Chapter One

 

This is a bedtime story.

And like so many bedtime stories, it begins with a rebel prince, a brave soldier, a witch’s spell, and in our case, yes, a bed.

Not just any bed. A black and bronze Victorian antique four-poster with a superbly cast brass plaque decoration in the shape of a five-pointed star and one perfect crystal knob atop each tall and graceful post.

The perfect witch’s bed.

Or rather, the perfect bed for a witch.

The problem was, he saw it first.

John Joseph Galbraith.

I didn’t know who he was at the time.

I noticed him, though. At six-foot-four, with shoulders like a gladiator, he was hard to miss. Early forties. Not handsome exactly—or at least the handsomeness was secondary to his air of command. Of authority. Not a guy to fool around with.

So naturally, I had to try and fool around with him.

“That’s going to be a tight fit,” I said.

John looked up from his frowning contemplation of the star escutcheon. “What?”

I’m six feet, so it was a novelty to have to look up to meet his eyes. They were a striking shade of yellow-brown—amber—and those alert hawk eyes perfectly suited the severity of his features.

Despite the red glints in his thick hair, there were no freckles on his tanned face. Nor did it look like a face that creased into a smile very often, and he was definitely not smiling for me that afternoon.

I nodded at the empty rectangle formed by the black and bronze bed frame. “Especially if you’re planning on company.” I gazed right into his amber eyes.

He stared right back at me and said, “I sleep alone.”

“That would have to be by choice.”

“Now you’re catching on.”

He was not flirting back. He was not regretting his lack of bedtime companionship, and he was bluntly declining any and all offers I might have in mind.

I felt my smile falter a little. Not that I think I’m irresistible, but some people do. Mortals usually do. When I want them to.

Beside me, Andi gave a little Mary Poppins kind of sniff. Which is always a danger signal.

It occurs to me that a little backstory might be needed here. Andi—Andromeda Merriweather—and I were at Bonhams’ warehouse previewing Lot 132, a late 19th century George III-style mahogany quarter-chiming tall case clock, and Lot 136, the previously mentioned Victorian four-poster with the crystal bedknobs, in advance of the Elegant Home auction being held the following day.

I’d already decided to bid on the bed before that curtly delivered smackdown. Post smackdown, I determined the bed would be mine, period. I’d been trying not to use Craft for day-to-day interactions. We all rely on it too much. Plus, it’s not really fair when dealing with mortals. But I cannot lie. That crisp “Now you’re catching on” smarted.

Not that I can’t take no for an answer, but it could have been phrased a little more diplomatically.

So I said sweetly, “You’ll have to choose to do it elsewhere.”

He laughed.

It was not a nice laugh. There was no creasing of cheek, no crinkling of eyes, no smile in that sound. It was the sound of someone planning to take no prisoners. It was the chuckle Alexander the Great gave before burning Persepolis to ashes.

Did I mention that, in addition to all the time spent watching TV, I have a classical education? It’s not really relevant, except that those who fail to learn from the past are doomed to repeat it—and when it comes to romance, I can be a slow study.

“You think so?” John said, still amused.

“I know so.”

“We’ll see.” He nodded in dismissal, I nodded in I’ll-see-your-bet-and-raise-you-one-thousand, and we went our separate ways.

When the bidding began the next day, I didn’t have to resort to Craft. I’d have mortgaged my townhouse to make sure Paddle Number 131 didn’t win that auction, but it wasn’t necessary. He gave up the third time I doubled his bid. When the auctioneer’s gavel came down, John gave me a nod and a flicker of a wry smile.

At least he was a good sport. The truth was, that bed was way too small for him. I wasn’t sure why he’d even bid on it.

“Prick,” Andi muttered when we spotted him on our way out of the auction house.

I said nothing.

 

 

The second time I saw John Joseph Galbraith, Andi and I were shopping for TVs at Best Buy. Her old one had exploded when I’d tried to manually mute the sound. I’m no fan of technology—and the feeling is mutual.

Anyway, multiple mirror images of an ecstatic-looking woman showing off her clean laundry flashed off, and the bank of TV screens offered instead a view of a solemn-faced John being sworn into office at City Hall.

The chyron at the bottom of the TV screen read: New San Francisco Police Commissioner John Galbraith sworn in.

“Hey, is that him?” I demanded. “Isn’t that the same guy—”

Andi had an odd expression, but at the time I put it down to the price the salesman had just quoted her for a Samsung Q9FN.

“Is it?” she said.

“It is.” I stared at the screen. The severely tailored black suit set off John’s fierce, no frills good looks. He made a striking, even imposing, figure.

“He’s an ex-Navy SEAL,” the salesman put in. “He’ll clean up this town for sure.”

The three of us watched in silence as the screen-sized John raised his right hand and silently recited his oath of office. His brown-gold eyes seemed to stare right through the television cameras into my own.

“Let’s try someplace else,” Andi said, tugging on my arm.

 

 

The third time I saw John Joseph Galbraith was two weeks ago at the San Francisco Symphony’s newly reinvented Black and White Ball.

I hadn’t expected to see him—I’d like to pretend I’d forgotten all about him by then—but there he was. Our brand-new police commissioner.

The city’s first openly gay—and reportedly available—police commissioner was surrounded by city officials, local celebrities, and wealthy citizens in the patrons’ tent. Given the fuss everyone was making, I thought the center of that storm had to be at the very least Harry Connick Jr., who was the evening’s main musical guest. But no, it was just him. Prince Charming. A.k.a. John Joseph Galbraith.

My lip curled at the memory of our first encounter, and at that exact moment, John happened to look up from sipping his champagne. He caught me mid-sneer.

I suppose it must have been the novelty of someone not fawning over him. The way people were gushing, you’d have thought he had promised to fix all their parking tickets en masse. Not that people drive in San Francisco. Well, I don’t.

John met my eyes, freed himself from the clutches of his admirers, and caught up to me as I was making my way over to speak to Ralph Grindlewood, a local historian and friend, as well as a very good customer of mine.

“I’ve been looking all over town for you, Cinderella,” John said. He was smiling. It changed his whole face. He looked younger. Handsome. Likable. Maybe more than likable.

“I…beg your pardon.”

I really thought I’d misheard him—he had clearly mistaken me for someone else.

“I like your top hat,” he said, and I automatically put my hand to my head to check if I was dreaming. But no, I was not dreaming. I was wearing a top hat because I like top hats—I want them to come back into fashion—and a lot of guys used to wear them to the Black and White Ball.

If all this sounds a little disjointed, it’s because my thoughts were disjointed. In fact, I was beyond confused. I was befuddled. Why was he looking at me that way? His face was slightly flushed, his eyes were almost golden with warmth and appreciation, and his smile was charming. He had dimples.

“I…”

“Are you enjoying my bed?” John grinned. He was flirting with me.

That settled one question. He did know who I was. He did remember where we’d met.

“That bed is too small for you,” I said. And I scowled, remembering the smackdown he’d delivered when I’d been the one trying a little innocent flirtation.

He gave another of those peculiar lighthearted chuckles. “That’s half the fun, right?”

“Uh…”

His expression changed, softened, grew serious. “Why don’t we get out of here?” he suggested.

I looked around the crowded big top tent and caught sight of us on one of the giant flat-panel video screens. Glittering rainbow-colored confetti drifted down from overhead as we gazed into each other’s eyes. People in the background were smiling at us, nodding and whispering.

It was very weird—and I say that as someone who is in the business of weird.

I asked feebly, “But what about the midnight surprise? It’s supposed to be really special this year.”

His smile made me dissolve inside. I’d never felt like that in my life. Warm and silly. Weak in the knees. My heart turned to pink melt-away marshmallow.

John bent his head and whispered, “I promise you the best midnight surprise ever.”

 

 

“Maybe it’s not the same guy,” Officer Young said.

We were sitting in their patrol car. We’d been parked near Mission Dolores Park for over ten minutes. It was clear that having arrested me, Officers Young and Takeo were afraid to take the next logical step.

I sympathized.

“It’s the same guy,” Officer Takeo said.

“I’m the same guy,” I said.

“Quiet,” Young threw back automatically.

“When dealing with the rich and powerful…” Takeo said.

Young and I waited for him to finish the thought, but apparently that was it.

“Let me just call my—the commissioner,” I urged.

I was desperate to talk to John. It was bewildering how in just two weeks he had somehow become as necessary to me as oxygen, but so it was. He was my waking thought each morning—well, early afternoon—and my last thought at night. He was sure as hell my first thought when I was in trouble, and it was hard to imagine I could ever be in more trouble than I was at that moment.

But also, I was thinking of my calling John as a way out for all three of us.

Judging by their instant alarm, Young and Takeo did not consider me part of the team. Instead, they called their sergeant.

Sergeant Banks said he would get back to them after he called Lieutenant Fernández.

Lieutenant Fernández said he would get back to them after he called Captain Diamond.

Captain Diamond said he would get back to them after he called Commander Zhang.

Commander Zhang said she would get back to them after she called Deputy Chief Danville.

Thirty seconds later Zhang radioed to say forget all that and bring me in immediately.

Which is how, four hours after I discovered the body of Seamus Reitherman, I came to be sitting in an incongruously cheery yellow interview room at the Mission Police Station, waiting for…I wasn’t sure what.

I had not been photographed or fingerprinted, and although Young and Takeo had handcuffed me and read me my rights, the handcuffs had been removed once we’d reached the station house.

At Mission they did examine my hands for cuts and my clothes for blood, and the fact that there was neither probably helped my situation. They took my phone but left me my jewelry: signet ring, earring, and small silver amulet. Though I’d never been arrested before, I was pretty sure this was not the way it usually worked. And I was pretty sure everyone else in the station was aware it was not the way it usually worked—and they were not happy about it.

I was afraid John would not be happy about it either. Maybe we hadn’t been together long, but it had been long enough to figure out he frowned on favoritism, nepotism, and a whole lot of other-isms. And I admired that John was a man of principle—even if some of those principles sometimes felt a little straitlaced. He’d have made a great Puritan. All manly rectitude and tiresome industriousness. He had been begging to be seduced, whether he knew it or not.

Not in bed, thank the Goddess. He was not remotely puritanical between the sheets. Granted, there were a few things I had yet to show him.

At least, I hoped so. Getting arrested on suspicion of murder was liable to throw a wrench in our honeymoon plans. Or worse, our wedding plans.

Not that John would believe the charges against me—he surely knew me that well, even if it had only been two weeks. But with our wedding only three—no, now two days away—there was still so much to do. And awful as the thought of not marrying John on Sunday was, I had even bigger problems.

Where was the grimoire? Was it the grimoire? Was it possible the rediscovery of the grimoire had something to do with Seamus’s death? Was it possible it didn’t?

Worse, if someone within the Craft had murdered Seamus, well, that was almost too terrible to contemplate. Someone had to contact the Société du Sortilège.

I needed to speak to the Duchess.