“How long are you here for?” I asked, holding her at arm’s length.
“Two weeks,” Daisy answered. “I needed a break.” I absolutely understood.
“So where’s the shop of yours I’ve been hearing so much about?” Daisy asked.
I thanked Bronwyn and led Daisy out to the sidewalk. I held up a finger—wait a moment—and glanced both ways until I was sure the sidewalk was clear. I slipped my arm through hers and took her down the alley.
I introduced Daisy to the door as a Chatelaine as we entered. Daisy looked around, clearly impressed. “You’ve done very well for yourself.” She giggled. “The family will be green with envy.”
“Glad to hear it. I haven’t heard from anybody since I left.”
“They’re still in a bit of the snit, I’m afraid. Not your fault.”
That was open to debate. My abrupt departure from the city of my birth was the culmination of years of petty squabbling and family drama. I certainly played my part in it, but whether I was the good witch or the bad witch depended on who you talked to.
“How’s Mother?”
Daisy eased herself into the Eames chair in front of my desk as I handed her another cup of tea. “She hasn’t called you?”
I felt a chill. I perched on the edge of my desk and shook my head.
“I was afraid of that. My sister is a very proud woman.”
Stubborn was the word I was more likely to use, but I let it go. My mother Hazel is the matriarch of our large extended family. My mother’s forebears were Huguenots, Reformation-minded French Protestants who got sideways with the Catholic establishment. She is proud of our heritage, and she is scandalized that I left “civilized” New Orleans for what she considers to be the Wild West.
“What’s going on, Daisy?”
“What always happens in family businesses, I’m afraid, sweetie. The next generation is... well, your cousins are...”
I waved my hand impatiently. This was an old story. We had all grown up in the family business, learning the art and science of pawning magical objects from our parents. We had always been told that the business—both shops, New Orleans and Paris—would pass to us sooner or later. My cousins wanted it to be sooner.
“Aaron wants...” Daisy started.
“Aaron always wants. He’s been bullying me since we were six. I’m done.” The constant bickering and maneuvering with my family were the reason I had walked away from New Orleans and started over in Arizona five years ago. I had no intention of going back—and I certainly had no intention of engaging in battle with Aaron again, or anybody else.
Daisy looked sheepish. “I’m afraid that’s why I’m here. I’ve been sent as a neutral party to...”
I snorted. I’d always been Daisy’s favorite, and the whole family knew it.
“Now, sweetie, don’t be like that. Aaron would just like to formalize your agreement.”
We hadn’t really agreed to anything; I’d simply conceded the field of battle. That year had been a perfect storm. John, my love, my life, had been killed in the spring. The family didn’t even give me a decent amount of time to grieve before they tried to pull me back into their turf warfare. When I found out over the summer that I wasn’t going to get tenure after all on my teaching gig, I declared a Labor Day vacation. I flew out to Scottsdale just to lay by the pool and heal a little, but I ran into an old college friend who asked whether I would give him a reference to the New Orleans shop for a pawn deal he wanted to do. I offered to do it for him privately, instead. That deal led to another and another, and by the end of the year, I had enough clients in the Southwest to start my own operation. I got on a plane and never looked back.
“I assume Aaron gave you something to sign.”
Daisy gave me a wry grin. “I told him to get himself a lawyer out here. I wasn’t going to do his dirty work.” She dug a crumpled business card out of her pocket. It was for an attorney whose offices were just down the street. Aaron would be paying big bucks. The thought made me smile.
I hugged her. “I love you, Daisy.”
“I love you too, girl.”
◆◆◆
I was still coming to terms with the legacy of my extended family. My grandmother Marie-Eglise was the living embodiment of our heritage, woven through with the rich tradition of medieval European household witchcraft.
The history of our craft goes much further back than that, of course. Some say that our family’s genealogical thread goes all the way back to Egypt. We know for sure that, while the gypsies in Europe were getting the blame for all sorts of magical mischief, my medieval ancestors were exercising serious control in their communities using methods that sometimes involved wing of bat, eye of newt.
My Huguenot forebears in France hid in plain sight, thriving on a reputation for harmless but exotic hobbies—all the while taking care to remain within societal norms. The men dabbled in politics, with an uncanny ability to always end up on the winning side. Their friends and enemies alike said that it was as if they could read minds. The women read tea leaves and hosted the occasional séance, to the delight of their more straight-laced neighbors. But throughout the generations, each was careful not to draw too much attention, not to give too great a hint of the true power within the tasteful walls of the Flournoy mansion.
Over time, my family began informally pawning magical items for members of their community who were in extremis as they prepared to flee the country. That original branch of my family continues to operate the Paris shop in a basement near the bookstalls of the Saint Ouen flea market. But a third of the Huguenots—almost half a million of them—fled to friendlier countries in Europe and joined the emigration to their adopted countries’ colonies. George Washington and Paul Revere were descended from Huguenot families.
Catholic kings ruled the French and Spanish colonies in North America, and the Huguenots mostly gave them a wide berth. My branch of the family ended up in New Orleans quite by accident. One of my ancestors was a famous beauty in Baltimore society who married a dashing young American army captain, who almost immediately was posted to New Orleans to help open the territories after the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. They fell in love with the bayous and the people, but she was lonely for the sparkling society and rich magic tradition she’d left behind. She found voodoo intimidating and missed her own sisters in magic, so she sent for them. Within a decade, a dozen families had moved south.
The men of the family ran various businesses over the years, but the women demanded something of their own that was suitable to their unique talents. They opened Pentacle Pawn New Orleans, and more than a century and a half later, it’s still in business.
That’s what Aaron wanted. That’s what he was fighting for: not just the business itself, but the family legacy. His goal was to separate me from my birthright. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
◆◆◆
The next evening, I left Lissa to tend the alley shop for an hour while I met Simon at a cozy tapas bar a few blocks away, on the edge of Old Town. This particular building had been, over the last few decades, a saddle shop, a purveyor of Western hats, a chili joint, and a barbecue restaurant. This most recent incarnation had been there only a couple of years but had found a loyal audience. Their take on tapas was less about quick snacks and appetizers, and more about bite-size designer cuisine. The young owners had gutted the building and created a warren of intimate leather booths edged with brass-studded copper. The back of the bar displayed exotic booze with nosebleed prices. The top of the bar was marble, of course, and at the end of it was an open grill where a chef in a bespoke black uniform crafted individual delights on order. At the far end of the room, a trio played smooth jazz with a vaguely Latin beat.
Simon was waiting for me next to the grill. He was drinking a cocktail that was an alarming shade of dark red with something floating in it. He saw me looking.
“Blood orange and vodka,” he said with a smile. “Would you like one?”
I
declined and ordered a gin and tonic, hold the gin. The bartender managed not to roll his eyes.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a few plates to get us started,” Simon purred. Right on cue, our waiter came to Simon’s elbow and escorted us to a booth in the back. A bar server scurried along behind with our drinks.
The presentation was beautiful: a half dozen square white plates, each with a gourmet delicacy. I’m no expert on tapas, but I noticed shrimp, something I hoped was chicken with a sugary-looking sauce and coleslaw, and something that looked suspiciously like octopus.
Simon delighted in teaching me about his selections. The chicken turned out to be duck, the leathery looking center of the bacon wrap was a stuffed date, and the octopus was precisely what it looked like.
“You must come here a lot,” I said, trying not to inhale and avoid inflaming the chorizo spices that were already searing my tongue.
He smiled. “Actually, it’s my first time here—but I used to keep a little house in the south of Spain. I have to admit it: I became rather addicted to these little gems.” He waved his hand across the table. I noticed he was wearing the scrimshaw ring.
He saw me looking. “That reminds me,” he said. “I forgot to ask you when I met you the other day. Perhaps you might do me a small favor.”
“Of course.”
“Whenever I travel, I try to acquire small mementos—usually magical items, but not always. I specialize in local gemstones. I understand that there is high-quality antique turquoise jewelry to be had in Arizona.”
There is, but I explained that the best was the silver pieces made by the Navajo before World War II. “It’s a funny thing,” I explained, “a lot of it was actually made as pawn pieces, sort of like a savings account at the trading posts. Collectors scooped them up decades ago. Genuine pieces go for heart-stopping prices these days.”
“Well, keep your eye out for me. I like shiny things.” He wiggled his ring fingers and smiled. “I’m always interested in rare local pieces. I love carved mastodon ivory and I collect gemstones, but I’m open to suggestion. I nearly picked up a blue amber the size of a chicken egg recently. Anyway, let me know if you run across anything unusual.”
“I will—and thank you again for inviting me. This is many notches above my usual supper, if I remember to eat at all.” I toasted him with my tonic water, but that remark about blue amber got my antenna twitching. I needed to talk to Hannah.
He returned my toast. “Then I’ll have to be sure to feed you as often as possible.”
We chatted a little as we nibbled our way through the small plates. He focused the conversation on me, and on the alley shop. I gave him the short version of how I had trained in the New Orleans shop before I came here a dozen years ago and opened Pentacle Pawn.
“And you’ve built this all by yourself?” he asked, sipping his cocktail.
My first reaction to this was to give him a good tongue lashing for assuming a woman couldn’t build a business, but I’ve gotten myself in trouble before with those kinds of assumptions. He could also just be asking whether I was single. I decided to go with that.
“I’m a widow, but my husband was never part of the business.”
He had the good grace to blush. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry.”
See, I told myself—he really wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was glad I hadn’t jumped to conclusions.
“I’m fine,” I said, patting his hand. “It was a long time ago.”
He seemed pleased by the physical contact. He placed his hand over mine. “You can be very proud of what you’ve accomplished. Your shop is impressive, and so are you. I hope I’ll have a chance to get to know you better.”
It shocked me a little to realize that I was hoping the same thing.
◆◆◆
I had trouble getting to sleep the next day. I tried to tell myself it was just that I’ve been swamped, that my mind was still churning with everything that had been going on at the shop.
In truth, it was a guilty conscience. It felt like I was cheating on John.
Ridiculous, I knew—John was dead. But even the memory of my innocent rendezvous with Simon at the tapas bar made me squirm. John would not have liked it, and I was pretty sure that he would not have liked Simon, either.
When I finally did drop off to sleep, I dreamed of my husband again, but this time the dreams were dark. I kept flashing back to John on the pavement outside of the family house in New Orleans, struck down by magic and struggling to get to me. I hadn’t been there for him then, and now he was irretrievably lost.
Frank woke me up by sitting on my chest and staring at me. “Are you unwell?” he asked.
I sighed. “I’m fine. It was just a nightmare.”
He didn’t believe a word of it. “You were calling out for your husband in your sleep.”
It didn’t surprise me. I sat up in bed, my movement tossing Frank off my chest. He landed next to my feet.
“You have to let him go,” Frank said. “Nothing good will come of you summoning him like that.”
“I wasn’t summoning anybody. It was just a nightmare.”
Frank looked skeptical. “You know better than that. Bad things happen when you call on the dead.”
I blew him off. “I wasn’t calling anybody. Like I said, it was just a dream.”
“Have it your way,” Frank said, flipping his tail as he jumped off the bed. He walked regally to the door, then looked back over his shoulder at me. “Perhaps it is time for my brunch?” he asked hopefully.
As far as Frank is concerned, it is always time to feed the cat.
I shook off the dream and got out of bed. Maybe moving around a little would help clear my mind. I stumbled to the kitchen.
Frank sat on the counter next to the pantry, waiting but not patiently. He supervised as I sorted through the cat food and pulled out a can of kitty tuna.
“Not that, please,” Frank said. “I prefer the real thing.” He nodded at the can of premium tuna on the upper shelf.
I shook my head. “This is cat food. You are a cat.”
Frank hopped off the counter and stalked over to his food bowl. “No need to be insulting,” he said, his tail twitching.
I fed Frank and headed back to the bedroom, but sleep wouldn’t come. This had been a pattern of my widowhood. Every time I thought I was getting some closure, something would trigger the grief all over again. I was stuck in my own head. I knew that I had to move on, but I wasn’t ready—and I wasn’t sure that I ever would be.
And maybe, I realized, that was okay. Maybe I just need to sit with my memories for a while longer. I could keep John with me, in my heart if not in my bed, and I knew I’d find comfort in that. That could be enough, at least for a while. At least until I was ready.
It was as close to a plan as I could manage right now. I vowed not to dwell on John’s violent death, that my memories from now on would be about our life together. I could live in the past, after all, and if not exactly at peace, I could find some comfort in it.
I have a favorite calming incantation, almost a mantra, and I used it to ease myself down into sleep. I pictured myself walking with John, hand in hand through the French Quarter. I saw us mingling with the tourists, sipping beer in outrageously large take-out cups and dancing to the music that spilled out of the open bar doors as we passed by. I let the jazz carry me away, and, finally, I drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Four
I slept deeply that morning. It was spring, and everything in the desert was blooming—including my allergies. I snuffled, rolled over and grabbed my alarm clock: 2 p.m. If I got moving, I’d have just enough time before work to steam my sinuses in the sauna.
The air conditioning in my condo was on full blast, and I felt a little chilly, even though it was supposed to be over 100 outside again today. I tried to snuggle down into the blankets, but John was hogging them.
John???
I leaped out of bed. My husband John was snuggly co
cooned on his side of the bed, snoring softly.
I whispered his name.
I’m not a morning person—very few witches are. That’s why Pentacle Pawn Scottsdale is nocturnal. I’m only interested in seeing 7 a.m. if I’m coming in from the night before. But John wakes up happy. He rolled over and smiled at me, just as he had every morning of the six years we were married.
“Morning,beautiful!” he said, following our morning script.
“Morning, sunshine,” I responded automatically, even though it was afternoon. I mean, that wasn’t exactly the weirdest thing going on here.
John sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
John looked around the room, his eyes getting wider. “This isn’t Royal Street, is it?”
No kidding. My Scottsdale townhouse bears little resemblance to my family’s funky old commercial building in the French quarter where John had died. I let him absorb what he was seeing.
“Arizona, right?” he asked, looking around the condo. “How did I get here?” he finally asked.
Now, that would be the question, wouldn’t it? He ran his fingers through his hair the way I’d seen him do a thousand times when he was puzzled. “I don’t remember moving here.”
I nuked myself a cup of chicory coffee. I didn’t offer him one; John never drinks, er, drank coffee except in the newsroom. A good thing, because I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to explain to him that food and drink were no longer his to enjoy. I was pretty sure John didn’t understand yet that he was a ghost.
I sat next to him on the bed, resisting the temptation to try to slide my hand into his. This would have to be done carefully. “What do you remember?” I asked.
“The house on Royal Street. I was supposed to meet you somewhere.” He looked at me questioningly, and I nodded again. John was murdered by an incantation on the door of that house in New Orleans, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t ready for that information yet, either.
He was starting to look a little freaked out. “Maggie, why can’t I remember moving here?”
The Blue Amber Spell Page 4
