My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  "If I'd concocted a love charm, I certainly wouldn't leave it around for you to find. I also wouldn't be studying it like I'd never seen one before. Which I haven't."

  He was working up a good head of steam. Usually Cadotte was calm as still water, but when he got mad even I trembled.

  "Sorry," I muttered. "I see your point."

  "If this were my medicine bag," he continued, with deceptive tranquillity, "you shouldn't go rooting through it like you'd found my secret stash of Godiva chocolate."

  "That was only once, and you said they were for me anyway."

  He ignored the excuse now as he had then. "In the old days the Ojibwe hung medicine bags outside in a tree for safety. Even chil­dren knew not to touch them. They're to be opened with great ceremony, only by the owner. They're never to be touched by a stranger."

  "Stranger?" My voice had gone high and squeaky as my own anger—fueled by nerves and uncertainty—returned. "Do you want me to slug you?"

  He sighed and looked away, slowly removing his glasses and set­ting them aside. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm I'd come to rec­ognize. He was doing his tai chi breathing. Gee, I guess he wanted to slug me, too.

  I'd consider that foreplay if I wasn't so furious.

  "Let's just calm down," he murmured.

  "You expect me to calm down when you accuse me of using a love charm to get you to marry me? You asked me, Slick. More than once."

  "I know."

  "I've been wondering why I said yes. Why I've been so damned easy to get along with lately."

  He snorted. "You're a lot of things, Jess, but easy isn't one of them."

  I jabbed a finger toward the closet. "I bought a dress for you. If that isn't the result of magic, I don't know what is."

  "Wait a second." Will frowned at the herbs and seeds. "There should be a scrap from the clothing of the beloved."

  "I found a piece of my gray sweatpants."

  Will's eyebrows shot up. "Uh-oh."

  He knew what those things meant to me.

  Will dug a finger into the bag and came up with the fuzzy scrap. He carefully set all the items on the nightstand, then took me in his arms, leaning his forehead against mine.

  "I swear I didn't do this. I want you to marry me because you want to, not because you're compelled to."

  In his arms my anger left me. "I shouldn't have accused you."

  "You had pretty damning evidence."

  "I found the medicine bag, but then I couldn't find you. Considmany condominiums they could build on the shores of the lake, or maybe the Ojibwe had found better lawyers. These days it was preferable to fight injustice with an attorney instead of a tomahawk. Although I kind of liked the old way better.

  Will slowed when we reached the community of Grand Portage where the tribal buildings and most of the homes were congregated. Several old men lounged on the front porch of a weathered gray ranch. Will stopped the car and stepped out.

  "Nimishoomis." Will addressed the man who appeared the oldest by the respectful tide of "Grandfather." "I'm William Cadotte. I lived here as a boy. I am of the wolf clan."

  In Ojibwe culture each family is believed to have descended from a clan animal. Those of the same clan are related, so even if a man was of the Grand Portage band and a woman of the Lac du Flambeau, if they're both wolf clan they're of the same blood and can't marry.

  That Will was wolf clan and theoretically descended from the wolves I hunted had caused no small amount of trouble when the truth had been revealed. The memory of that trouble lay in the bullet-shaped scar on Will's arm.

  "I have a question for your shaman," Will continued.

  The man pointed, never saying a word. We followed the direction of his slightly crooked finger to a wigwam just visible past a brick house surrounded by towering evergreens.

  "Thank you," Will said, and we headed in that direction.

  "Did you see the wigwam when we drove up?" I murmured.

  "Nope."

  "Was it there?"

  He slid a glance toward me, then away. "What do you think?"

  "I hate it when you ask me that," I grumbled, and didn't bother to answer.

  Had the wigwam materialized when we requested the shaman? A year ago I'd have laughed myself sick at the idea. Since then, I'd seen so much weird shit, nothing surprised me anymore.

  Of course the day was young.

  We stopped in front of the domed structure that measured about ten or twelve feet in diameter. The underlying branches were cov­ered with birch bark, keeping the inhabitants dry during the summer rains and warm in the winter snows.

  "Nimishoomis," Will called. "I'm Will Cadotte of the Grand Portage wolf clan. My weedjiwagan and I have a question."

  "Your what?" I snapped.

  "Partner in the path of life."

  Well, that was true enough—at least until we discovered whether what we felt was real or manufactured. The idea that all we'd shared, all I'd believed, had been a lie made me want to commit violence, but then a lot of things did.

  "Come in," called a voice from the other side of the leather flap that served as a door.

  I shouldered Will aside and, with my hand on my gun, ducked into the surprisingly cool interior of the wigwam.

  Light streamed through the smoke hole in the roof. The ground was bare except for the woven mats around a cold cooking fire.

  On the opposite side of the structure sat a very old man. From the looks of him, he'd wandered the woods with this wigwam on his back in days long before the white men screwed everything up. Nevertheless, his eyes were clear, his gaze lucid.

  White hair hung past his waist, braided and wrapped in cloth. He wore leggings and a buckskin tunic, the everyday dress of the old times. No beading, no porcupine quills, his moccasins, too, were plain.

  The sense of having traveled back in time was so strong, I was tempted to step outside and make certain we hadn't been trans­ported to another age along with the wigwam.

  "You have trouble, my brother?"

  The old man motioned for us to sit. I took the mat that allowed me to see both him and the door. Habits became habits for a reason.

  He wasn't holding a weapon that I could see, but I didn't relax my guard. Monsters often lurked behind seemingly innocent faces.

  "You're wolf clan?" Will asked.

  "Yes."

  Will quickly explained what we'd found and why we'd come. The shaman, who'd introduced himself as Thomas Bender, held out his hand. Will put the medicine bag into it. Instead of pouring everything out, Bender held the charm tightly and closed his eyes. "What is it you wish to know?"

  "Who did this?" Will asked. "Why? How can we break the spell?"

  "You want to break the spell?" Bender glanced back and forth be­tween us. "But she is your weedjiwagan."

  "Because of the charm, or because she truly is?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Yes," I said.

  The old man sighed. "The only way to know the truth is to ask the spirits."

  "How?"

  "Sit on the water beneath the spirit tree."

  "Sit on the water?" I blurted. "Do I seem like much of a walking-on-water type to you?"

  Thomas Bender's gaze was bland. "Use a canoe."

  "Oh."

  Will laid a hand on my knee—his way of telling me to put a sock in it.

  "Ask the spirits to reveal the truth."

  "Thank you, Nimishoomis."

  As we drove away, I glanced back. Where I'd thought the wigwam had been, instead there stood a white birch. I hadn't seen any birch trees when we'd arrived.

  I faced front, muttering, "Must be the angle. Wigwam's just hid­den by the house."

  Will looked in the rearview mirror. "Sure it is."

  We headed back the way we'd come. Will parked the car and to­gether we climbed out, staring at the gnarled limbs of the spirit tree reaching toward the sky. By all rights the ancient icon should have tumbled off the stone ledge and into the water long ago. But mag
ic trees so rarely did.

  "You think it's going to speak to us?" I asked.

  I had a sudden flash of the apple trees from The Wizard of Oz. They'd always scared the crap out of me—before I'd discovered so many better things to be afraid of.

  "I have no idea," Will murmured.

  The wind picked up; the branches swayed and creaked. What if the tree suddenly yanked up its roots and began to walk around like the ones from Lord of the Rings? I hadn't liked them, either.

  I caught the scent of rain. Dark storm clouds tumbled across the western horizon.

  "If we're going to do this," 1 said, "we'd better do it."

  Will followed my gaze and frowned. "That's a thunderstorm."

  "So?"

  "We shouldn't be on the water if there's lightning."

  "We shouldn't do a lot of things, Slick, but we always do."

  For an instant I thought he'd refuse. Instead he shrugged. He knew me well. I'd only go alone if he wouldn't go with me.

  "We'll need a canoe."

  "You're sure we can't do . . . whatever from here."

  "On the water means on the water, Jess."

  "I thought Ojibwe ceremonies were vague."

  "The legends are vague; the ceremonies are pretty specific. When an elder says sit on the water—"

  "We sit on the water. Fine. The lodge rents canoes."

  Will followed me down a set of steps to a shack not far from the water.

  The attendant, obviously a surfer wannabe—though why he was in Minnesota I have no idea; despite the ten thousand lakes, there aren't any waves worth riding—was tying down the canoes so they didn't fly off in a high wind.

  "No more rentals until the storm passes."

  Understandable. If a tornado could pick up a cow—and it could—a canoe, or twenty, would be no problem. Nevertheless . . .

  "DNR." I pulled out my badge. "There's trouble on the lake, and I need a canoe. Now."

  He snapped to. Must be from around here. Though the Depart­ment of Natural Resources—better known as the hunting and fish­ing police—was not well liked in the north woods, they were respected. The kid rented me a canoe.

  As we glided onto the lake, the tourists raced in the other direc­tion. By the time we'd paddled to the area just below the spirit tree, the water was deserted, the storm bearing down on us.

  "Isn't rain on your wedding day good luck?" I asked.

  "Sure," Will answered.

  "Are you just saying that to shut me up or do you actually know?"

  "To shut you up."

  "That's what I thought."

  Thunder rumbled. The clouds cast shadows across the water, dis­turbing the fish, making them dart about beneath the surface as if they were crazed. The wind whipped my hair into my face and made Will's earring dance madly. The lighting flashed and I shivered.

  "You want to go inside?" Will asked. "We can do this tomorrow."

  "Our wedding is today."

  "We can postpone it."

  "No. I can't go through another night without knowing."

  Though it was awkward, Will leaned across the canoe and kissed me. "Then we won't."

  The storm and the current had dragged us a few yards away from the tree. We paddled until we were in front of it again.

  "Now what?"

  "According to the shaman, we ask the tree for the truth."

  "So ask."

  Will shrugged. "Spirit tree, we seek the truth."

  The wind howled. The tree bent and swayed. We got nothing.

  "You try," Will said.

  "You're the wolf clan dude."

  "Which is irrelevant for once. The charm was made for you. Maybe you have to ask."

  "Hey!" I shouted. "How about some truth!"

  "Nice."

  "That's me."

  Once again, nothing happened.

  "Maybe I need to hold the charm or something," I ventured.

  Surprise spread across Will's face. "Good idea."

  "Why are you so shocked? I'm not a complete magic moron."

  I'd had too much on-the-job training.

  Will pulled the medicine bag from his pocket. As I reached for it, the water sloshed, the canoe dipped, and our hands smacked together with the talisman in between.

  A mighty flash and a thunderous crack were followed by the scent of brimstone. Flames shot toward the sky.

  "Uh-oh," I muttered.

  The tree had stood for centuries unharmed. One day near me and it was on fire.

  "Did someone request the truth?"

  The voice seemed to whisper on the wind, but I recognized it anyway, and my heart sank. Of all the possibilities in heaven and earth, the universe had to send her?

  "Figures I'd smell hellfire just before she arrives."

  "Jess," Will admonished. "Remember last time."

  I remembered all right, which was why I wasn't too happy to see Cora Kopway standing on the ledge next to the flaming spirit tree.

  A high-ranking member of the midewiwin, or the Grand Medi­cine Society, a secret religious fellowship devoted to healing through knowledge of the old ways, Cora Kopway had spent her life studying dusty texts and communing with the spirits in her visions.

  She'd once taken away my voice with a mere flick of her wrist and some weird purple powder. The woman was quite powerful.

  She was also quite dead. Had been for about six months now. That hadn't stopped her from sticking her nose into Jager-Sucher business at least once.

  Better make that twice.

  Cora looked the same in death as she had in life—tall, willowy, with flowing black hair that held only a trace of gray.

  "For a dead old witch, she's surprisingly pretty," I mumbled.

  Will gave me a glare that would have melted silver. I stared at Cora, who'd begun to walk . . . right across the water, stopping a few feet in front of the canoe.

  "Isn't that blasphemous?" I asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. "I silenced you once; I can do so again. Per­manently."

  The woman had a stick up her butt a mile wide, but since Will liked her, I did my best not to annoy Cora too much.

  Unfortunately, my best was never good enough. I was a cop—or had been when I met her—a white girl, and a smart mouth. The top three sins on the Cora Kopway sin-o-meter.

  "Why are you here, N'okomiss?" Will asked.

  "I was enjoying my time in the Land of Souls."

  Aka Ojibwe heaven.

  "I would have preferred not to be torn out of it to help you." She wrinkled her nose in my direction. "But I had little choice."

  "So head back to Deadville. If I'd known you were coming, I wouldn't have asked."

  "We want the truth," Will snapped. "What difference does it make where we get it?"

  "Can we trust her?"

  "She's never lied to us."

  There was that. As annoying as Cora could be, she'd been truthful, as well as helpful. Alive or dead, she knew more about Ojibwe woo-woo than anyone.

  "Fine," I muttered. "But I don't know why the spirit tree couldn't just tell us."

  "That's not the way things work," Cora said. "You wanted the truth, and I'm the only one who knows it."

  "How's that?"

  "I made the talismans."

  All I could do was blink at her.

  Why on earth would Cora use magic to make me fall in love with Will? Unless she'd meant for me to love him, but he'd never love me back.

  Ha! That had backfired on her ass.

  The storm was coming in hard; whitecaps formed in the center of the lake. We needed to finish chatting and get off the water or we might just join her in the Land of Souls much sooner than we'd planned.

  It probably seems odd that I believe in the afterlife. I admit that before I became a Jager-Sucher I hadn't. However, I'd come to the conclusion that if there's evil, there's good; if there are demons, there are also angels. And if Satan walks this earth—and he does, in the guise of more horrible beings than you can even dream of—then God
has to be out there, too.

  "I made the talismans," Cora said, "so you'd fall in love."

  Hovering just above the swirling water, she wasn't transparent as a ghost should be. If not for the floating issue—and the DNA test that had identified her body—I'd think she was alive.

  "Again, I gotta ask why?"

  She made an exasperated sound and threw up her hands. "Haven't you learned anything?"

  "Why don't you clue me in?"

  "Love is stronger than hate, more powerful than evil. Together you're more than you could ever be apart."

  Will and I exchanged glances, then returned our attention to Cora.

  "Okay," I said. "Still don't get it."

  "I knew your talent with weapons of destruction, combined with Will's intelligence, would make you a nearly invincible team. All you needed was something to bind you together forever. I gave it to you."

  "But the charm was to make me love Will. How could you be certain he'd love me back?"

  She frowned. "I said 'talismans.' Plural."

  "Yeah." I held up the man and the woman. "Two of them."

  She shook her head. "There is another."

  "Have you been watching too much Star Wars?"

  "In heaven? I don't think so."

  "There's no Star Wars in heaven? I'm not going."

  "I doubt you are." Cora sniffed. "But that's beside the point."

  I scowled, and my fingers curled around the little man and woman.

  "Take a big breath," Will murmured.

  "You talk to her, Slick. I've had enough."

  He sighed, though I wasn't sure if he was disappointed in me or in her—probably both of us.

  "N'okomiss, you're saying there's another medicine bag?"

  "One for each of you."

  I couldn't speak, even without the magic powder. It had been bad enough wondering if I truly loved him, but to know that he didn't truly love me . . .

  I felt lost, uncertain, alone, as if everything good in my life was a lie. Probably because it was.

  "We found one medicine bag in my ceremonial dress."

  "There's another in her makeup case."

  Will did a double take. "You've got a makeup case?"

  "Not that I use it or anything."

  "Obviously," Cora drawled.

  I ignored her because something else was bothering me and I couldn't quite get my mind around what it was. My focus had been shot to hell by an overwhelming sense of sadness, as if someone I loved had died.