by Josh Lanyon
Heart pounding, I picked up the grimoire, ran upstairs, and climbed into the armoire. John’s shirt from the day before brushed my face, and I smelled his faded cologne. My spirits rose at that summery blend of lemon and rosemary, spicy lavender, and a woody, masculine undernote. Someday I would try to concoct a cocktail that captured the way John’s scent made me feel.
I touched the back of the cabinet, spoke the words, and stepped through—
—into my mother’s gold-and-pink boudoir. Where she was in flagrante delicto with her atrocious companion, Phelon.
I mean, technically, she was not in flagrante delicto because she’s an adult, unmarried woman and she can spend her afternoons however she likes, but holy moly—and I mean that literally.
Blessedly, I had only a quick glimpse of tumbled hair, tumbled limbs, tumbled sheets before I acted to save my sanity.
“What the fuck?” I yelped, and put the book up to shield my eyes.
“Cosmo Aurelius Saville,” Maman shrieked. “Are you lost to all propriety?”
Phelon said, “You might knock, you know!”
I continued to avert my face, staring out the tall windows at the rose garden where white and blue tents were being raised in preparation for tomorrow evening’s reception. It looked a little like the circus was in town, a thought that did not cheer me up any.
“I have to speak to you at once, Maman.”
Seeing that the reason for my impromptu visit was staring her straight in the face, I wasn’t surprised when she quit muttering dire predictions in French and said, “I will see you downstairs in the library. Get up, Phelon.”
I exited—using the door this time—and she snapped her fingers, slamming it forcibly behind me.
I didn’t have to wait long in the library, only perhaps ten minutes before she swept in—she always sweeps in regardless of what she is wearing. Or not wearing. Happily, she was wearing, and a rather nice ivory shantung silk sheath too. In fact, it looked a lot like the dress she had planned on wearing to the wedding.
“If you would embrace your true nature and your Goddess-given powers, and stop sneaking through back doors and scurrying around the city like a common field mouse, Cosmo, we could avoid such discommodious encounters.”
“What do you suggest? I appear and disappear in a cloud of green smoke? Or perhaps a giant bubble?”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “And why must all your cultural references be to films and books that degrade or stereotype us?”
I was equally exasperated. “I don’t understand what we’re arguing about. I have the book. I’ve brought you the Primus.”
She held out her hand, and I passed it to her. Maman clasped it to her breast, arms folded, and closed her eyes. After a moment, she said softly, “Yes. Blessed be. Blessed be. It is really the Primus.”
It had never occurred to me that it wasn’t. It probably should have.
Maman opened her eyes and smiled. “You’ve found it. I knew you would.”
“Through no effort of mine. Seamus mailed it to me. There’s a letter from him inside the book. It seems he knew his life was in danger, knew that someone would try to steal the grimoire, but that’s all he says. He gives no clue to that person’s identity. In fact, he doesn’t even spell out what he fears.”
“That’s unfortunate. However, the main thing is the Primus has been safely returned.”
You’d think I would be used to her callousness by now. “Well, yes. However, Seamus is still dead, and his killer has not been caught. And I’m still suspected of murder.”
“Yes, it’s very inconvenient. One assumes it will work itself out.”
“Uh, yes. One hopes, given how inconvenient things have been lately.”
At the tartness of my tone, she studied me, made a little grimace. “You think I’m unfeeling.”
I laughed. “Oh, I know you’re unfeeling.”
“Not when it comes to you.”
“Sometimes when it comes to me.”
She considered and seemed perplexed. “You’re still upset over the things I said this morning.”
“Kind of. Not surprised, though.”
Her mouth twisted. She looked almost sad. “You are my only child. Above all else, I wish for you to be healthy and happy. Is that so wrong?”
“No.”
She gave a little shrug like, So what’s the problem? and went back to gloating over the grimoire.
I observed her for a moment. “Did you happen to place an obfuscation spell on my old townhouse and the Greenwich Street house?”
She said absently, “No, that was your father.”
“Why? I can deal with a few reporters. This way, it’s actually bringing attention to the fact that news people can’t seem to locate the house.”
She stroked the cover of the grimoire. When she glanced at me, her expression was distracted. “Your father fears that now you’ve married a police commissioner, you have made yourself a target for crazed, gun-toting mortals. You know his feelings on the subject.”
“I appreciate his concern, but—”
“If you have an objection, you must speak to your father. I will not be your go-between.” She returned to caressing the book.
I hesitated. “Maman?”
“Oui?”
“I am going to marry John. For better or worse. My mind is made up.”
That got her attention. “So you have said. Repeatedly.”
“I would be happier with your blessing, but with or without it, this marriage is going to take place.” Honesty forced me to add, “Unless John changes his mind.”
Her brows arched. “Unless he changes his mind?” she repeated dangerously. “Let us hope for his sake, he doesn’t.”
“Now see? That. That kind of thing has to stop. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, no one is to cast any more spells on John.”
“That will be up to John.”
“Maman.”
“Bah!” She flipped her hand. But then she seemed to reconsider. She smiled her most charming smile and reached out to me. I hugged her tightly. She was still holding the grimoire with one hand. It lay between us, pressed to my heart. She murmured, “Very well, my darling boy. You have my blessing. Marry your John. May you find all the love and happiness you long for in his arms.”
“Merci, Maman.”
She smiled with something almost like tenderness. But then, being herself, she just couldn’t help adding, “And when he breaks your heart, as he will surely do, I promise I will not say I told you so.”
* * * * *
I took my time dressing that evening.
Mostly because finding anything in that mountain of boxes was nearly impossible. But eventually I settled on a black silk T-shirt, supple black leather skinny jeans, black denim jacket, black boots, and my signet ring, earring, amulet, and bracelets.
I styled my hair with extra attention, making sure the spikes were very spiky. Once I would have worn a little eyeliner, but it occurred to me that the husband of the police commissioner probably needed a somewhat more circumspect look. In fact, this would probably be the final appearance of my leather jeans. I did not want to look like John’s rent boy the first time we attended a gala event together.
The house seemed very quiet, very empty without Pyewacket. I went downstairs about half an hour before Andi was due to pick me up, and was startled to find John in the living room, going through one of his boxes.
He had to have known I was home, and yet he hadn’t come up to see me. It hurt. And it worried me. There had been no message from him all day. I’d been hoping it was because he simply hadn’t had a free minute, but now it was plain he hadn’t wanted to talk to me.
“Hi,” I said, and I knew he could hear my surprise, see that I was unsure of my welcome.
“Hi.”
John came to meet me, so that was a relief. I saw he was still dressed for work; had not even loosened his tie yet.
“Did you just get home?”
“About ha
lf an hour ago. You were in the shower.” His brows rose. “You look…nice. If a little sinister.”
“I’ll take nice.”
We kissed. His lips were firm and warm, his taste familiar. I was afraid to even consider what it would be like not to have this anymore: the little kisses hello, the little kisses goodbye. Sometimes I thought it was those light and fleeting because-it’s-you kisses I would miss the most.
John sighed as we reluctantly broke the kiss. “It’s going to be disappointing if you’re one of the bad guys.”
Given all that had happened between us, that wasn’t as funny as it would have been two days earlier.
I said lightly, “Good guys wear black too. The elegant good guys.”
“It is elegant on you, yes. Though I find myself wondering why is it that you and your friends all dress like you’re training to be super villains when you grow up.”
I was not imagining the distance or the underlying edge. And I got it. How could I not? He already knew about the witchcraft connection, and by now he’d have learned that I had been trying to buy a grimoire—at any price—something he would consider unhealthy at best and creepy at worst. He believed—no, let’s be honest, he knew—I had tried to hypnotize him (and that was a polite way of putting it), and then there was a host of not-so-trivial trivial things like not liking my family, not liking my cat, having nothing in common with my friends, feeling I was too young for him…
Oh! And let’s not forget me being prime suspect in a murder investigation. Although maybe that was less off-putting than my being a witch.
Not that John thought I was a real live witch. Just a weirdo.
A weirdo he had committed to marrying—now against his better judgment.
Any minute now he was going to reach the breaking point. The only real surprise was that he hadn’t reached it last night.
“When we grow up?” I asked politely, thinking maybe I ought to help the moment of truth along.
But it seemed he didn’t want to fight, because, abruptly, he changed the subject. “Any problems with the move?”
“No. Nothing I’m aware of, anyway. I didn’t go through your stuff, obviously, but it looks like mine made it safely and mostly in one piece.”
“I see you hung that gold-framed mirror in the hallway between the guestrooms. Are you sure you want to put such a valuable piece where no one’s going to see it?”
“I might change it up later, but I’m kind of tired of that mirror.”
“Up to you.”
“Did you get my text about Bridget O’Leary?”
“Yes. I did. If you think she’ll suit us, then let’s move ahead with hiring her.”
He got my text, but didn’t bother to respond.
“Okay.” I didn’t bother to mention that I’d already moved ahead with hiring Bridget, hadn’t realized he thought I needed his permission.
“Did you want a drink before you go?” he asked.
“Sure.” I followed him into the bar area.
“What would you like?” He went behind the bar.
“Whatever you’re having.”
He poured two short whiskeys, straight up, no ice, no water. I felt my scalp prickle. Scottish descent notwithstanding, he didn’t drink whiskey unless he wanted to get drunk. His mounting unhappiness was a tangible thing, and I had no idea what to say or do.
John handed me one of the short tumblers. “¡Arriba.” He touched the rim of his glass to mine.
“Abajo,” I said, and we touched the weighted bases.
“Al centro.” We clicked the glasses against each other.
I said, “Adentro.”
We drank.
“What happened to abracadabra?” John asked after a second swallow.
“Hm? Oh. I got the feeling you don’t like it.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “I didn’t mind when I thought you were being ironic. Now that I know you’re serious, it’s less amusing.”
I surprised us both by laughing. “Despite what you may think, I’m not a junior magician. I can’t say I was being ironic with the abracadabra, but I did think I was being funny. Apparently not.”
His lip curled. “Sorry. I seem to be losing my sense of humor.”
I put my glass down. “Look, if you want to talk, let’s talk. I’ll cancel dinner. Maybe I should anyway.”
“Meaning?”
“The obvious. Do you really still want to get married?”
When he didn’t answer at once, my heart seemed to stop too.
“Do you?” John asked finally.
Not the answer I’d hoped for. In fact, it took me a second or two to get command of my voice.
“I’m the one suspected of murder. Not you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I said huskily, “I haven’t changed my mind about you, John. About us. I never will.”
“I haven’t changed my mind either.” The words were right. The tone…a little flat. Like leftover champagne. Like a hangover pill the morning after.
After a moment, I said, “So then…full speed ahead?”
“It seems so.”
I nodded. I was not remotely reassured—and it didn’t seem to me that he was either.
We sipped our drinks. He glanced at the clock. “When are you leaving?”
Was he in a hurry to get rid of me so he could finally relax? That’s how it felt.
“Andi’s picking me up at seven.”
He nodded curtly.
I couldn’t leave it like this. Obviously things were not okay between us.
I said abruptly, “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that you went to Andi when you were trying to find me after the auction at Bonhams?”
He shrugged. “What would there be to say? We both know your friends and family detest me. I assumed she told you.”
“Detest is pretty strong.”
“Also pretty accurate.”
Yes. Also pretty accurate. I said, “It’s the same on your side. With the exception of Jinx, I don’t think your friends or family approve of our marriage.”
“I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”
“Neither do I, but I care what you think, and it’s pretty obvious to me that you’re having second thoughts.”
He didn’t deny it.
Now I knew how those witches of old felt when another heavy stone was placed on the pressing board. With every passing moment I felt like another rock was being added to the weight on my heart.
“Then don’t you think we should talk about it?”
John said, “I’m not sure there’s anything to say. I don’t think you can tell me what I need to hear. I don’t know that what I need to hear is a fair or reasonable thing to ask of you.”
My throat closed. Not only was it impossible to speak, I wasn’t sure I could breathe. The best I could manage was a nod.
He studied my face. “I meant what I said. I’m not backing out.”
Was that supposed to comfort me?
I burst out, “I don’t want—” I stopped. Tried to say more calmly, “I don’t want you to go through with this because you’re a man of your word. I want…” Once again, I had to stop.
“Cos…”
I shook my head, said almost steadily, “I want you to marry me because you love me and want to spend your life with me. I do not want— Yes, I’ll be a great host and I bring a nice additional income, but the only reason I want to marry you is I love you, John. With all my heart. I can’t— I want— I deserve that too.”
He said quickly, sounding almost like the old John, the bewitched John, “Yes. You do. Of course you do.”
I drew a long shaky breath. “So if you can’t give me that in return, we need to…we need to face it now.”
He was very still. His eyes, dark and moody, held mine without blinking.
I said, and thankfully my voice strengthened again, “Tomorrow morning is�
� Andi, Rex, V., and Bree, we’re all going to watch the sunrise. I had planned to spend the night at my old place anyway, so this actually works out. If you decide tonight that we shouldn’t move forward, then just come and tell me. I should be back by midnight. That’s all I ask. Tell me to my face.”
He frowned, started to speak.
I said quickly, “I’m not going to fall apart or throw a fit or anything. It would be nice to say goodbye in person, that’s all. And if you decide that you do love me…enough, then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Cos.” He shook his head, looked down at his glass. “This isn’t necessary.”
“I think it kind of is.”
“If we were going to— If I was going to change my mind, don’t you think I’d have done it before you moved all your stuff in?”
That was a hell of a lot more revealing than he realized.
The doorbell rang. I said, “That’s Andi. I have to go.”
John reached for the whiskey decanter. He said wearily, “Go. Have a good time with your friends.” He added, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Everything okay?” Andi asked as we walked out to her Mustang Cobra.
“Yep.”
“Would you tell me if it wasn’t?”
“Nope.”
Once we were on our way, she said, “Have you seen the papers?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“The police chief and the DA are calling for John to resign.”
I sucked in a breath. “To resign?”
“John’s holding his ground, though. The mayor says she’s still one hundred percent behind him, but who knows how long that will last?”
Not long, I was betting. I understood better John’s dilemma. He was ambitious, determined, a man with a plan. It had been one thing when my potential assets outweighed his reluctance to tie himself down, but I was increasingly becoming a huge liability for him. The wonder was he hadn’t already pulled the plug, was still contemplating going through with marrying me.
Misdirections—not to be confused with the shop on 9th Street—was a combination magic dinner theater and night club.
