Secondhand Spirits (17 page)

He looked at me as though struggling to remember something. Then he started looking around. “Where the hell am I? What happened last night?”

“What do you remember?”

“Rats in the attic, that altar in the closet, then . . . nothing.”

Good.
“You were injured.”

“Obviously.” He was leaning over and trying to inspect the wound, but it was at an odd angle for him.

“I brought you to my place to fix you up.”

“So, you're a doctor now?”

“Not exactly. Let me get you some coffee.”

Oscar snorted and trotted off to look for food. I followed him into the kitchen, fed him a leftover half sandwich, and put the kettle on. Filling my single-cup cone filter with ground beans, I brewed two strong, fragrant cups of French roast.

After sitting up for a few minutes, Max got to his feet and started swaying. He seemed confused and a bit vacant, a common reaction to his wound and my spell.

“Be careful,” I said as he collapsed back onto the couch.

I brought him his coffee and set my own on the side table.

“I need to change your bandage.” Bringing my basket of gauze and tiny jar of poultice over to the coffee table, I knelt in front of Max and found myself face-to-face with his bare chest. I could feel him looking down at the top of my head.

If the wound had been over to the left just slightly, it might have been critical, beyond my abilities. I felt waves of guilt and self-doubt. I should have
made
him leave the house with Charles, but the truth was, I had wanted him to stay with me. He made me feel safe. And then my magic hadn't been strong enough to protect us.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered.

“Are you the one who used me for target practice?”

I shook my head.

“Then why are you apologizing?”

“I got you into the situation.” I looked up at him. “If it wasn't for me—”

“If I recall, I followed you into that closet. I'm a big boy, Lily. I take my own chances.”

“Yes, but—”

“Shh.” He put his index finger on my lips to stop my protests. Rather than taking it away immediately, he let his finger remain a moment, then rubbed slowly, gently across my lower lip.

Our eyes met, our breath coming harder.

“You're so . . .” he said as his gaze fell to my mouth.

The phone rang.

It was Aidan. It was important. It was just as well.

I stood. “I'll be right back.”

I picked up the phone extension in my bedroom, sinking down into the bed.

“Hi, Aidan.”

“You knew it was me?”

“I'm like a walking caller ID.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Hope I'm not waking you.”

“Not at all.”

“I've made some inquiries. Frances's death seems to have been human, not demonic.”

“Yeah, thanks. I'm getting that, too.”

“But there were no local witches involved, at least none under my auspices. So you could be dealing with out-of-towners, or, more likely, with someone trying to make it look like a magical or ritual death.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To cast suspicion elsewhere? Who knows? Anyway, I want to dissuade you from going after
La Llorona.
There have been some recent developments.”

“What kind of developments?”

“I'm not sure yet. Suffice it to say, you'll be in over your head. Unless you take me with you, of course.”

“Would you work with me on this?”

“Only if we could reach some kind of agreement. This would be asking a lot. And in any case, I need a few more days to assess the situation.”

“All right. Thank you, Aidan. I do appreciate it.”

I hung up the phone, feeling as though Aidan was something of a witchy Godfather, making me an offer I couldn't refuse. I sighed, then brushed my teeth and hair, and took a moment to change into a fresh sweater and straight skirt—circa 1960—before returning to the living room.

When I saw Max, I stopped short.

Chapter 11

Max held my Book of Shadows in one large hand, steadying himself with the other. Since I never bring anyone to my apartment, I'm not in the habit of hiding things. Stupid of me. I had left my Book of Shadows out last night, wide-open on the counter.

“What's this?” he asked.

“A, um, recipe book.”

“Uh-huh. Here's a recipe that includes gecko skin.”

“A lot of people eat reptiles. Bugs, even. I used to travel a lot, and I wrote things down.”

“And eye of newt?”

“That's actually an herb. Sounds creepy, though, huh?”

Max fixed me with a long, searching look. Then his light gray eyes scanned the room, noting the charms over the doors and mirror, the gazing ball, and the cauldron washed out and left to dry near the sink.

He snapped the book closed, tossed it onto the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and blew out a breath.

“Why does every interesting woman in this town have to be into witchcraft?”

“How do you mean?”

“For chrissakes, Lily. This is what I do. I may have been blinded to it for longer than usual because I . . .” He shrugged. “I was distracted. But I've done my home-work. I recognize the signs.”

“Then I reckon you know that historically, ‘witch' was a derogatory term for a woman healer.”

“And I take it you fancy yourself a healer?”

“Good thing for you, or you'd be at San Francisco General with a cotton-pickin' tube down your throat and a catheter up your—”

Max let out a loud bark of laughter. I couldn't help but notice the sparks in his light eyes.

“I think I forgot to thank you,” he said, holding his side.

“You're welcome. Come sit down, let me fix you some breakfast, and I'll tell you what you want to know.”

Max brought a chair into the kitchen and watched me as I prepared a quick omelet with fresh vegetables from the farmers' market, artisan Gruyère cheese, and thin-sliced imported olives. I boiled a batch of grits and whipped up some scrambled eggs for Oscar. I put thick slabs of my homemade whole-wheat bread to toast and squeezed oranges for juice. Finally, I poured us each second cups of coffee.

Any witch worth her salt, in my estimation, is a good cook. In fact, people who possess no magic at all can in-still their home-cooked meals with love and security and health, transforming ingredients and bringing disparate people together as family and friends. There's a reason that when opening one's home to guests, the first thing you do is offer food and drink. Cooking is a kind of everyday magic.

As I brought the coffee to the table, I saw Max sneaking Oscar a bite of omelet and patting him on the back.

“He's already eaten twice this morning,” I said. “He's going to get fat.”

“He's a pig. He's supposed to be fat. He's a cute little fellow—reminds me of a dog.”

At which Oscar reared back and glared at Max.

“Do you have a pet?” I asked.

“I used to. And it looks like I'm on the verge of inheriting my father's old mutt. She rides around with me a lot. Loves the truck.”

I smiled and picked at my own food while I watched Max dig in, eating heartily. I told myself I was interested because an appetite was a good sign after such an injury. But the truth was, it fascinated me to watch big men eat with abandon. This one, in particular. Finally, Max sighed, leaned back, and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

“You're quite a cook.”

“Thank you.”

“All right, I'll repeat my question: Why do all the interesting women have to be witches?”

“I might as well ask why all the interesting men are married or gay.”

“Not
all
the interesting men.”

He smiled and held my eyes.

“So assuming you're not gay,” I played along, “it begs the question: Why aren't you married?”

A shadow crossed over his face. He stirred a lump of raw sugar into his coffee, licked the spoon, and leaned back in his chair.

“My wife died four years ago, August eighteenth.”

I reached out and placed my hand over his, casting a comforting spell without even thinking about it.

Max looked up at me, startled. We both seemed at a loss for words.

He took his hand away, leaned back, and I felt his guard slip up.

“Tell me what happened last night.”

“You remember the altar?”

He frowned. “Just barely.”

“We were attacked.”

“By whom?”

“Not whom, exactly. More like what. You don't remember?”

“Nothing after the door slamming and locking us in.”

I avoided his eyes, taking our dishes into the kitchen. He stood up to help but I waved him back down. He might not be feeling the effects of his wound, but it was more serious than he thought. My magic was making it numb.

“You should lie down.”

“Just tell me, Lily.”

I stood at the counter, my hands flat on the cold tile.

“Forces attacked us. Spirits, demons, maybe. I'm not sure. I'm not that familiar with the voodoo pantheon.”

He fixed me with a look. Several seconds ticked by.

“What happened is that somebody jumped us,” Max asserted. “What are you trying to cover up? Was it Gosnold?”

“Of course not. Listen, it's not that simple, Max—”

He snorted.

“I know it's hard to understand. I—”

“Lily, please.” He pushed the chair out with a screech and stood up. “It's one thing to play around with gecko skin and charms, quite another to pretend that something clearly human is on a different dimension altogether.”

“I really think you need to keep an open mind in this case, Max. There is evil in the world, and—”

“I couldn't agree more. Look at what's happening in Darfur. Hell, you don't have to go that far. Look around any city: drug addiction, mothers neglecting babies, fathers molesting their kids, people shooting each other—that's true evil.” He leaned in toward me and spoke very softly. “But it's plain old human evil. Nothing magic about it.”

I was at a loss for words in the face of such disbelief. I wasn't accustomed to trying to convince people of the supernatural world; usually it was the other way around. But after what we'd survived together in Frances's house, it seemed ludicrous to deny it.

“Tell me what happened, Lily.”

“I don't know. But whatever it was wasn't human.”

“You're saying we were attacked by ghosts?”

“Not ghosts, but spiritual forces of some sort.”

Max let out a loud breath and drew his hands through his hair.

“I can't deal with this,” he grumbled, stalking to the door.

Oscar shifted to his gnome form and stood beside me. Together we watched as Max strode out without a backward glance, slamming the door behind him.

“Sheesh. You were up all night tending to him, and that's all the thanks you get?” Oscar growled. “Cowan ingrate.”

I couldn't have said it better myself.

 

“
Dude
. The walk of shame.”

“The what?” I had trailed Max down the stairs of my apartment, through the store, and out into the cold morning sunshine. By the time I got outside he was already halfway down the block, striding along as though he hadn't been seriously injured a very few hours ago.

Sitting with his back up against the wall of Aunt Co ra's Closet, Conrad elucidated. “Duuuude. When they leave early in the morning wearin' last night's clothes, it's called the walk of shame. Least, that's what we used to call it back at school.”

I had to smile. “It's not like that.”

“No? Too bad. He's cute.”

“You think he's cute?”

“Oh, yeah. Tall, dark, and handsome—standard hot-tie. Watch out, though. He must have a jealous wife or something. Those dudes across the street were taking his picture when he left. Prob'ly private eyes.”

I followed Conrad's gaze to the beat-up silver sedan parked outside the shoeshine store across the street. Inspectors Romero and Nordstrom were eating bagels and drinking coffee, making no effort at subterfuge. In fact, Romero gave me a little wave. Clearly they had been watching as Max left the store.

That was just great. I had no idea what dealings Max had with Carlos Romero, but I had the sense it didn't help my case to be considered too friendly with Max the mythbuster.

“You want me to sweep?” Conrad offered.

“That would be great, thanks. Would you like something other than a bagel this morning? I could make you an omelet.”

“Nah, thanks. A bagel would just hit the spot.”

On my way to the café I stopped by the silver sedan. Just because they were investigating me didn't seem like a reason not to be neighborly. I tapped on the driver's-side window. Inspector Romero rolled it down.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey,” said Romero with an amused half smile.

The blond practically choked on his old-fashioned glazed.

“Can I get you boys anything? I was just on my way to the café.”

“You want anything, Neil?” Romero asked his partner.

Still clearing his throat, Neil shook his head.

“I guess we're good. Thanks for asking.”

“Anytime. Don't work too hard, now,” I said as I turned to walk away.

“Ms. Ivory,” I heard Romero call out, and the sound of his car door opening.