Cursed Moon

by Jaye Wells

  Morales steered the SUV to the ancient call box at the front gate. When he punched the black button, the machine crackled with static and high-pitched electronic sounds. Finally, it cleared enough for a voice to come through. “The fuck you want?”

  “Need to speak to Hieronymus.”

  “He’s indisposed.”

  “Tell him it’s Morales and Prospero.”

  Silence. We waited a good thirty seconds.

  Morales glanced at me. “How long you think he’s gonna make us wait?”

  “Long enough.”

  Morales scooted down in his seat and closed his eyes. “Good, I could use a nap.”

  It took another two minutes before the intercom buzzed again. “You got a warrant?”

  Morales opened his eyes and took his time leaning back out the window. “Don’t need one. We’re here as a public service.”

  The speaker made another squawk and then the first voice was replaced by Harry’s more familiar one. “Bullshit. You’re here to plant some evidence like you did last time.”

  I rolled my eyes and leaned across Morales. “Open the gate, Harry, or I’ll have my friend at the waste management department come down here for a surprise inspection.”

  Ten seconds later the gate screeched open on automatic rollers. Morales laughed. “You even got a friend at waste management, Prospero?”

  “Of course not.”

  He flashed those white teeth. “You’re a trip, Cupcake.”

  The car started rolling toward the opening, slowly just in case Harry decided he was clever enough to ambush us. I had a hand on my pistol the entire time. Once we cleared the gate, we were surrounded by a mountain range made out of rusted metal. A road wound through hills of discarded diapers and empty milk cartons and aluminum cans. Soon we came upon a double-wide that served as the yard’s office. Two mangy-looking rottweilers were chained up out front. When we got out, one of the dogs farted, but neither lifted their chins off their paws.

  The door to the trailer burst open. Harry emerged with a sneer. His long white hair flowed in the shit-stench breeze coming off his trash kingdom. His pale coloring combined with the black ankh tattooed on his forehead made him look sinister. However, the effect was ruined when his watery blue eyes squinted at the sun. He snapped his fingers at a flunky just inside the trailer and a second later a pair of dark sunglasses appeared in his hand. He stowed the Ray Charles numbers on his face before swaggering down the steps.

  The black suit and leather boots he wore probably cost more than my car, but the dust from the junkyard made him look like a dirty crow instead of the grand wizard of a blood coven. The only affectations that actually worked in the entire ensemble were the single red rose on his lapel, which symbolized the sacred blood of his coven, and the walking stick he swung forward with each step. The top of the cane had a crystal skull on it with ruby eyes. I hated to admit it, but it was pretty badass, even when wielded by an utter douche like Harry Bane.

  As he came forward, two equally pale assholes emerged from the trailer with suspicious bulges under their shirts. One picked at his few teeth and plentiful gums with a switchblade, while his partner cracked each of his knuckles like a walnut.

  “Love what you’ve done with the place,” Morales called.

  Harry’s narrow face pinched like an anus. “You’ve got five minutes to state your business.”

  “Won’t take that long,” I said. “You heard what happened to Aphrodite Johnson?”

  Harry’s smile was genuine. “Best news I got all month.”

  I tipped my head. “Back in the day one coven leader got hit and all the wizes would circle the wagons.”

  He spit on the ground. “Case you haven’t noticed the He-bitch is the last of the old guard still in the game. This a new era, where the strongest wiz wins.”

  Morales raised a brow. “Wait, just so we’re clear, by ‘strongest’ you’re referring to yourself?”

  Two white brows pulled together like angry caterpillars. “Of course.”

  “I can see how the capable assistance of Tweedledee and Tweedledum would convince you of that.”

  The guy with the blade sucked loudly at his front teeth.

  Harry’s frown was back. That was always the worst thing about him. Mean, I could handle, but mean and stupid was a lethal combination. “Anyway,” I said. As much as I enjoyed watching Morales deliver insults that flew over their heads, it was kind of like watching an armed gunman threaten children. “Turns out Aphrodite’s break-in wasn’t an isolated incident. There’s a new Raven on the streets, and we have reason to believe he might target other covens.”

  Harry’s chin came up. “Let the asshole try. He gotta be suicidal to come after the Sangs.”

  I barely managed not to roll my eyes. Harry was only weeks into his leadership of his daddy’s coven, so he made the perfect target for a Raven. Mercenary wizards loved to strike fragmented covens, because they had the weakest infrastructure. My guess was, despite Harry’s bravado, he had his hands full of pissing matches among his lieutenants on down the chain as everyone scrambled for position under the new leadership.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Morales said. “We get it. I’m sure you got lots of new blood potions some Raven would love to steal.”

  “That’s—” Harry caught himself and narrowed his eyes. “That’s bullshit, man. You can’t entrap me.”

  “All right,” I said. “Look, this Raven goes by the name Dionysus.” I pulled out a photocopy of the picture Owens had shared.

  “Looks like a fag.” He crumpled the image between his pale fingers. “This asshole steps up to me or mine, I’m a put a bullet in his mercenary ass and throw the body on a trash trawler.”

  I sighed. “Look, tough guy, I’m gonna give you some advice for free on account of you helped us put your daddy in the can—and in exchange we kept you out of it, I might add. You ready?” At the mention of how we’d blackmailed him into turning state’s evidence on his father, his cheeks flared red. “Threatening to murder someone in front of cops is bad juju.”

  “Fuck off, bitch.”

  “Watch yourself, asshole,” Morales said, his voice low and mean.

  I shook my head at Morales. “How’s your dad doing, anyway?” I asked, going for the jugular in my own way.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t know. They got him locked away someplace safe while he waits for trial.” He shrugged. “Not that he’d talk to me anyway.”

  “Maybe once he’s in Crowley,” Morales said, “you can sneak him in some cigarettes and buy back his love.”

  “I don’t give a fuck, man. The old man wouldn’t even be in this position if he turned on Abe like I told him.”

  I froze. From the corner of my eye I saw Morales’s muscles flex like he was about to pounce on that information like a dog on a juicy steak. “What’s your dad got on Abe?”

  Harry snorted. “Shit, man, some cop you are. Everyone knows Abe was the one put Dad up to framing Volos.”

  If I didn’t think quick, Morales’s investigative instincts were going to take over and cause a lot of fucking problems for me. “Guess your dad doesn’t have enough evidence to frame Abe for the crime or he already would have done it.”

  “Frame him?” Harry laughed. “Ha!”

  “Evidence against Abe would be a get-out-of-jail-free card,” I said. “If he had it to use, Ramses would already be out of jail.”

  I chanced a glance at Morales. He looked less intense, but not exactly convinced, either. Harry just shook his head like we were both naive, and I was content to let him go on thinking that. “Look,” I said, “you see Dionysus around or hear anything about his plans, just call me, okay?” I handed him a business card.

  “Detective, huh?” He glanced down at it. His lips made a mocking sound. “They let just any bitch be one of those these days, I guess.”

  “A pleasure talking to you as always, Harry.”

  “Fuck off.” With that he tossed the card in the dirt and wal
ked back toward the trailer.

  “Well,” Morales said, “that guy’s about as useful as a knuckle on a dick.”

  I shrugged. “Better than dealing with Volos.”

  We started walking back toward the car. Morales’s head was down, a bad sign since it meant he was probably thinking. “You think Abe’s getting away with murder on the Gray Wolf case?”

  I kept my stride even and my reaction cool so he wouldn’t see how much this topic affected me. “I think Abe’s gotten away with a lot of murder, both metaphorical and literal. But I know the last thing we need is to chase down hearsay from a blood wizard when we’ve got a different psycho threatening the city.”

  He paused, thinking it over. I tried not to look like I was praying he’d let it drop. Finally, he shrugged. “Maybe Harry’s right. If Ramses has proof Abe was behind Gray Wolf he would use it to plea-bargain.”

  I let out a breath. “You’re probably right.”

  He smiled that Morales smile. “ ’Course I am, Cupcake.”

  I smiled back. Not because I thought he was right, but because I was happy to let him go on believing I was wrong.

  Chapter Fifteen

  That night Danny and I went to visit Pen. She’d been discharged from the hospital the day before. Baba had been hanging with her during the day, and her neighbor Lavern took night duty. I’d been so busy chasing down foul-mouthed homunculi and douchebag albinos that I’d not spent any quality time with her since the accident. To make up for that, I’d picked up a couple of containers of soup from Pen’s favorite Vietnamese place in downtown Babylon.

  “Do we have to stay long?” Danny asked on our way to the building.

  After spending part of my day interviewing the brat prince of the blood coven and then ten minutes hunting down a parking spot outside Pen’s building, I was in no mood for teenager drama. “We’ll stay as long as we need to stay. Your video games can wait.”

  His eyes rolled so hard I worried he might pull something. “I have some posters to make for tomorrow’s DUDE meeting.”

  “Oh,” I said, “we’re just staying for supper. Should have plenty of time after.”

  Baba answered the door. That night she wore a black housecoat with purple cats embroidered along the hem. She even had a broom in her hand to complete the domestic witch look. “Come in, come in,” she said, waving us inside. “What took you so long? I’d punch a priest for a pizza right now.”

  I raised the bag. “How about some pho instead?”

  She sniffed at the brown paper and scowled. “What she needs is a bowl of my mama’s homemade chicken soup.”

  “This will have to do until you can kill a chicken on the full moon, Baba.” I was too damned tired to bother trying to disguise the sarcasm from my tone.

  She took the bag by the corner and started for the kitchen. “Pen’s in the living room.”

  I shed my coat and turned left to the tiny den. The instant I walked into the room, I got a noseful of lavender’s soft purple scent and vetiver’s earthy green musk. I looked around until I spotted a small ceramic container of the oils sitting over a tea light on the coffee table. Definitely Baba’s handiwork. She was always spouting the virtues of aromatherapy for everything from anxiety to headaches to PMS.

  Dismissing the oil diffuser, I focused on the mound of yellow blankets huddled on the denim-covered couch. “Pen?” I whispered, not wanting to disturb her if she was asleep.

  The blankets moved and a groan emerged. When her face popped out, I saw that her complexion was gray and dark shadows weighed down her lower lids. “Kate?”

  I lowered myself onto the foot of the couch, careful not to jostle her too much. “Hi,” I whispered. “How you doing?”

  Behind me, Danny was telling Baba about a test he’d had that day. Why hadn’t he told me about it on our way over? Maybe because I was so busy seething about the traffic and the frustrating meeting with Harry Bane. Tuning them out, I leaned forward to help Pen sit up. When she moved, her hand went protectively to the right side of her rib cage. A thick brace cupped her neck, and a bandage wrapped around her sprained wrist. Her right eye wasn’t as swollen as it had been the last time I saw her, but the bruises had mellowed into a sickly green-yellow color.

  “Owowow,” she panted through clenched teeth.

  I grimaced in sympathy. “Sorry, honey. Do you need anything?”

  She opened her mouth, but behind me Baba rushed in bearing a tray. “Time for her arnica pellets!” The old woman used her hip to nudge me out of the way. Arnica was a common homeopathic pain remedy and a cheaper alternative to aspirin now that big pharmaceutical companies had all focused on magical therapies. “Poor dove,” she said to the patient. Pen’s eyes were glazed over with pain. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  I backed up and joined Danny by the coffee table. Together we watched Baba hand the arnica to Pen, who placed the tablets under her tongue to dissolve. While that happened, Baba turned back to ready the tea. A small brown bottle with a dropper lid sat next to the teacup. The old woman carefully measured out three drops of orange liquid into the tea she’d already poured.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Baba’s eyes shot to me and then away. She turned to hand the tea to Pen and watched to make sure she downed it before answering. “Bergamot and birch bark tea.” Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine.

  “And the stuff you added to it?”

  Baba sighed deep, like she’d been expecting the question but hoped I’d forget to ask it. “It’s tea, Detective, not poison.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and dish out supper.”

  Rather than take the bait, I retreated into the kitchen.

  “ ‘It’s tea, Detective,’ ” I echoed mockingly to the stovetop. “My ass.” I’d bet my Glock the witch put some sort of Spagyric compound or philtre in that tea.

  “Kate?” Danny called from the den.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “When are we gonna eat?”

  When I’d arrived I couldn’t wait to eat the delicious beef soup from the Vietnamese restaurant, but now I would have traded my left ovary for four fingers of bourbon.

  I blew out a deep breath. I knew I was being overly touchy, but I was having a harder time than usual lately tamping down my annoyance. Opening the cabinet above Pen’s sink, I sorted through the bottles until I found what I wanted. Shoved behind the coconut rum and peach liqueur and vanilla vodka for the fruity cocktails Pen preferred was a fifth of Bulleit rye whiskey I’d given her for Christmas the year before in the hopes her taste in hooch would improve.

  I broke the seal on the lip and tipped the bottle back to my mouth. The wood smoke and sweet fire flavor hit my tongue. The sliding burn was a baptism of sorts, cleansing stress and fear and guilt from my throat.

  Rufus would have called this behavior self-medicating. But shit, if Pen could use suspicious tinctures to deal with her pain, then why couldn’t I experience the delicious sorcery of rye whiskey?

  “Kate?” Danny called. I heard Baba say in a low tone that she’d check on me.

  I shoved the cap on the bottle and stowed it in the oven. By the time the old woman made it into the cramped kitchen, I was unloading soup.

  She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side, as if she was measuring up my mood. “It wasn’t any of your dirty magic.”

  I raised a brow. “Then what was it?”

  “Before I tell you, I need you to understand how hard the last few days have been on her.”

  “What did you do?” I lowered my voice instead of raising it, despite the panic welling in my chest.

  “It’s the broken ribs,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Terrible pain. And the whiplash is causing migraines.”

  I closed my eyes. “What. Did. You. Give. Her?”

  Baba’s chin lowered and she looked up at me through her graying lashes. “It’s kind of like sun tea.” She wouldn’t meet my narrowed gaze.

  �
�Sun tea?”

  “Calendula, Saint-John’s-wort, chamomile, and a few juniper berries.”

  “And what did you use to brew this sun tea? A chalice? Or a cauldron?”

  She made an offended face. “One of my mama’s crystal pitchers.”

  “So you’re telling me it wasn’t a philtre?”

  Her eyes shot to mine. “Maybe? But even if it was a philtre, that’s not really magic.”

  I crossed my arms. “Did you chant over the herbs? Did you let it steep in the sun’s rays from dawn to dusk?”

  She nodded reluctantly.

  “Then it’s magic.” Mundane magical energy was weak compared with the kind wielded by a trained Adept, sure. Baba’s kind of kitchen witchery was powered by intention and wishes. But it was still magic. And to an addict like Pen, it could be a gateway back to the personal hell of dependency.

  Anger was a hot fist in my gut. “I can’t believe you gave her a fucking potion,” I hissed.

  “You’re always telling me I’m not capable of real magic.” Her arms crossed, and that chin came up. “If so, then it wasn’t a potion but a simple home remedy.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You can play word games all you want, but you know damned well that part of what gives magic its power is intention. The sun energy contains incredibly potent magic whether it’s gathered by an Adept or a Mundane. You know that.”

  “That girl’s been in real pain. Pain so bad she’s not sleeping at night and spends most of her days in tears.” Baba’s face jutted forward, her eyes glassy with anger.

  I sighed. “Regardless, giving a recovering potion addict a philtre is irresponsible.”

  “I gave a friend relief from her suffering,” she corrected. “It’s not even addictive magic.”

  “It’s a slippery slope, Baba. One you seem far too eager to slide down.”

  She reared back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Please,” I said. “You’re always trying to give me your special teas and brews even though I’ve repeatedly told you I don’t want to ingest anything that even smacks of magic.”