Spells and Sandwiches, page 9
This was a true chef’s knife. A workhorse. An I-mean-business blade. A well-balanced wood handle that wouldn’t slip. A quiet assassin of potatoes and onions.
Damn Daniel and his really good presents.
Poppy clapped her hands in excitement. “Who’s it from?”
“My ex-boyfriend.”
“Oh, good Lord! Is he going to murder you? Should I call the police?”
I shook my head, chuckled. “No. I was going on and on about this cool knife I saw at a party. So he got me one.”
“Oh, I see.” She peered at it closely, as if it might do something interesting. “Is he in love with you?”
I nearly dropped the knife on my foot. “No!”
“I mean, I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that it’s never a surprise for me.” She nudged me. “The love, you know. Or the murder.”
I carefully placed the knife back in the box. “Someone tried to murder you?”
“Not me, personally. But people think the most terrible things all the time. You’d be shocked by the average ride on the subway, I tell you. Shocked. It’s amazing I haven’t gone quite mad.”
The wide-eyed smile she aimed in my direction argued that she might have been edging in that direction. But who wouldn’t, if they could see humanity’s unfiltered thoughts? “Listen, Poppy. I need to level with you about my own magical powers.”
“You mean how you can copy witches’ magic?”
I blinked. “How did you pick that up?”
“Oh, I didn’t. Your brother told me.”
“My brother told you?”
“Very briefly. He doesn’t like to hang around. He thinks it’s weird, my ability. Most people do.”
I opened my mouth in that automatic way we have of reassuring people with things that are comforting but not necessarily true. Like when people told me: You’re not that tall. But having even the remotest chance of mind reading makes it very hard to bend the truth.
So I simply said what I felt. “It’s not weird. You can’t help it, any more than I can help copying other people’s magic when I touch them. You do your best to work around it. And along the way you’ll find people who understand.”
“Or dogs,” she added, patting Georgiana with hearty thumps.
“Always dogs.” I picked up Jester, who immediately licked my face.
“Now,” said Poppy, briskly, with the air of someone consciously changing the subject, “how about you copy my fire magic and we make some summertime s’mores?”
I waved Jester’s paw and spoke in the silly voice I used to speak for him: “Is good plan!” Then I set him down and quietly turned away from Poppy to send Daniel a message: The knife is amazing. Why don’t you watch me test it out on Monday?
That would give me time to get the place a bit more spiffy. I had my pride, after all.
The phone went back in my pocket and a smile tugged at my lips.
15
After several days of demolition and rebuilding with Berron, I crashed into my four-poster bed in my jewel box room and stared gratefully at the ceiling. Jester leaped onto the bed and flopped into a heap beside me. Soon, my eyes would close, and I would sleep for the entire weekend. The anticipation tasted as good as sugared whipped cream. “We’ve earned it, Jester. Sweet clouds of blissful sleep.”
Then my phone buzzed.
And that’s when I received word from Victorine that the Vespers Club would be meeting from sundown to sunrise.
I covered my head with my arms and groaned. I had left late-night outings largely in the distant past. Late work nights, sure. That came with the territory as a chef: nights, weekends, holidays. But all-night clubbing? Spare me. That was for twenty-something Zelda, God bless her.
The message from Victorine included only the time and the address. I looked it up on my phone.
The vampire all-nighter would be held at a church.
I poked around for more information. The parish had been shut down due to disrepair and a dwindling congregation. Online, it was officially listed as “Permanently Closed,” its status spelled out in white on a bright red banner.
I hauled myself out of the bed. Jester lifted his head and looked mildly hurt. Like, What happened to sleep, Mama?
“No rest for the wicked, buddy. Or—no rest for those who party with the wicked.”
First things first: I checked my arms. The tracings of magic were strong; I had vampire magic from Victorine, fire magic from Poppy. I would have preferred to have air magic, and earth magic, and any other magic someone could conjure, but what I had would have to do.
Second: I checked my face. The mask was still there, tiny flickers of crystal across my skin like morning light caught in spider web dew.
As far as magic went, I was all set. As far as regular old human energy, I would have preferred to leave the partying to my past self—
Maybe that was exactly what I should do.
A second wind blew through me. I hurried through a shower and dried off. Sure, no one could see me if I was in disguise, but they might be able to smell me, and no one likes Eau de Sweat. Then I stood before the full-length mirror, comfortably dressed in a clean pair of shorts and a tank top, no makeup, and mostly dry hair.
“You’re the first to go.” I traced my fingers over the gray and watched it fill with color. My high school haircut, a crunchy set of bangs and medium-length hair in a scrunchie, resurrected itself in the reflection. My face became smoother, smaller, rounder. My neck looked like I had an A-list surgeon on speed dial. Everything else shrank and lifted into youthful lines.
Now for clothes.
My favorite outfit in high school was a short flared black skirt and a laced-up black chiffon v-neck over a black camisole.
Whatever else had changed, my color preferences hadn’t.
I used to wear it with—what else?—black open-toed high heels. The fantastic thing was, I looked like I was wearing high heels, but I was really wearing comfy shoes. “If this kind of magic ever hits retail, Jester, they’ll make millions.”
Finally, a black choker to complete the look.
I turned back and forth to see all angles in the mirror. I should have mourned the loss of youth. And I did, maybe, but not for what was visible—I missed my effortless flexibility and lack of pain more than I missed smooth skin. The girl in the mirror, the Zelda in the mirror, looked so soft and vulnerable even in all that black that I wanted to give her a hug.
Instead, I scooped up Jester. He didn’t care what I looked like. I was his person, and that was all that mattered. “Be a good boy while Mama goes to work, okay?”
He licked my hand.
I set him down and reverted to my normal appearance. It wouldn’t be smart to be seen leaving as someone else, and I wasn’t ready to start explaining it to Poppy quite yet. I’d find a spot, like Superman’s phone booth, and make the change before I got to the party.
On the train down to the East Village, tired people heading home shared the space with Friday night revelers just starting to gear up. The mood was loud, loose, and hot, as the summer heat had gotten trapped underground during the day.
Back on the street, I ducked into the closest coffee shop. Fully supplied with caffeine and transformed into Past Zelda—thanks to a customers-only restroom—I continued to the abandoned church.
The sparse pictures online didn’t do the building justice. The church looked like a distant cousin of the White House. Four columns accented the smooth white facade and supported a green copper triangle. Copper turrets topped the two front corners. The stairs from the street led to three equally spaced arched doorways, echoed by two arched windows on either side, and a round window above the center doorway.
The door on the left was slightly ajar.
The church had already been abandoned. Someday they’d sell it to a developer, tear the whole thing down. When that happened, more than marble and brick and copper would fall. What spirit occupied it now? And where would it go when its home was gone?
I said a prayer to whoever might still be listening. Then I approached the door.
“Who goes there?” said a haughty female voice from the dark slit in the doorway.
“One who would worship.” I’d been given the password by Victorine, who had also informed me that once inside, I’d have to demonstrate magic to avoid getting bounced or outright attacked.
The Blessed could simply show their ability to drink blood.
“Enter,” said the strangely familiar voice.
I stepped inside. The entrance was barely lit. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the doorperson.
Jessica.
“Come on, witch, we haven’t got all night.”
Up close, it was startling how we could have gone as a matched pair to Nineties Goth Night. I managed to smooth out my expression before I raised my hand, palm up, and conjured a simple yellow flame.
“Pass,” she said in a bored tone.
I held my exhale until I reached the second pair of doors, where the loud punk music covered my sigh of relief.
Even the garish red lights didn’t take away from the beauty of the interior. In fact, it took an effort not to stop and gawk. Round columns supported arches leading to the altar. Above the altar, richly painted Bible scenes contrasted with the smooth white walls.
Along both sides of the church, elevated alcoves held colorful life-size statues of saints. Their expressions were remarkably calm considering what was going on beneath them.
An all-female band rocked out in the open space between the forward benches and the altar itself. Witches and vampires alike pogoed in the aisles and on the pews. Wine—or something—spilled heedlessly from cups. Two men laughed and staggered as they dueled with lit candelabras.
I slid through the crowd and found the makeshift bar tucked under the statue of a female saint holding white flowers and a book, and wearing a crown of thorns over her white veil. I didn’t want a drink, but I would have looked strange without one, so I ordered a cup of the night’s special and deposited some bills into a dry stone font that served as a combination till and tip jar. “Hey,” I said to the bartender. “Have you seen James?”
The bartender scooped ice, poured tequila and lime juice, then stirred in sriracha sauce. She passed the cup over and jerked her head in the direction of the altar. “Try down front.”
The fumes of the savory drink tickled my nose as I moved on.
The trio dominating the impromptu stage wore neon colors mixed with jet black and animal print. Each band member had a wildly different hair color: the singer-guitarist, hot pink; the bassist, candy blue; and the drummer, bright purple.
A loud and enthusiastic crowd filled the front rows. The audience bobbed, pogoed, or thrashed as the music moved them. Thank God it wasn’t quite up to the level of becoming a mosh pit. I wasn’t up to moshing, not if I didn’t plan on visiting the emergency room by the end of the set.
The song came to a close. The bassist and the drummer gave a final flourish as the lead singer gripped the mike with one hand and acknowledged the cheers with a fist pump. “Thank you! We are the Melee Diamonds… and we’ll be back! In! Five!” One last stinger chord from her guitar and the three women stalked off the stage.
The crowd thinned out as the partygoers drifted off. As the view opened up, I spotted a long black trench coat across the center aisle.
James.
He stared at the altar like a man transfixed. His cup hovered near his lips as if it was an automatic process he had no control over. What was he thinking about?
I edged closer until I was standing next to him. I pretended to focus my attention on the altar’s artwork, too. “Great show, huh?”
James barely glanced at me. “Sure.”
“Are you a fan?”
“Yeah.”
This was going nowhere fast. Time to turn up the charm. I pivoted to face him, even though he kept staring straight ahead. “I like your jacket.”
James sighed and looked forlornly into his cup. “Listen, love, if you’re flirting with me, I have to tell you—no offense—I’m not interested.”
I took a sip from my cup to buy time while I recalibrated.
Dear God! That stuff would knock me on my ass if I let it. I hid a grimace and soldiered on with my best pouty-lipped young thing impression. “Why not?”
“Here, have this,” he said, pushing his cup into my hand. “You seem to like it more than I do.” And with that, he walked away. He pushed past the revelers and headed toward a plain door in the far left corner.
I was left with my mouth hanging open and two cups of a drink I didn’t want.
Where was he going? I quickly set down the cups in the pew and followed, trying not to be too obvious about it.
In a blink, he was through the door and gone.
I paused in the shadow beneath a statue. Was it wise to pursue a vampire deeper into an abandoned church? While the party raged and the Melee Diamonds rocked, no one would hear me even if I howled for help.
And if they did, they might help James, not me.
The Melee Diamonds were gearing up again. Bass notes thudded through me, followed by shivers from the cymbals.
I needed to know who was after me, and why. I had flames at my fingertips and the strength of the Blessed in my limbs.
I opened the door and stepped into the darkness.
16
I had a choice between using my phone flashlight or a conjured flame. I picked the flame. Didn’t want to risk dropping my phone, and a flame in my hand doubled as illumination and weapon.
The yellowish light spilled into a hallway tagged with graffiti. Paint peeled from the ceiling and dust covered the floor. I passed a rusting water fountain and continued on the balls of my feet, trying to make as little noise as possible.
The hallway ended at another door. This one opened into a room filled with a jumble of shelving units, some old wooden desks, and a cracked green chalkboard. This wasn’t just a church. It had been a school, too. I stepped around plastic student chairs and a space heater on wheels. On the other side of the room, above the other door, someone had spray-painted the words “Carpe Noctem” in elaborate letters.
I passed through the door and into a stairwell. I stepped lightly on the wooden stairsteps to avoid announcing my approach.
Amateur paintings decorated the walls with icons of faith. Each flight upward revealed more: A jar of pouring water for baptism. A flame for confirmation. A cup for communion. Double rings for matrimony. A stole for holy orders. And above it all, a white dove with its wings spread.
At the top, one last door. I could smell outside air filtering through the crack beneath it.
The bell chamber.
I placed my hand on the knob and turned it.
The door swung open with a creak.
Moonlight silhouetted James at the belfry opening. He turned, looked at me, then turned away again. “Go back to the party.”
“I wanted to see the bell.”
“Lies. You wanted a little excitement. A thrilling little story you could take back to your witch friends.” He scoffed. “Find another Blessed. I’m sure they’ll help you out.”
Perhaps I had miscalculated. “Is it because… I’m a woman?” I said, carefully framing the question with simple curiosity, not judgment.
His laugh was bitter. He whirled around and his trench coat flared like a cape. “Is it because you’re a woman? No.” He stalked closer. “Look at you. You’re what, eighteen? Nineteen?”
I nodded.
“You think I’m some hot-blooded young guy, eager to pursue every pretty thing that crosses my path?”
“I—”
“I am, without a doubt, more than twice your age. I could be your father. No matter what I look like on the outside”—here he flicked his fingers against his chest with an air of disgust—“inside, I am a forty-five-year-old man who feels every single year of his life, who would rather be tucked into a cozy suburban bedroom with a loving wife, a minivan in the driveway, and several sleeping children down the hall, than be here at this wretched party that I will have to attend until someone finally stakes me in my dried-out heart and puts me in the ground. Do you understand? I am not interested.” He pointed to the door behind me. “Now, get out!”
The flame in my cupped hand burned painlessly, each flicker marking the passing of time.
You’d think he had everything he’d ever been told to dream of.
Youth.
Beauty.
Immortality.
Yet misery hung on his face like a funeral wreath. Instead of facing his teenage self with compassion, as I had done, safely, from the distance of decades, he was an unwilling Peter Pan who could never grow up.
Who would have thought that being young forever would be a nightmare?
I’d gone about this the wrong way.
I closed my hand, extinguishing the flame. My disguise faded away. I stood before him as forty-six-year-old Zelda. “James. I understand.”
His eyes widened. “You’re her. You’re the one we were told to find. Zelda Hawkins.”
“Yes.”
“Why were you—”
“Disguised as a teenager?” I walked closer, the better to see his expression in the moonlight. If I was going to take this risk, I needed to lay it all on the line—and fast, before the situation went south. “Because I needed to get close to you. To find out why you and your friend were looking for me that night.”
James made a derisive noise. “She’s not my friend.”
“Okay, why you and your not-friend were looking for me that night.”
“Do you know what it’s like to be stuck with your fleeting high school crush for the rest of eternity?”
He wasn’t answering my question, but I played along anyway. “Is that what Jessica is? An old flame?”
“We never even dated. I had the hots for her, or I thought I did, and when some weird guy offered to turn us into this”—he pointed to his fangs—“I went along with it because I thought she would think I was cool. Well, not only does being a member of the Blessed suck—pardon the pun—but he wasn’t supposed to be turning any Initiates, and he promptly got executed for it. Now we ‘belong’ to someone else, and we rank so low that we’ll never be anything but his forever gofers.” He kicked a wall. “Joined at the freakin’ hip.”
