by Josh Lanyon
He made a sound of exasperated amusement. “Uh, not quite the way I pictured it.”
“Me neither.” I closed my eyes, twitched my nose.
That shows you how out of it I really was. Like a lot of witches of my generation, syndicated reruns of the television show Bewitched were a huge and consequential childhood influence. Samantha Spell-casting, as it was known, was absolutely forbidden at school because of the dangers of a mistimed sneeze or even a puzzled frown—which, let’s face it, is a daily occurrence when children begin formal education.
“When did you have your sofa delivered?” John asked in surprise, pausing at the top of the steps leading into the sunken living room.
“A little while ago.”
“That’s handy.”
“Mm-hm.”
He carried me down the steps and deposited me on the gray velvet cushions. Pyewacket, clinging to the back of the sectional, arched his back and hissed at him.
“Ssst. Tais-toi,” I muttered.
John added mildly, “And…you brought your cat.”
He was more diplomatic than Pyewacket, but they shared a lack of enthusiasm for each other.
“Yeah, he… I thought if I wasn’t coming home tonight…” I let it trail because honestly, I had no idea if I was spending the night or not. We were supposed to be having our wedding rehearsal in a couple of hours. I couldn’t even imagine it.
John wasn’t listening. “Just rest here for a minute. I’m going to see what the hell is happening in that building.”
I opened my mouth, but he was already gone, and what was I going to say anyway? Oh, don’t bother. That piano was thrown from Valencia Street.
I sank back against the cushions.
What in the name of the Goddess was I going to do? Like everything wasn’t already bad enough? Someone wanted me dead? Who? Ciara? Or could the person who had slain Seamus be after me as well? But why? A blood feud? There had not been a blood feud within the Abracadantès since the 1600s. In fact, I did not know of a blood feud within the Craft during the last four centuries. There was nothing like a common enemy—in this case, the 16th century witch-hunters—to bring people closer together.
I suddenly recalled the dark presence that had followed me down Valencia Street.
Pyewacket bumped his face against mine and meowed pâté breath in my face.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
…
“I don’t know,” I said. “It may be a coincidence.”
He headbutted me. I turned my head, kissed his furry little face. “Thank you.”
“Who are you talking to?” John asked from above us. He moved quietly for a big man. I hadn’t heard him return.
“Pye,” I replied. “Did you find anything?”
“No. The building is sealed shut. The front and back doors are locked. No one seems to be there. I couldn’t spot any open windows.”
He sat down beside me on the sectional. Pyewacket sprang from the couch to the wrought-iron railing above us and then another leap to vanish up the staircase. John said, “Let me look at your shoulder. Can you lift your arm?”
I lifted my left arm—it felt stiff, but everything seemed to be working—and John helped me wriggle out of my T-shirt. His face got tighter at the sight of the bruise already darkening my chest and shoulder.
“If that had struck you on the head…”
“But it didn’t,” I said quickly. “And a miss is as good as a mile.”
“What I don’t understand is how it could even happen. The building is locked up like a bank. There was no one on the scaffolding. There were no vehicles parked in front when I arrived. If no one is in that building, how the hell did a piano get shoved out the window?”
“It must have…fallen out,” I said. Which of course was idiotic, but the truth was even more unbelievable.
“It would take two people to move even a small piano.” John threw me a look of impatience, but then his expression softened. “Cosmo, it’s one thing to turn down an ambulance ride, but a doctor needs to take a look at you. You don’t know. You could have cracked your clavicle. You could have a concussion. You were knocked cold.”
“No, I wasn’t. I was just surprised.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Well, and stunned. For a second. But I have my own doctor. My uncle Lucien will be at dinner tonight. I’ll ask him to take a look at my shoulder.”
John shook his head but let it go, preoccupied with the puzzle of a piano falling from the sky. He took his phone out. “I’m going to have that building searched stem to stern. Pianos don’t simply fall out of the clouds. And that is definitely the wreckage of a piano out front.”
He began to press the numbers on his screen.
Why couldn’t he let it go?
I rose. “John.”
He glanced up, distracted, and as I reached out, I saw him flinch.
It was no more than a flicker of wariness crossing his face, but infinitesimal as it was, I saw it, felt it like a knife sliding into my heart—he didn’t trust me.
He was right not to.
I put my hands on either side of his face. He did not pull away, but his eyes were watchful.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Truly. It won’t happen again. I promise you that.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
I spoke the words of a forgetting spell:
Forget what was, let’s start anew
The recent past’s no good for you
Think of the future that lies ahead
The last ten minutes are gone and dead.
My voice died. I let go of John, sat down on the sofa, and pulled my T-shirt on. I waited, watching him.
John blinked, looked briefly confused. “What was I saying?”
“You wanted to know why I wasn’t here when the detectives came by.”
He shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “There was something else.”
I studied him uneasily. Was I that out of practice? Or was he resisting the spell?
How was that even possible?
“You were hurt,” he said. He sounded like someone trying to feel his way through the dark.
“I fainted,” I said. “I missed breakfast and got a little woozy. I cut my lip when I fell.”
His expression cleared. “That’s right. I was going to get you something to drink.”
John left the room and was back a minute or two later. I raised my head from my hands as he sat beside me on the sofa.
“Here you go.” John handed me a glass of orange juice over ice. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
“I hope there’s vodka in it.”
“Uh, no, you young maniac. No booze.” Despite the teasing tone, his expression was so concerned, so caring, it made my eyes sting. I nodded, drank the orange juice in a couple of gulps, and shuddered.
“Better?”
I whispered, “Yes, thank you.”
“Good.” He took the empty glass from me, set it aside, and said neutrally, “Okay, Cosmo, now talk to me. What’s going on?”
Sweetheart. Earlier, he had called me sweetheart. The first time he had ever used any kind of endearment. And that was after the spell had been removed. So, it had to mean something. It had to be a good sign, surely? I could see in his eyes that he cared, that he was worried for me—for both of us.
I wanted to tell him everything. With all my heart. I wanted his help. I wanted his reassurance that nothing had or would change. I wanted…things that simply were not possible.
I cleared my throat, said, “I know it looks…funny. But really, it’s only a series of unfortunate… coincidences.”
“Cos.” He was still kind, but I could see him struggling to stay patient.
I said earnestly, “I’m happy to talk to the detectives. I swear I’m not trying to avoid them. It’s just that after we spoke, I stayed later at the shop than I’d planned. Ralph Grindlewood—I’ve mentioned him a couple of times�
�sent me someone who could potentially replace Antonia. And I stayed to interview him.”
John wasn’t buying it. He shook his head. “Cos, I know you this well. Something is very wrong.”
“I know you this well.” John was beginning to acknowledge to himself that he did not know me very well. Once again, tears sprang to my eyes.
He saw it, and his face twisted. He put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me to him so I could rest my head on his broad chest. He was breathing quietly, evenly, forcing himself to patience, reminding himself I was not…myself.
His voice was warm against my ear. “You know you can talk to me. I’m on your side.”
I nodded.
“What are you so afraid of?”
I raised my head, met his gaze. “John, do you think— They’re saying I’m the only suspect.”
I didn’t even have to specify who they were. The lines of his face grew somber.
“I know. I can’t control the media, but I’ve made it clear to everyone on the team that public speculation about this case will not be tolerated. The department’s official position is we do not yet have a prime suspect. We have only lines of inquiry. You are just one of several lines of inquiry.”
“But am I? Are there other suspects?”
He barely hesitated. “Of course. The spouse is always a suspect. Reitherman’s wife is under scrutiny as well. It’s early in the investigation.”
“Okay. But how does that work? Where does an investigation begin? Because it seems pretty obvious everyone is speculating that I killed Seamus. And I understand that I was there—at least I was there after it happened—but…”
“The investigation begins with the victim. The detectives will look into Reitherman’s background. His finances, his social circle, his business dealings, his marriage, his employees. Everything is fair game in a murder investigation. They’ll look to see if he had a significant insurance policy, if he was in debt to the wrong people, if he had any recent arguments or conflicts with anyone.”
I nodded automatically.
“Reitherman dealt with the public, so right there that opens another potential avenue. He could have had a run-in with a crazy customer. On top of all that, he apparently dealt in the occult. CSI found Satanic paraphernalia in his store. That alone opens the door to some very weird and unsavory possibilities.”
I cleared my throat nervously. “I’m pretty sure Seamus wasn’t involved in anything Satanic.”
“Witchcraft, Wicca, Satanism. It’s all the same.”
“Actually, it isn’t.”
John’s expression grew wry. “You don’t think so? Fine. I’m talking about selling items like T-shirts and tote bags with Satanic logos printed right on them.”
I said defensively, “I’m not sure what you mean by Satanic logos.”
“Potions and oils and black candles all labeled as having magical properties and stamped with an official logo featuring a goat head in an inverted pentagram.”
He was speaking of the Sigil of Baphomet, which was, in fact, trademarked and copyrighted by the Church of Satan. So, okay, yes, he was not totally wrong. About that.
John cut into my thoughts. “To be clear, I’m not talking about collecting a few antique books on witchcraft or sorcery or poetry.”
My face turned warm at that pointed reference to antique poetry books—I hadn’t thought he’d noticed my collection of antique grimoires; he’d never said a word—but I felt obliged to protest, “Okay, but I think you’re confusing the Satanic Temple with the Church of Satan. They’re not the same thing. And neither has to do with Wicca.”
“Maybe not, but it doesn’t make me happy that you think you know enough about this to want to argue with me about it.”
I could feel all the blood that had flooded my face draining right out again. I said huskily, “No. Sorry.”
“Anyway, you asked how an investigation like this one proceeds, and that’s how it works. We look at all the evidence. All the indicators. No one is going to rush to judgment.”
“Right. Of course.”
John sighed, studying my face. “I think maybe we should cancel the rehearsal.”
“No.” I drew back, unable to hide my panic at the idea.
He held on to my hands, keeping me beside him on the sectional. “Cos, listen, you’re still pale and shaky, your hands are clammy. You fainted a few minutes ago. I’m worried about you. Maybe it’s just stress, but maybe you’re coming down with something.”
Persecution complex?
Except it’s not persecution when the hunters are in the majority. Then it’s called purification.
I shook my head. “I’m not. Really. I would know, and I’m not. Please. I don’t want to postpone the wedding.”
John frowned. “I didn’t say we should postpone the wedding. But how much rehearsal do we need? The service is in our own backyard. I think it would make more sense if we got you checked out and then have a quiet evening here tonight.”
A quiet evening together sounded like heaven, but I was terrified that what this was really about was John finding the first reason for deciding to pull the plug. “It’s too late.”
“Of course it’s not too late.”
The doorbell rang.
“See? It is too late.” I pulled my hands free and went to answer the door.
Chapter Eight
I was expecting Detectives Kolchak and whatever-the-other-one’s-name-was, so the sight of Jinx, John’s sister, threw me.
“Hi!” Jinx said brightly. “I thought you might want help with all the last-minute details.”
Jinx was tall and slender. She had shoulder-length curly brown hair and the same striking gold-brown eye color as John. In fact, the family resemblance between them was pronounced, resulting in Jinx inheriting a chin and nose too fierce for mere prettiness. Looks were all they shared. She had only been a baby when John joined the military, so not only did they not grow up under the same roof, they didn’t really know each other very well. In my opinion.
“Hey. That was nice of you. Come in,” I said, moving aside.
She inspected me more closely. “What the… Are you guys fighting?”
“Fighting?”
“You’re…” She pointed at my face. I laughed, then winced as my cut lip re-split.
“No, of course not. I fell.”
“Oh my God. You’ll have to do better than that. What’s wrong?”
Jinx was the sole member of John’s circle of family and friends who didn’t think John was making the worst mistake of his life by marrying me. Her quick and sincere concern undermined my determination to match John’s stoic resolve. In all fairness, no one has ever accused me of being the stoic type.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine. John thinks…” I didn’t even know how to put it into words.
“Better get used to it,” Jinx growled, following me inside.
“Hello, Trouble,” John said from the living room, when walked through the entryway.
She scowled at him in response. This was their normal mode of greeting each other, though, so I wasn’t concerned. “What have you been doing to make Cos cry?”
Okay, I could have done without that observation—which wasn’t true, for the record.
“Tactful as ever,” John replied. “Cosmo is feeling under the weather, which isn’t surprising given everything that’s happened. I’ve suggested that maybe we should skip the rehearsal and he can have an early night.”
“Skip the rehearsal?” Jinx looked as horrified as I felt.
“How much practice does it take to say I do?”
“It’s the logistics. It’s coordination of all the event elements.”
I spread my hands to her in gratitude.
“We’re not taking Baghdad. We’re exchanging wedding vows in front of friends and family.”
“A lot of friends and family,” I pointed out. “Almost one hundred people. Which takes some coordination.”
Jinx spread her hand to
me like, What he said.
John’s lip curled. “Seriously? You two think you can double-team me?”
But Jinx, butterfly-like, had already lit on a new topic for consideration. “What do you mean given everything that’s happened? What’s happened?”
John brought her up to speed while delivering a brief lecture on the importance of keeping up with current events versus spending hours texting friends who were being paid to work at their places of employment, not play games on their smartphones all day.
“You mean the guy who runs that cute little shop on Valencia that sells all the witchcraft supplies?” Jinx dialed down the last minutes of the lecture, turning to me. “How totally weird. I was there only yesterday!”
“You were…” John looked flabbergasted, which, in other circumstances, might have been enjoyable. In this case, I probably looked equally flabbergasted.
“Seamus mostly sold antiques,” I tried to intervene. Jinx had recently moved into her own apartment, and it wasn’t impossible that she might want to furnish—
“That’s right. I’m studying witchcraft,” Jinx informed us.
I say us, but that announcement was clearly designed to get John’s goat—no pun intended—and it succeeded.
In the midst of a spiel on the unfortunate attraction the supernatural held for gullible hormonal adolescents and, all too frequently, emotionally immature adults, the doorbell rang again, and I turned—leaped—to answer it. I don’t think the other two even heard those merry chimes over their raised voices.
Two plainclothes detectives stood on the porch.
They were unfamiliar to me, but I knew them for cops the minute I saw them. The Craft has a long and unhappy relationship with law enforcement, which was one reason—hopefully the main reason—everyone I knew was skeptical, at best, of my plans to marry John.
“Mr. Saville?”
“Yes.”
The first cop offered me a glimpse of his badge. He was short, wiry, and gray. Gray hair, gray skin, gray suit. “I’m Sergeant Kolchak. This is Sergeant Iff. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your meeting with Seamus Reitherman last night.”
“If it’s not inconvenient,” Iff said.
He was also middle-aged and short, but the palette was rosier: plump, pink-cheeked, and daffodil-colored hair coiffed in a style favored by medieval monks and British pols who favor leaving the European Union.
