‘‘Is this Ellison Pride?’’ demanded the caller.
A twitch of annoyance crossed Ellison’s face. Who else would be answering Ellison Pride’s cell phone?
‘‘Yes,’’ she said calmly.
‘‘I want my son back! I want him back now!’’
As if Ellison had him in her studio, perhaps as a decoration or an advertising prop.
‘‘Sir,’’ said Ellison, her eyes still on Shelby, ‘‘could you be a little more specific in your request?’’
The man snarled into the phone.
‘‘Sir?’’
‘‘My son has disappeared,’’ snapped the man. ‘‘He’s been taken by that—’’
Ellison could hear him looking for a word suitably vile to describe his son’s kidnapper. In the booth, Shelby’s mouth stopped moving; her voice no longer sounded from the ’phones hanging from Ellison’s neck.
Ellison nodded and gestured for her to leave the booth. She was pretty sure Shelby had done the last pass correctly. The young woman hadn’t made any of the faces or gestures associated with making a mistake in practicing an incantation. A mistake she’d recognized, anyway, and by now Shelby should recognize a mistake when she made one.
‘‘—that wench!’’ the caller finally said.
That was the worst he could come up with? Either the man had a serious vocabulary deficiency or something other than a straight kidnapping was going on.
Of course, if it had been a straight kidnapping, the man would have called the police, not Ellison Pride, the Witch of Westmoreland Avenue.
‘‘Sir, I need a little more information—’’ a lot more information ‘‘—where he was taken from, when, by whom. It would be helpful if I could see the scene— the location he disappeared from, if you know it.’’
Ellison lay down her chocolate and picked up a pen. She started to write a note to Shelby—‘‘You’re done for the day’’ —but thought better of it. Maybe it was time Shelby had other opportunities.
‘‘The location. You mean the scene of the crime,’’ said the man into Ellison’s ear.
‘‘Well, yes, sir.’’
‘‘Of course. How soon can you get here?’’
‘‘Where are you?’’
The caller gave her the address.
‘‘No more than an hour,’’ Ellison assured him.
‘‘Thank you.’’ The man’s relief made him sound almost like a different person, one who had learned manners and other social conventions.
‘‘This is so exciting!’’ Shelby was too old to bounce in her seat, though barely. ‘‘I mean, it’s very serious, a kidnapping.’’ She turned to look at Ellison, who was driving her brand new Subaru station wagon at a responsible speed.
‘‘But your first kidnapping and very exciting,’’ said Ellison, not quite sympathetically.
‘‘Well, yes.’’
‘‘All right, I understand. But do try to keep that under control in front of the client.’’
Shelby sobered for real. ‘‘The client. You’re really going to charge him money to get his son back.’’
‘‘I really am,’’ replied Ellison. ‘‘Probably less than the ransom, but possibly not. I’m not a public servant, Shelby. You know that. Finding missing persons, recovering kidnap victims—they’re services just like my other services, and I have to charge for them.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Shelby was silent for a few minutes. ‘‘Do you really charge more than the kidnappers sometimes? ’’
‘‘Yes. Sometimes people pay the ransom instead, because it’s cheaper.’’
‘‘That’s . . .’’ Shelby tried to find a word. ‘‘Nuts. Isn’t it? Letting kidnappers get away with it?’’
‘‘Well, I think so. But some people don’t seem to agree. I guess they think I’m gouging them.’’
‘‘But you’re not,’’ Shelby protested. ‘‘Are you?’’
‘‘No. First, there’s the basic cost of doing business: leasing the studio, paying the utilities, buying supplies, and so forth. None of that is cheap. The liability insurance alone is pretty steep. Then there’s employee health insurance, salaries—’’
Shelby interrupted. ‘‘Mine isn’t that much!’’
‘‘But mine is. And there is a retirement plan, in case I live that long and you stay in my employ long enough to become vested in the plan.’’
Shelby closed her mouth.
‘‘This can be a dangerous business, Shelby.’’ Ellison glanced at her apprentice. ‘‘You’ve felt the power. You’ve seen what can happen when a spell goes wrong.’’
But Shelby hadn’t felt enough power yet to do more than overcook a few potions or melt a few candles into bright clear pools of wax. Ellison sighed.
‘‘The client says that his son was taken by a ‘wench,’ ’’ she said.
‘‘A wench?’’ Startled, Shelby returned to present practicality. ‘‘Not a witch?’’
‘‘A wench. It took him a moment to find the word. He may have been looking for an entirely different one.’’
‘‘Like what?’’ Shelby asked, nonplussed. ‘‘That seems rude enough.’’
Replaying the client’s words, Ellison frowned. ‘‘No, he didn’t say ‘a wench.’ He said ‘that wench.’ ’’
‘‘So maybe he knows who took his son.’’ Shelby leaned her head back against the headrest. ‘‘Not a stranger abduction.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Maybe the boy’s mother? Maybe he’s divorced and his wife is a witch.’’
Ellison blew out a puff of air. ‘‘I hope not. I’d rather it were a demon.’’
‘‘Why?’’ asked Shelby in disbelief.
‘‘Custody cases are incredibly dangerous. Interfering with love?’’ said Ellison. ‘‘I would much rather snatch a kid from a demon than get between a mother and her child.’’
‘‘So we hope for a demon.’’ Shelby shook her head.
The house was nice, expensive, and big. It was one of the models with a whole separate wing for the children.
‘‘It was probably pretty easy for the kidnapper to take the boy without anyone noticing,’’ said Ellison, surveying the house from the circular driveway.
‘‘I wonder how long the kid was gone before the father called you,’’ said Shelby.
‘‘Let’s go find out.’’ Ellison got out of the car, shouldered her bag, and walked up the brick path to the front door. Shelby walked beside her, a proper assistant, not lagging behind.
Ellison was unsurprised when a maid answered the door, classic apron and all.
‘‘Ellison Pride. I’m here to see Marcus Henderson.’’
‘‘This way, ma’am, please.’’ The maid inclined her head and stepped aside to allow Ellison and Shelby to enter. Ellison suppressed a twinge of annoyance at the ‘‘ma’am.’’ It was meant to be respectful. How could the woman know it made Ellison feel old and doddering?
Ellison and Shelby followed the maid to a large room with walls of glass: a conservatory. Or a sunroom that hoped to be a conservatory when it grew up.
In the sunroom, a man paced the length, from one large potted palm to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, his forehead creased.
Ellison forced herself to remember this caricature of the aggrieved father was indeed a real live aggrieved father.
‘‘Ellison Pride to see you, sir,’’ the maid said and then went away, not waiting for thanks or further instructions.
‘‘Finally,’’ said Henderson, turning to them. ‘‘Come along, I’ll show you his rooms.’’ The man strode past them without another word and led them through the back hall, up the back stairs, along the main corridor, which overlooked the foyer, past the great stairs, and into the other wing, where he turned right into a suite of rooms appointed in deep blue and hunter green.
Ellison blinked and heard Shelby whimper once beside her.
‘‘I am certain he was taken from here,’’ declared Henderson. ‘‘He went up
after dinner last night and didn’t come down again. The maid went to call him to breakfast this morning and he was gone.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’ Ellison circled the bedroom with its neatly made twin bed and matching nightstands, telephone on one, digital clock on the other, then entered the private bath with its nice clean shower tub and nice wide counter. Clean, dry towels hung close to hand. She emerged to cross the bedroom to the sitting room with its deep blue and hunter green matching love seat and chair. A bare end table stood at the corner where the pieces met.
‘‘Did the maid make the bed this morning? Clean the bathroom?’’ asked Ellison.
‘‘Yes, of course,’’ said Henderson.
‘‘Are there any personal items I could use to locate your son?’’
‘‘Personal items?’’ Henderson looked confused.
‘‘A favorite toy, perhaps?’’ Any toy—there wasn’t one to be seen in the suite at all—no teddy bear neatly resting on the pillow, no blocks stacked carefully in the sitting room, not even a sailboat in dry dock in the bathroom.
‘‘A toy?’’ Henderson frowned.
‘‘An item of clothing? A favorite shirt? A sweater? Anything?’’
‘‘My son hasn’t played with toys for years,’’ declared Henderson. ‘‘As for clothing, I haven’t the foggiest notion what his favorite object might be. Can’t you just get him back?’’
‘‘Not one thing that belongs to your son? Not even an old teddy bear?’’ blurted Shelby.
Ellison shot her apprentice a quelling look, but she was grateful the question had been asked.
‘‘Of course not,’’ said Henderson, chilling the room. ‘‘You can bring him back, can’t you, Ms. Pride?’’
Ellison pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘‘Of course I can. It will be more difficult without the personal item to help focus the search, so my fee will be higher than would otherwise be the case.’’
‘‘Money is no object,’’ said Henderson.
‘‘Very well. You’re certain he disappeared from this room.’’
‘‘Absolutely,’’ snapped Henderson.
‘‘Tell me more about this ‘wench,’ ’’ commanded Ellison.
‘‘She’s got my son under some kind of spell. I’m sure of it. He’s never home, except to be on the telephone or for meals. He never talks about anything else, he never goes anywhere without her or does anything without her outside of school—’’
‘‘Mr. Henderson, I need to know more about the woman herself, not her effect on your son,’’ interjected Ellison.
‘‘She’s not a woman,’’ Henderson said. ‘‘She’s a demon. A green-eyed, red-haired, beautiful demon who has seduced my son.’’
Ellison raised her eyebrows, then took another look around the suite. It was still no help; there was still no sign of the resident. The sitting room still held no toys, no books, no pictures, posters, or pennants. The bathroom still held no sailboats.
‘‘How old is your son?’’ asked Ellison, returning to the bedroom once more.
‘‘Twenty-one,’’ said Henderson promptly. ‘‘Can we get on with it?’’
‘‘Since it’s not a custody case, I think we can rule all the wench-class demons but one,’’ said Ellison to Shelby.
‘‘Which one?’’
‘‘The one that likes boys.’’
‘‘A succubus.’’
‘‘That’s the one,’’ Ellison replied. ‘‘She won’t be happy about giving up her toy. She’ll fight me when I call the boy. Young man,’’ she amended. Shelby was only a few years older than the client’s son.
Ellison conjured a large piece of white chalk and handed it to her apprentice.
‘‘We need a summoning triangle,’’ said Shelby as she carefully marked the shape on the bedroom floor. ‘‘Don’t we need the protective circle, too? Won’t the demon come with him?’’
Ellison shook her head. ‘‘Succubae aren’t generally that strong. I should be able to separate them before bringing the son back here. Dispensing with the circle will also make it easier to get through to him.’’
Shelby nodded. Ellison could see her thinking it through, applying her studio lessons to a real situation.
‘‘Can we get started?’’ demanded Henderson.
‘‘We have already started,’’ replied Ellison. ‘‘It would be best if you would wait outside.’’
‘‘I will not wait outside,’’ returned Henderson. ‘‘It’s my money and my son and I will keep an eye on the proceedings from right here.’’ He folded his arms, letting Ellison know he was locked into position.
She grimaced. He wasn’t the first client who had behaved this way, and she didn’t expect he’d be the last. She just didn’t like them underfoot or even beside her feet. Or anywhere in the same room as her feet or any part of her while she was working.
‘‘Without the personal item,’’ Ellison told Shelby, ‘‘we’ll have to rely on place of origin to draw him back. First, however, we have to find him. That will be—’’ Words she didn’t want to use in front of a client crossed her mind as Ellison glanced at the present client.
‘‘Mr. Henderson. A lock of your hair, if you please,’’ she decided.
She’d startled the man out of his control. ‘‘Excuse me?’’
‘‘A lock of your hair will give us some connection to your son, something like him to search for. Unless, of course, he’s adopted.’’
Henderson’s face reddened. ‘‘He is not! If it is absolutely necessary, you may have a lock of my hair. I’ll have my maid call—’’
Ellison conjured a small pair of scissors from the sewing kit she kept in her bag. With a single snip, she procured several strands of gently curling iron-gray hair.
Henderson’s jaw snapped shut. Ellison was impressed when he didn’t splutter or bluster.
She conjured a clip to secure the strands and handed Shelby the scissors to return to their place in the bag. The young woman, professional cover attained, showed no sign that she’d never opened the bag before, much less handled the contents. The scissors were out of sight and in their proper place when Ellison asked her to take the first of three fat white candles.
‘‘Place them at the vertices of the triangle, please,’’ Ellison instructed her.
Henderson, indignant, took a step toward Ellison and the triangle. ‘‘Why is she doing this? I’m paying for you, not some underling! I want the best!’’
‘‘You have it,’’ returned Ellison, her teeth not quite gritted. ‘‘Ms. Kusanagi is quite capable of setting up the spell. I will be saying the incantation myself. That, sir, is the critical part. That is why you called me.’’
Peeved, Ellison handed Shelby the clip of hair. ‘‘Place it precisely in the center of the triangle, Ms. Kusanagi, if you please.’’
Surprise flickered across Shelby’s face. Ellison gave her a quick nod. Surely Shelby could manage this. Henderson had some nerve questioning Ellison’s judgment with regard to her apprentice!
‘‘Thank you, Ms. Kusanagi.’’ Ellison handed Shelby the lighter. ‘‘Now the lighting of the candles.’’
Shelby’s hand was not shaking as she struck flame from the lighter and her voice did not tremble as she began to speak.
‘‘I thought—’’
‘‘Quiet!’’ snapped Ellison.
Shelby proceeded with the candle lighting.
‘‘But you—’’
‘‘Shh!’’ hissed Ellison.
Shelby lit the third candle without further interruption from the client. The flames burned steadily and straight and in the proper color. Ellison did not let slip a silent breath of relief.
‘‘You said that you would say the incantation!’’ Furious, Henderson took two steps toward Ellison and the triangle.
‘‘The primary incantation!’’ snapped Ellison. ‘‘Which I am about to begin, so please keep quiet!’’
Henderson closed his mouth.
Shelby stepped back from the triangle.
‘‘Please, sir, step back,’’ she said, putting her hand on Henderson’s elbow.
Henderson shook her off. Shelby, looking worried, took another step back on her own, then a third, as Henderson took yet another step forward.
Ellison noted the rage on Henderson’s face as he shook off Shelby’s hand, then closed her eyes. Somewhere, despite Henderson’s fury, despite Shelby’s uncertainty, despite her own irritation, there was a calm place. It was somewhere very close by, and she would be there soon.
‘‘What are you waiting for?’’
Or not.
‘‘Mr. Henderson.’’ Ellison opened her eyes and glared at her client. ‘‘Please keep quiet.’’
‘‘You said there’d be an incan—’’
‘‘And there will be, if you will keep quiet.’’ Again Ellison kept from gritting her teeth. Her dentist would be proud.
Henderson’s mouth closed. Ellison wished there were an ethical spell for keeping it that way.
Where was that calm place? Ah. There. And there was Ellison, finally in it. She stayed there for a moment, then sought the lock of hair in its triangle.
Yes. Shelby had done well. The triangle was precise, the candles were perfectly placed, and the hair in its clip was exactly where it was supposed to be. Ellison set aside gloating over her accomplishment as a teacher for later.
She felt her power begin to build, a force that always thrilled her at least a little bit, even in the most routine spells.
Raising her hands from her sides—mostly because it looked better than shoving them into her pockets— Ellison began the incantation to draw life to like life. With the hair in the triangle, Henderson’s son should be drawn back to his own room. The house was new enough that there was little risk of drawing previous residents of the room.
She finished the first part, commanding the seeker to reach out. She felt the energy of the hair, harsh tendrils from it speeding away like Medusa’s snakes set free.
On to part two, without shuddering: Call to the like life to meet the seeker.
Some sources claimed this part of the incantation was unnecessary. In some cases, Ellison agreed. But with a demon, and a succubus at that, involved, every word counted.
The anchoring energy seemed to fill the triangle, almost to overflowing, stifling—
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