When he noticed my eyes on the weapons, James quickly shut the hatch and flashed a nervous smile. “It’s good to be prepared.”
“Hmmm-hmm,” I murmured, though it was a skeptical affirmative. “Sure, so the Green Garters are Britain’s answer to the Boy Scouts?”
“What?” He laughed. “No, no, nothing like that.”
Yet somehow he didn’t manage to answer the question either. Why was I not surprised?
We found a place in the Landmark Center across the street where I could get a pastry as well as a nice, strong cup of coffee.
With my hands wrapped around the paper cup for warmth, I stared up at the reddish marble columns of the four stories that loomed majestically over the wide, empty space below. The coffee shop huddled against one end of the atrium, like a mouse in the shadow of a cathedral.
Noticing my glance, James Something said, “John Dillinger was held here when it was the courthouse, did you know?”
“Really? That’s kind of cool.” I took a sip of the black, deliciously bitter coffee, and headed for the door. When I was at home at my favorite coffee shop in Madison, Holy Grounds, I always had a honeyed latte, but I found when I traveled I preferred hard-core coffee. Plus, there was something about Minnesota—a nod to its spartan Norwegian heritage, perhaps—that made me take my coffee unadorned here. “Did you figure out the phone?”
“Oh, some time ago. I’ve got you all set to get to the Austrian consulate.” He handed me Sebastian’s iPhone with a polite smile.
Up close, James Something radiated a bit more personality. His eyes, I noticed now, were a delicate shade of pale blue, which actually seemed capable of flashes of intensity. The boring mousey color of his hair occasionally had streaks of gold blond that could, in the right light, shine. “So, what’s this organization you’re part of again?” I asked, checking the time on Sebastian’s phone. Great Goddess! It’d been nearly a half hour. I needed to get a move on, especially since, according to the phone, the consulate was all the way out in North Minneapolis or something.
“Order of the Green Garter,” he said in a reverent whisper.
The guy seemed normal enough, except he got the vaguely intense gleam when he mentioned his order. Frankly, I was always a bit leery of people who belonged to orders, given my experience with the Order of Eustace, the Vatican witch hunters. Plus, anyone who carried weapons in his car made me more than a little nervous. “Well,” I said, with what I hoped was an okay-this-is-your-cue-to-exit tone, “thanks again for the rescue.”
He touched his hand to his heart and gave me a slight bow. “At your service, as always, lady.”
James’s show of chivalry tickled me almost as much as being called a lady. I wondered why Sebastian was convinced that this guy was with those Illuminati Watch thugs. He seemed sincere, but honestly, I’m not the best judge of people. I shrugged.
“Well, I really have to take care of this,” I said, lifting the phone.
Like some old- fashioned guy, James held the door for me. I stepped out into the cold air. Aches had settled into my body. I could feel the bruises Lilith had left after Her tantrum in the hotel room and the muscle strain from holding Athena’s shield. I was getting too old for this; it kind of made me miss trolls and Frost Giants.
James Something was still at my heels after crossing the busy intersection to Rice Park. “Are you coming with me all the way to the consulate?” I asked, a bit irritated.
After last night’s snow, the ground was dusted with fluffs of white that sparkled blue and yellow in the sun. Pigeons milled around near a broad, circular fountain that had been closed for the season. They cooed noisily and scattered in a flurry of wings as we passed a bronze statue of F. Scott Fitzgerald holding an open book.
“I’ll follow in my own car, of course.”
Right, I’d forgotten he had nothing else to do but stalk Sebastian and me all day. I chewed on my lip at that thought. I wondered how Sebastian was holding up. He was so mad when he left. And who knew we’d gotten a wedding present from the Austrian ambassador?
Sebastian certainly had his share of secrets.
I was anxious to get to the car and get a move on.
“We should really cross at the light,” James said as I stood between two parked cars trying to gauge the best time to make a dash for it.
“Why? Did you take a vow not to jaywalk?”
“A knight is required to be as law abiding as possible.”
“I’m not a knight!” I said with a snort. A break in the flow of cars came, so I darted through the exhaust-smudged slush to the other side. James shook his head and pointed to the crosswalk. “I’ll see you at the consulate.”
I rolled my eyes. I probably would.
The trip out to North Minneapolis was relatively pleasant, especially considering how much I hate to drive. I only got a little lost on the highway interchanges, and I got to listen to the radio stations I liked.
The meeting with the honorary consul general was uneventful, other than having the disconcerting experience of being treated like royalty. The “embassy” wasn’t much more than a modern office in one of those ubiquitous brick and glass, five-story buildings in the suburbs that seemed to always house a tax consultant, chiropractor, and three law offices.
At first, I couldn’t believe I was at the right place. Then I saw the consulate listed on one of those cloth building directories with the push- in letters near the elevator bank. The consul general himself was a nice, older man with a noticeable comb-over and a bushy gray mustache. He invited me into his office, which smelled faintly of pipe smoke, and plied me with coffee and treats and assurances that D.C. had everything under control and that Sebastian would be released later this afternoon.
Some honeymoon this was turning out to be.
Still, there didn’t seem to be much I could do about it. At least nothing sitting here . . . I still had a “normal” spell to undo. Though I got the sense that the consul general would be happy to pull out a game of checkers or some other grand-fatherly pastime while we waited.
No offense, but I could find better places to hang out. I knew that Sebastian wanted me to stay on this guy, but he seemed so competent that I really didn’t know what relentlessly harassing him would really get us.
Thus, I stood up with a smile. I thanked the consul general for his help and made sure that I’d left my contact information so as soon as he had news he’d let me know.
In complete opposition to my mood, the sun shone cheerily as I stepped outside. Chickadees twittered argumentatively in the tall white pines that lined the parking lot. The glare from the sun reflecting off the snow made my eyes water.
After waving hello to James Something, who was sitting in his brown Outback reading the Star Tribune, I drove aimlessly in the direction of Saint Paul and the hotel.
Somehow I found myself headed for my old neighborhood. Having exited the highway, I tooled along River Road heading from the Saint Paul side toward Franklin Avenue and Minneapolis. There were several open spots on the Mississippi despite the cold, and an enterprising bald eagle swooped in lazy circles above the wooded banks.
I hardly needed the sign to let me know I’d crossed over into Minneapolis proper. All of a sudden there was an almost palatable switch of . . . attitude. Square gave way to hip. Reserved became “artsy.” It wasn’t that the Minneapolis mansions were any more elaborate—no, in fact, if anything, the Saint Paul houses had more dignity and poise with their long stretches of snow-covered lawns and perfectly trimmed box hedges. On the Minneapolis side, in comparison, gardens got more plentiful, more showy, and much, much more whimsical. Boulevard arrangements became the norm. Tall, fluffy spikes of pompous grass stuck up above the snow along with dried seed heads of purple coneflower and withered black-eyed Susans, with pink flamingos or salvaged-metal sculptures thrown into the mix.
I smiled. Ah, home.
Crossing the bridge, I passed an art gallery that featured various, odd, brass Humpty Dumpty-typ
e eggs smiling or grimacing at passersby from their perches atop a small fence.
Despite all the treats I’d been offered at the consulate, I pulled into the parking lot of the Seward Cafe. The parking lot of the Seward was cobblestone, and the tires hissed and sang as they bounced to a stop in front of the garden. Seward Cafe was across the street from a Holiday gas station and was wedged among a brick apartment building, an asphalt parking lot, and the co-op grocery, and yet it managed to provide a wild oasis of greenery in the summer. Even in the winter, I could sense its lingering glory. I got out of the car and wandered among the handmade trellises overflowing with the remains of last season’s beans, tomatoes, and yellow squash. Yet, despite these careful plantings, mullein and scrub mulberries grew freely, poking above a thick carpet of leaf-littered snow. An icy cedar-chip path wound between the bare trees, leading to a weathered wood structure that looked a little bit like a house with the roof blown off.
I ducked under a canopy of Boston ivy and Virginia creeper vines into the roofless bricked patio. I stopped for a moment and let the magic of the place soothe me. The chaotic combination of carefully placed stones, random weeds, and odd bits of pottery gave the impression of something primal. It was intentional and fated, planned and wild, organized yet free.
Magic.
The cafe building itself was not impressive. A single story with a flat roof, and nearly windowless, it looked like an overgrown box in desperate need of fresh paint. The screen door sagged on rusty hinges.
The interior was like a sauna. The smell of coffee was so strong that a person could get a contact buzz from breathing too hard. I inhaled deeply and wished Sebastian was here with me. This was one of the places I really wanted to show him.
The space was divided in two. There was a front area where you ordered, and the other side was devoted to seating. Old-fashioned wooden booths lined a slightly raised platform near the wall, and tables made of thick planks of wood were scattered on the linoleum floor. Over one table hung a wire sculpture of a bird with black feathers; its eyes stared rather menacing out at all the dreadlocks and body piercings that sat at various tables eating dishes with names like Whole Earth and Vegan Fluffy.
Ordering food was a little like taking part in some kind of art installation as well and wasn’t easy for the uninitiated. Luckily, I felt I was among my own kind here. I knew customers were expected to make their selections from a shared menu that had a permanent spot near the front, write down their choices on a slip of paper complete with prices and totals, and hand it to the cashier. The guy behind the counter wore a T-shirt that expressed hopefulness for the eventual release of Leonard Peltier. I smiled at him as I handed over a request for my old favorite, Super Green Earth, and a cup of regular, plain coffee.
With a grunt that I took as flirtation, he handed me a mug, which I filled myself from a big, silver urn. Beside it sat a glass mason jar with a handwritten label announcing that refills were fifty cents. Bills and coins nearly spilled out of the top. The honor system seemed alive and well, but, no surprise, given that this place always seemed to me like a throwback to a more trusting era of idealism, like the sixties or seventies.
While I waited for my name to be announced when my food was ready, I took my graying, chipped porcelain cup and found myself a booth under a slightly less disturbing piece of wire sculpture. This one seemed to be a hand breaking through a canvas. The artist’s description merely said, “Peace on Earth,” which didn’t really illuminate what she’d been going for, in my opinion.
Shrugging out of my coat, I leafed through a copy of the Phoenix someone had left at the table. It was a newspaper devoted to the substantial population in the Twin Cities of people recovering from drugs and alcohol or other addictions. As my eyes scanned articles about twelve-stepping, my mind wandered.
Seward Cafe was one of the first places I’d been drawn to when I moved to Minneapolis from the small farming community of Finlayson, Minnesota, where I’d grown up. The people this restaurant attracted shared my values of recycling, renewable resources, and general respect for the earth. I’d mellowed in the intervening years and felt a bit conspicuous in my leather boots.
The younger me would be horrified to know what I sometimes fed my cat, much less myself, some days. Of course, in those days I didn’t harbor a vengeance Goddess and wasn’t married to a vampire.
My life certainly had taken quite a turn for the odd, hadn’t it?
I looked over at a couple seated at a nearby table. She had a nose ring and multicolored hair, and he had dreads that roped nearly to the small of his back. They were laughing about something, and I found myself kind of jealous. Sure, they might be outside of the mainstream with their fashion and, most likely, their politics, but they were probably able to walk home without being accosted by Illuminati Watch thugs or werewolves.
Even without the faerie queens and trolls, my life wasn’t very “average,” was it?
Oh, nuts! That reminded me, I should find someplace to do the “normal” reversal spell.
I had half hauled myself to my feet when I heard a voice call my name.
“Garnet?”
I looked up into a face straight from the past I’d been lamenting. “Larkin?”
Oh, this was awkward. Larkin was the guy I’d had the scandalous fling with. Worse, I sort of forgot to dump him. Instead, I stopped answering his calls.
I remembered Larkin as a sweet guy. In fact, I had a tendency to go for two types of men: alpha males and what used to be referred to somewhat derogatorily among my friends as SNAGs—sensitive New Age guys. Larkin was a SNAG.
And was standing there wearing tie-dye no less.
His short blond hair was stylishly unstyled, and he had a scruffy, oh-despite-myself-I-couldn’t-help-but-find-it-kind-of-cute goatee. It struck me how much he looked like William, my co-worker at Mercury Crossing. That thought made me blush. I had once told William I would have dated him in another life; apparently, I had.
“Wow, you look different. I almost didn’t recognize you,” Larkin was saying. He shouldn’t have recognized me at all. When Lilith had entered me on that fateful night, my blue eyes turned purple. I used to have blond hair—I guess I still did; it was just hidden under black dye.
But bits of the love spell lingered between us. I could feel it stirring my own heart.
“I thought you were dead,” he said. Again, he was supposed to have. After the witch hunters killed my coven, they burned the covenstead to the ground. I let the authorities and everyone else presume I’d died alongside of them. It was part of my clever plan to keep the witch hunters off my scent, which would have worked much better in retrospect if I hadn’t continued to use my real name and Social Security number when I moved to Madison. Master criminal, I was not.
“Yeah, I know,” I said apologetically. “Hey, how’ve you been?”
“You mean after you disappeared on me?”
“Uh,” I said, hiding my guilty face as I took a sip of my coffee. I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
“Liza and I got back together for a while, kind of for show and because everyone sort of expected us to. But we could never rekindle the flame. It didn’t last.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, because well, Liza had been a good friend and I totally messed up her life for this guy I thought I wanted so damn much. Turns out, I needed less talking and more alpha in bed. I snuck out on Larkin after only one night. I found it hard to look him in the eye now. The wood grain on the table seemed infinitely more fascinating at the moment.
“Nothing has really worked out in the romance department, honestly.”
I looked up at the quaver in his voice. Was he going to cry?
In an uncharacteristically bold move, he grabbed my hand. My sense of balance shifted, but I didn’t get double vision at least. I resisted the urge to pull away with clenched teeth.
“I’ve only ever loved you, Garnet,” he said. He brought my knuckles to his lips and kissed them.
�
�Uh . . .” There was so much wrong here, including the strange desire I had to grab his lapels and smash my lips into his. So I blurted out, “I’m married now. Didn’t I mention it?”
His eyes widened and he stared at the ring on my hand, and then let go like it was hot. “Oh. Uh. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling more than a little awkward and cruel. Here I was hurting this guy over and over again.
Larkin sat back in the seat and his shoulders slumped, defeated. My heart did a little thump in my chest. He looked so cute. I just wanted to take him home and take care of him. Of course, it had been that feeling that had gotten us in trouble in the first place.
He let out a long, slow breath, as if coming back to himself. He put on a brave smile that made my heart ache. “You know what’s weird?” Larkin asked. “I swear I had a dream about you a couple of months ago. It was about you getting married, I think.”
“How funny,” I mumbled. That had been yet another magical goof-up of mine. When Sebastian and I were sending out invitations to our wedding, I’d been disappointed that so many of my friends in Minneapolis thought I was dead, so I’d conjured up a spell that sent out a “dream invitation.” Except I kind of forgot to put a friends’ filter on it. Everyone I ever knew got it, even sworn enemies.
I think I’m lucky Larkin never owned a car, or he might have spoiled that whole “any objections” moment at the wedding.
“So . . . what have you been up to, anyway?” he asked tentatively, clearly trying to make nice and be all adult with his see-we-can-be-friends tone. “I thought of you the other day. I saw your old tarot deck on the used shelf at Present Moment.”
“What? You did? How did you know it was mine?”
“It was still in that case you made. Your name was on it. I almost bought it as a memory of you.”
Honeymoon of the Dead Page 8
