The Touch of Magic Series, page 34
Even if she just worked some kind of mojo on him so he merely believed she performed these tricks, that was still her working magic on him, wasn't it?
It went against everything he knew. Everything he was taught. Everything he believed.
Luke was grateful she rolled up the carpet with the pentagram on it and that she stashed the candles out in the hall. The whole idea of sleeping with it nearby creeped him out. When he did fall asleep, he dreamed disturbing images of rituals with him as the sacrifice. Witches in dark robes with pointy hoods surrounded him and plunged wicked looking daggers into his heart or cut it out entirely while he was staked out on the ground.
Thus, he hadn't gotten a wink of good sleep.
It was a damn lot to deal with for a dollar.
He laid there on the air mattress. The sheets didn't fully fit as it was about two feet high. He figured the height was so you weren't sleeping on the floor, but it was hell on the sheets. The corner of the bottom sheet kept popping up, but he was tired of fixing it. It didn't matter anyway since he had to choose having his feet on the mattress or his head on the pillow. He was slightly diagonal and there was still a gap by his feet. Men were routinely over six feet tall these days, why hadn't mattresses kept up? He was only six one, and not all that bulky. Luke didn't envy the guys who were bigger than him.
Of course, they were probably in their own beds, not worried about witches and gangs. When he heard Yasmin around the house, he decided it was time to get up and figure out what to do with the day.
Pulling on his pants and his button down shirt, he tried to ignore the fuzzy taste in his mouth and the fact that he was putting on old clothes. For once, he didn't even bother with the tie.
When he opened the door, she stood at the end of the hallway as though she knew he was coming out. He told himself that it wasn't witchcraft. The girl had ears and was simply listening for a guest.
"Good morning, Officer Salzone." Her tone was shy of pleasant, but he took it.
"Luke. Please."
"Good morning, Luke." Her voice didn't change tone, but she pointed into the bathroom. "There's a toothbrush and toothpaste out for you. What's in there is the guest set, so help yourself." She turned away, not seeing his grateful smile and wondering if she could read his thoughts. He told himself she was simply thoughtful and he couldn't attribute every move to the paranormal.
In the bathroom he found a washcloth and hand towel, along with two fluffy soft, dark blue, bath-sheet sized body towels laid out for him. Tall man towels. He was grateful.
It felt wonderful to be clean, but worse to step back into yesterday's clothes. Still, he came down the hallway, not sure what he'd find, not certain he was ready to apologize or listen to her apologies.
It didn't happen.
She was sitting at the table, playing with her phone or a tablet or something, but she popped right up. "If you want breakfast, I have two kinds of cereal or I can make fried eggs with bacon and toast."
It was more than he'd been expecting, but then her eyes darted to the right, looking suspicious. "What?" he asked, suddenly wary.
"It's all I can make. I can't cook. Really at all."
He wanted to laugh. "You can make bacon."
"No, I can't. I have one of those microwave things."
He did laugh this time. "Why don't you just cast a spell on yourself to be able to cook?"
She gave him a dirty look.
"What? It's an honest question!" He couldn't win, could he?
There was an audible sigh before she responded. "Being able to cook and knowing recipes are two different things. Plus, with skills like that, you have to keep casting the spells. Upkeep. Like you brush your teeth every day. The work required to get me from 'not able to cook at all' to maintaining cooking skills would be too much work. So, cereal or eggs and bacon?"
Her explanation kind of made sense. Luke didn't answer. Instead, he looked in her fridge. Sandwich fixings. A small carton of milk. Eggs. Bacon. Salsa. Mustard. A row of condiments. She wasn't kidding. "May I?"
She shrugged at him, then stepped back.
She answered a few questions about where she kept things, grabbed him a pan and made toast—which she claimed she could do with relative skill. Luke didn't comment on the cheap bread.
Ten minutes later, he turned out the first perfect omelet with tomatoes, spinach, cheese and salsa.
"Wow!" She'd said it several times as he cooked. But then she'd frowned, sniffed him, and patted his head.
Wondering if he was getting sized up for some Wiccan ritual, he leaned away. "What?"
"Are you one of these metrosexuals?"
He barked out a laugh, then quickly reached to save the second omelet. "No."
Her expression showing she didn't quite believe him, Yasmin took her plate and sat at the table, but she didn't drop her accusation. "Are you sure? You wear all those pastels, use cloth grocery bags. You cook. You smell nice. I didn't feel any hair gel, but that could be because you aren't at home."
Sliding the larger omelet onto his own plate, he shook his head. They couldn't connect on anything, could they? "No hair gel. Even at home. You use cloth bags, too. And you can shut up about my wearing colors. I work with some of the best people you will ever meet, but I spend my time interacting with good people in the worst situations of their lives or just truly horrible people. Sometimes the only shot of color in my day is my tie. So stuff it, Miss Witch."
He couldn't believe he'd told her to stuff it.
Apparently, neither could she, because she looked stunned for a moment. Luke was just getting ready to kick himself for not being able to keep his mouth closed when she bust into the most amazing laugh he'd ever heard.
Her voice caught on the air around her and her head tilted back, all those curls in shades of chocolate and gold tumbling around her shoulders. Her eyes glinted with the music of her laughter and he stopped where he stood. Plate and glass in hand, his feet planted in the kitchen, he was mesmerized. He stared. Luke couldn't help it.
He couldn't react over the punch in the gut he suddenly felt. The same one that had hit him when she'd looked up at him in the grocery store. The same one he'd been denying ever since then.
Forcing his feet to move, trying not to give away the visceral attraction he felt for her, Luke calmly set his plate at the table and started quietly eating his breakfast. After a moment, after she calmed down and managed to take a bite—which earned him an appreciative moan—he tried to make normal conversation.
"Did you manage to sleep last night?"
"Yeah." She rolled her eyes as though she didn't want to admit it. "I have to say I slept better knowing there was a cop in the next room."
"Good." That was it. He was out of conversation.
But apparently she wasn't.
"By the way, those weird dreams you had last night? They're mostly wrong." She ate another bite of toast and cut off another piece of omelet as though she hadn't said something truly disturbing.
"What?"
"Yes, covens work in circles, but there are more solitary witches than coven based witches in the U.S."
"Okay." He should have known the conversation would turn weird. And it wasn't even eight a.m. yet.
Tilting her head, she looked at him more closely. "Well, you had it wrong. If the witches were dressed, it would be in street clothes or all white or nothing at all. Not the dark robes and pointy hoods you dreamed about."
He was just digesting his own thought—how did she know that?—when she laid another one on him.
"And we sure wouldn't sacrifice a person. That was just ridiculous—some witch chanting in tongues and plunging a dagger into your heart? Not gonna happen. We don't cut hearts out."
She looked at him sideways and shook her head. "We never mess with organs—especially hearts. Human or otherwise."
But he wasn't sure she hadn't already done something to his.
By two o'clock Yasmin was insane enough that she figured her curls should have straightened themselves. Sadly, they hadn't.
Luke, though he had showered at her house, insisted on going to his place and getting clean clothes. As that sounded perfectly reasonable, Yasmin wondered why he'd even suggested it out loud. Then it became clear he wanted her to go with him.
Not realizing it was a straight path to an overwhelming urge for homicide, Yasmin amicably agreed.
After a drive over the hills, at exactly the speed limit regardless of the beautiful day and clear road, they arrived at his place—an apartment in Hollywood. Indoor access, working buzzer on the door. There was a garage gate, which Yasmin checked out as they pulled in and became rapidly convinced she could weasel her way in through the garage quite easily—no witchcraft required.
She checked out his lack of decorating skills while he changed. The building's central courtyard had a fountain and access to a pool out back. It was well kept, pretty, green. But inside his unit was white. With white. And some more white. An IKEA table and chairs stood out in black in one corner and his couch was brown. It would have been called 'taupe' or 'caramel' in any other setting, but against the white wall and speckled white carpeting, it was just brown. Yasmin fought the urge to vomit.
He wore all those colors . . . Why didn't he at least paint the walls?
She didn't get to question it because he came out from the back room in jeans and a long sleeved shirt.
Yasmin learned two things right away. One: Officer Multicolor was also multicolor when he was off duty. And two: the man had a fine set of pecs and guns on him. Somehow she managed to not drool. Then he turned around and she saw his ass. Probably he wore all those colors to keep the ladies from hitting on him.
He was leaning into the fridge, getting some kind of energy drink—had he not just eaten an omelet with her?—when he called out, "Do you mind if we stop by my office? I want to see if Valverde has made any progress."
Yasmin's brain didn't quite catch up.
"Do you wear . . . that to the office?" she waved her hand at his teal henley and the gray jeans. It would have been just fine, but his cross trainers were lime green. She shook her head.
He'd just popped the top off the bottle as he looked down at himself. "I'm off duty today. I figured— What?"
She was still shaking her head. She was in a cream and rose colored top with olive pants in a subtle stripe. "We are going to hurt people's eyes."
Luke Salzone took a hit of his bottled drink then he took offense. "I look fine."
"You do look fine." She withheld alternate definitions of fine. "And so do I. But we clash like nobody's business." She pointed at her own middle-earth tones then at his brights.
He shrugged and offered her a bottle of what he was having. Pretty sure that she saw blades of grass as part of the logo picture, she refused.
But she didn't say no to going with him.
Which is how she wound up riding around town in his passenger seat to the precinct and meeting everyone he couldn't avoid. She talked to Detective Jessica Valverde and spent far too long giving up all her basic life info.
Operating on the fact that Luke trusted the woman, Yasmin handed over her home address, her education level, her work address, position at the shop and length of time worked there, also her previous address, make and model of her car, age, birth date, and social security number. If the woman asked what valuable electronics were in her home or if she knew the bluebook value of her car, Yasmin was going to put her foot down. But the inquisition stopped just shy of that.
Then Yasmin waited for the other half, the part where she heard what progress was being made on the case.
There was none.
No one had seen the men's faces. So there was no police artist or sketch or even description to work from. Though everyone knew these guys were Del Sur, there was no proof. Apparently "Officer Salzone worked Guns and Gangs and recognized the markings" wasn't sufficient for evidence.
As of yet, there were no fingerprints at the scene. Though Officer Valverde said she was holding out hope that something would come from some fabric on the butt of a gun left behind, her tone didn't sound as optimistic.
Incredibly disheartened, Yasmin followed Luke from the station and climbed into his passenger seat yet again. "Why aren't you upset?"
"I am." He started the engine and thankfully the air conditioning came out cold right away.
"You don't seem upset." She looked at him as he pulled out of the parking lot. He was checking for traffic, and she was ready to hit something.
"I can't show it. I'm an officer. We can't afford to emotionally invest in everything. But, yeah, I am upset." He sighed. "Right now, unless that gun yields something, there's no case. Not until they come after you. And I hope they don't."
"So they just get away with it?" She couldn't believe it. Did he really care? Because he seemed far too calm. Then again, it wasn't him they were going to come after. Maybe they wouldn't come after her either.
Luke sighed. "American law is a fine mix of punishments, restrictions, and liberties. We have to have proof first and last. We can't just arrest people for being bad, they have to have broken a specific law."
"Isn't shooting at a person in a grocery store parking lot against some specific law?"
He almost smiled as he pulled into traffic. "Yes, it is. But who do we arrest? None of us can accurately identify one person as either the shooter or his friend."
Yasmin sat back into the seat. He was right. She could cast a spell to find the person, but she still couldn't get him into jail. Wreaking her own personal justice was tempting but went against her religion. So she rolled down the window because the L.A. weather was so nice today, and she watched the buildings and people go by, and the palm trees standing tall in the still air.
Her breath caught as Luke turned the car into the parking lot at the grocery store where she'd been shot at. Unused to the feeling of panic, Yasmin reacted poorly. She stiffened in her seat and ground out the words, "What are we doing here?"
"We both lost our groceries the other night. And I know you didn't replace them because there's nothing in your fridge." He hadn't looked at her as he'd been searching for a parking spot. But when he hit the brake and looked over at her he finally caught on. "Oh shit. I'm sorry."
She didn't know if he was apologizing for swearing or for bringing her here, but he seemed to get the idea.
Using his soothing voice, he talked the whole time. "We're leaving. I'm watching the area; no one is here. You're safe. You're with me."
His jaw was clenched. Yasmin could see that and she focused on his face while she tried to forcibly even out her breathing, but she just couldn't seem to do it. Every drop of her blood had chilled suddenly, and just being here made her afraid.
Even though she knew it was irrational—no one was here, just like Luke said—that didn't stop her from being deathly frightened.
Unfortunately, with the heavy flow of cars in and out of the lot, it took a few minutes to get far enough away that she could start to regulate her heartbeat again. Luke was pulling into an open parking space on the side of the road before she could really get it together.
His hands were warm on her bare arms and he turned her to look at him, his eyes darting back and forth to check her reaction. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think."
With a deep gulp of air, she finally pulled herself together. "It's okay. I'm okay now. I didn't expect that."
She was starting to turn away, embarrassed at what had to have been her first ever panic attack, when his hands came up on either side of her face. Crushing some of her curls to her head, he held her there, just looking at her, teal eyes searching for a moment before he nodded and let her go. "Okay, your color is coming back. You'll be okay."
He sat back into his seat and looked out the front window, finally done scrutinizing her. "That was completely my fault. I don't get those reactions anymore, and I didn't think."
Managing a few short nods, Yasmin finally found her voice. "I'm okay now." But she didn't say anything else.
"Do you still want to get groceries? Or should I take you home? Get you a stiff drink? On me, because that was stupid to take you back there."
A small laugh burbled out of her. "A drink sounds good, but groceries would be better. I just don't know where to go."
"There has to be something closer to your house."
"Prices are higher there. That’s why I shop here." Then she tilted her head. "You know, today, I find I don't care." And she gave him directions.
He followed her up and down some of the aisles, then made her spend time in sections she never lingered in. She was pasta and frozen meals, he was apparently gourmet cheeses and fresh breads. It turned out, there was a machine in the bakery that you could roll whole-loaf bread into and it would slice it to whatever thickness you wanted. The man bought fresh herbs while she stared at him and eventually she added an apple to her own cart just so she didn't seem so plebeian.
They unloaded her groceries at her place, then headed into Hollywood again to unload his—which Yasmin thought was simply ridiculous that she had to tag along. She wanted to call her friend Jenn and see if she was available for dinner, but she realized she had to ask Luke first . . . Then he said sure and that he would be coming along.
"Oh no." Yasmin stood in his white living room, her hands out. "You're not coming to dinner with my friend and me." She'd already had him watch her put her groceries away.
"You remember who's after you?" He glared from where he was arranging his herbs in one of his very neat refrigerator doors.
"They aren't going to follow me to a crowded restaurant! They have my address, not my schedule. They can't have hacked my cell or be reading my texts. What about when I go back to work? You can't follow me there!"
Looking defeated, he rubbed the back of his neck, and conceded. "You're right. I doubt they've hacked your phone. You're probably fine. But what if you aren't?"
Well, she couldn't live like his puppy, tagging around after him, could she? "I'll be fine."
