Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
It took far less time to cast the veil spell than the coven one. Bronwyn walked us through it with ease.
That was Wednesday. On Thursday, I slept. I was a weird mix of magically energized and physically exhausted. Ronan had to wake me up to eat lunch.
Friday afternoon, I stopped by Beau’s Oddities. The store was an icy sixty-five degrees and empty except for the two of us. On a table behind the counter, an old record player spun out the sounds of Tom Petty.
I hummed along to “I Won’t Back Down.”
He’d texted me the day before with an invitation to look at an item he’d come across in a search through some personal items in his book collection.
“I found it when I was looking for a mage grimoire about creating shadow people—I’m told the process is similar to making golems.”
“Who the heck was asking about golems?”
“A mage. You know I can’t tell you any more than that.” He stacked a pile of manila folders to his right, making space on his counter for whatever he wanted to show me.
“Is the mage responsible, at least?”
Beau wrinkled his nose. “No idea. They didn’t strike me as particularly evil, so that’s something, right?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t knowingly hand over a powerful grimoire to someone dangerous, right?” I asked pointedly.
I knew a lot of mages and, save for a handful, they were all power-hungry deviants. I’d have blanket-assumed they were beyond redemption were it not for the normal ones I knew, like Joon.
“Not if I knew they were dangerous. That’s why I try hard not to find out.” He grinned, and I was struck anew by how much he resembled Nicholas Cage from the movie Mandy.
Beau was a good guy, though more gray ski mask than white hat cowboy. Mom had liked him a lot, maybe even loved him a little. She and he had been a “thing” toward the end of her life and good friends long before that.
“You won’t convince me that you’re immoral, so stop trying,” I said.
Another grin. Then he took the conversation in a new direction. “So, what’s it like running a wolf pack?”
“Is there a word that means the opposite of fun and good?”
“Hmm… Dreadful?”
I thought about Dylan and Esperanza, the seniors, and Ronan. “It’s not all misery. There are some good shifters, but some of the strongest ones hate my guts and are actively undermining me. Caught three of them trying to vaccinate themselves against my magic.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like you got a group of rocket scientists on your hands. It’s not possible to build up a tolerance to magic. It’s not the flu.”
“It pisses me off that they’re trying. I’ve been nothing but supportive to those damn wolves since I took over.
” I picked up one of Beau’s business cards from a cracked plastic holder and tapped it against the counter.
“Granted I’ve been busy with the coven this week, but it’s not as if I’ve neglected the pack. ”
“Coven? You?”
“It’s temporary.”
I gave him the broad brush strokes, since Beau didn’t need, nor would he want, all the details of my life. “If I know something, someone can get it out of me,” he always said, which was kind of BS, since his business basically ran on him knowing things.
“So, what’s the story, morning glory?” I asked, setting the business card back in the holder. “Why’d you ask me here?”
Beau had been in the process of reaching under the counter for something when he froze. “What did you say?”
“Oh, it’s just something Mom used to say.” I drummed my nails on the counter. For some reason, I was extra fidgety today. “Been thinking about her a lot lately. Probably because of the coven.”
“Got to admit, for a second there, I thought Lila was standing there. Your voice, the way you turned your head—it kind of threw me.” He grabbed a water bottle from under the counter, uncapped it, and took a drink.
I patted the hand not clutching the bottle. “I miss her, too.”
“Of course you do. She was your mom.” He turned his hand upside down, squeezed mine for a second, and let me go. “Makes sense that you miss her.”
“Makes sense that you do, too,” I said gently. “I’m glad you were part of her life, Beau—and I’m glad you’re still part of mine.”
He blinked, peered down at his feet. If Webster’s ever started using photos with their dictionary entries, they could put Beau’s right next to the word discomfort.
“Something wrong?”
“No. I just forget sometimes, you know? I forget she’s gone and then it sort of sideswipes me.” He took out a set of keys and walked to a locked bookcase behind him.
I’d seen the case many times and figured it contained some of his more benign book collections, because no way was Beau storing his special ones like that.
Grimoires and magic tomes didn’t always play nice with each other. Put one dark magic tome into a container of neutral texts and watch the rot creep in. It was like tossing an apple into a crate of plums. Magical ethylene.
Beau ran his fingertips over the books then took one out and brought it to the counter. A collectible copy of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. The cover creaked as he opened it and carefully turned the pages. Nestled inside, about three quarters of the way through, was a thin, vellum envelope.
“Your mom loved this book.” He shifted his feet and took another sip from his water bottle and stuck it back under the counter. “Found it when I went looking for the grimoire.”
He flipped the envelope over, slid it across the Formica surface. “You asked me before if she’d left any pictures or mementos behind and I said no. I wasn’t lying, Betty. I’ve never seen this before.”
My name was written across the front in Mom’s familiar script: For Lilibet Lennox. My Betty.
I turned it over and slid my finger under the flap. A photo of a young couple, a man and a woman, spilled out.
The woman was Mom. She looked to be in her early twenties and was very obviously pregnant. The guy was around the same age. He was smiling and had an arm hooked around her shoulders.
On the back, in a less mature version of Mom’s handwriting: Christoph and Lily Chevalier.
“It’s a picture of my parents,” I said, suddenly choked up.
“And, it appears, of you.” He gently tapped Mom’s baby bump.
I stared at it for another moment before tucking it into my purse. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Beau.”
“You’re welcome. I’m just glad I found it.”
Since it was lunchtime, I offered to walk to Jade Dragon, an excellent Chinese takeout spot a couple doors down, and pick up some chow mein—veggie for me, chicken for him.
I found myself feeling a little vulnerable and, as odd as it sounded, being around Beau was comforting.
He wasn’t my dad or stepdad, but he was the closest thing I’d ever had to one.
He called in the order, adding some spring rolls.
“Remind them about the sauce,” he said, as I pushed the door open. “They always forget.”
The sidewalk was dusty, but it wasn’t due to neglect. Living in the desert meant dust. Everywhere. On the ground, on the floor, on your clothing—even inside a shuttered house. Unless a place was hermetically sealed, you were going to be sweeping and dusting daily.
My sneakers crunched over the gritty concrete. I’d rather have worn my Michael Kors spike-heeled boots, but lately I’d been forced to take the need to flee more seriously and opted, instead, for running shoes.
I’d completed my summer outfit with a white cotton sleeveless tee that would likely be dotted with soy sauce before the afternoon was over, and a pair of black cotton shorts. Not my usual fare, but comfortable.
Gods, I missed clothes shopping. When things settled down, I was taking Ida to San Diego for the weekend for a shop-a-thon.
When things settled down. How optimistic of me.
It was a weather-warning sort of day. The temperature hovered at a dead-air, one-hundred-twelve degrees. I brisk-walked to the restaurant, because staying in motion was my best chance to keep cool. When I held still, I felt like a slab of beef braising in a slow cooker.
I’d reached for the door handle, which some industrious person had covered with a piece of foam pool noodle that had been sliced down the length, fitted over the metal, and duct taped in place—the desert sun makes us all MacGyvers—when another much larger, much meaner hand grabbed mine and tore it away.
A pillowcase dropped over my head, and I was thrown over a man’s shoulder, my forehead thumping against the small of his back as he ran.
I didn’t scream, scratch, bite, or even kick my feet. Didn’t call upon my magic, either. I simply … went along with it. At this point in the abduction, I was more curious than afraid, because there was simply no way this was The Org. This was far too stupid a move for them.
“What are you doing, numbnuts?” I asked. “Buster Gobble, I know this is you. I mean, come on. Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? You’re my biggest hater. I mean, you know, in the pack.”
“Should’ve taped her mouth shut.” That voice was Helen’s, the woman who’d been trying to break my park spell Friday night.
“Quick question: Did one of you guys shoot me with an arrow the other night? Because my upholstery was damaged, and I don’t think insurance is going to cover it.”
“Sorry. I left the tape in the car.” That voice was Stephen’s, Helen’s husband.
“Aww, you sound a little sick, Stevie,” I cooed. “Still feeling the effects of my protection spell? You’ve had five days to recover, wimp.”
Helen whispered, “She knows who you are? How?”
“Maaaagic,” I said brightly then laughed and shook my head.
“Nah, not really. You’re Helen and Stephen Yarnell, and this is Buster Gobble.
My security team told me your names—except for Buster.
I met him all on my own. Picture it, a sidewalk in front of a pub on a warm summer night. Blood everywhere…”
“Shut up,” Buster snapped.
“This dude was having his ass handed to him by Ronan. Buster here made some offensive remarks—some truly misogynistic ones, Helen, you might want to take that into consideration when supporting him—and then I patted him on his head and sent him on his way.”