The Devil's Eye

by J. R. Rain

  The phone errors when I try to open it with my thumbprint. Grr. Wet fingers. Still gripping the wall so I don’t fall on my ass, I type my pin and swipe with the tip of my nose. Fortunately, calling her back is one button tap.

  “Sorry, Izzy. Was in the bath. What’s up?”

  “Hey! Owen’s got this bachelor party thing going on for one of his buddies today. You wanna maybe grab lunch?”

  Hmm. I glance down at my foot, creeping to the right across the grey ‘cut stone’ tiles Caius picked for our kitchen. They lend the aesthetic of a medieval castle to the room, which I’m all for, even if they are so dark they make me feel transparent. Alas, they’re not friendly to wet bare feet. I tap my toe in a small puddle. Sage prep won’t take long, and it’s not even ten yet, so I imagine she’s not looking to run out the door right away.

  “Sure, what time?” I ask.

  “Sweet. How about eleven-thirty? I’m bringing little Noah along.”

  I fake gasp. “What? He’s not going to the bachelor party?”

  Isabelle laughs. “No way. Those knuckleheads are going to a place to throw hatchets. Hatchets. Idiots.”

  Can’t blame her for not wanting to trust a wander-prone toddler around a bunch of beered-up guys flinging sharp things around. Owen, her husband, has an attention span somewhere between a goldfish with ADHD and a quark. He’d lose track of the boy in a locked car. “Okay, cool, so you wanna bring him to that place with the rabbit?”

  She laughs so hard she snorts. I’m amazed she remembered that. We conspired to play a practical joke on another of our friends, Tara, by taking her to this male stripper show without telling her what kind of ‘live entertainment’ would be there. She’d been expecting comedians, I think. We wound up having a blast, mostly laughing at Tara’s embarrassment. After the show, Tara dragged us to a bar for ‘brain bleach,’ and Isabelle had a bit much to drink.

  “I’m kidding. I think.” I fix my stance before my legs slide out from under me. Oh, hell with it, I’m alone. I flip the phone to speaker and set it back on the table before dropping the towel to stand on it and mop up the floor a little. “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a new sit-down Chinese restaurant in Capital Mall. Been itching to try it for a few weeks now,” says Isabelle.

  Once my feet and floor are dry, I re-wrap myself in the towel. “All right. You want to pick me up or should I meet you there?”

  “Umm… whatever works better for you.”

  We’re going to be here all day if I don’t pick an option. I hate making choices like this since I don’t want to inconvenience people, especially my best friend. And she’s the queen of indecision.

  “Coin flip?” asks Isabelle. She knows the drill.

  “Don’t have one. I’m in a towel since you pulled me out of a nice bubble bath.” I stand there dripping for a few more seconds, staring at a charm pouch hanging from the kitchen cubby. “It’s fine, I’ll meet you at the place.”

  “Okay,” she chirps. “See you soon!”

  After we hang up, I head back to the bathroom to dry off properly and drain the tub. That done, I throw on a black gypsy skirt and a matching top that leaves a little of my stomach showing plus a bunch of bracelets and my triquetra earrings. Around my neck, I hang a sachet of mullein and angelica root I enchanted for protection. (It’s got yarrow flower in it as well, to ward off negative influences.) For a final touch, I add two pentacle necklaces, one silver and one wood with crescent moons on either side. Sandals can wait until I’m ready to walk out the door.

  I head down the hall to the living room, cut across to the kitchen alcove, and out to the back porch that I’ve somewhat converted into a greenhouse. From a little set of ivy-shrouded shelves to the left of the door, I snag a copper sprinkling can, which I fill from a spigot on the wall. The air is thick with the smell of herbs, some edible, some medicinal. My blessed thistle, cayenne pepper, coltsfoot, red clover, comfrey leaf, and dandelions are getting a bit low, so as soon as I get back from lunch, I’ll need to start a few new plantings. While making the rounds, watering and tending, I thank Dionysius for watching over my garden and ask for his continued blessing.

  The inkling that I ought to get moving strikes me as I’m working my way down the herb row, full of more common kitchen herbs like basil, dill, and such. I hurry to the end, leave the water can, and pad back into the house to fetch my sandals and handbag.

  My truck, a one-year-old white Silverado, sits halfway off our driveway. Technically, it’s our truck since the payments come out of the joint account I have with Caius, but he prefers his little sporty thing. I’m not entirely sure what it is, but it looks like a Ferrari even though it’s nowhere near that expensive. I want to say it’s an Audi, but who knows or cares.

  That said, I never imagined myself driving a pickup truck. Before I got my license, I daydreamed about something cute like a Miata or a Mini Cooper… but by the time I could actually afford to get a car, I’d been a police officer for a couple months and had seen what happens to people when tiny cars meet not-tiny trucks. So, yeah, that changed my mind. Plus, now that I’m a detective, sometimes I get calls in the middle of the night and need to drive my personal vehicle to a crime scene… and not all killers are nice enough to do their dirty work in civilization.

  The donut-sized wreath of bramble, rowan, and ivy hanging from the rearview mirror makes me smile. It’s a smaller version of the one on our front door, charged with an invocation to Brigit to ward off evil spirits and dark energies. Power radiating from it is almost tangible, sending a tingle down my arms to my fingertips. It’s not going to let me drive like an insane woman and get away with it, but it will better my odds against random idiots.

  After plugging the address of the place Isabelle wants to meet into the GPS, I back out of the driveway and get going. The ride to the Capital Mall takes a little over ten minutes. Isabelle’s already walking across the lot with Noah in tow when I roll by, waving at her. She waits by the front door while I park and hurry to catch up.

  “Maddy!” She flings herself into a one-armed hug, since she’s holding her son’s hand.

  “Hey, Iz.” After the hug, I pat Noah on the head and grin at him.

  He waves. “Hello, Mabby. Peek-a-boo.”

  Laughing, I pull my hair off my face.

  Isabelle fusses at it as well. “You burn through all your hair clips again?”

  “Meh. She hates being tied back, so I try to do it only when necessary… like for work.” I pull the door open and hold it for them before following.

  The Golden Dragon is full of red velvet, gold trim, and wonderful aromas. They’ve got a couple massive pictures showing the Great Wall, farmers in a field, and a Chinese temple around the walls. Despite it being close to noon, there aren’t too many people here. The ‘niceness’ of the place gives off the feeling it’s meant more for dinner than lunch.

  We get a round table near the middle of the room, plop down, and catch up with the minutiae of our daily lives while checking out the menu. I’ve known Isabelle all my life. We lived next door as kids, went to the same school all the way to college, only she became a paralegal. Most of her idle chatter involves bitching about two lawyers at her firm. One heaps work on top of her, but treats her like a person while the other’s a condescending bastard. To him, anyone who isn’t a lawyer charging $700 an hour is a peasant.

  Noah reaches for the complimentary teapot, which I push to the opposite side of the table. He stares up at me as though I kidnapped his cat. The boy’s got straight hair like his mother, only a lighter shade of brown. It’s adorable that they’re letting him wear it long.

  “How’s life treating you?” asks Isabelle. “You look like you’re in a good mood.”

  I grin. “Working on the easiest case of my life. We got it as soon as we walked in the door Friday morning, and we landed a suspect the same day. That’ll never happen again.”

  “Wow.” She blinks. “Almost too good to be true. You sure you f
ound the right person?”

  “Yeah.” Deciding on the Moo Goo Gai Pan, I put the menu down. “I’m pretty sure the public defender is going to plead insanity, and honestly, the guy ought to.”

  “So, he’s really nuts?” asks Isabelle.

  “Nuts!” yells Noah, startling a few other patrons.

  Izzy and I crack up laughing.

  A waiter approaches to take our order. Isabelle gets the General Tso’s as always, plus a chicken finger and fries plate for Noah. Soon after he leaves, Isabelle brings up this game her husband Owen is trying to get her interested in. Some kind of multiplayer online fantasy thing. She selected a sorceress character, which uses ‘netherworld’ magic to curse enemy creatures, as well as calls upon lightning-based spells for direct attacks.

  “Sounds, umm, creative,” I say, trying not to sound too bored. Video games never did anything for me, especially when they feed into misconceptions about those who use actual magic.

  After maybe fifteen minutes, the waiter and a friend arrive, bringing our food.

  “Oh wow, this smells amazing.” I have Chinese food all the time, but usually only take-out. Actually sitting down at a place is way better.

  “Please, enjoy.” The waiter bows, clasping his hands. “Do you need anything else?” When we both shake our heads, he smiles, offers a slight nod, and walks off.

  “You guys are still good to go with us next month, right?” asks Isabelle, sensing my feeble interest in her online adventures.

  “Oh, definitely. I wish we could swing more than one weekend, but I am totes looking forward to recharging my spiritual batteries.”

  Isabelle gives me the narrow-eyed stare. “I think we’re too old to use the word ‘totes’ like that.”

  “Nonsense!” I thrust my arm up as I shout… and my hair falls over my face again.

  Noah giggles.

  “Can I help you?” asks Isabelle, more serious than I’m expecting.

  I pull the thick curtain of red curls away from my eyes, revealing an unsettling man in a sky-blue T-shirt and cargo shorts who’s sidled up to our table. His hair doesn’t look like he’s become aware of the invention of the comb (sure, I’m one to talk, but my hair actually eats combs), and his eyes don’t point in the same direction. The guy’s probably about our age, but I can’t tell if he’s staring at me or off into space.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you ladies talking about dark powers,” says the guy. “I feel compelled to help steer you away from Satan’s path.”

  Oh boy. I give Isabelle the ‘you can deal with this guy’ look.

  “Dark power?” asks Isabelle. “Whatever do you mean?”

  The man gestures randomly. “You spoke of curses and incantations, summoning darkness. That’s the work of Satan.”

  Isabelle smirks. “That’s the work of Snowstorm Entertainment. We’re talking about a video game.”

  The man nods, wagging his finger at her. “Oh, yes. Video games are how Satan gets his hooks in you. Infecting the mind with evil thoughts when you don’t even know he’s doing it. Computers are the gateway to true evil.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but Isabelle jumps in. “Newsflash: evil’s not real. There is no God and there is no Satan.”

  An internal sigh echoes in my brain. This is the only thing the two of us disagree on. Evil is real, but to her point, it does tend to be stronger when attacking people who believe it. My friend doesn’t allow anything supernatural into her headspace, and thinks religion, in general, is somewhere between stories made up to control people (Santa Claus for grownups, as she usually puts it) or nefarious psychotic cults. She doesn’t often spout off at people about it, but I suppose having a born-again get in her face over a video game steps over that tolerant line. Perhaps I shouldn’t have sicced her on the poor guy.

  The ‘there is no God’ comment has no effect, at least none that registers in his expression. “Of course that’s what it appears to be,” says the guy. “That’s how the insidiousness of the evil gets into your head. You think it’s fake, but the whole time”―he knocks on his skull with worrisome ferocity―“the Devil is working his way into your soul. By the time you realize it’s happening, it’s too late.”

  “Look, dude,” I say. “We’re just trying to eat here, okay? My friend isn’t interested in being preached at while her chicken gets cold. There’s nothing satanic about a video game.”

  One of his eyes focuses on me while the other one rotates downward. Ack. I know it’s not his fault or anything, but it’s sooo creepy. “Oh, sister, you must turn back from your dark path! I see the mark of the Devil on you!”

  “I’m not a Satanist,” I mutter, deadpan. “This is a Wiccan pentacle that symbolizes the five elements.”

  “The Devil has you!” shouts the man. “But it’s not too late to repent.”

  “I hate to rain on your parade here, but I don’t believe in Satan. The Romans modeled the character after Cernunnos, the Horned God. Your Satan is a bastardization of the Celtic god of life, animals, and fertility who rules over the underworld.”

  Noah fidgets, teetering on the verge of tears. This wingnut is throwing off some bad vibes, and the boy can feel it.

  “In other words, they needed a bad guy for their story,” adds Isabelle.

  Again, I sigh to myself. I have no problem with people believing whatever they want, as long as they do no harm to others. I know my Goddesses and Gods are real, so his might be too. My friend’s contempt for his beliefs isn’t any different than if she mocked mine. Well, I’m sure she thinks I’m silly, but she hasn’t teased me about it either. However, I don’t run around trying to convert everyone I see to Wicca, and I certainly don’t think everyone who doesn’t follow my path is going to spend eternity in torture for not believing me. That said, the guy is way pushy, especially to walk up to two total strangers who are trying to eat in peace.

  “Satan has clearly tainted your minds. I will pray for you.” The man closes his eyes and begins muttering scripture with his hands raised over our table.

  Noah starts crying.

  “The Dark One has even tainted the most innocent among you,” says the man.

  I stand. “Okay, pal. That’s quite enough. Time for you to go back to your table.”

  He stares at me in shock, like how dare I interrupt his interrupting our lunch with prayer. “You’ll wind up in Hell if you aren’t saved.”

  I smirk. “If you don’t stop trying to convert random strangers who aren’t interested, you’re going to wind up in”—I mentally search for something equally fanciful—“the land of Oz, or Middle Earth, or…”

  “Westeros,” adds Isabelle.

  “Right,” I say. “Westeros. Nice one, Iz.”

  She nods. “We’re a good team.”

  “Why does that sound so familiar?”

  “It’s from that show you don’t want to watch because everyone dies,” mutters Isabelle. “Too dark for you.”

  Oh, right. I get plenty of death at my day job. Don’t need more sadness when I’m trying to have a good time.

  The guy blinks, stammering, “W-what? Oz? Middle Earth? Those aren’t even real places.”

  A Cheshire smile spreads over my lips. “Now you kinda know what you sound like to me talking about Hell.”

  The man shifts his gaze to Isabelle.

  She shakes her head, raising her hands. “Don’t look at me. I don’t believe in your fairy tales or hers. Now, do you mind? Please just go away and let us eat. You’re upsetting my son.”

  He opens his mouth, a look of urgency in his eyes.

  Before he can get a word out, I raise my voice over his. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your table. Now.”

  A soft throat-clearing to my left announces the arrival of a middle-aged Chinese man with a touch of grey in his hair. Probably the manager. “Sir, please stop causing a disturbance, or I may have to notify the police.”

  The nutter shows no signs of backing down, so I pull my badge o
ut of my purse and hold it up. “You don’t have to call the police. I’m already here. Please, just go back to your table and eat in peace.”

  We have a momentary silent stare down before the evangelical decides to cut his losses and walk away. The guy looks so dejected at ‘failing to save us’ I almost feel bad for him. Almost. Isabelle plucks Noah into her lap and bounces him.

  “We are sorry for the inconvenience,” says the manager.

  I smile while putting my badge away and sitting once more. “Not your fault.”

  He leans closer, tilting his head while whispering, “Are you really a police officer?”

  “Detective, yes… but I’m off duty now.”

  “Ahh, wonderful.” He smiles at us, thanks us for visiting the Golden Dragon, and hurries off.

  Isabelle keeps bouncing Noah, who’s calmed down considerably. “I thought you were going to get physical with that guy.”

  “Really? What makes you think that?” I attack my food once more; fortunately, it hasn’t gotten completely cold.

  “Your hair stayed out of your face. That only happens when shit’s about to get serious.”

  I grin. “I thought you didn’t believe in that stuff.”

  “I don’t.” She winks. “Just something funny to say. But you know… you are kind of inviting that sort of thing by flaunting all those pentacles and spooky earrings.”

  “They’re not spooky, they’re triquetras. It doesn’t bother me. People who send out bad energy get it back three times over.” I pause long enough to savor another forkful. No point getting into the argument about why it’s asking for trouble for me to wear pentacles, but it’s fine if Christians wear crosses in public. Isabelle and I have been around that bend before. “Wow, this is amazing food. Nice find.”

  “We came here last week and I knew I had to share it with you.” She eyes the born-again, who’s still staring at us from his table on the far right side of the room. “Is that guy going to do something? I don’t like the way he’s looking at us.”