by Josh Lanyon
Which meant if John and I were going to stay together—a big if at this point—our life would be one lie after another. Suddenly I had no heart for that battle. Not because I had stopped loving him, stopped wanting to be with him, but because I loved him too much to keep up the fight.
I said calmly, “Probably. Equal parts suggestion and manipulating selective attention.”
“Why Latin?”
“English didn’t seem to be working.”
“Where did you learn it—the hypnotism?”
“My mother taught me.” No lie. The Duchess had taught me all my first and probably all the most essential spells in my arsenal.
I watched him process, both of us breathing fast, taking care to stay out of reach. He was silent and severe as he considered what to do. I was quite sure it would be unpleasant. I tried to remind myself: that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. It’s not one of the Ten Precepts. Just something I got off a Scholastic Book Club poster. It’s quite true, though.
John said finally, “That’s another no-no. No more tries at mind control.”
My mouth fell open. “Wait. You…”
“I?”
“Are you not… You’re not ending our engagement?”
“Do you want me to?”
Wordless, I shook my head.
“You’ve got some alarming bad habits, but assuming you’re not convicted of murder, my reasons for wanting to marry you hold. Like I said, I don’t think life with you will ever get boring.”
I could think of nothing to say.
John gave me a moment, and when it was obvious I had nothing useful to offer, said, “We’ve got a long day tomorrow. We both need to sleep. You won’t mind if I take the other guestroom tonight?”
I swallowed, said in a whisper, “No.”
He scrutinized me for another second, then turned and went upstairs.
I stood there, motionless, for a long time. Until the night began to lose color and Pye slunk through the kitchen pet door. He padded over to me, and I picked him up and cuddled him. He was purring, his earlier bad humor forgotten.
“Good hunting?”
I listened absently, watching the empty staircase, wondering, until Pye batted my face with his paw.
“Difficult to say. John thinks I’m either psychotic or a space alien. Possibly both. Someone has tried twice to kill me. I can’t find the grimoire. And tomorrow the movers are coming, and I have almost nothing packed.”
He meowed.
“Agreed,” I said bitterly. “Fuck it.” I couldn’t help adding, “For one night at least.”
I had not expected to do more than rest my eyes, but the next thing I knew, someone shook my shoulder. John said, “It’s seven. Aloha is here with the car. I’ll see you this evening.”
My eyes flew open. I sat up. “Wait. You’re leaving?”
John had moved to the foot of the bed. He was wearing the same navy-blue suit from the day before, and despite the fact that he had showered and shaved, he did not look like he’d had much sleep. “Of course.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“If I’m going to be gone on my honeymoon for two weeks, it’s important I don’t leave a lot of things undone at police headquarters.”
“Right. Of course.” I was relieved that he seemed to believe we were still going on a honeymoon. And afraid that the real reason he was leaving for the office was he didn’t want to be around me. I threw back the covers and looked around for my robe—which was at my townhouse. “When will you be home?”
He watched me continue to search for…even I was no longer sure what.
“When I’ve finished everything I need to do,” he answered.
In other words, I’ll see you when I see you.
I said tentatively, “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“You were exhausted.” Statement of fact, not sympathy.
“Yes.” This was awful. We were struggling to make conversation. “Do you want me to meet the movers at your place, or—”
“No. Pat will liaison with the movers. You focus on getting your things here.”
Pat Anderson was John’s executive assistant. She was smart, capable, and pleasant. Plus, she looked a bit like Samantha Stevens from Bewitched, Season One, which made me warm to her the minute I met her.
“Right.”
“And if you could interview this prospective housekeeper Mother found, that would be helpful.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He hesitated.
I said, “Tonight’s my enterrement de vie de garçon.” He looked blank. I corrected, “Stag party. Well, our version.”
“Right.” He frowned.
“Is it going to be a problem if I attend?”
“Do you know what your friends have planned?”
“Dinner and dancing at Misdirections. It’s just us. Just my wedding attendants. And Jinx.”
The frown stayed firmly in place. “I’d prefer you kept a low profile. We’ve had enough bad publicity to last our entire married life.”
My heart sank. But, after all, it was unlikely Andi, Bree, V., or Rex really cared whether we went out tonight or not. The main thing was to not further antagonize John.
“I’ll call Andi and tell her to cancel.”
He nodded, turned away—then turned back to me. He sighed. “No. You’re not a prisoner. You haven’t been found guilty of anything. You have a right to go out and celebrate with your friends.”
I felt ridiculously grateful for this show of trust. “Are you sure, John? Because if you think I should cancel, I will.”
“I’m sure. But be prepared for media scrutiny. Professional and unprofessional.”
Keep an eye out for cell-phone-armed YouTubers in addition to members of the press. Brace for unkind and unfair public commentary. That’s what he meant. I nodded unhappily.
“You’ll probably have reporters hanging around the house today. I’ll see that there are a couple of officers on-scene to make sure no one harasses you or finds a way to get into the backyard.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated, then stepped forward and kissed me.
It was intended to be a quick kiss, a businesslike buss, but I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back with all my heart.
This much is true.
I love you, I love you,
I. Love. You.
As spells went? Meh. And as poetry, even worse. But the absolute truth.
His mouth lingered, and I opened to him, murmuring welcome as his tongue pressed in. He tasted of coffee and toothpaste, not the sexiest of flavors, and yet the hot, instinctive push of his tongue against mine had my cock up and raring to go. His own pressed against the outline of his trousers.
“Don’t go,” I whispered. I didn’t mean to say it. Of course he had to go, and anyway, I wasn’t talking about physical proximity. Not really.
He drew back. His eyes were dark and, I thought, unhappy.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he said with a hint of unsteadiness. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
He strode from the room without a backward glance. I heard his brisk footsteps fade down the hall.
Pye, curled in the window seat, meowed at me.
For once, I agreed.
Chapter Fourteen
The first thing I tried to do was phone Oliver.
Being even more old-school than me, Oliver did not have a cell phone—and did not seem to be answering his home phone. I tried twice in the space of half an hour, but there was no response.
Next I tried to approach him by more direct means, but even simple telepathy takes an incredible amount of energy, and I was very tired and very much out of practice. Nor was there a strong emotional bond between us, which makes such efforts so much easier.
Once again, I failed to reach him.
The second thing I did was phone the Duchess—and it was in her role of Duchesse d’
Abracadantès that I needed my mother.
“Cosmo! Comment osez-vous m’ignorer? Why have you not returned my phone calls?” she demanded when I was put through to her.
“What calls? I didn’t know you’d phoned.” I scrolled quickly through my messages, but saw nothing. Nothing from anyone, which, come to think of it, was unusual. I’ve probably mentioned my love-hate relationship with technology? In fact, it is only hate-hate. On both sides.
Maman made a sound similar to what an ocelot might make if you poked it with a stick. “Pourquoi tout doit être compliqué avec vous?”
“Je suis désolé. I guess I’m just built this way. Maman, I didn’t call merely to hear your lilting voice. I went to Seamus’s shop last night to try to find the grimoire.”
She instantly forgot her displeasure with me. “Did you find it?”
“No. But someone tried to kill me. For the second time in two days.”
She is not easily discomposed, but her voice was fierce as she demanded, “Tell me all.”
I told her all. It took a little time.
“Why did you share none of this last night?” she cried at the end of my recital.
“At dinner? How could I? It was neither the time nor the place.”
“Then you should have phoned me immediately afterward.”
“Afterward, I was searching Seamus’s store for the grimoire.” Well, eventually. “Have you heard yet from la Société du Sortilège?”
“Oui. Why do you suppose I’ve been trying to reach you all morning?”
“What have you learned?”
She hesitated—which was not in character. “The situation is far more serious than either of us realized.”
“I kind of thought being suspected of murder was pretty serious.”
“Have you ever heard of something called the SPMMR?”
I considered that alignment of letters. As acronyms went, it seemed unfortunate. “No. What is it?”
“A recent and alarming development. An underground alliance that has begun to take root in cities with significant Craft populations.”
“What kind of underground alliance?”
“Witch Hunters.”
The words seemed to echo down through the ages. I think my heart even stopped for a moment. There is no more frightening phrase in the Witch lexicon.
Maman continued, “A new breed. Organized. Funded. Fanatical.”
“They’re always fanatical.”
“True. I give you that. They call themselves the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm.”
Mortal Realm is a misnomer because there is no Magical Realm. No place we can flee to. We must all live together in the Mortal Realm. And if we cannot all live…
I found my voice at last. “You think this SPMMR is behind Seamus’s murder?”
“We can find no evidence they have slain before, but there have been incidents of violence. In this case, there are two ill-boding indicators. One is the missing Grimorium Primus. It is the stated mission of the SPMMR to confiscate and collect all magical books and artifacts.”
“They have a mission statement?”
“Cosmo, will you attempt to concentrate? Last year Leabhar nam bana-bhuidsichean was removed from Mar’s Wark in Stirling. And Le petit livre de sorts vanished from Paris three weeks ago. Under the very nose of la Société.”
“Vanished,” I said. “As in…”
“As in sorcery,” my mother said. “As difficult as it is to comprehend, they are being aided in their unholy work by witches. The very young. The disenfranchised. Or perhaps half-witches; those with little or no power, but dangerous knowledge.”
I understood why she wanted to believe this betrayal might come from half-bloods than those born and indoctrinated in Craft, but I wasn’t so sure. Times were changing.
“You said there were two ill-boding indicators in Seamus’s death.”
“Tell me again about the projection on the ceiling of Seamus’s office.”
I half closed my eyes, trying to recall. “An old-time caricature of a witch on a broomstick, projected by an antique magic lantern. Or some equivalent. I couldn’t find the lantern when I searched the shop last night.”
“The projection did not come from any item in Seamus’s inventory. This projection is their emblem.”
Horror shuddered down my spine. If witches were indeed helping these hunters, the use of that image was an obscenity.
“How have I not heard of this alliance until now?”
“Until the theft of Leabhar nam bana-bhuidsichean, no one took them seriously. Their numbers are small, but…not insignificant.”
From the very beginning, I had felt a certain dread that as bad as the circumstances of Seamus’s death were, they were the prelude to something much worse. I had figured the much worse was my possible arrest or being jilted by John. As terrible as those possibilities were, this was worse. Much worse.
Maman said, “So you can understand why la Société requests that you postpone—at least—your marriage.”
I was jolted back to current day calamity. “Uh…say what?”
She did not say what. She did not have to.
“No,” I said. “Absolutely not. En aucun cas. No. No.”
“Cosmo, have you not been listening to me?”
“What does any of that have to do with John and me?”
“Are you being willfully blind? You must see the danger to yourself!”
“If there is danger, it isn’t from John.”
“Is that what you believe or what you wish were true? You’ve admitted that twice someone has tried to kill you.”
“That could be anyone!” Well, that made me sound less than popular. “Not that I have so many enemies—or any, that I know of. But—”
“You are Duc of Westlands, however much you wish to pretend otherwise. One day you will take the mantle of L’ermite and ascend le trône de sorcière.”
“The hell I will. It seems that it is you not listening to me. I wish to live a mortal life. I am living a mortal life. The idea that this SPMMR would choose to target me, well, if they’re that far off the mark, they’re no threat to us at all. And the fact that you’re trying to somehow involve John in this is…it’s grotesque.”
“If we have managed to infiltrate them, is it so hard to believe they would do the same to us?”
Had we managed to infiltrate them? Had it gone that far?
“Yes,” I answered. “In this instance, yes. This is paranoia speaking, plain and simple. Prejudice and paranoia. You know how John came into my life. Against his will! If anyone should be on guard, it’s him. The victim of witchcraft. Do you also suspect Andi—the daughter of your oldest friend—of taking part in this convoluted conspiracy? I’m not even sure what the goal would be in that case. To kill me or control me? Or something entirely different? Frame me for murder maybe?”
She said quietly, “I hoped you would be more reasonable about this.”
“Why would you hope that? I love him. You know how much I love him.”
“And how can that be?” she exclaimed. “What is your obsession with mortal life and this mortal man?”
“We’re all mortal. We are as mortal as they are. We can be killed. We grow old and die. Exactly as they do. We’re all mortal, so stop saying that!”
“Call it what you like. Soulless, animated clay. That is all they are.”
I could not remember ever being so enraged with her. I was afraid to speak lest the bitter words trembling on my tongue poured out. I was shaking, clenching my cell phone so hard, I would not have been surprised if I’d crushed it. Instead, the phone zapped me. I dropped it in surprise. It fell to the wooden floor face up, the call disconnected, and I saw a stream of delayed messages scroll past.
Messages from Andi: Is the rehearsal on? Are you all right? Please talk to me. Is the rehearsal on? Is the rehearsal on? Is the rehearsal still on?
Messages from Rex: Sorry about dinner. Something came up. Then: Go
t your message. We’ll talk tomorrow night. And then: We need to talk.
Messages from Blanche: The reporters are making it impossible for customers to come into the store. Do I give Ambrose Antonia’s hours? No sales since lunch. Should I close early? And finally: The detectives were here again looking for you.
Message from Unknown Caller: Leanaidh mo mhallachd thu bho àite sam bith
Message from Ralph Grindlewood: I may have made a mistake in sending the Jones boy to you. Please call me as soon as possible.
Messages—a lot of messages yesterday—from John: Why aren’t you at the house? Where are you? Are you at the shop? Let me know when you’re at the house. Cos, I need an answer. Why are you not answering my phone calls? Call me. Call me NOW. Meet me at the house. I’M LOSING PATIENCE.
Message from Unknown Caller: The words are read. Now you’re dead.
I buried my face in my hands.
* * * * *
I hadn’t realized Oliver lived so close to the Creaky Attic.
The little yellow-and-red Victorian was right around the corner from Seamus’s store, so whatever else I had done to Oliver, at least I hadn’t dragged him all over town to do it.
I went up the red stone steps, pushed through the short black-and-yellow wrought-iron gate, went up more steps, and knocked on the red-and-yellow door.
I buzzed the doorbell.
I knocked again.
He did not appear to be home.
I went around the side of the house, peering into windows and trying to see through a ghostly multitude of filmy sheers.
There wasn’t much to see, and what there was seemed to confirm that no one was home. The house was quiet, locks fastened, wards in place. It did not appear to be the scene of any disturbance.
What could have happened to him?
There had been no sign of him at the Creaky Attic the night before, nothing to prove he had ever been there, and I was inclined to believe Oliver bailed—had it not been for that psychic shout.
