Dime Store Magic (41 page)
"And you had the calming spell, which did work. I'd certainly like that."
I sipped my coffee as I racked my brain for more sorcerer spells.
"Barrier spell. I definitely want that."
"Barrier spell?" His brows arched. "That one is, as you say, gonna cost ya. I'm still working on that one myself."
"Cover spell for barrier spell?"
He nodded and took another cookie.
"And calming for anticonfusion." I laughed. "I feel like I'm trading baseball cards here. Or playing Monopoly. I'll give you Broadway for Atlantic and one railroad."
"Is that how you play Monopoly? I always suspected my father was doing it wrong."
"How did your father play it? Or dare I ask?"
He bit into his cookie and chewed before answering. "He took the title rather seriously. Global domination was the goal, at any cost. To win, one had to control all the property and drive one's competitors to bankruptcy.
Bribery, usurious interest rates, housing development kickbacks—it was a very complicated, cutthroat game."
"Sounds like… fun."
"It was not without challenge, but it left one with the feeling of having accomplished relatively little of consequence at an overwhelming moral price. And, as you might imagine, ultimately, not much fun. I eventually started arguing the case for a more equitable division of assets, with needs-driven interest rates and financial aid for those experiencing a temporary downturn in fortunes. My father, of course, disagreed, but was ultimately unable to sway my beliefs and I soon stopped playing with him. An early sign of things to come, I fear."
I laughed and shook my head. "So, you don't play Monopoly anymore, I'm guessing."
"It wasn't my game."
"What is your game? What do you like to do when you're not saving the world?"
He finished off his cookie. "Games have never been my forte. Sports even less so. I am, however, reasonably proficient at poker. I bluff quite well, a skill that has made me a few dollars when the need arose."
I grinned. "I can imagine that."
"How about you?"
"Not big on the sports, either. I do like games, though. Anything that's fun. Pool's a favorite."
His brows went up. "
Pool
?"
"What? I don't strike you as the pool shark type? Pool's great. Helps me build up concentration and precision for spell-casting. If you can sink a shot in a noisy pool hall, with friends trying to spoil your shot and with a
few bottles of beer swimming through your system, then you can cast a spell under the worst circumstances."
"That makes sense. I'll admit, I could use more practice spell-casting under adverse conditions. Do you find—"
A shrill whistle cut him short. He frowned, then looked in the direction of the sound, through the kitchen doorway and toward the answering machine on the counter.
"It appears your overloaded machine has finally surrendered," he said.
I pushed myself to my feet as the machine whistled again. "That's not it."
I walked into the kitchen and turned up the volume.
"Paige! Pick up!" Adam's shout reverberated through the kitchen. "You don't answer, I'm going to assume the worst and catch the next plane—"
I lifted the receiver.
"Good excuse," I said. "I'm sure you can very well guess why I'm not answering the phone."
"Because you're overwhelmed and understaffed… or under-friended."
"Under-friended?"
"Lacking the support of friends. There should be a word for that. Point is, you could obviously use my help."
"To do what, answer the phone? Hold on."
I covered the mouthpiece and turned to Cortez, who was still in the living room.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I really should take this. I'll be back in a few minutes."
I took the phone to my room and told Adam what was going on. I didn't tell him about the grimoires. If I had, I can imagine his response. I'd tell him that I might have finally unlocked the secrets of true witch magic and he'd have said something like: "Whoa, that's great, way to go, Paige…
oh, and that reminds me, I finally got my Jeep to stop making that knocking noise." Adam is a great guy, and a wonderful friend, but there are things in my life he just doesn't get.
We chatted until I heard the distant ding of the oven timer.
"Whoops," I said. "Lost track of time. Dinner's ready. I have to go."
"You sure you don't need me?"
"Positive. And don't bother trying to call here. I'll phone you with an update as soon as I can."
I ended the conversation and headed into the hall.
Savannah's voice floated from the kitchen. "—just friends. Good friends, but that's it."
The oven door clanged shut. I walked in to see Cortez taking the lasagna from the oven as Savannah watched from her perch on the counter.
"Supervising?" I said.
"Someone has to," she said.
"While you're up there, grab the plates." I leaned over to turn off the oven. "I'll take it from here. Thanks."
Cortez nodded. "I'll wash up."
Savannah watched him leave, then jumped from the counter and scurried to my side.
"He was asking about Adam," she said in a stage whisper.
I took the foil off the lasagna. "Hmmm?"
"Lucas. He was asking about Adam. You and Adam. I came in, you were gone, he said you were on the phone, so I checked call display on my phone and told him it was Adam. Then I said you'd be a while because you guys, like, talk forever, and he said, 'Oh, so they're pretty good friends,' or something like that."
"Uh-huh." I sliced into the middle of the lasagna, making sure it was cooked through. "I think the lettuce is wilted, but could you check it for me?"
"Paige, I'm talking to you."
"And I heard you. Lucas asked if Adam was a friend."
"No, he didn't ask if he was a friend. Well, yes, he did, but he meant, you know, is Adam
a friend
. He wasn't just asking, he was
asking
. Get it?"
I frowned over my shoulder at her. Cortez walked into the kitchen.
Savannah looked at me, threw up her hands, and stomped off to the bathroom.
"Mood swings?" Cortez asked.
"Communication breakdown. I swear, thirteen-year-old girls speak a language no linguist has ever deciphered. I remember some of it, but rarely enough to decode entire conversations." I turned around. "Is wine with dinner okay? Or should we avoid alcohol tonight too?"
"Wine would be wonderful."
"If you can get the glasses from above the stove, I'll run downstairs and grab a bottle."
After dinner, while Cortez and Savannah cleared the table, I changed my clothing. Retrieving the juniper might require some backwoods searching, so I exchanged my skirt for my sole pair of jeans. With a mother who was a dressmaker, I'd grown up loving fabrics, the luxurious swish of silk, the snug warmth of wool, the crisp snap of linen, and I'd never understood the allure of stiff jeans and limp cotton T-shirts—unless, of course, you plan to go tramping through the forest for spell ingredients. I considered changing into a sweatshirt, but opted instead to leave on my short-sleeved silk blouse and throw a jacket over it. Some sacrifices are just too great.
Once dressed, I went into the living room and pulled back the curtain, to see whether the crowd was still small enough for us to make an easy escape. But I couldn't see anything. The window was blacked out, covered with paper.
"Well, I don't want to see you people either," I muttered.
I was about to let the curtain fall back into place when I noticed writing on the papers. No, not writing. Print. They were newspapers. Someone had cut out newspaper articles about me and plastered them over my front window.
There were dozens of articles, taken not just from tabloids, but from Webzines and regular newspapers. The tabloids screamed the loudest:
"Lawyer Murdered in Gruesome Satanic Rite,"
"Mangled Corpses Return to Life." The Webzines were quieter, but nastier, less constrained by the threat of slander. "Kidnapped Baby Brutally Murdered in Black Mass."
"Zombie Cult Raises Hell in Funeral Homes Across Massachusetts."
The most disturbing voice, though, was the quietest. The somber, almost clinical headlines from the regular press: "Murder Linked to Allegations of Witchcraft."
"Mourners Claim Corpses Reanimated." I scanned the headers atop the articles.
The Boston Globe, The New York Times
, even
The Washington
Post
. Not front-page news, but still there, tucked farther back. My story.
My name. Splashed across the most prominent papers in the nation.
"They're still out there." Cortez tugged the curtain from my hand and let it fall, hiding the papers from view. "Not many, but I wouldn't advise we take the car. The Nasts have undoubtedly assigned someone to watch the house, and we don't want them following us."
"Definitely not."
"Since we have to stop at Margaret Levine's, I would suggest we walk there, going through the woods, and borrow her car."
"If she'll let us. What about your rental—oh, geez, your bike. We left it at the funeral home. I should call a tow truck—"
"I've done that."
"Good. Did they tow it someplace safe?"
He hesitated, then said, "It wasn't there when they arrived. Could you get Savannah? I knocked at her door, but she has her music too loud to hear and I didn't dare intrude."
"What do you mean, your bike wasn't there? Someone stole it?"
"So it would appear. No matter. The police have been informed and, failing that, I had an excellent insurance policy."
"Oh, God, I'm sorry. I should have thought—I completely forgot about it yesterday."
"Given everything that happened, the bike was the last of my concerns.
You suggested we return for it before we came here, and I decided against that, so it's entirely my own fault. Now, if you'll get Savannah—"
"I'm so sorry. You should have mentioned it. God, I feel awful."
"Which is precisely why I didn't mention it. Compared to what you've lost these last few days and what you stand to lose, a motorcycle is quite inconsequential. As I said, I had insurance and I can replace it." He glanced at his watch. "We really have to go. Collect Savannah and meet me at the back door."
