Pentacle Pawn Boxed Set

by Amanda Hartford

  No open flames are allowed in the preserve, but I had brought a canning jar half-filled with olive oil. I took a small square of foil threaded with a cotton wick from my backpack and floated it on the surface of the oil. When I lit the wick, my candle glowed.

  I had just settled onto one of the stones when Mark crested the ridge and joined me.

  Barry was next, holding Asia’s elbow. It tickled me to watch the dynamic between them: Barry, trying to be a gentleman, helping her along the trail; Asia, a legendary warrior, letting him do it. There might be hope for those two yet.

  Alex had picked up Clayton at his hotel, and they came up the hill together. Their faces were grim; they must have been talking in the car about the task ahead.

  Lissa and Orion held hands as they crested the ridge. The way that man looked at his wife nearly stopped my heart.

  Daisy was last, clumping along on her footed cane as Stella hovered discreetly behind her.

  As each of my friends joined the circle, they took their seats on the boulders and placed their own glowing canning jar candles at their feet. Our circle of light was complete.

  We sat in silence, each in his or her own thoughts until the moon rose. As convener, I began the cleansing incantation as we each placed our talismans within the circle: Daisy, her sea turtle shell comb; Barry, his elkhorn knife; Stella, her Victorian doorknob; Lissa, the baboon’s tooth; Orion, his beautiful pearl. Clayton carried a single eagle feather, and I broke my concentration to wonder whether it was a family heirloom or just a painted turkey feather he’d picked up in some tourist trap.

  Mark laid his staff across the middle of the circle, and I placed a black Navajo bowl, a gift from a dear friend, on the ground in front of me. Out of the corner my eye, I saw Alex reach in his pocket. What would his talisman be? He pulled out an old photograph of Lissa as a child and placed it in the circle.

  Nobody spoke the name of our enemy or uttered any curses. This evening was about friendship, not hatred. Our circle of candles glowed brighter as we poured our energy into the incantation.

  So we bind ourselves in battle; so we bind ourselves in love.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the Fourth of July, I declared a day off. The shop was closed for the holiday weekend; John was snuggled under the covers, spooned up beside me when I woke up a few hours after noon. He kissed the nape of my neck as I stretched myself awake.

  I was tempted to stay right there for the whole day, but I was feeling better than I had in a long time. I slid out from under John’s arm and sat up.

  He teased me, making grasping motions at void on my side of the bed, but he let me go. He knew me well enough to know that it was useless to try to get me to sleep in once I was up and running.

  Running was precisely what I needed: get out on the canal paths for a while and blow out the cobwebs. I kissed John's forehead and left him to enjoy another lazy hour.

  I have two drawers full of running clothes. The top drawer of my dresser contains beautiful Spandex and Gore-Tex workout gear, formfitting and fashionable up to the minute. There is even a silky white tank top woven from bamboo. Seriously, who buys white to work out in? Everything in this drawer is like new; some of them still have the tags on them. I got these clothes at Scottsdale Fashion Center when I first bought my condo because I thought I had to keep up appearances with the neighbors.

  The next drawer down holds my battered sweats and hoodies, and a few pairs of baggy cotton shorts. I bought most of them at Goodwill, but there are a couple of things in there that are holdovers from college or even high school. This is the stuff I wear on the canal path every day. I don’t care what the neighbors think.

  To the rest of Scottsdale, it was mid-afternoon, but to me, it was morning. Working at Pentacle Pawn means that my sleep cycle is upside down; at 3 p.m. I’m craving real cereal, not some healthy granola. I’m looking for the hard stuff, the sugarcoated comfort food that I used to munch as a kid while I watched the Saturday cartoons.

  Yes, I know that kids cereal is not a healthy choice, but I rationalized that I was about to burn off all those calories anyway, once I hit the trail. I promised myself that I’d do an extra mile today, a promise I had no intention of keeping, but it felt good as I poured on the milk.

  I took my breakfast onto the balcony and found gorgeous sunshine. Actually, for July in Arizona, not so bad – the weather this time of the year fluctuates between triple-digits and the balmy 90s. I was grateful for a break from heat so intense that it feels like you’re swimming through scalding gelatin.

  “Good golly Miss Maggie,” Edgar said from his perch on the Manzanita branch.

  Someday I was going to find out who’d taught him that. “Good morning, Edgar,” I said.

  The raven glanced at the sun as if to check his watch.

  I winked at him. “My house, my schedule.”

  Edgar ruffled his feathers to make his body appear twice its actual size. I wasn’t intimidated.

  He flew down to mooch cereal from my bowl, but I waved him away. He wouldn't be shooed off, so I resorted to bribery.

  “Want some peanut butter?” I asked sweetly. I had discovered that chunky peanut butter was Edgar’s favorite food in the whole, wide world, so I kept a small jar on the patio table just for him.

  He watched eagerly as I screwed off the lid, and scooped out a dab with my fingers. "Fly perch," I said to Edgar as I smeared the treat onto his branch. He didn’t bother to thank me, just flew over and stuck his whole beak down in the goo.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I’m going for a run. It wouldn’t hurt you to come along and work off that sugar high.” Edgar has, as Bessie predicted, made a full recovery. He can fly short distances, and he can soar like an eagle, especially in a good updraft.

  Edgar ignored me. Edgar and exercise? Nevermore.

  ♦

  I’m in great shape despite my eating habits, and I try to get out and run every day so I’m used to all the weird weather that the state can throw at you. That said, I’m not stupid. I mean, people die out there. I stay within my boundaries, and I constantly hydrate. I was determined to get my run in, but I knew not to push it. I take frequent breaks in the shade, and on a simmering day like this, I knew just the place.

  Arizona Falls is only a couple of miles down the canal from my place, but it’s a world away. Most of the people driving along busy Indian School Road have absolutely no idea that it’s there, but the falls have been a popular place for Phoenicians to cool off for more than 100 years. Back in the bad old days before air-conditioning, families would pack a picnic and spend the hottest hours of the afternoon beside the waterfall where the canal changed elevation as it flowed toward downtown Phoenix.

  It’s still a cool spot, in every sense of the word. A few years ago, the Salt River Project, the company that maintains the canals, modernized the small hydroelectric plant that spans the falls and commissioned a pair of famous Boston artists to design a new plant site that’s more like a futuristic garden than a public utility.

  I took my time getting there, alternating between a fast walk and a slow jog. I’d worked up a nice sweat but nothing strenuous by the time I got to the small park that faces the four-lane road.

  The canal bank is elevated here about fifteen feet above the roadway, which means I could look down into the park, but anybody looking back up wouldn’t see me unless I stepped close to the edge. Up on the wide dirt paths on either side of the canal, I get the illusion that I am far from the city.

  The canal widens and splits here. The northern half of the channel makes a dramatic drop over a tall spillway. The top of the spillway is even with the canal bank, and a footbridge crosses it to the far side. The southern half is the new hydroelectric plant, a trendy industrial design with a path-level deck that looks out over the lower level.

  I entered the complex by walking past it a hundred feet along the canal path and descending a narrow dirt ramp to the lower level. From the top of the ramp, the complex looks
like a small theater, complete with enormous stone cubes that serve as seating for the gathering area on the lower platform, and the upper platform on which the power plant rests serves as the proscenium.

  Inside that outdoor room, you’re surrounded by the hiss and bubble of falling water. Three sides are enclosed by carved concrete walls draped in falling water that splashes into a shallow pool that rims the room. Just past the railing on the long side facing downstream, water falls in curtains from the two power plant outflows above your head into the boiling channel below. It scents the air with green moss and the alkaline tang of desert soil.

  Viewing areas jut out over the spillway, and I usually take my break there, enjoying the spray from the churning water only a few feet below the wire mesh and tubular steel guardrail. A shimmering veil of water fell beside me from the main deck of the power plant set high over my head on a massive concrete column cast from culvert pipe. Above that, the pedestrian walkway stretched to the other path on the far side and into the residential area beyond.

  The canal path was deserted at this time of day; most of the serious local runners had been and gone hours ago or were waiting for the sun to go down. The tourists were all hiding out by the pool at this hour, and the scary teenagers who sometimes blasted tribal music from their Bluetooth speakers after school were chilling at the mall. I had the place to myself.

  Or so I thought.

  It’s hard to rely on your senses here: the constant hiss of the swirling water masks footfalls, and the occasional traffic sounds reverberating around the concrete decks is disorienting.

  Still, I felt a presence on the back of my neck. Someone was watching me.

  Across the channel, a big palo verde grew out of the bank, hiding the path from my point of view. Was someone standing in its shade?

  Nothing was moving over there, but I couldn’t be sure. I was way too exposed out here on the point of the viewing area. Look casual, I thought, as I stowed my water bottle.

  The funny thing about meandering is that you can’t do it if you’re thinking about it. At least, I can’t. I just looked vaguely uncoordinated. Anyway, I hurriedly meandered back toward the overhang of the main deck.

  A bullet zinged past my head.

  At least, I thought it was a bullet. All I had was a sensory impression of something disrupting the air next to my left ear at high speed. I thought that the shot had come from above me and to the left, which meant the footbridge. It had hit the water, at least I thought it had, and had left no trace.

  I dove for the deck and jungle-crawled on my belly to the checkerboard of square boulders. I scrambled to get my phone out of the waterproof, zippered pocket inside the beltline of my running shorts.

  No bars.

  I had some protection in the outdoor room, but the high walls and overhangs that made me feel safe also limited my visibility.

  Above and behind me was the main platform of the power plant, a building about the size of a small cabin. Beyond that, one level up, was the entrance walkway that connected the paths on either side of the canal.

  Whoever fired that bullet at me – or maybe it was a focused spell? – was most likely up there on the footbridge.

  So, fight or flight? Easy one. I’m a lover, not a fighter and, as Mark has pointed out once or twice when I got the notion that I needed a gun for protection, I should never carry a weapon. I would hesitate, and the bad guy would take it away from me. I figure a murderer should at least have to bring his own gear, right?

  I looked around, scoping out my best path of escape.

  I’d come here on foot, so there was no reason to go back to the parking lot. I could go back up the ramp, hit the path at a dead run, and try to make it to one of the upscale shops or restaurants in the neighborhood. But the nearest intersection was a half-mile away, and I had no idea whether whoever was up on the bridge was a better runner than I am.

  The footbridge at the top of the complex would take me to the dirt path on the far side, but that didn’t solve my problem. The only options from there would be to run down the path on that side, trying to find help, or run into the residential neighborhood and pound on doors. Could I do that before the watcher on the bridge caught up with me? And that’s assuming that my watcher was not just standing in the middle of the bridge waiting for me.

  It would help if I knew who was up there. I had my suspicions.

  We occasionally get the disgruntled customers at Pentacle Pawn; when you’re in business, that’s inevitable, but such things usually get settled quickly. The magical community is very tight, more like a small town even though we are in the middle of a vast city, and word gets around if someone is difficult. We all try to get along for our mutual benefit.

  Of course, there are exceptions – and at the top of that list is Penelope Silver.

  It made sense. Alex had reassured Lissa that Penelope was being held in a remote location, where she couldn’t do any more damage to herself or us. I’d had my doubts; nobody cages a witch that powerful, at least, not forever. And, if Penelope was loose, she would make a beeline for me.

  I was pinned down with nobody around. I needed to get up there near that footbridge without being noticed. What I needed was a helicopter.

  What I got was air support of a different kind. The branches of the palo verde on the canal bank swayed again, and out of them came Edgar.

  ♦

  Edgar, being a bird, loves flattery – and I laid it on thick. “What a smart bird you are, Edgar!” I cooed to him. “What a good boy!”

  Edgar cocked his head. I’m not sure how many of the words he understood, but he was eating up my tone of voice.

  Bessie had told me that ravens were highly intelligent, but in ways very different from parrots and other talking birds. According to her, ravens can work out complex logic puzzles, retain the information, and apply it to new situations.

  We were about to put that to the test.

  “Want to play ‘Which One Like?’” I asked innocently.

  Edgar sat up straight. He was always up for a game.

  I pulled the loose change out of my pocket and put a few coins on the boulder. I pointed at a quarter. “Which One Like?” I asked.

  Edgar didn’t hesitate. He tapped the other quarter and looked smug.

  “Yes! Good bird!” I said using the enthusiasm I would bring to a toddler. According to Bessie, Edgar was smarter, but he was a sucker for praise and he wanted more. He stared pointedly at the coins.

  I pointed at a dime. “Which One Like?” I asked.

  He tapped on the other one without hesitation and gave me a look. Too easy, he seemed to say.

  Okay, wiseguy. I pointed at a nickel.

  Edgar studied the coins, looked up at me, then back at the loose change.

  “No,” he said in Mark’s classroom voice.

  He was right; it was a trick question. There was only one nickel on the boulder.

  “Good bird!” I said.

  He shuffled his wings, pleased with himself. “Good bird!” he mimicked back.

  Now, to see if he could apply the skills from this game to another, more serious one. I hoped he could apply our lessons.

  It was time to find out. I decided on a trial run.

  “Edgar,” I said, pointing at the palo verde, “fly perch.”

  And he did. I couldn’t see him in the branches, but I was hoping that he was maintaining a line of sight with me. I took a deep breath and patted my collarbone with my left hand.

  Edgar flew back. This might just work.

  I spotted another big tree just beyond the footbridge at the top of the complex. Trying not to be too obvious about it, I looked up at the tree. Edgar watched me with great curiosity and swiveled his head to see what I was looking at.

  “Edgar,” I said, “fly there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  My heart was in my throat the whole time Edgar was gone.

  He picked a limb near the top of the tree. I couldn’t see the footbridge,
but, from that vantage point, he could. Edgar kept looking down. He was watching something that worried him. He kept glancing below him, then back at me. If Edgar had been human, his surveillance would’ve been pretty obvious – but who pays any attention to birds, especially in the city?

  After a couple of minutes, I gave him the return sign and Edgar soared back. He looked as if he was bursting with news.

  Now, to put Bessie’s theories to the test. Could Edgar apply Which One Like to what he had just seen?

  “Edgar,” I said, making sure I had his attention, “the person up there.” I nodded my head toward the footbridge. “Which one like? John? Maggie?”

  I had no idea how to explain to him the concept of male or female, so I was hoping he could make the comparison. If this didn’t work, I was out of options.

  “Maggie,” he barked without hesitation.

  It was always weird to hear a bird speaking in my own voice, and I’d forgotten that he spoke at the same volume that he cawed. I wanted to shush him; that raucous voice might be overheard. “No John?” I asked quietly, hoping he’d take the hint.

  Edgar looked me right in the eye. He didn’t appreciate me doubting his word. “Maggie,” he said again, just as loud.

  A woman, then. I wanted to hug him, but I knew how Edgar felt about human contact, so I gave him his space.

  I pointed at the tree again and touched my hair. I had no idea what color Edgar thought it was – even humans have trouble with that sometimes. I’ve been told that it’s black with copper highlights; other people think it is strawberry blonde. It’s like that old meme about the blue/white dress, and your mileage may vary. But I could use hair color to get other information.

  “Which one like?” I asked him. “Maggie? Daisy?”

  Edgar knows my aunt well, and he adores her. He sits on her shoulder and picks at her silvery hair until she giggles. “Maggie,” he said again in my voice, ruffling his feathers a bit to indicate that “Daisy” would have been the far superior answer.