“No, not that one. Another one. Clay, not plaster. Antoinette loaded it into the car kiln this morning, all by itself, even though we have nothing scheduled to fire today.”
Luke grabbed Stefan’s hand, making urgent, unintelligible noises.
“What, babe? Damn, I should have brought the iPhone. I’m sorry, I— Peg?”
“Shit,” she muttered, pawing through her giant shoulder bag. “It’s in here somewhere. Hold on.”
Luke let go of Stefan’s hand, pointed to himself, then at the armoire, then back to himself.
“Still not getting it. Something about the mask. The one in there?” Luke shook his head. “The one in the kiln.” A frantic nod. “You know something about it?” Another nod. “How?”
Luke pointed to his eyes and then to his temple. Stefan cupped his cheek. “You saw it? In your mind? Like with Arcoletti?”
This time, when Luke nodded, he closed his eyes with a quiet moan.
“Yeah, I know you hated that.”
“Found it!” Peg crowded his shoulder, brandishing her phone. “What about Arcoletti?”
“Back in Oregon, when Arcoletti took a joyride in Luke’s brain, Luke saw a scene from the past, the night Arcoletti died, the night he murdered his lover.”
“Holy shit,” Peg murmured. “Do you know what—”
Down the hall, the door of the apartment opened and slammed shut. “Tonina?”
Fuck. DiBartolo. It was too late to close the bedroom door. Stefan plastered himself against the wardrobe.
Peg’s eyes were the size of teacups. “Is that him?” she breathed.
Stefan nodded, bracing himself for DiBartolo to appear in the doorway. But instead, footsteps faded in the other direction, followed by a muffled thump.
“He’s in her studio,” Stefan whispered.
“Can we sneak out while he’s in there?”
Stefan peeked around the doorframe. “I don’t think so. The studio door’s open and there’s a clear shot from there down the hallway.” He pulled open the wardrobe door, wincing at its creak. “Get in. I’ll get rid of him.”
Luke pounded the side of the bed and shook his head.
Peg paused with one foot inside the wardrobe. “No, don’t get in here or no, don’t get rid of the asshole?”
“Maybe both.” Stefan padded to the bedside and clasped Luke’s hand. “Don’t freak over anything I’m about to do, okay, babe? Remember, it’s all for you.”
Stefan kissed Luke’s knuckles, made sure the wardrobe door was closed behind Peg, and made it to the hallway just as DiBartolo left Antoinette’s studio.
“Stefan. What are you doing here?”
Stefan forced himself to stay relaxed although his shoulders tried to creep up to his ears. “I thought I heard something fall. The door was open, so . . .” He shrugged. “But everything seems okay.”
DiBartolo sauntered toward him, but Stefan stood his ground. Don’t let him into the bedroom. Not with Luke helpless and Peg in the wardrobe.
“Then perhaps you should go.” DiBartolo’s voice held a veiled threat. “I understand you upset the old man.”
Stefan glanced over his shoulder. Luke was glaring at DiBartolo with obvious intent to kill, but he was motionless in the bed. “He seems okay. Besides, Rudy told me you’re not allowed here anymore either, and for the same reason.”
“Toni— Ms. Tessier asked me to check into a business matter for her. I’m here to report.” DiBartolo lifted his lip in a sneer. “And as you said, he seems okay.”
Luke chose that moment to pound the bed and thrash his leg, grunts and moans escalating rapidly.
“Spoke too soon.” Although it raised the hair on his neck, Stefan ran his hands down DiBartolo’s arms and laced their fingers together. “Antoinette’s at the salon, but you can wait in my studio until she gets back if you want.”
Luke’s moans gained in volume. Don’t pad your part, babe, or he’ll smell a rat.
Luckily, DiBartolo ignored Luke. Instead, he cocked his head and looked Stefan up and down in a way that made Stefan want to scrub his skin off. “You have a suggestion about how to pass the time?”
“You could—” Stefan swallowed, but kept his gaze locked with DiBartolo’s. “You could pose for me again.”
“Perhaps we could find something better to do when I’m naked.” DiBartolo moved in for a kiss, but his gaze was fixed on Luke, not Stefan.
“Luke.” Stefan put both hands on DiBartolo’s chest, holding him at bay. “Don’t.”
“You don’t think our friend would appreciate a little exhibition? It must be boring, lying here hour after hour, day after day, staring at nothing but the walls.” DiBartolo’s eyes glittered, and he gripped the back of Stefan’s neck.
Stefan pried DiBartolo’s fingers away. “That’s enough. This isn’t our home. Let’s go. I’d like to talk to you about the show tonight anyway.”
“Very well.” DiBartolo let his hand drift down to squeeze Stefan’s ass. “I’m sure the conversation will be quite . . . stimulating.”
Stefan let DiBartolo haul him down the hallway by one elbow, Luke’s grunts and groans following them out the door.
Luke ground his teeth as Stefan offered DiBartolo a flirty smile and led him out of the apartment by the hand. As soon as the door closed, Peg peeked out of the armoire.
“Is the coast clear?”
He nodded, still glaring at the bit of the hallway visible from the bed.
“I don’t need to be psychic to read your mind. Don’t sweat it, okay? Stefan’ll keep the asshole out of his pants somehow, and as a backup, I’ll arrive in full flighty client mode as soon as I leave here. That ease your mind?”
He grunted. Not exactly eloquent, but whatever.
“Quite the charmer, aren’t you?” Her tone dripped with disgust.
You want charm? Send your boyfriend off with an over-sexed psychopath and show me what charm you can muster.
“I need info from you and the sooner I get it, the sooner I can derail DiBartolo’s Lothario schtick.” She waved her iPhone. “And since I’m not a Luddite with a stone-age phone, we’ve got options.” Just like Rudy, she held the phone at the right angle for him to see and supported his wrist. “You’re a retrocog, aren’t you?”
Luke squinted at her before hitting the screen with his shaky finger. “wtf.” Screw capitals and punctuation. But from her snort, she got the picture.
“You have visions of events that happened in the past. True visions.”
Luke shifted restlessly and waggled his hand. Although it had happened at least twice, he wasn’t about to cop to an actual name for the thing.
“Come on. Don’t wuss out on me. What did you see?”
Luke pushed aside his discomfort. Despite the woman looking like a deranged hippie, she and Stefan were his only hope at this point, and he needed Stefan to know this. “first time dibrtlo killed own son.”
She raised her eyebrows. “The shitbag soul-jumped the first time to his own fucking son? He’s worse than I thought.”
“msk at condo is soul anchor.”
“The mask in your condo, the one you brought from Italy?” He nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got that one.”
Panic surged in his veins, and he flailed, nearly sending her phone flying. They couldn’t bring the thing here! From what he’d understood, it was being in close proximity to it that had made him susceptible. If it was here, in this place, then Stefan could be in danger too, should DiBartolo decide that Luke’s body was too battered for his use. Or if he’s already trashed it beyond recovery himself.
Peg gripped his shoulder. “Calm down. It’s safe. Packed with a shit-ton of anti-magic herbs in my basement. Not that I want it there, but better there than here. What else can you tell me? We need all the help we can get.”
Luke breathed slowly and deeply until he was calm enough to try texting again. “spcial clay.”
“Right.”
“when my msk fired, switch permanent.”
&
nbsp; She glanced toward the wall, at the same spot where Luke kept catching movement out of the corner of his eye. “That fits our current intel.”
“almost broke free bfore.”
She stared at him. “No shit? That’s . . . impossible. Unless they screwed up somehow.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or unless there’s something else going on besides freakaramics.” She yanked her bag onto her shoulder, bunching the sleeve of her caftan under her arm. “You need to be ready. Stefan’s pretty sure this is going down tonight. I need to know— Will you do whatever it takes?”
Seriously? Luke flipped her off.
She barked a laugh. “Yeah, buddy, I get it. But if you’re still in denial about your retrocog abilities—” He flipped her off again, and she returned the favor. “I said denial and I meant it. If what it takes is for you to take another trip to DiBartolo’s fucked-up past, will you do it?”
A shiver tracked up Luke’s spine. Could he face it if he knew it was coming? Hell, could he do it on purpose? Even though his skin crawled at the notion, what choice did he have? I’ve survived it before, as revolting as it was. I can do it once more. For Stefan. For both of us.
He nodded, holding out his hand for her to shake.
“Good man.” She glanced at the armoire. “Do they need the masks from the wardrobe for the process?”
“dont know.”
“To be on the safe side, we’ll make sure they don’t have them.” She opened the wardrobe and removed both masks from under the shawl. She stared at them for a moment, then set them on the bed and took the shawl too, wrapping them up and tucking them in her slouchy shoulder bag. “We’ll try to get back later to let you know the plan.” She gripped his shoulder again. “Hold tight. One way or another, we’ll get this bastard. He’s not walking away. Not this time.”
She left in a trail of patchouli and cloves, leaving Luke to wonder whether he’d be walking away from tonight’s confrontation himself, or whether he’d be collateral damage.
If it keeps DiBartolo from strutting around in my body, destroying everything I love and a shitload of other people besides?
Worth it.
Stefan had never been so glad to see anyone when Peg rapped on the studio door and stuck her head in, caroling, “Knock knock!”
“And here she is now.” He removed DiBartolo’s hand from his shoulder, where he’d been trying to force Stefan to his knees. “Good morning, Ms. Windflower. Are you ready for your consultation?”
“I’m positively a-twitter with anticipation.” She floated in, holding her arms out so that the sleeve of her caftan—at least on one side—fluttered with her movement. The other sleeve was trapped by her bag, which bumped at her hip, somewhat ruining the effect. She must have realized it, because she set the bag on the worktable before pirouetting like a psychedelic top. “The vibes in your studio are so soothing.”
DiBartolo watched her with thinly veiled contempt. “Vibes?”
She halted her rotation and fluttered her eyelashes at him. Stefan could almost hear them clash together. “Vibrations are crucial to the sensitive soul of the artist, don’t you find?”
He snorted. “I can’t say that I do.”
“Ooohhh, I understand.” She drifted over and patted his arm. “You’re not an artist. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Somebody has to take out the trash.”
DiBartolo glared at her. “If you—”
“Luke,” Stefan said. “We really do need privacy for this meeting. I’ll see you tonight at the show, all right?”
“Yes.” DiBartolo gave Stefan that deliberate once-over again, which felt more like he was appraising livestock than a lover. “It should be an interesting evening for all.”
Before DiBartolo could move in for another aggressive kiss, Peg draped herself against Stefan’s side, taking his elbow and leading him toward the table. “So lovely to see you again.”
DiBartolo muttered something and stalked out without closing the door. Stefan darted over and shut it, throwing home the locks. “Remind me to buy you a bottle of top-shelf bourbon, because your timing was perfect.”
He’d been within minutes of having to give DiBartolo a blowjob, and however familiar the body was, the person inside was nobody Stefan wanted anywhere near his mouth.
“I’ll hold you to that, because after spending quality time up close and personal with those freaking masks—in a closet the size of a steamer trunk—I need a drink or seven.” She dug in her bag and pulled out a silk-wrapped bundle. She flipped the fabric back to reveal both masks from inside the wardrobe.
“Christ, Peg. What if Antoinette or DiBartolo notice they’re gone?”
“They’ll have to look first, and by the time they think of it, I hope there won’t be much point.” She tapped the plaster cast of Luke’s face. “These are different. Give me the lowdown, Mr. Artist.”
As much as the masks repulsed him, Stefan drew closer. He pointed to the mask of DiBartolo. “This one was fired in a kiln twice, both bisque and glaze fired. This one . . .” He couldn’t make himself touch Luke’s mask. “This is just quick-drying plaster of paris, not ceramic at all.”
She scratched under the edge of her wig. “What happens to clay when it’s fired?”
“The composition changes. Depending on the type of clay, the effect you want, and whether you’re bisque or glaze firing, you set the kiln temperature accordingly. The moisture evaporates, impurities burn off, the cell structure tightens. Clay goes in, ceramics come out.”
“Hmmm. Transformation. Interesting.” With a decisive nod, she turned and rested her butt on the edge of the table. “Luke and I had a little chat after you left.”
“Chat? How—”
“By text. What do you think? That I can suddenly read minds? Although . . .” She squinted at him. “That’s something you should try.”
He reared back. “Reading minds? Christ, no. Imagine seeing what’s in DiBartolo’s head.”
“Not DiBartolo’s and not just any random joker’s. Luke’s. Remember your math lesson?”
“The A, B, C one? Barely.”
“Have you tried to connect with him since then?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t exactly had a lot of opportunity.”
“And you wasted what you did have. You shouldn’t need a cell phone to communicate with him. Once the two of you are on the same frequency, it should be automatic.”
“Do we need to get into blame and recrimination now? Because I’m feeling a little stressed for time.”
“All right, all right.” She pointed at the plaster mask. “This should never have worked.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not the same process. Not the same material. These bozos have no fucking clue what they’re doing. They’re just flailing around in the dark. They don’t need all this ridiculous mask drama. From what Hootie says, the form doesn’t matter. It could be a duck, or a doughnut, or a dildo. Hell, it could be nothing but a lump as long as it was the correct amount. Its only purpose is to focus the witch’s will.”
Gooseflesh rose on Stefan’s arms. “You’re saying Antoinette is a witch?”
“Witch, sorcerer, mage—nothing but semantics.” She shrugged. “If the foo shits.”
“And since her signature is mask work—”
“She makes masks.”
“Magic is real?”
“Honey, you have firsthand experience in the reality of ghosts. What the fuck do you think?”
Stefan choked out a laugh. “Yeah. I guess witches aren’t that much of a stretch.”
“She may not even realize she’s got the goods or else she’s in denial or hiding it on purpose. I mean, French, probably Catholic if she lived around the time of the Revolution, and let’s face it, back then, witchcraft wasn’t a career with a very attractive retirement plan.” She tapped her front teeth with a fingernail. “Although I think the reason Luke got trapped has more to do with Luke than with any of her hocus-pocus, intentional or not.”
“You think he wanted this?”
She scrunched her face in disgust. “No, idiot. I mean he was receptive in a way that was damn lucky for her. At most, he should have woken up pissed as hell with the devil’s own hangover.”
“How do you know?”
“Hootie. He’s seen it before. But Luke’s vision corroborated it. That revolting death mask in my basement is DiBartolo’s soul-anchor. It was the first one crafted and is the foundation of all the shenanigans that came afterward. It never changes. But these . . .” She tapped DiBartolo’s mask. “These are for each successive host. So the guy we call DiBartolo—”
“Is really just the last poor schmuck they caught.”
“Luke’s mask, not this one but the one you found in the kiln this morning, is the one that will make Luke’s body the next permanent host. Hootie says that when all the—well, he says sin, but that’s sixteenth-century sensibility talking. I think it’s what you said. Impurities. When those are consumed, then the body has been tested in fire and can emerge, changed for all time.”
Stefan clutched the edge of the table. “That means the transfer happens before the end of the firing process. We have less time than I thought. I saw Antoinette down in the courtyard firing up the kiln when I was stalling DiBartolo by telling him I needed to use the john.” She’d checked the car first, so it was lucky Stefan hadn’t stolen the mask as he’d been tempted to do.
“In that case, we need to keep both Luke and DiBartolo close tonight, because timing is gonna be everything. You might destroy this mask, but we have to somehow push DiBartolo back into his own body before they have a chance to try again.”
“Right. Piece of cake. I do shit like that every day and twice on Sunday.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“I don’t suppose you have ideas about how to accomplish this?”
“A couple. One of them involves you doing your math homework. The other . . . well, it’s probably best I don’t tell you.”
Stefan huffed out a breath. “Great. You go off and get in tune with the infinite or whatever. I’ll just be hanging around here, brushing up on my quadratic equations.”
Tested in Fire Page 14
