Romancing The Dead (2 page)

“Yeah, sure,” he said, unconvinced.

“Anyway, didn’t that dude in
Highlander
love his wife forever, even when she was a hundred years old?”

William frowned as though trying to remember. He sounded disappointed to have to admit, “Yeah, I guess he did.” He tapped a finger against his cheek a few times, then pointed it at me. “What about the ghouls? Are they going to be bridesmaids?”

“Come on, that’s hardly fair,” I said sharply. “Now you’re just looking for a reason not to be happy for me, William.” Truth of the matter was that I
sincerely
didn’t want to think about the ghouls right now. The whole needing-other-people-for-sustenance thing was an issue Sebastian and I had yet to tackle.

“Sorry,” William said curtly. “Congratulations.”

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to break the increasingly awkward silence, when he said, “Oh, and that lady from Bear Claw Press is here.”

His abrupt switch of subject startled a laugh out of me. Pretty soon William smiled too. I flashed him a fond look as I made my way to the counter where the publisher’s rep waited. What did I say? Resilient. William and I were cool again. I spent the rest of the morning listening to pitches about the newest books on aromatherapy, holistic living, and acupuncture for your pets.

The afternoon was so slow that I let William go home early. Then, wouldn’t you know it? About a half hour to close everyone and their dog decided today was the day to buy candles, tarot decks, and smudge sticks. I was ringing up items and answering phone calls, while trying to direct people to the section on Rolfing.

In the middle of all this chaos, a woman came up to the counter and introduced herself as Marge. Marge had a broad, smiling face, long graying curls, and a loud Hawaiian shirt on. “I saw your poster about the open audition for the coven.”

I’d warded the poster so that only people with magical talent could read it. I squinted at Marge, giving her my aura test. She had an earthy green aura, held tightly against her body, but very strong. I’d guess she was a green Witch or a kitchen Witch with that kind of energy. There was something else that caught my magical eye momentarily. A bright glow emanated from a dog -shaped charm that hung around her neck on a silver chain.

I was about to ask Marge about the necklace when business interrupted. A long line of customers formed behind Marge. “Are you buying anything?” I asked her. She smiled and shook her head.

I expected that she’d move to the side, but she didn’t. Thus, I had to reach around Marge to take an amber necklace a customer offered. Marge, meanwhile, seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she was blocking the flow of paying customers. “I’m looking forward to the meeting tonight,” Marge said.

“Uhm, oh yeah, me too,” I said, suddenly remembering I had been hoping to slip out early myself to go grab munchies and lemonade for the meeting tonight. Sebastian and I had decided it was time to start our own coven. It was a big step for me, committing again.

My last coven had been murdered by the Order of Eustace, a rogue paramilitary organization bent on destroying practitioners of true magic, who take very literally the line in Exodus about not suffering a Witch to live. I ’d only survived because I was late to the meeting, and because I had the presence of mind to call the Goddess Lilith into me when the agents attacked. The whole event had left me scarred, both mentally and physically. My eyes changed color that night in Minneapolis, and so did my whole world. I hadn’t dared form a coven since.

But I’d put a lot of demons to rest since then. The order wouldn’t be bothering to look for me anymore. Thanks to a powerful spell that comingled my blood and Sebastian’s, their agents think I’m dead.

My name had even been cleared with the FBI, which had been led to my doorstep by following an investigation into the death of the Vatican agents Lilith killed in Minnesota. Parrish, my vampire ex -lover, had taken the fall for me, actually. In fact, Parrish sacrificed his life—or unlife, given that he’s also a vampire—so the case could be closed. I wondered where he was and if he was okay.

A customer standing behind Marge cleared his throat noisily. “Oh, sorry. Miles away,” I muttered as I rang up the customer, took his money, and made change—all the while maneuvering around the immovable Marge. “Do you need directions or something?” I asked her.

“No.” She rocked back on her heels, smiling. “Nice wind chimes.”

I glanced over my head at the crystal chimes hanging on hooks from the ceiling. We had all sorts. There were jade beads strung with gold chain for prosperity; heavy, wire-wrapped amethyst crystals supported by silver wire for psychic clarity; and jangly glass bells that, well, just annoyed me. “Did you want to buy one?”

“No, just admiring them.”

I gave the next person in line an I ’m-sorry-about-this-oddball-standing-in-your-way smile. She pursed her lips into a thin, disapproving line and glared at Marge. For a second, I thought she might give Marge a shove, but instead she thrust the book around her with an exaggerated sigh.

Glancing at the title I suppressed a snarky smirk and explained to the lady that it would cost her $24.99 plus tax to find
Inner
Peace: The Tibetan Way
.

Marge said, without preamble, “My grandmother was a Witch.”

“Really?” I murmured politely.

“Yes,” Marge said, apparently feeling emboldened by the merest hint of interest. “I’m FamTrad.”

FamTrad was short for Family Tradition, which meant that she was a hereditary Witch and may have come from a long line of women who secretly kept the Old Religion alive after the Inquisition, or Burning Times. I had no problem with the first claim, but the second always raised my eyebrows a little. There is a lot of contention in the witchy community about the origin of our religion and whether it was made up in the twentieth century or if it has been practiced as is since some prehistoric matriarchy. I’d be happy with either answer, honestly, because it’s my firm belief that all religions were made up at one time or another and just because something is new doesn’t make it any less real or true.

I had no doubts that the power itself was old. I had Lilith in my belly, after all. It didn ’t matter to me, however, if She came to me because there was an unbroken method of practice since time immemorial or if the first modern Witch just happened to stumble on the key through meditation and good fortune. For me, what mattered was that it was real. It worked. However, that breezy attitude can get me in a lot of trouble with hard-liners. So I just smiled and nodded at Marge. Another customer frowned at Marge’s back. This one must have been from out of town, because, without the customary midwestern hesitation, he actually said, “I’ve got a lot of stuff here, lady, can you move out of the way?”

Marge startled and took a step to one side. She mumbled an apology and gave me a sheepish look. I smiled kindly back. I knew she didn’t mean any harm. Marge just seemed like one of those oblivious people who never seem to get the hint that it’s time to go. I was about to be blunt with her about it, when she said, “I think in my past life I was Mata Hari.”

O-kay.

It wasn’t that I discounted the idea of past lives. I was more than certain that, like perennials in the spring, souls passed this way again. However, a little red flag always went up when people mentioned having lived the life of a famous, or infamous, person. The majority of us weren’t kings or queens. If souls did recycle, then a vast percentage had spent their previous lives much as they do now: toiling through an unremarkable existence. Again, personally, I think that’s perfectly wonderful. Even as a middle manager in the 1930s, a life lived is a worthy one, lessons can be learned, and wisdom gained. You don’t have to be Cleopatra to have been blessed.

Between this and the FamTrad stuff, all these outlandish declarations made me wonder what Marge felt she had to prove to me. I already knew she had power. Not only had she seen the poster I’d bespelled, but I’d sensed it flowing from her aura. It was now about five minutes to close and there were still three people waiting to be helped. So I put on my kindest, most charming smile, looked Marge directly in the eyes, and said, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’ve really got to ask you to leave right now, but I’d

love
to hear all about it tonight, Marge.”

And that was my fatal mistake.

Six hours later, I was cornered—literally pushed up between my bookshelf and the window—by Marge, who was, in point of fact, telling me all of her past-life sexual exploits in excruciating detail.

I eyed the pewter statue of Kali that sat within arm’s reach on the second shelf. If Marge didn’t stop talking soon, I planned to use it to bludgeon my way back into the middle of the room. Thing was, I hadn ’t had a chance to talk to anyone else tonight, and, worse, we were running out of lemonade.

The sun had gone down several hours ago, but it was still eighty-seven degrees. At least the breeze coming in off the lake through the open windows brought a little relief. My apartment was the upper floor of a creaky, old Victorian with wiring nearly as ancient as the plaster-and-lath walls, which meant no AC. Every time I tried to plug in an air conditioner, the breakers blew. Strategically placed fans shifted the hot air around, and I had provided lots of pitchers of ice-cold lemonade to mitigate the heat—

except now we were running precariously low.

“Hmm, mm-hmm,” I muttered as Marge continued to regale me with her former prowess in bed. I had tuned Marge out the first time she mentioned cunnilingus, because while it might be nice to experience, it was not a word I found palatable when bandied about with impunity.

I tried to catch Sebastian’s eye, but he was completely focused on a leggy, blond foreign exchange student named Blythe. She was a comparative religions major and a Londoner. Neither of them noticed me frantically trying to get their attention. Marge seemed to notice my focus drifting. Her eyes darted to Blythe and Sebastian furtively, and then she ’d blurt out something awkwardly embarrassing about sex and espionage. All the while, she twiddled with that dog pendant of hers. Marge started explaining some Kama Sutra position the Mata Hari had found particularly useful, and I broke in, “I’ve been admiring your necklace. Where’d you get it?”

She stopped midsentence and looked down at the pendant between her fingers like she ’d never seen it before in her life. “Uh, this?”

Marge at a loss for words—this was interesting. “Yeah. Is it Anubis? Is it magical?” I asked, knowing full well it was from my earlier aura scan. Still, I thought maybe I’d seen one on someone else here tonight and I wondered if it was associated with some local coven I didn’t know about. “Do you think I should carry it in the store?”

“Oh no, you couldn’t do that,” she said quickly, as if I had suggested doing something rude to her grandmother. Her eyes flashed to Sebastian and Blythe and then to the floor. “It’s just something silly and personal. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Marge had just lied to me. I looked at Sebastian, who still only had eyes for Blythe. Why had Marge glanced at them? Was the dog some kind of symbol that involved Sebastian? Legend would have you believe that vampires can transform into wolves, but Sebastian always flatly denied he had the ability to change shape. He always started getting all nerdy whenever I brought it up, quoting laws of physics and the conservation of mass, whatever that was.

Could the pendant be another vampire’s symbol? Was Marge a ghoul? “So,” I said, trying to act like I was changing the subject when I really wasn’t, “how’d you get interested in magic?”

“Uh, well, my family, you know,” she stammered, taking a step backward.

What was going on here? Most Witches loved talking about when they “came out of the broom closet” and how they discovered, or rediscovered, the Craft. Actually, the analogy with the gay and lesbian community was a good one. We often lived in a kind of secrecy in a world dominated by a religion not only very different from our own but which actively despised and misunderstood us. In safe places like a coven gathering, people tended to like to bond over “war stories” of growing up in a hostile environment.

“So you’ve always been a Witch,” I prompted. Stepping forward, so Marge would have to move back. “What kind?”

William inserted himself smoothly into my advance, like that rescue I ’d wanted ten minutes ago. “Hey, Garnet, you’re out of lemonade. Do you have more you can make? Maybe in the fridge?”

“In a second,” I said, but Marge had already fled into the crowd. “Damn.”

William frowned. “Oh. Did I interrupt something?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll talk to her about it later.”

So, with William in tow, I refilled the lemonade and chips, and then went to check in on Sebastian. Or, at least, I tried to.

“Hey,” I said, coming up to where Sebastian stood. Sebastian looked good despite the heat. Sebastian was cool and collected with his Old World-style long hair tied back at the nape of his decidedly unsweaty neck. Looking at him, I could hardly believe this amazing man had asked me to marry him only yesterday. He was wickedly handsome—

long, straight, black hair; sharp aquiline nose; and the sculpted, graceful body of a dancer . . . or, more accurately, a predator. Okay, so that last part shouldn’t have been sexy, but it was. Sebastian had intense gold-brown eyes, not unlike that wolf I’d met on the road. It had been the first thing I’d noticed about him. I’d never met a real person who had an honest-to-Goddess “penetrating gaze,” but Sebastian did. It was captivating.

Thrilling, even.

That is, when he was looking at me—which he wasn’t right now.

Not at all.

Sebastian had murmured a quick hello, but he and Blythe were deep into a conversation about some obscure British television show I didn’t even know he watched. I listened to them for a few minutes and realized I had nothing of substance to add. Blythe’s chuckle cut above the ambient noise. Sebastian’s broad smile showed off the tips of his canines. His fangs had dropped! They only did that when he was excited, if you know what I mean. Sebastian was totally into Blythe. Lilith roiled in my stomach.