by Cat Adams
“No, thank you, I’m fine. But would you let me do a reading for you? I don’t have my bowl, but now that you have a full set I can use the Wadjeti, I’m sure of it.”
“Is that a good idea?” I didn’t say she looked like hell. But she did.
“Please, Celia. I have to try. I have to.” She was shaking in earnest now.
“Sure. I suppose . . . but . . . do you know how?”
“I told you, I read the instructions,” she said without heat. “I’m pretty sure I remember enough. And . . .” She paused, licking her lips again. “I need to do this. I’ve only had a compulsion like this a few times, but it’s always been important. Please?”
I turned around and went through the rigamarole of opening the safe. By the time it was finished she was practically jumping out of her skin. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
She nodded. “Positive.”
Okay, I could get that. Vicki had once told me about something similar happening to her. She’d also called it a compulsion. I might not understand, but I could accept it. That compulsion had caused her to have Bruno make the knives that had probably saved my life.
I pulled the box from the safe and started to hand it to Dottie, but she shook her head. “You need to take all of the stones and drop them one at a time into the cup. I can’t touch them. I only touch the cup.”
“All right.” It sounded a little odd, but magic is one of those things that frequently defy explanation. The rules may not make logical sense, but they’re the rules . . . and if you don’t follow them, the magic doesn’t work.
I took the cup from the box and set the box on the desk. The cup was small and, compared to the box, quite simple. It was made of beaten gold set alternately with lapis and moonstone. I set it on the desktop and began dropping the scarabs in, starting with the one Isaac had aged for me. Each stone landed with a soft click. With each, I could feel the power build, drop by drop, until the air actually felt thick with it. I felt heat radiating upward and when the last stone fell into the cup shafts of brilliant white light beamed out through the moonstones, practically blinding me with their brilliance.
“Hand me the cup.”
I picked it up. It was warm to the touch and surprisingly heavy. I passed it to Dottie carefully and she used both hands to take it from me. “We need to do three throws to get guidance for each of the three levels of your present existence: the first is for the physical; the second, the intellectual; and the third, finally, for the spiritual and emotional.”
“If you say so.”
She gave me a sad little smile. “I do.” She shook the cup and scattered the stones across the top of my desk. They glowed, each stone shining with its own light. They scurried like the beetles they resembled to form two precise groupings.
Dottie gave a soft gasp. I didn’t blame her. It was one hell of a show: both startling and surprisingly beautiful.
She began pointing to the arrangements. “The group over there represents your past. There was danger, suffering, and death, but it served to make you stronger.”
I couldn’t argue with that and I didn’t want to break her concentration. Her voice had taken on a singsong quality that I recognized as indicating the beginning of a trance. If I interrupted her now she’d lose her train of thought and the reading would be ruined.
“The right grouping is your present. You notice the death stone in the center halfway between the two groups? It has a double meaning. First, the death of your old self and your rebirth with new powers and abilities.”
That didn’t sound so bad. I’d been afraid it meant something more . . . well, sniper bullet–ish.
“But it also represents real danger. You must be very careful. There are traps and betrayals ahead, people plotting your death.”
Sniper. Bullet. That pretty well says it all.
“Your survival may depend on your acceptance of your changed existence.”
She looked up at me; her expression was serene and her eyes were shining, but Dottie, the Dottie I knew, wasn’t “home.” I wondered if she’d even remember the things she was saying to me when this was done. Probably not.
“Fill the cup.”
I did, again feeling the power build, and she repeated the throw. This time, though, the beams of light shone through the lapis, the shafts of intense blue looking like nothing so much as Luke’s lightsaber slicing across the room.
This time the scarabs formed a single picture, again with the death stone in the center.
“You are clever. But so is your enemy. Life and death balance on a knife’s edge with deception determining the winner. You must be brave, but more, you must be intelligent if you are to save yourself and those under your protection. You cannot let emotions cloud your judgment. You must remain clearheaded.” She gestured imperiously at the cup. “Once more.”
I dropped the scarabs into the cup with increasing dread. I’d had enough experience with clairvoyants that I had never before been bothered all that much by the process. But while I might not admit it out loud, this frightened me. There was so much power to it. So deep, so elemental, that I felt as if we were channeling the energy of an earthquake, the tides, or the sun itself. My mouth was dry as I picked up the last stone, the death stone. It felt warm, almost alive in my hand, and the mark of my curse began to burn where it touched. Hissing with pain, I threw it away, into the cup. It hit with an explosion of light and a roar of sound that left me deaf and blind for a full minute. My eyes were watering so hard I was practically weeping and I groped through my tears for the box of tissues I kept on the corner of my desk. I wiped my eyes and handed Dottie the cup.
She spilled the scarabs onto the desk. Several scurried across my hand, sharp pinpricks like tiny claws on my skin. Shuddering, I pulled back, and they moved to form a picture.
Dottie waited until I’d recovered before continuing, her voice both sad and thoughtful. “There is deception here and a deep, crippling loss. Endings and beginnings, if you are willing to be open to them. Lies and pain. But hope. You must be strong and not lose faith in yourself. Do not let the inevitable betrayals keep you from trusting those worthy of trust, but beware the smile that hides the viper’s fangs.”
She fell silent, her head drooping onto her chest. I rushed around the desk to check her. Her pulse was fine, her breathing steady, but her skin had taken on a grayish tinge. I turned to call for help and saw Ron and Bubba standing awestruck in the doorway. Apparently they’d seen the light show and wanted to know what was going on. Following their gaze, I watched as the scarabs scurried back into the carved wooden box. Well, that was more than a little disturbing.
Bubba took Dottie to the ER to be checked out. I couldn’t go. Hospitals are a bad place for people who crave blood. So far, lunch was holding, but I couldn’t guarantee it beyond a few hours. She was awake and acerbic, swearing she was fine, just tired, but we all wanted to make sure she was all right. I made Bubba promise they’d call me to let me know what the doctors said.
Dottie’s vision had given me a lot to think about and the light and bug show made me want to lock the Wadjeti back in the safe and never take it out again. Definitely creepy.
Still, a promise is a promise and El Jefe had gone to a lot of trouble to get the expert from UCLA. So I slathered on more sunscreen, pulled on my new jacket and black straw fedora, armed myself to the teeth, and drove off to meet some of the world’s leading experts on the preternatural. Here’s hoping they didn’t give me more bad news.
8
“You should be dead. It is that simple. Based on what I’m looking at, this mark has been here since you were a very small child. There is no possible way you could have survived through puberty.” Dr. Sloan was a dessicated little man with freckled brown skin. What hair he had stuck out in a wiry white ring around his age-spotted scalp and his heavy graying brows bristled over the top of Coke-bottle glasses that made his watery eyes seem too large for his face. He was holding my hand, palm up, staring at it with
absolute absorption through a jeweler’s loupe. The rest of us might as well not have even been in the room—assuming, of course, I left my palm behind.
The three of us were crowded into Warren’s office. Despite his status within the university and the field, El Jefe had a very small and ordinary office space. Warren had chosen the L-shaped workstation with a round table and four chairs in the far corner from the university’s catalog. He’d added bookshelves along two walls, filled partially with research books but partially with odd collectibles such as an actual shrunken head and a voodoo doll that (thank heavens) didn’t resemble anyone I knew. Hanging above his desk were framed original movie posters of The Birds, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and The Curse of the Werewolf. The ugly eggplant-colored industrial-grade carpet had been covered by a Persian rug thick enough to sink into. It picked up the colors of the stained-glass window hanging from a pair of chains in front of the ordinary window. The decorating scheme was certainly eclectic, but somehow it worked. And it was very definitely Warren.
El Jefe is one of my favorite people in the world. He’s got that rare combination of brains, common sense, and a terrific sense of humor. The package is nicely rounded out with better-than-average looks. All of which he’d passed on to Kevin and Emma.
“It makes no sense.” Sloan’s words brought my attention back to the matter at hand. He ran his finger lightly over the mark and I felt a warm, tingling sensation. “This mark was made by a semidivine creature. Leaving aside the fact that there simply aren’t that many of those, the divine just don’t do curses like this, certainly not on a child. That’s more the style of the nefarious. There’s a trace of demon signature, but it appears to be the remnants of a covering illusion. But the curse itself? A demon might do it, if it thought delaying a death would cause more damage, or even if it just found it amusing.” I felt a little surge of magic as he tested the mark. “No. Definitely divine.” He shook his head as if to clear it, then looked up at me, the liquid brown eyes behind the thick glasses wistful. “I don’t suppose you’d let me—”
“Study it further?” I ended the sentence for him. It wasn’t hard. He was an academic, and to him my curse was the opportunity of a lifetime. He might have sympathy for me but only in the abstract. What was real for him, right now, was the thrill of discovery and the potential for publishable papers. “Publish or perish,” as the saying goes. Sure, he was being insensitive, but social skills aren’t the forte of a lot of professors. I knew it wasn’t personal, but that didn’t make me feel all that much better. “Not today. Maybe sometime in the future.”
He gave me a pointed look that somehow managed to contain both wheedling greed and, finally, a little real sympathy. “You may not have a future. This is a very potent piece of magic.”
“And yet I’m here. You just said that it was put on me in childhood.”
“I know.” He sounded exasperated. “It obviously was. I can tell by the way it’s affected your life line.” He turned my palm so that I could see it and started pointing at places where the mark intersected the lines palmistry buffs use to analyze your life. “And it has completely altered your career path.” He frowned, his eyebrows wiggling like caterpillars above the glasses. “Did your family ever take you to the Vatican? Get you blessed by the Pope?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, a major blessing could mitigate the curse.”
“My gran’s a true believer,” I suggested.
He made a harrumphing noise. “Shouldn’t be enough. I really need more time—”
“What kind of creature are we talking about?” Warren interrupted. I noticed that he’d opened the laptop on his desk and was discreetly taking notes.
Sloan didn’t look up from my palm. “Well, there are angels, of course, and demigods from some of the more ancient religions.”
“Egyptian?” I made it a question.
“Why do you ask?” Sloan’s voice was sharp and he met my eyes.
“The mark was invisible until I touched the Wadjeti this morning.”
He mulled that over for a moment, then shook his head no. “I suppose it’s possible, the Egyptians were known for their curses, but I don’t think so. Wadjet was an Egyptian deity, the patron of lower Egypt—there’s some debate as to whether she precedes Isis or is simply another incarnation. But this really isn’t her type of thing. What do you think, Warren?”
“I think it would be beneficial to look into what creatures are capable of this type of curse. Then perhaps we can find a way to break it.”
“Oh no! You can’t do that!” Dr. Sloan paled and dropped my hand as if burned.
I blinked a few times at his vehemence. “Why the hell not?” I asked.
He shook his head firmly. “The curse has been a part of you for too long. I can’t imagine how you’ve survived, but you have, and your body and psyche have incorporated the curse into your development, your very being. To simply break the curse now would destroy you.” I could tell he meant it.
Well, crap. “Then how do I get rid of it?”
He thought about that for a long moment. “Your best bet would be to get the person who cursed you to withdraw the curse.”
Like that was likely. Anybody who was willing to put a death curse on a little kid wasn’t likely to be the merciful sort. If they’d admit to it in the first place. After all, death curses are a felony—attempted murder.
“What if the person dies?”
He gave me a penetrating look that was fraught with disapproval. “Ms. Graves—”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I assured him. What was it with people today? Did I look like a murderer? Wait, I had fangs and glowed in the dark, so I probably did. Hell.
I hurried to reassure him, “The kind of person who uses death curses doesn’t usually live a nice, quiet life in the country, Dr. Sloan. If whoever cursed me dies, do I? Or does the curse unravel after their death?”
He tapped his lip thoughtfully with his index finger. “You’re assuming whatever being cursed you can die. Most divine and semidivine beings are immortal or the next thing to it. Still, I would guess it would unravel. Most curses do.” He turned to Warren. “I don’t suppose you have a digital camera? I would love to take a photograph of this, see if I can find anything out about its origins.”
Warren shook his head no. “Sorry.”
“Not even on your cell phone?”
“Nope.”
“I have one in my office.” Sloan looked at me. “Do you mind? You’ll wait here?”
“I’ll wait.” He scurried out, moving with remarkable speed for such an old guy. Then again, he was probably more excited than he’d been in over a decade. For an academic like him, this was big stuff. As soon as he was out of hearing range, Warren rose and shut the door. He turned to me. “Not exactly the essence of tact, is he?”
I laughed. “No. Not really. He doesn’t seem to get that while this is just a mental exercise for him, it’s life or death to me.”
Warren’s eyes darkened, his expression sobering. “He’s one of the best in the country, maybe even the world.” Warren settled back in his chair. “And he’s tenacious. Once he goes after this, he’ll keep after it. If there’s any kind of solution, he’ll find it.”
“So I just have to stay alive.”
“That would be preferable, ” he said drily.
I laughed. “I know it sounds weird, but talking to him actually made me feel better.”
Warren leaned forward so fast his chair made a thunking noise.
I hurried to explain. “Seriously. I’ve always wondered, ‘Why me?’ How could all this shit keep happening to one person? Now I know. It may not change anything that’s happened, but at least I know it’s not my fault.”
“No one ever thought it was.”
It was a nice thing for him to say. It was not, however, precisely true. Get a few drinks in people and they’d let all sorts of things slip out. As my dear gran always says, “A drunk man says what a sober man thinks.
” More than once I’d been accused of “manufacturing crises” so that I could be the center of attention, as if I’m some sort of desperate drama queen. No. So no. I don’t even like being the center of attention.
I must have let the silence drag on too long. Warren said, “All right, no one sane ever did.”
I laughed again, my mind going back to identify the particular folks he was insulting. Still, it was probably time for a change of subject. “So, when is your lady friend going to conference in?”
“She should have logged in by now.” He glanced at the time indicator on his computer screen, his brows furrowing with worry. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to give her a call. She planned to drive to her office to call and probably just got caught in traffic, but—”
“Go for it. Do you want me to step down the hall so you have some privacy?”
“Do you mind?”
I rose from my chair. “Of course not. In fact, I think I’ll go grab a can of pop. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks.”
I closed the door behind me and started walking down the hall. I hadn’t quite reached the vending machine area when I heard Dr. Sloan call out, “Celia, wait. You’re not leaving, are you?”
I stopped and turned around, letting him catch up with me. “No. Warren’s making a call. I figured I’d get myself a drink.”
“Ah.” He offered me the book in his hands. “I found this on my shelves and thought it might interest you.”
I took the white leather volume. It was quite slender, probably not more than a couple hundred pages. Most texts have a lot more heft. The title appeared in silver foil letters on both the spine and cover: Man’s Experience of the Divine.
“There’s a chart in the first chapter of the various divine and semidivine beings, demigods and so forth, that might be useful for you. You can keep the book if you like. Consider it a thank-you for bringing me in on this and an apology for my being . . . insensitive.” He gave me an earnest look. “I realize this is your life, but this curse is simply extraordinary. The first one of its kind I’ve seen on a person. A live one, anyway.”
