The Flower Bowl Spell (24 page)

Then there’s nothing. Even the Luna moth
wings are gone.

I look at Tucker. He looks at me. His face
has gone pale again and his eyes are wet and bright.

“Did you notice?” he asks.

“What?”

“The first poppet.”

I already know what he’s talking about, but I
play dumb. “What about it?”

“It looked like you, don’t you think?”

Maybe. I don’t say anything. But I know now
my dream about being paralyzed under an avalanche was not a
premonition about Bright Vixen. I really was paralyzed.

“Does someone have a grudge against you,
perhaps?”

I think of Tyson and his accusations about
Alice. But this poppet magick—it’s too advanced for him. Maybe this
is about the girls. Maybe someone wants them and I’m in the
way.

“That rock,” Tucker continues.

“I know,” I say, but he names it anyway.

“The Pressing Hex. Used during the voodoo
witch trials in Barbados to send victims into a state of
paralysis.”

A voice that is strangely familiar and kind
suddenly asks, from somewhere in the room, “Are you a good witch or
a bad witch?” No one answers, and it asks again. It’s Glinda from
The Wizard of Oz
, I realize, and it’s the ringer for
Tucker’s magick cell phone.

Chapter Twenty

When I wake up in Tucker’s plush guest room
the next morning, I’m certain that I’ve just made a great mistake.
Maybe two. First of all, and less important, I might lose my
Golden Gate Planet
job. I walked out on a story last night!
Even though I already have plenty of material to keep readers
happy, I’m not going to have that on-tour-with-the-band angle
because, well, I left the tour. Perhaps I need to seriously
contemplate a full-time dog-walking career. Justine, my boss, has
confided that she pulls in six figures a year, employing two others
and me. Nothing wrong with that.

The direr mistake is one I’m still mulling
over: No matter what Viveka bade me about not contacting her
grandmother, I probably should have called Gru by now. She would
know what to do about the girls and the dead fairy and the Flower
Bowl Spell and jinxed Tyson Belmonte, and perhaps even how to save
my
Planet
job.

At the same time, part of me knows I need to
respect what Viveka wants. It’s the same part that can’t find
her.

I roll over and look at the bedside table.
Tucker’s leather-bound notebook is just where I left it, an old
Walgreens receipt doing bookmark duty. Tucker gave it to me to look
over last night. Every last page is crammed with his notes. There
are spells of his own authoring for determining if the Flower Bowl
has been performed, as well as ideas for counterspells and diagrams
of amulets and charms.

I go down to the kitchen, lured by the smell
of coffee and frying foods. Things are happening on the stove—bacon
in a skillet, a full teakettle—and there’s something eggy in the
oven. The toaster pops out four slices of perfectly browned toast.
No one is minding any of this. Where is Tucker?

In the study.

“Where?” I demand of his damn voice in my
damn head.

Upstairs. Door’s open.

I head back up, past the girls’ closed door,
my room, and the bathroom. There are three other doors; one,
slightly ajar, lets out a slant of morning light on the carpet. I
push through and the first thing I notice is a small but elegant
altar in one corner of the room. Front and center is a photograph
of an older woman, and it takes me a moment to recognize her. Sadie
LeBrun Murray. There are fresh flowers, votive candles, and a small
Day of the Dead diorama.

Even though their handfasting didn’t work
out, he’s honoring her. I feel like a royal buffoon. I should have
given him my condolences yesterday, when we talked about her. I
think back to what Jesus Christ said about her suicide. Perhaps
Tucker has some insights on it. From the photo, Sadie smiles out at
us with a mild, knowing look. There is such tenderness in the altar
that I decide it’s not the right moment. It would be tacky to bring
it up just now.

Tucker sits in an oversized leather chair,
his feet propped up on an ottoman, a Hudson Bay blanket folded
across his legs. There’s a football game being played on a large
television set, the volume a low hum.

“San Diego Chargers,” he says. “I have a
little bet riding on this game, and I didn’t get to watch it last
night.”

Today is Monday. Sunday night football.

“You’re a gambler,” I say.

“A gentleman wagerer.” He glances toward his
shoulder, and I notice for the first time that a fairy is sitting
on the back of Tucker’s chair. He’s using both hands to wave a
Seattle Seahawks pennant that is much too large for him.

The cathedral ceiling and windows of the room
give Tucker himself a diminutive appearance, especially in his
nightcap and robe. Three walls are covered in full-to-the-brim
bookcases, except for one section between two windows that appears
to be a glassed-in aviary running floor to ceiling. Inside are a
small living tree and moss-covered rocks. Fairies flit about and
perch on the tree branches in pairs or groups, some on their own.
There are hollows in the tree trunk, and the interior glows with
dancing lights, like small fires.

Tucker sees me studying it. “What do you
think of my fey little condo complex?”

“You capture fairies?”

“Oh, goodness, no. They can come and go as
they please. You see?” He points to the top of the enclosure.
“There’s a hatch there. This is a safe haven, if you will. They can
stay as long as they wish, forever if they want.”

There are fairies of all shapes and colors.
Among the rocks at the bottom is a pool of water. Fairies swim,
some with fishtails, like the one in the aquarium back in San
Francisco.

“Do people see them? What do you tell
them?”

“You know as well as I do the ungifted can’t
see fairies. They think it’s an empty birdcage. Nothing more.”

I turn back to the enclosure where two
fairies catch my eye. One is brushing the other’s hair. The
recipient of these attentions looks drowsy with pleasure, a relaxed
smile on her lips. Another walks by with half an acorn full of
steaming liquid. He says something to the others and takes a sip.
They all laugh and he moves on. The fairies pay no attention to me.
Several are dressed in white or black, and they move like shadows
punctuated by the colorful brilliance of their wings. A large group
is wearing drab greens and browns, and some are carrying spears and
satchels. They clasp hands before spiraling upward in flight to the
hatch, where they disappear.

“That’s a contingent out for Beulah,” Tucker
says. “I found out that’s the name of the one the cat
regurgitated.”

“They’re getting revenge.” I envision more
dead fairies sheared of their wings.

“Not necessarily. Just investigating.” Tucker
is holding a small chalkboard in his lap. He shows it to me, but
the writing is illegible. I think I recognize a few words—Ivy, Dex,
Hecate. “I’m making a list of all the wayward witches I know who
are still alive. Trying to figure out who could be putting together
the Flower Bowl Spell.”

Just at that moment, my stomach lets out a
low growl.

Tucker laughs. “Hungry?”

“Apparently. By the way, you left a lot of
cooking downstairs.”

“Not to worry. It’ll cook itself.”

He doesn’t make any move to leave, so I sit
down in a chair near a small desk. What was it like for Sadie to be
married to Tucker? Sadie LeBrun, the heiress apparent to Gru
LeBrun’s coven, with Tucker Murray, an independently wealthy pagan
with a lineage dating back to the ancient druids of Gaul. Who am I
in comparison? A nouveau witch, a genetic anomaly.

“You could say I fall into the wayward witch
club,” I say.

Tucker tosses his chalk into a cup. “No.
Erstwhile, but not even that now. Am I right?”

I shrug. “Can I help it if I see
fairies?”

My cell phone, which I wear on my hip like a
holstered gun, shimmies and sings. It’s Ned, but I take the call
anyway. If I’m about to be fired, I’m at peace with it. As I say
hello, I visualize long walks on Crissy Field beach with my dog
pack.

“Celebrities, what assholes,” he says as a
greeting.

“In what way?”

“What do you mean? You’re the one who got
dicked around.”

I wonder, for a microsecond, if Ned knows
what happened with Tyson on the highway. But aren’t I the one who
dicked Ty around? Sort of?

“
Exhaustion,
my tuchus,” Ned
continues. I can definitely make out the sarcasm. “More like rehab.
Or maybe they finally eloped. Who knows when she’ll get her spoiled
little ass back on the road? In any case, doll, I’m really sorry
this didn’t work out. You think you got enough for a nice feature
though? I know it’s not a book, but you’ll still get paid for your
time.”

My mind’s cylinders click into place. A
celebrity cover-up! I need to play along, or Ned will know I’ve
been a naughty reporter. Concentrating on his annoyed voice,
visualizing his sweaty brow, smelling his stale
cigarettes-and-coffee breath, I travel into Ned’s immediate sphere
until I’m at the
Planet
office, reading his emails and
learning what was said in recent phone calls. And I know, at least
with regard to my job, that I’m off the hook.

“Come home, babe. Come home and give Neddy
the story. By tomorrow after lunch. Okay?” He hangs up.

I put my phone away. I’ve just identified a
third mistake: going on this damn trip in the first place.
“In-crud-ible,” I mutter.

“Good news?”

“Sort of. The story I’m working on—why we’re
down here. Well, I kind of abandoned it yesterday to come to you
instead.”

“How flattering! Or is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s all right. See, I was supposed to
be in San Diego covering this rock concert, but I didn’t and it
turns out the lead singer checked out anyway. She didn’t show up
for the concert. Her PR reps are saying she collapsed from
exhaustion and went home to recupe, but it’s undoubtedly a lie.
Plus, she’s secretly engaged to the lead singer of another band,
but he’s MIA too. So my boss thinks I didn’t work on the story
because the story went poof.”

“A lucky break for you.”

I shake my head and look at the fairies. “I
don’t think so. The singer.” I hesitate. “She’s under a
glamour.”

Tucker raises his eyebrows. “Those chasing
fame have been known to dabble in the occult.”

“And her fiancé is that guy I told you about,
Ty. He’s under something too. He was with me on our way here, and
he went nuts. He tried to get me to ditch the girls.”

This tidbit gets Tucker’s attention. “What
are the names of these people, might I ask?”

“Tyson Belmonte and Cheradon Badler.” Just
saying their names makes my breath catch a little.

Tucker throws up his hands and stands up,
startling the Seahawks fairy, who drops his pennant and flies a
circle around the perimeter of the room, staying near the ceiling
away from us crazy humans. “I should have known,” Tucker
murmurs.

“You know Tyson?”

“No. That name is not familiar, but Cheradon,
yes. Or I should say, Cheryl LeBrun. And her father Isaac should be
on my list.” In his haste to grab his chalkboard, Tucker knocks
over the cup of chalk. “Of course he could be dead, but I give him
the benefit of the doubt. He was always a wily one. Am I right or
am I right?” Tucker asks no one in particular as he scrawls the
name onto his board.

“Who is Isaac? Who is Cheryl LeBrun?”
Something stops me. “Wait. Gru’s last name is LeBrun!”

I don’t realize I’ve raised my voice until
the silence right after is filled with the beating of wings. All
the fairies are pressed against the glass of their haven, watching
Tucker and me.

With my mind, I search for Tyson. He’s on his
tour bus. It’s going north, heading our way.
They are
coming
. The phrase rings out in my thoughts, as it did when I
looked down at the McLaren Park playground.

“Oh, shit.” I start for the door. “We have to
go.”

“What’s the alarm?”

I stop and turn back to Tucker. “Tyson, he’s
under a hex or something, and I think…I don’t know, maybe he’s
involved somehow in the Flower Bowl Spell, or maybe Cheradon is—is
that crazy? But I think he’s coming here.” I look at the fairies,
who continue to study me. “What if he wants the girls?”

“Come, dear.” Tucker takes me by the elbow.
“Let’s go downstairs and have breakfast.”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but
now is not the time to eat.”

“Yes, it is. My girl, no harm will come to
you or my granddaughters. Not here. But you have to go back home
with them, where a confrontation is surely in the works, and you
must have food in order to keep your strength. Buck up!”

I let Tucker lead me downstairs, too relieved
by his assurances—and too numb, as I try to process info (a
confrontation is surely in the works???)—to protest more. We find
the girls in the kitchen. Cleo sits at the table holding a small
cup of milk, and Romola is scooping food onto two plates. They both
handle the chinaware with a care beyond their years. The stove
burners are off, a frittata is cooling on a trivet, and I wonder if
Romola did that or if it was all magicked into a safe readiness by
her grandfather.

Tucker serves me up a plate of eggs and
bacon, and pours two mugs of coffee. We sit with the girls and eat
for a while like normal people until Tucker says, “Isaac is Sadie’s
brother.”

Okay. We’re going to talk about Tucker’s
family tree.

“My
ex
-brother-in-law. He was a very
powerful witch. Very powerful. But undisciplined. Too smart for his
own good. He bored easily, and so he immersed himself in drugs and
drinking. We had very little in common.” Tucker takes a sip of
coffee. “His daughter Cheryl disappeared from their little
Vancouver homestead when she was eighteen or nineteen and
resurfaced about five years ago as that rock-and-roll person,
Cheradon Badler. Disappearing must run in the family because Isaac
did so himself when Cheryl was a little girl.” He palms Cleo’s
head. “Not much older than this one when he left.”