by JD Nixon
Her face fell. “Oh. I just thought . . . I know you wouldn’t . . . Not if you didn’t love him . . .”
I abandoned my cake-cutting to hug her tightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay, no matter what happens.”
I looked at her. She was a little teary, so of course tears sprang to my eyes. “My little baby has grown up and I don’t know where all those years have gone.”
“Mum. I just want you to know that I do love him. A lot. He’s . . .” It was my turn to search for the correct term. “He’s one of a kind.”
She brushed my hair back with her hand and kissed my forehead. “So are you, darling. Never forget that. You deserve the best.”
When we served dessert, Heller instantly noticed our slightly red eyes and glanced down at his cake with uncertainty, hesitant to try it. “Is this an onion cake, my sweet?”
I snorted with suppressed laughter. “No. Mum and I were just having a moment.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“I know. Eat your cake.” The sooner we ate, the sooner we could escape Brian’s baleful eyes.
After protracted goodbyes and half-meant promises to visit again soon, Heller and I were back in his Mercedes, driving home.
“Please stop needling Brian,” I asked, dropping the smile I’d been maintaining for the last hour.
“Why? I enjoy it.”
“Because he’s a good person underneath. And he’s my brother. It upsets everyone.”
“I don’t care. He picked this fight and I don’t walk away from a fight.”
“You said it was over between you.”
“It was, but if he continues to insult me, what am I supposed to do? Ignore him?”
“Yes! Exactly that.”
“Not my style, Matilda.”
I studied him in despair. His profile was beautiful, perfect, but rock-hard and unmoving. At that moment I felt my lack of influence on him stronger than I’d ever felt it.
“I guess there’s no point then in bringing up your totally embarrassing comments to my parents about us having sex?”
He cut me a sideways glance. “They can’t hear the truth about us? You’re a grown woman and we are lovers. What else do they think we do? They need to come to terms with that.”
I gave up then and later, on our return home, I gave in to him when he took my hand and led me to his bed, reminding me that I’d promised him a reward in return for accompanying me to dinner. But although the pleasure was intense as usual and I was tired, for once I was the one wide-awake watching him while he slept, thinking about him, thinking about us.
They weren’t happy thoughts.
Chapter 19
Out the front of the courthouse, the local Cybelians had organised a small gathering to protest the media’s recent portrayal of practitioners of magic. After Trent’s interview with Liya and Reverend Joshua, and because of the current court case, it had become quite a hot topic. A number of columnists, some of them with very strong views about anyone who dabbled in magic rituals whether for good or evil, had written some pretty scathing things about Cybelia. Declaring they were being discriminated against because of their religious beliefs, the local coven and a few other hangers-on and hopefuls, protested peacefully with signs and a stall holding information about Cybelia. Liya was front and centre, addressing the small group of interested citizens with great passion.
I glanced at them curiously as I hurried past, but I didn’t stop. I was running a bit late, and didn’t want to miss the beginning of the third day of proceedings. I’d spent the morning ringing Reverend Joshua, who seemed worryingly keen to be on Trent’s show again tonight, even though I told him Malefic would also be a guest. I wondered if I should warn Trent. Maybe he should wear a shower cap or something.
When I rang Malefic, one of his acolytes answered for him and in a soft but expressionless voice, advised me she’d pass on my message to him.
Inside the courtroom, the ramped-up media attention meant that the public gallery was jam-packed. I was even hard-pressed to squeeze through the media gallery to snare the last available seat, squished between a jaded journalist from a shitrag of a paper who smelt like the bottom of an ashtray and an airheaded blonde reporter from one of the local TV stations who spent the entire time she was there staring at herself in her compact mirror.
When I glanced over to the public gallery, I caught Malefic staring directly at me, his women at his feet again. I nodded my head at him, hoping his acolyte had passed on my message about the show tonight. I would have to speak to him during the lunch break to confirm the arrangement, not something I was particularly looking forward to doing. On a scale of one to ten for creepiness, he registered in the high hundreds.
He nodded back at me in a regal way, a slight smile playing at his lips. His ladies stared at me too, their eyes disconcertingly as flat and empty as their voices. He leaned down to whisper something to one of them, stroking her long hair with one hand while he held on to his pentagram pendant with his other. She listened to him, her eyes closed. She arched her back, her mouth slightly open, as if in orgasmic bliss. He whispered something again and she shuddered, her chest heaving. I hurriedly turned my eyes to the defendants, feeling voyeuristic and a little disgusted by the display.
After five minutes, I took a chance and briefly flicked my eyes towards them again only to find Malefic looking at me, that small mocking smile back on his lips. I wasted no time returning my eyes to the court proceedings.
When the court adjourned for lunch, I approached the small group, not really wanting to be near him. He exuded . . . something I couldn’t quite describe, but it reminded me of dark shadows, low voices chanting archaic languages and a sense of something forbidding heading my way – completely at odds with the lovely, warm sunny day.
“You received my message about the show tonight? That Reverend Joshua has agreed to be on with you.”
He nodded once more. “I did.” He tightened his arm around the shoulders of the two women. “My sweet demons serve me well.”
“Well, isn’t that . . . nice of them,” I mumbled, unsettled by the concept of any woman wanting to be a man’s ‘demon’. “Here.”
I thrust out a card noting the station’s address and detailing instructions for how to find the particular studio we used and when to be there. He didn’t take it and left me hanging for an awkward few moments, until one of the women reached out a languid hand to take it from me, and without another word, they swept past me. Not wanting to prolong the encounter, I took off in the opposite direction, out of the courthouse, past the protesting Cybelians and to the safe haven of a small coffee shop where I chewed on a club sandwich and sipped a coffee while I typed up some last-minute notes for Trent and kept an eye on the time.
The rest of the day passed peacefully, the afternoon given over to the defence team’s argument. I deliberately didn’t look at Malefic, as I wished to be blissfully unaware if he still visually stalked me, but I could actually feel his eyes resting on me throughout the session. I didn’t know how he managed to do that, but I knew like hell that I didn’t enjoy his invasiveness one little bit.
The defence argument wasn’t strong, the overwhelming amount of physical evidence presented by the prosecution spoiling any chance they had of mounting even a half-credible fairytale about the girls not being the guilty parties. I suspected that the hearing wasn’t going to last for much longer.
When the magistrate adjourned the court for the day, I slipped past Malefic and sped to the station, not wanting to encounter him any more than necessary.
“There she is!” Trent greeted from behind his desk, where he sat reading through his notes for the night’s show, his glasses perched on his nose. “Any news about the hearing?”
“Only that the defence argument is about as strong as you’d be in a Mr Universe competition,” I smiled, planting my butt on his desk.
“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m very competitive at the gym,” he pouted. “I w
hoop everyone’s arse in lifting weights there.”
“Is that the senior citizens’ gym you joined recently?”
“Very funny, young madam. That was an honest mistake. And anyway, I’m quite fond of my new granny friends – they’re very saucy ladies when you get to know them, and they make the best scones you ever tasted. But speaking of honest mistakes, and sadly recalling my decision to hire you, have you confirmed that weirdo being on the show tonight?”
“Yep, one weirdo and one whacko both confirmed for tonight. Who can tell which is which, but what more could you want?”
“Not to be assaulted again?”
I cut him a look. “Assaulted? With water? You really are growing soft, Dawson.”
He glared at me over his glasses. “Right. Just for that crack, when all this is over, I’m going to do some off-set stories. And you’re going to join me.”
“Ooh. It’s a big, ugly world out there. Are you sure about this?”
He touched his palm to his chest. “Your mockery wounds me deeply, Tilly.” He stood and gathered up his paperwork. “But anyway, I guess I can always hire Heller to protect me if I need to. I hear that all his staff are highly competent now.”
“Very funny, Trent.” I followed him out of his office to the studio. “You should have him on the show again. Soon. Ratings went through the roof when you did it last time.”
He zoomed down the corridor and I had to double-step to keep up with him. “Don’t remind me that woman stole my Heller story.” We exchanged glances. There was a very good reason he hadn’t been able to do that story, but neither of us ever mentioned it.
“What happened to her? I haven’t seen her on-air for ages.”
“She got the shits with the station when I came back to host after my . . . accident. She thought she had it in the bag and they’d replace me with her. Dumbarse.” He laughed and it wasn’t too far from the same kind of laugh Heller gave when he knew he’d bested an opponent at something they both wanted. “She went interstate.” His voice soured a tad. “Hear she’s making a name for herself down south reading the news.”
“High profile job.”
“It’s just reading the news, Tilly. A parrot could do it. I mean, it’s not like she has her own, extremely successful show.”
“Like some people do.”
“Exactly, like some people do,” he agreed, making a right turn into the studio.
Brady looked at his watch when he spotted us. “Cutting it a bit fine today, aren’t we?”
“Are we?” snapped Trent, heading for the makeup station.
“Not all of us. Only those who are pretentious pricks with huge egos,” Brady muttered under his breath, returning to his conversation with Viv.
“I heard that!” Trent yelled from the other side of the studio.
“Good!” Brady yelled back. “You were supposed to. Wanker.”
“I heard that too.”
“Good.”
Viv and I exchanged weary glances.
“Have the guests arrived yet?” I asked her.
With a jerk of her head, she indicated to where Reverend Joshua sat at the edge of the studio, reading his Bible. He closed his eyes and moved his lips, obviously praying for strength or guidance.
I wondered if I’d be doing the same by the end of the night.
“Where’s this other guy?” Brady impatiently demanded from me. “I want to start filming.”
That put me on the defensive straight away. “I don’t know. I told him to be here at this time. I gave him our card.”
“He better fucking turn up, otherwise I’m going to run with that story about tit reductions that Sophie filmed last week.”
Viv rolled her eyes. “Again? How many times can we cover that issue just for some cheap boob shots?”
“As many times as I can,” Brady said coldly. “There’s a lot of interest in the topic.”
“Yeah, maybe from horny fourteen-year-old boys who, may I remind you, are not our top demographic.”
Trent stormed over. “I’m not doing another tit story while everyone else is covering this trial. How about we inject some real journalism into this show for once?”
Brady stared at him. “If you want to be a ‘real’ journalist,” he said, making an insulting quote gesture, “then find another job. Otherwise, shut your trap and be the show pony you’re paid a ridiculous amount to be.”
Just when Viv and I thought it was going to erupt into a brawl, Malefic burst into the room, his acolytes by his side as usual. I had to give it to the guy – he sure knew how to make a memorable entrance.
“I have arrived,” he announced.
“Holy shit,” whispered Viv, clutching her clipboard to her chest.
“Fucking hell,” said Brady, as still as a statue.
“Yes!” exulted Trent, shooting an inquisitive glance over to Reverend Joshua, who had jumped to his feet, his Bible tumbling to the ground.
He pointed a trembling finger at Malefic. “Demon. Satan. Prince of Darkness. Worshipper of evil.”
Malefic laughed. “Oh, old man. You’re boring me already. Spare us all your godly dramatics.” I thought that was a bit rich coming from someone who dressed and acted like him.
Viv recovered quickly, hustling everyone on to the set. “Let’s get moving. We don’t have the studio all night. You sit here, Reverend. And . . . um, Mr Mallerific . . .”
“Malefic,” he corrected gently, touching her arm. She stiffened, an expression of fear crossing her face.
“You can sit here,” she said, not making any further eye contact with him. She scurried off-set to huddle at the edge of the studio, her arms crossed, though normally a bright, confident woman in the middle of everything on any other night.
“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned. I laid my hand on her arm. She flinched.
Her voice was low and hurried. “That man. I felt something when he touched me. And it wasn’t my back twinging again. It was something . . . I dunno. Something awful.”
Malefic looked over at us, smiling slightly as if he could hear our quiet conversation.
“He’s just a gigantic poser,” I tried to assure, not quite believing myself even as I spoke. “It’s all image. There’s no substance in him.”
“I know what I felt, Tilly. I’m not a fanciful person by nature. That guy’s bad news.”
“No argument from me about that, Viv. You didn’t hear those young women admitting they murdered their families for him. But you don’t really believe he actually has any power, do you?”
Her response was slow to come. “No, I guess not. It’s ridiculous to even contemplate in this day and age.”
“I think he’s just good at illusions and influencing people.” We both looked over at his acolytes, who stood passively off-camera, watching him devotedly. “Maybe he’s a natural magician?”
“He sounds like a cult leader. So much influence over young women.”
“Vulnerable young women. Just like any cult leader.”
“I’m hearing you.” She patted me on the shoulder. “I’m okay now. I was just a bit shaken.” She tried out a hesitant laugh. “You’d think nothing would faze me by now working in this place.”
“The guy’s a genuine creep. He’d faze anyone. But remember, he’s just a pathetic fake.”
A polite voice sounded from behind me. “Excuse me.”
Viv jumped and I spun around, my heart pounding. “Shit!”
It was Malefic. Oh God! I hoped he hadn’t heard me saying that. Despite what I’d said for Viv’s benefit, he made me extremely nervous too.
“I believe I need a microphone for the interview.”
“Of course. Of course,” Viv said, her head down, refusing to meet his eyes – something that apparently caused him a significant amount of amusement. Careful not to touch him any more than required, she ushered him back to the set and fussed around attaching mikes to both Reverend Joshua and him. Trent settled himself in his chair, re-reading his notes, atta
ching his own microphone with expert fingers.
“And ready in five, four, three, two, one. Go,” instructed Brady. Trent introduced his two guests and the story was underway.
It went as badly as everyone expected, yet still dreaded. Reverend Joshua was heated, belligerent and intolerant. Malefic was insultingly calm, condescending and seriously hair-raising. I noticed Trent eyeing his glass of water nervously a couple of times when the Reverend thumped his fist down on the desk, accusing Malefic of being a heathen devil-worshipper.
“Yes, I am, old man,” Malefic said with insolent patience. “What is your long-winded and exceptionally dull point on this matter?”
“What is that book you carry with you everywhere?” Trent hastily interceded, keeping one eye on the glass of water and one on the clueless station security man, who been summoned before filming started and who stood off the side picking his nose and examining the results with relish.
“This?” asked Malefic, well aware of what Trent referred to, but brandishing his old wrinkled book. “This is the Grimoire Malefic. My own creation.”
“Perhaps you can explain what a grimoire is for our viewers who may not know?”
Malefic laid his hand on its cover and caressed it. “It contains all my rituals.” He lowered his voice. “It is said the cover is made from human flesh.” Trent reeled away from it and Malefic chuckled. “But of course that’s nonsense.”
“Not to mention illegal, I imagine,” Trent said, keeping a close and cautious eye on him.
“It’s a book of the devil. Filled with Satan’s instructions,” opined Reverend Joshua.
“Shall I read some to you?” Malefic asked him, his black-painted fingernail flipping open the cover.
“No! I don’t want to hear the evil words of Satan.” The Reverend appeared genuinely shocked and frightened at the thought.
Malefic lazily turned a couple of pages with his finger, his eyes on the Reverend all the while. He stopped at a page that seemed to suit him and started reading in a language I didn’t recognise. Maybe it was Latin, maybe something even older.
