Curse the day I met Anastasia Justice! Curse it! Blood of my Blood, rebel sister turned BETRAYER. How could a witch as powerful as she (that’s the word on the street anyway, personally, I don’t see it) not feel the bond that flows between us like water down a rushing river? How does she not know when she looks at me that we were born of the same flesh (okay, so my hair is straight out of the bottle, Hot Tamale #546 or something, but still)?
Oh, the pain is great, but I shall not sway from my Quest. I shall forge on and find my mother. I shall stare Evil in the face and fight it with all my might. I shall discover my own familiar, gather my own magical tools and the Universe will guide me to Victory!
Cautiously, I continue my lonely Journey, for the Darkness is everywhere. As a Solitary Practitioner, I shall keep my Enemies close, wherever they may be. Up ahead, I spot a refuge where I will gain sustenance, strength and stamina. (Plus, I gotta find out what kind of asshattery goes on in a place with a neon sign of a bleached-blond winking as her boobs spill into a martini glass.)
Until we meet again—farewell Anastasia!
-Ivy Geraghty, Junior Apprentice Warrior Goddess (in training) Lone Warrior Goddess
TWELVE
Amethyst was the kind of Main Street town people visited to get away from the city and step into nostalgia. Everything you’d want to capture with your camera could be covered in forty-eight hours, which meant restaurants, bars, and attractions were well within walking distance. I wrote Chance a note explaining where I would be, climbed into a coat and pulled a hat over my head.
The nicest thing I could say about Monique is that she was charm-free. She was also a thief. She’s been trying to steal Cin’s husband for years. She also tried to steal Leo, Chance, even Black Opal patrons by opening a bar right across the street from Cinnamon’s. Which worked out well for her since the fire, but you could be sure it was temporary.
The streets were packed with tourists window shopping and wandering around trying to decide what to eat for dinner. The aroma of fresh bread wafting from Giorgio’s drew cravings for spaghetti smothered in basil marinara, while some were pulled towards the smoky scent of char-broiled burgers filtering from the Diamond Diner. A few businesses had outdoor speakers pointed toward the sidewalk, hoping to snag last minute customers with acoustical jazz. In front of the small square, Buddy, the resident carriage horse, lowered his head for children to stroke his blond mane.
Down and Dirty sat on the right side of Main Street, about a block from the square and a few doors down from Muddy Waters coffee shop. The antique wooden doors were painted fuchsia and there was a sign out front advertising Karaoke tonight from 8-10. I shoved my way through, anticipating the attack on my sensibilities. Monique’s bar looked like a nineteenth century brothel, complete with gilded gold accents, velvet-papered walls, fishnet-covered leg lamps and the woman herself.
When Monique wasn’t working, she dressed to reflect the kind of man she was looking to land that week. For instance, there was a lot of leather and cheap, mirrored sunglasses involved when she went after Leo. Otherwise, as the proprietor of the sleaziest bar this side of Vegas, she usually looked like she stepped out of a burlesque video.
Tonight’s ensemble had me perplexed.
A long blond wig carpeted her frame, a seashell bra barely hid her plastic boobs, and glued to her torso was a green sequined mermaid costume. She was having a heck of a time scooting around.
“Finally!” She said and grabbed my arm. She had been bent over her window display when I entered. Probably adding more condoms to the bowl. “What took you so long?” she demanded.
Normally, I wouldn’t ask, but I couldn’t help myself. “What’s with the getup?”
She smirked at me. “Duh. It’s 80s night, didn’t you read the sign?”
That didn’t exactly clear things up. I raised an eyebrow.
Monique batted long fake silver lashes at me. She wore enough makeup to re-paint the Sistine Chapel.
“The movie, Splash.” She hopped backwards and struck a ridiculous pose. “I’m Daryl Hannah.”
“Sure you are. And I’m Cleopatra.” I scanned the bar. It was early, but I spotted Madonna, Springsteen, and Cher at a table near the front of the building.
No Ivy.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“You mean the talking Bratz doll?” Monique shuffled her fins and waved me forward.
I spotted Ivy as we got a little closer, writing away in her notebook, perched on the last stool. Scully, a regular at the Opal and about as old as the nineteenth century building itself, sat next to her, beer in hand.
From the look on his face, I’d say he’d had enough of Ivy too.
“Hey, Flipper!” Ivy, said without looking up, “hit me again.”
I turned to Monique, gritted my teeth. “You didn’t.”
“What, you mean serve Lindsay Lohan over there? Of course not, you twit. She’s drinking cherry 7-Up and that’s her fifth one. But if she calls me one more name, I’ll lace the next round with Drano.” Monique frowned. “It wasn’t so bad when she went through all the sea nymphs from Greek mythology, but then she saw me Google the names because I had no frigging idea what she was talking about. That’s when she got creative. And nasty.” Monique shook her head. “Reminds me of your crazy-ass cousin.”
Monique didn’t ask me Ivy’s true identity, because that’s just the kind of person she was. If it reached beyond the circumference of her implants, she wasn’t interested. For that, I was grateful.
“Thanks for calling,” I said.
“Just get her out of here. And don’t come back without a costume.” Monique tried her best to look sexy as she pushed up her seashells and penguin-walked behind the bar.
“Ivy!” I called. “We go.”
She looked up from her journal. A quick flash of relief crossed her face. Then she frowned, poked her chin in the air and pretended to count the tin ceiling tiles.
Dammit.
Scully slid over one stool, which, frankly, was a miracle. Especially since he had carved his name into the one he had been sitting on. A memento from the Black Opal the night it burned.
Boy, that kid had a profound affect on people.
When I reached Ivy, she crossed her arms, defiant.
“You can’t stay here for the rest of your life,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“For one thing, it’s illegal.”
“So.”
Scully cleared his throat rather loudly.
I set my tone to firm. “There’s no shower here.”
Monique pumped the music up. A Twisted Sister song.
“So,” Ivy said louder.
Out of desperation, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, “How will we cast a spell here?”
Ivy squealed. She gathered her things, jumped off the stool and ran toward the door. She stopped when her hand reached the handle, pulled something from her pocket. Then she ran back and put ten bucks on the bar, said, “Thanks! Get Scully one for me,” to Monique and kissed Scully on the cheek.
The three of us stared after her, mouths agape.
THIRTEEN
I sent a text to Chance, hoping he had been home by now to get his phone. He met us at the back door of the bar, his truck pristine, despite the muddy slush on the ground. He did not look happy.
Ivy hopped in the back seat, bouncing up and down, completely oblivious to the mood Chance was radiating. She chattered on about all the magic we would create. “Magick with a K!” she said.
I squeezed Chance’s hand and said, “Sorry.”
He didn’t speak as he maneuvered the vehicle through crowds of people, around the corner, away from Main Street and towards his house.
Thor hopped around in circles when we walked through the door. His tail wagged furiously and he would have taken out a lamp if Ivy hadn’t caught it.
The fact that she was two feet away gave me pause. She moved like lightning.
The house had an open floor plan, so I coul
d see most of the first floor from the foyer and felt a pang of guilt.
We had only been there a couple of hours and it already looked like a frat house.
The straight lines once vacuumed into the carpet were now blurred, cupcake wrappers lay limp on the waxed floor near the garbage can and empty soda bottles cluttered the black pub table.
Chance hung his coat in the closet along with his keys and turned to Ivy.
“Sit,” he said.
I’d never seen him so angry. Chance had miles of patience, especially when it came to my family and their eccentricities. Of course, usually I didn’t traipse them through his house.
Ivy sat. So did I. So did Thor.
“Not you, Stacy.”
Right. I stood next to Chance mimicking his disappointed adult face. I had a lot of practice using this expression on other adults, but never on a child.
Thor circled around to my side and leaned against my hip. He had a bone sticking out of his mouth, cigar style.
Chance clapped his hands, took a deep breath. “Okay,” he began. He paused, searching for the right words. Chance had a little brother close to Ivy’s age. I guess he was trying to translate what he would normally say to him in a language females and/or witches could understand.
“I have to say, Ivy, I haven’t known you all that long so I’m not sure what to make of your actions today.” He put an arm around me. “But I have known Stacy all my life and what you did to her was...not cool.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I heard him use that expression. Ten years, minimum.
Ivy darted her eyes around the room and hugged her notebook close like it was a teddy bear. Or a talisman.
“You had her—and me—worried sick.”
Ivy met my eyes, surprised, maybe even a little scared. I softened my face.
“You were worried?” Ivy asked me.
“Of course I was,” I said.
Looking back, perhaps what I said next was not the right thing to say at the time. But I knew what it was like to be fourteen and have your whole world collapse around you. I knew the pain of feeling alone in the world. Of being abandoned. So I said it anyway. “It isn’t every day I lose a sister.”
I heard Chance suck in some air. My lecture would come later, I was certain. But it didn’t matter because in that moment, I felt like we were sisters. And you know what? It felt pretty good.
Ivy smiled wide and threw her arms around me. I hugged her back, then turned to Chance and said, “Anything else, Dad?”
Ivy giggled.
Chance paced in front of the couch, looking more than a little frustrated.
“C’mon, Chance, I think we need to set some rules. Don’t you think, Ivy?” I said.
“Like, no feet on the coffee table,” Ivy volunteered.
“Very good,” I said. “And no towels on the bathroom floor.”
Ivy said, “No dirty dishes in the sink.”
Me. “All wrappers make it inside the garbage can.”
Ivy. “Take your shoes off before walking on the carpet.”
“Good one,” I said.
“Thanks,” said Ivy.
Chance was shifting his head from one to the other of us. Finally he broke into a smile.
“Did we miss anything?” I asked him.
He looked straight at me. “No running away.”
Ivy fielded the statement by saying, “I promise.”
But I knew what he meant. Chance had taken it personally when I never came back after college. He had been there for me through everything. He knew my family like he knew his own and he never believed that I just wanted to see the world, wanted more out of life than one could ever find in a single stoplight town.
Now that I was back, it was hard to convince him otherwise. Because the truth was, I had loved him, even when I said goodbye, I loved him.
But that was a long time ago.
“Me too,” I said.
His eyes darkened and a sultry look crossed his face. For a moment, I thought he would kiss me. Instead he said, “And—“ he pointed to Thor, “no sleeping on the furniture.”
Thor’s huge jaws parted and he let out a high-pitched whine.
“No,” Chance said.
My dog rolled on his back, the tan coat nearly melting into the beige carpet, and kicked his legs in the air. Ivy bent down to give him a belly rub.
“I’m starving,” she said.
Chance said, “Ivy, why don’t you get settled in the downstairs bedroom and we’ll order some food? Do you like Chinese?”
“Is chop suey Chinese?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then yes.” She popped off the couch and said, “C’mon, Thor.”
Thor looked to me for approval and I gave him a hand signal, indicating he could follow. Ivy strapped her backpack to him and the pair lumbered down the basement stairs.
“How about a glass of wine?” Chance asked.
“Sounds good.”
Chance opened a drawer and pulled out a menu, then reached for a bottle of Shiraz. “You think that was a good idea, calling her your sister?”
I shrugged as I sipped my wine. “What harm could it do?”
If I had seen the penny before then, I might have known.
IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS
by Ivy Geraghty
Entry #4
I have passed another test in my schooling as a young witch’s apprentice. I have proven faithful, loyal, and above all, steadfast in my quest to become a powerful jewel in the Crown of the Great Geraghty Clan (okay, so I took a little detour, but I made an ally, so it was like, totally written in the stars. Shout out to Scully!).
Phase II of my progress has begun as my sister, Anastasia Justice, has finally embraced me as one of her own. She has promised to perform a Spell and her familiar, the almighty Thor, has been granted permission to allow me to practice my skills of training a familiar to guard his Priestess. (I could do without his anal acoustics, but no pain, right?)
More importantly, I have identified an Enemy within our midst. Immediately upon entering her sanctuary, I knew that the woman who calls herself Monique (seriously, does anybody think those frontal lobes are real?) is an anti-pagan. My people have struggled for years, nay, centuries to snuff out such hatred, and I, as the newest member of the Geraghty Clan, shall single-handedly turn her head, if not her heart to the Light! (Okay, so all she did was call me Sabrina, but she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so it should be a cake walk).
-Ivy Geraghty, Junior Apprentice Warrior Goddess (in training)
FIFTEEN
As we waited for the food to arrive, I discussed with Ivy the very real possibility that in a situation like this, Birdie might be the only one that could help. She didn’t like the idea, but acquiesced to the plan of heading to the cottage to get the book and if there was nothing in there—nothing in Meagan’s predictions about a missing Geraghty—then we would go to Birdie and the aunts. Of course, I had to promise that we would work a spell and that I would gather all the magical tools I had in my possession. This amounted to a few crystals, a sword, and a charm hanging in my doorway. All gifts from the Geraghty Girls. I didn’t even have a cape. For some reason, I could never keep them clean.
“You don’t remember anything from your teachings? There was nothing in the pages of the book about our mother being in danger?” she asked.
Chance excused himself when the doorbell rang. I called him a coward under my breath. Boy, was I going to be a disappointment to this kid.
“Ivy, the truth is, I’m about as new at this as you are. I learned a lot when I was kid, younger than you even, but something...happened...and I stopped...practicing.” I wasn’t ready yet to discuss my father. Wasn’t ready to know if she remembered any mention of him or if my mother tossed his memory aside like she did me. “The first time I even laid eyes on the book was a few weeks ago.”
I didn’t say that it was the first time I even wanted to see it, or
the first time anyone had trusted me with it. The night Birdie gave it to me, I pored over everything I could, mostly to keep her off my back because I was sure she would have quizzed me sooner or later, but also because it fascinated me. The stories, the lore, the recipes. It was as if I was in the center of a Women’s Circle, soaking up their wisdom, their light, their magic.
Still, the thing was thicker than War and Peace. It would take a lifetime to read all of it. I wondered if by then, I might start to actually feel like a witch.
Geez, I hoped not.
Ivy looked surprised. “But I’ve heard things about your talent when I was looking for you. People around here think you’re a pretty powerful witch.”
The thought of Ivy wandering around town talking to strangers made me shudder. Amethyst had more fruit loops than a box of Kellogg’s. I was pretty sure the town mascot was officially a Whackadoodle.
“Sweetie, people around here also think that the Cubs will win the World Series and that Old Style is the elixir of the Gods. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
Or see, for that matter.
“And don’t talk to strangers,” I added. Seemed like the situation called for it.
Chance came into the kitchen with two brown paper bags. He set them on the counter while I hunted for plates and napkins.
Behind me, Ivy said, “I got this.”
She tossed two twenty dollar bills on the table and ripped open the first bag.
Chance and I exchanged a look.
I said, “Ivy, where is all this money coming from?”
She shrugged, pulled a bulging white carton from the bag. Steam poured from the lid as lo mein noodles spilled over the sides.
“I told you. Mom left me some money.”
How much money did she leave her? I set the plates on the counter and went for some silverware. It was none of my business, but now that she was in my care, I wondered if perhaps it was dangerous for a teenager to have too much cash on her. Then again, that might have been the last of it.
“Put your money away, Ivy,” Chance said.
Bloodstone (A Stacy Justice Mystery) Page 3
