Dime Store Magic (65 page)
"Can I get you something?"
Gloria smiled and shook her head. Simon pulled a chair over, being careful not to block her view of the digital display city map on the side wall. That's what Gloria loved about shamans, they were so damned considerate. You want a nice guy, you get a shaman. You want a self-centered jerk, you get a half-demon.
Her shift partner, Erin, hated it when Gloria said that. Racial discrimination, she called it. Of course Gloria didn't really believe every half-demon was a jerk—she was one herself—but that didn't keep her from saying so to Erin. Night shift in the communication hub could get deathly dull, and there was nothing like a good political correctness debate to liven things up.
Gloria pushed her chair back, one eye still on her monitor. "Okay, so I'm watching
CSI
last week, and they trick this guy into giving them DNA. Then, like five minutes later, they tell him it's a match. Can you really analyze DNA that fast?"
"Can
they
! Or can
we
!" Simon said with a smile. "For a municipal crime lab, it's damn near impossible. With our lab, though, there's no political wrangling about over-time and budgets and case precedence. If I take a DNA specimen to Roya, she's—"
Gloria's headset beeped twice: an incoming call on the emergency line.
She lifted a finger to Simon, then swung around. Even before the call connected, data began flashing on her computer screen as the call tracer went to work. She glanced over her shoulder to see the map of Miami replaced by another city: Atlanta.
Gloria reached for the button to page Erin back from lunch, but Simon beat her to it, simultaneously grabbing Erin's headset.
The line clicked.
"Cortez emergency services," Gloria said.
A female voice came on, shrill and garbled with panic, "help—park—man—"
Gloria soothed the caller with reassurances that help was on its way.
She could barely make out a word the young woman said, but it didn't matter. The computer had already pinpointed the location, a payphone in an Atlanta park. The Cabal had an office in Atlanta, which meant they had an emergency crew there, and the computer automatically dispatched them the moment it located the call's origin. Gloria's only job was to keep the caller calm until the team arrived.
"Can you tell me your name, honey?"
"D—a M—ur."
Sobs punctuated the words, rendering them unintelligible. Gloria glanced at her monitor. The computer was analyzing the voice, trying to match what it heard against the roster of Cabal employees and employee families. A list of several dozen names appeared. Then the computer factored in gender, an age estimate, and the call location. It came back with a list of five names. Gloria zeroed in on the top one, the computer's best guess.
"Dana?" she said. "Are you Dana MacArthur, honey?"
A muffled "yes."
"Okay, now I want you to find someplace—"
The line went dead.
"Damn!" Gloria said.
"The Atlanta team just phoned in," Simon said. "Ten minute ETA.
Who is it?"
Gloria waved a hand at her screen. Simon leaned over to look at the photo. A teenage girl grinned back.
"Ah, shit," he said. "Not another one."
I sat in a hotel room, across from two thirty-something witches in business suits, listening as they said all the right things. All the polite things. How they'd heard such wonderful things about my mother. How horrified they'd been to learn of her murder. How delighted they were to see how well I was doing, despite my break with the Coven.
All this, they said, smiling with just the right mixture of sadness, commiseration, and support. Wendy Aiken did most of the talking. While she did, I noticed her younger sister Julie's eyes constantly darting to where Savannah perched on the end of the bed. I caught the looks Julie shot her, distaste mingled with fear. A black witch's daughter, in their hotel room.
As Wendy's lips moved in rehearsed platitudes, her gaze slipped past me to the clock. When I saw that, I knew then that I would fail… again.
But I gave my spiel anyway. I told them my idea, about creating a new Coven for the twenty-first century, for witches who'd decided that the original Coven was not for them. I proposed a Coven for the technological age, linked by sisterhood instead of proximity, each witch living where she chooses, but with a full Coven support system only a phone call or e-mail away.
When I finished, the sisters looked at each other. "As I mentioned, there are the grimoires, too. Third-level spells, lost for generations. I have them and I want to share them, to return witches to their former glory."
To me, these books were my trump card. Even if you didn't give a damn about sisterhood or support, surely you'd want this power. What witch wouldn't? Yet, as I looked at Wendy and Julie, I saw my words wash right over them, as if I was offering a free set of steak knives with the purchase of a complete living room suite.
"You're a very compelling saleswoman," Wendy said with a smile.
"But…" Savannah muttered from the bed.
"But we must admit, we have a problem with the… present company you keep."
Julie's gaze slid toward Savannah. I tensed, ready to leap to her defense.
"That Cortez boy," Wendy said. "Well, young man, I should say. That's the trouble with getting older. Suddenly everyone younger than you looks like they should still be in grade school."
I clenched my jaw shut, holding my tongue—no small feat. If I defended Lucas, it would sound like… well, like I was defending him. I had to let his reputation stand in his defense. It should. But no one else ever seemed to see it that way.
"He
is
Benicio's heir," Wendy said. "Yes, I know he's not involved with the Cabal, but we all know how things like that turn out. Youthful rebellion is all very well, but it doesn't pay the bills. And I hear he's not doing very well in that regard."
"He's doing fine."
"He's a lawyer," Julie said, speaking for only the third time since I'd arrived. "If he's not making money, well, he's not too good at it, is he?"
Wendy's foot tapped her sister's, shushing her. "That's understandable.
Not only is he still young, but I hear he does a lot of pro bono work.
That's very noble, Paige, and I can see how a young woman would find it romantic—"
"But," Julie cut in, "like Wendy says, it doesn't pay the bills. And he is a Cortez."
Wendy nodded. "Yes, he is a Cortez."
"Hey," Savannah said, standing. "I've got a question." She stepped toward Wendy and Julie. Julie shrank back. "When was the last time you stopped a witch from being murdered by Cabal goons? Lucas did that just last month."
"Savannah…" I said.
She ignored me and stepped even closer to the two women. "Paige does charity work, too. In fact, she's doing it right now, offering two-faced bitches like you a spot in her new Coven."
"Savannah!"
"I'll be in the hall," she said. "Something in here stinks."
She wheeled and marched out of the hotel room.
"My god," Wendy said. "She is her mother's daughter."
"And thank god for that," I said, and left.
We were in the car, heading out of the city core, when Savannah broke the silence.
"I heard what you said. It was a good comeback."
The words "even if you didn't mean it" hung between us. I nodded and busied myself scanning traffic. I was still working on understanding Savannah's mother, Eve. It wasn't easy. My whole being rebelled at the thought of empathizing with a dark witch. But, even if I could never think of Eve as someone I could have befriended, I'd come to accept that she'd been a good mother. The proof of that was beside me. A thoroughly evil woman couldn't have produced a daughter like Savannah.
"You know I was right," she said. "About them. They're just like the Coven. You deserve—"
"Don't," I said quietly. "Please."
She looked at me. I could feel her gaze, but didn't turn. After a moment, she shifted to stare out the window.
I was in a funk, as my mother would have said. Feeling sorry for myself and knowing there was no good reason for it. I should be happy—ecstatic even. Sure my life had taken a nasty turn four months ago—if one can call the end of life as I knew it a "nasty turn"—but I survived. I was young. I was in love. I was making a new life for myself in a new city.
Damn it, I should be happy. And when I wasn't that only added guilt to my blues, and left me berating myself for acting like a spoiled, selfish brat.
I was bored. The website design work that had once fired a passion in me now piled up on the desk—drudgery I had to complete if anyone in our house intended to eat. Did I say "house?" I meant apartment. Four months ago, my house had burned to cinders, along with everything I owned. I was now the proud renter of a lousy two-bedroom apartment in a lousier neighborhood. Yes, I could afford better, but I hated digging into the insurance money, terrified I'd wake up one day with nothing left in the bank and be forced to spend eternity living beneath a deaf old woman who watched blaring talk shows eighteen hours a day.
For the first two months, I'd been fine. Lucas, Savannah, and I had spent the summer traveling. But then September came and Savannah had to go to school. So we set up house—apartment—in Portland and carried on. Or, I should say, Savannah and Lucas carried on. My dream of building a stronger Coven died the day they exiled me. So I'd done what I did best, sucked it in, dried those tears and marched back into the fight.
The Coven didn't want me? Fine, I'd start my own. In the last eight weeks I'd met with nine witches. Each one said all the right things, then turned me down flat. With each rejection, the abyss widened.
Come morning, I bounded out of bed, ready to take on the world. This would have been a positive sign had I not done the same thing every morning for the past two weeks. I awoke refreshed, determined this would be the day I'd haul my ass out of the pit. I'd cook breakfast for Savannah.
I'd leave a cheerful message of support on Lucas's cellphone. I'd jog two miles. I'd dive into my website projects with renewed vigor and imagination. I'd take time out in the afternoon to hunt down season-end tomatoes at the market. I'd make a vat of spaghetti sauce that would fill our tiny freezer. The list went on. I usually derailed somewhere between leaving the message for Lucas and starting my workday… around 9 a.m.
