There was just enough of the passport that I could read their country of origin. One had been a scruffy-looking Brazilian who gave the camera a slightly cocky, self-satisfied smile more suited to a soccer player than a priest. There was a black South African; a gruff, beefy Italian American; an Armenian from Jerusalem; a Texan with a goofy, frat-boy grin; and a solemn Irishman with lanky blond hair and anxious eyes.