Exhausted from self-pummeling and singing, he dropped to his knees. “It’s… a… hundred beats… per minute. I learned… it… Red Cross. Check… my Fitbit… see if it worked.”
“Fitbit?” I lifted his nearly limp arm and examined the device. I gave it a few slaps and it began to work. “It’s just a technical glitch, bonehead. Your heart never stopped. Your pulse is fine.”
“Oh my God. I think I cracked my sternum. It hurts really, really bad,” Randy moaned, clawing his way across the floor like a three-legged sloth on Valium.
“You’ll live. How about we talk about some real problems? Mine.”
Randy collapsed in a chair. “Caffeinate me first.”
Handing Randy a coffee, I slowly paced. “I have budget-deficit-induced anxiety.”
Randy clutched his strings of imaginary pearls, gasping, “No! My poor dear sister over-shopped? The shame you’ll endure when you can no longer strut through the bordello in the latest Jimmy Choo boots.”
“Smartass. Let me explain. Money—it’s a funny thing. If you’ve ever had to survive on ramen noodles and crackers for two weeks, you think twice about how you’re going to spend every dime of your next paycheck. But if you suddenly strike it rich, you forget all those hard lessons pretty quickly. When I started raking in cash from Karma, Inc., I treated it like it was a license to shop. Now that our magic fountain of cash dried up, I’m going to be in worse shape than ever.”
Randy dismissed my complaints with a flick of his wrist. “Please. You can’t possibly be as broke as I am. Gertie and I have dumped so much money into the Paranormal Plantation we could have funded our own South American dictatorship. And you know what? I don’t even care if I’m broke. I’ve been chronically unemployed in Chicago before, and I pulled through. I‘ve been flat broke and managed to survive until things got better, and so can you. Quit stressing over it.”
“At least you and Gertie have a place to live.”
“Yeah, filled to the rafters with Gertie’s stray—and very hungry—monsters. That’s not living, it’s just avoiding death.”
“I seriously doubt anything would want to eat you, Randy. My problem is this new apartment. My rent is now three times what it was in my old place. The insurance on my new car is ridiculous and a tank of gas lasts about as long as a box of cheap wine at a book club meeting.”
“Use your brain, Kelly. Sell that exotic sports car and get yourself a beater.”
“No way. I’m way beyond beater cars. Remember that pile of crap we shared?”
“Remember it? Jesus, I can still smell it. A 1990 Buick station wagon that looks like it had been dropped from a plane and trampled by a herd of stampeding rhinos. It was so goddamned big, too. Remember the color?” Randy curled up in the chair, obviously cringing from the memory he’d conjured up.
“It’s embedded in my nightmares, all eight shades of faded pond scum green with that faux wood crap on the sides. It looked like Yogi Bear’s fucking hearse. Remember how the power steering screamed and the transmission howled? When your car sounds like a Godzilla movie on wheels, you’ve got a beater.”
“Oh yeah, Kelly. You know your ride is straight up ghetto when you can go down the Kennedy Expressway and not a single car will come within three hundred yards. It’s like you have your own blast radius. We were those people. But you have to admit, we always had a good time.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I want to relive it.”
“Sell your car. Just travel by broom.”
“Like that won’t get me in trouble, going to work by broom. Think practical, Randy. We need to get Karma, Inc. back in operation. Besides, Gabe has been sent to Alaska on a special assignment. I need the distraction. To be honest, Randy, I think you do too.”
“I need a distraction? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just going to come out and say it. I think Gertie has accidentally become attracted to you—physically. Think about it. You two live in the same house, you’re best friends, you carry on like an old married couple. And you have to remember something: Gertie has only been with one guy. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Plus Brad is living there too now. It’s none of my business, but if you want to talk about it… her… him… them, now’s a good time. We’ve talked about a lot of intimate things over the years, so don’t bottle yourself up now.”
“Okay, fine. I’ve noticed an occasional look from her. So what? It’s natural. Believe it or not, Brad and I even had a talk about it. The little world Gertie has created at the Paranormal Plantation is really that special. We tease each other a lot, that’s for sure. At the same time we trust and respect each other enough to not judge any of the curiosities we have.”
His use of the word “we” said a lot. “It also makes for a good Jerry Springer episode.” I knew it was time to move the conversation in a new direction. “I’m going to get ahold of Ezzy and Barney. I really want Karma, Inc. back in business.”
“Good luck with that. I haven’t seen or heard a thing from either of them. If you do get Karma, Inc. up and running, let me or Gertie know if you need any help. As long as it doesn’t involve anything dangerous, of course. Or at least, nothing more dangerous than clipping a fire-breathing dragon’s claws, which is one of my chores for today.”
Once Randy flew home to trim dragon claws, I settled in to watch a documentary about Chicago’s architectural treasures and contemplate my situation. The question came down to whether I really wanted to open up a can of worms by asking Ezzy to restart Karma, Inc.. I barely paid attention to the images of Chicago’s terracotta gargoyles as I weighed the risks involved with profiting from making people miserable.
As Marie Laveau once said, “indecision favors the Fates.” That’s exactly what happened next.
Gemma zigzagged her way through the kitchen, avoiding the sleeping Chihuahuas like a swashbuckling tomb raider avoiding dust-covered booby traps. In seconds, the black puffball of a cat was on my lap with a scroll from the Witches Union.
“Thanks, Gemma.” I unrolled the parchment and read the short message.
It was an invitation from Marie Laveau to meet at her mansion in New Orleans. I considered it very odd, since we’d always met at the Witches Union offices, never once at her home. I can’t say I had a feeling of dread about it. No, just a tinge of anxiety. Ever since I’d been dragged before the Supreme Council of Witches, I feared I wouldn’t survive my next encounter. I was done with courtroom drama.
To be honest, I didn’t know if it was an invitation or a veiled summons to appear. My guess was that it had something to do with our failed Karma, Inc. web show. Regardless, I had to be in New Orleans in two days. Every time I found myself worrying about it, I reminded myself of something Ezzy once said: “Marie always delivers bad news at the Witches Union offices, only good news at her home.” Let’s hope she was right!
Chapter Nine
Marie Laveau’s Mysterious Mansion
Two days later I crossed Marie Laveau’s porch, mumbling my mantra. “Only good news, only good news.”
“Welcome, Kelly. Please, come inside,” Marie greeted me. The fact that she was wearing a red silk night robe told me I’d arrived a bit ahead of schedule.
I followed her into her parlor. And when I say parlor, I mean the kind of room you would expect to find in a French Colonial mansion. A beautiful silk rug, ornately carved furniture, and masterpiece paintings on the walls. Voodoo statues, African tribal art, and vials filled with glowing potions were all mixed with the traditional décor.
The flickering light from the floating candelabras made it a bit spooky, but strangely cozy. I was sporting a full complement of goosebumps.
Something rushed out of the shadowy corner. The glow of the candles provided just enough light for me to get a glimpse of the attacker, but I saw only a torso. A set of bouncing D cups, clad in a pink floral dress, charged toward me. I let out a shriek, stepping back just enough to be caught off balance when then the bobbing boobs slammed into me.
“Good to see you too, Gertie,” I replied, peeling the red-haired pixie from my frame.
“Now you know how I feel when your little dogs jump me,” Ezzy’s familiar voice said.
“We don’t want to hear about your weird sex life, Ezzy,” my brother’s voice replied.
“Ezzy? Randy, are you here too?” I asked, squinting—as if it would help me see better in the dim light.
“Of course. You think I’d let Gertie come to town alone? I like New Orleans too much for that,” Randy teased.
Marie waved her hand, brightening the room with more candles. “Ah, that’s more like it.”
Two well-sculpted men appeared in the parlor’s arched doorway, one black and the other a bronze skinned Greek. The only clothing on their bodies consisted of skimpy red mesh G-strings that did absolutely nothing to conceal their enormous bulges of manhood.
“Madam Marie, would you like to resume your… massage?”
Marie held her hand up. “Yes, in a few minutes,” she replied.
“I take it she ordered the Happy Ending,” Randy said, chuckling.
Unabashed and without acknowledging Randy’s awkward statement, Marie addressed us. “I must apologize, witches. You’ve all arrived a little earlier than I expected. Why don’t you have a drink while you excuse me for just a few minutes? As you can obviously see, I was in the middle of something.”
“Literally in the middle,” Randy whispered. “Like a roast on a spit.”
She clapped her hands once. “Bjorn? Could you come here please?”
Yet another nearly naked hottie entered the room. This man was blond-haired and blue-eyed. “Would you like another orgasm in the hot tub, Madam Laveau?”
“No thank you, Bjorn. Would you please bring my guests some cocktails and see to their needs until I return? I’m sure you’ll keep them entertained.”
Bjorn nodded and went to work at a portable bar in the back of the room. I watched Marie and the other two men walk down the hallway, guessing she was taking them to her bedroom to finish that so-called massage. I could only imagine.
Randy elbowed me and whispered, “He looks exactly like Chris Hemsworth.”
By the time I’d turned around, Bjorn had supplied Gertie with a drink. She quickly slurped it up. When I finally received my glass, I didn’t even consider taking a sip before getting some idea of what the hell was in it. Unlike thirsty Gertie.
“Bjorn, what is this?”
“Madam Laveau’s specialty, Hex on the Beach. A triple shot of witches’ brew on the rocks, a shot of vodka, a dash of orange juice, and a few drops of passionfruit juice.”
“Witches’ brew? Oh shit. Gertie, don’t!” Witches’ brew—that wicked libation with a notorious reputation for converting even the most shy, reticent witch from virgin to porn star in under ten minutes.
And there was Gertie, noisily sucking on a mixing straw, working it around the bottom of her empty glass like she was an anteater finishing off the last holdouts of a vanquished termite mound. She popped the straw from her mouth, wiped her lips, and remarked, “That sure hit the spot. Sweet Jaysus, I was as dry as Gandhi’s flip-flops.”
Ezzy laughed quietly and, I dare say, sardonically. “Get ready for the entertainment in three, two, and one…”
“Woo-hoo!” Gertie cheered as if on cue, nearly frothing at the mouth over Bjorn’s sexy body.
“That’s my girl,” Ezzy whispered.
“Me-eee-owww! You could crack an egg on that boy’s ass.” We watched in disbelief as our sweet Gertie reached out and gave Bjorn’s bare ass cheek a skin-reddening smack. “The angels are blushing over what I’m thinking about! Turn around, boy, and let me see the whopper you’ve got caught in your little net.”
Bjorn faced Gertie and stretched the mesh cup away, and his Evian-water-bottle-sized pride and joy flopped out.
“Oh! Oh! I can’t take it. Jaysus, that boy has got me as wet as an otter’s pocket!” Gertie’s tongue lolled out of her mouth. “I need it. I want it. Where’s Brad when I need him?” Without warning, her face turned pale and she slumped unceremoniously onto her side. “Ooh, lightheaded. Dizzy. Did you leave the gas on, Randy?”
Gertie’s ninety-eight pound body was no match for the sucker punch dealt out by the Hex on the Beach. She passed out cold.
“Show’s over,” Ezzy said, obviously disappointed. She placed her wand on Gertie’s forehead and said, “Sober!”
Gertie’s whole body twitched like she’d been hit with a Taser. “Whew! Thanks,” she said, sitting upright, wide awake.
Marie Laveau eventually returned, looking quite radiant and relaxed.
“I’m sorry for calling you here on such short notice, but there are some things that are best discussed in a private setting. To start off, how many of you have seen the footage of your webcast debacle online?”
Nobody raised their hands. “Is it being shared online?”
“Yes. And in the last few days it has gone viral. It shows Randy making some comments about dishing out karma to a pair of unsuspecting victims, right before their RV shoots off the road and over a cliff. A short while later, a plume of black smoke rises out of the canyon. People think it’s a hoax, but not the Witches Union. I immediately summoned Ezzy and she told me what happened. Since the incident, Ezzy and I have uncovered some very disturbing anomalies happening to other witches.”
I slapped my forehead. “Just tell us. How bad is this?”
“Barney is missing. And considering he is a demon, some of the darkest forces of the universe could be behind it. I shudder to say the name,” Marie said.
“Voldemort?” Randy asked.
“No, dumbass. She means Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness, Taylor Swift,” Ezzy barked.
“Hey! Take that back. I love Taylor Swift!” Gertie blurted out, rolling into the chorus of “Blank Space.”
Shocked, I turned directly to Ezzy. “Barney’s missing? Why didn’t you tell me? And why did Marie refer to him as a demon? You told me imps were actually part of the fairy family, not really demons at all.”
Ezzy clucked her tongue and flicked her wrist. “Demon, shmeemon.”
“Ezzy…” I interjected, not so much pleading as demanding.
“Fine. A mere technicality. Imps are demons, not fairies. But they are on the very fringe of pure evil. In fact, it’s estimated that less than three quarters actually pay homage to Satan.” Ezzy buffed her nails with a tiny file. “Not much different than politicians, if you ask me. In any case, Barney was growing impatient for a new body. I refused to help him with it until I knew more about what was happening out there. You see, as soon as I returned to New Orleans I started to hear rumors about spells that wouldn’t work or spells that turned dark.”
“Are you saying all magic?”
“No. Just spells. Routine wand magic seems fine, as well as potions.”
“So what about Barney?”
“You know him. He refused to listen. He just stormed out and said he’d find another way. I haven’t heard from him since. Right after that, Marie got ahold of me. We’re worried that Barney found someone to help him. And with spells going wrong… well, who knows what could happen to him.”
“That’s right,” Marie added. “We need to find him. I hate to see Ezzy distraught. It’s so unlike her.”
“Distraught? Hardly. Slightly concerned? Perhaps. Never distraught,” Ezzy replied.
“Hush. We’ll find him. Next, we’re going to pin down the source of magical discord. Who knows? Maybe Barney will have found out something, if he survived.”
After our collective gasp, I had to remove doubts of Barney’s continued existence. “You mean when we see him again. Right, Marie?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied.
Ezzy tossed her nail file over her shoulder. It disappeared into a little puff of p
ink smoke. “And how do we find him? I’ve tried summoning him. I’ve tried conjuring him. Nothing,” she lamented.
“As Witches Union Local 1313 President, one of my collateral duties is Keeper of Forbidden Magical Items. You are all well aware of that, considering that Ezzy jacked Karma, Inc.’s black magic items from my storeroom.” She raised her hand, preemptively dismissing any apologies. “But I didn’t interfere. Contrary to current Witches Union directives, I personally believe responsible use of black magic has a place in the world of witchcraft. And this is why we are having this discussion in my home, and not at the office. This is completely off the record.”
“I take it you’ve got some black magic up your sleeve, Marie?” I asked.
“Always.” Marie literally pulled a black metal box, a miniature scroll, and a pen from her robe’s loose sleeve. “Presenting the Gremlin Position System, or GPS. In the past, witches used this system to capture and enslave lesser demons. Just take this small scroll, write the name of the demon you’re looking for and place the paper in the unit. Presto! Out pops the location. Kelly, why don’t you give it a try?” Marie handed me the scroll and pen.
I scribbled out Barney’s name, rolled up the scroll and placed it in the box, just as Marie instructed. The instant I closed the metal clasp, the box shook, rattled, and rang like it was a miniature pinball machine. As if that wasn’t enough to alarm me, the thing began to smoke.
I held the GPS as far away from me as my arms could reach. “Um… Marie? It’s scaring me.”
“Relax, girl.” Marie took the box and held it until it became quiet. The lid flipped open and the scroll popped out. “It tells us Barney is at the Oriental Institute Museum at the University of Chicago.”
“What? Why in the hell would he go there?” Ezzy asked.
“I think I know.” Randy barged into the discussion. “That museum is loaded with sculptures and art from Ancient Egypt, Assyria, Sumer, and all the dusty old stuff. If he’s looking for a new statue to possess he must be going Egyptian. That’s my guess, anyway.”
Shame of Clones: A Paranormal Romantic Comedy (Karma Inc. Files Book 3) Page 5
