Chapter Seven

 

The gritty feel of warm cement beneath my cheek, the smell of dust and wood. The coppery taste of blood.

From overhead I could hear, “Cos? Cosmo? Can you hear me?”

I hadn’t lost consciousness, not entirely. Not for more than a few seconds. I was mostly stunned, mostly disbelieving. My confused recollection of cartoon classics led me to believe I’d been hit by an anvil. Or maybe a safe.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was the note of fear in John’s voice. I tried to pull myself together, rolling over and blinking up at his white face as he bent over me.

“It’s okay,” I croaked. “I’m okay. You’re okay.”

“You’re not okay. Jesus Christ. You were nearly killed.”

“Was I?” That was alarming. I tried to sit up. His hand landed on my chest, pressing me back on the hard, hot pavement.

“No,” he said quickly. “Don’t try to move. You may have broken something.”

“Like what?” I guess I was pretty scattered because I was thinking he meant I’d damaged the sidewalk or a ladder.

“Your arm. Your back. It’s a goddamned miracle it’s not your skull.”

“Oh…” I lifted my head again. My clothes were filthy, covered in dust and splinters. “What thing?”

John kept me pinned in place while he felt for his phone with his free hand. “That fucking…thing. I think it might have been a-a piano…” He thumbed the number for emergency services. “Yes, this is Commissioner Galbraith. I need an ambu—”

I grabbed his hand. “No, wait, John. You don’t.”

He spared me a harassed look. “Lie still, Cos. Let me—”

“No, but don’t.” I pushed his hand aside and sat up. “Don’t call them. I’m fine. Really. It was a what-do-you-call-it? A glancing blow.”

He said incredulously, “A glancing blow?”

“Yes…” Hands shaking, I hastily brushed bits of metal and ivory from my hair, my shoulders, my sleeves.

Past his shoulder, I could see the wreckage. It looked like someone had dropped a wooden box from high overhead. I could make out ebonized cartouches and bronze hardware in the chunks of satinwood. Black and white piano keys, scattered like broken teeth, were strewn across the black asphalt of the parking area.

This pile of kindling was all that remained of a 19th century Broadwood upright piano.

I thought I knew what had happened, but it was only more bewildering.

The voice on the other end of the phone continued to squawk alarm.

John hesitated, his expression doubtful, worried, but maybe he realized that this kind of publicity—any publicity—was the last thing we needed right now. “Cancel that,” he said crisply, and pocketed his phone.

“Cos, are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?” He took me carefully by the shoulders, scanning my face. “I thought—I thought you were dead.” Even now he was shocked by the memory.

I shook my head. “Nope. If you want out, you’re going to have to jilt me.”

His formidable brows drew together, but instead of answering, he said softly, “You cut your lip.”

I swallowed, reading the dark intensity of feeling in his amber eyes. Yes, the love spell had been removed, but he did still feel something for me. It was right there in his gaze.

He cupped my chin, tracing his thumb against my bottom lip. “Jesus, Cos,” he whispered, and then he bent his head and kissed me. A careful kiss, as light as the brush of an angel’s wing. I believed in that moment that if I had been dead, his kiss would have brought me back to life.

But owww. My lip did sting, since he pointed it out.

I winced, John drew back, and I licked, tasting blood. “I bit it, is all.”

He offered his hand. “Can you stand?”

“Yes…” I took his hand. My scraped palm stung, but his hard, warm grip centered me.

John threw another uneasy look at the scaffolding overhead. “I don’t understand how this could happen.”

Let it go. Let it go.

“I don’t know, but I’m okay. Really. It mostly missed me.” I used my free hand to push up from the pavement, but I was shaking so badly, I nearly fell back on my ass. John lifted me onto my feet, steadying me.

“Mostly?” He frowned at me, then once again stared up at the taped windows and empty scaffolding. “Where the hell did it come from?”

I had no answer.

“It can’t have been an accident. No one accidentally pushes a goddamned piano out a window.”

No. It had not been an accident.

My gaze was irresistibly drawn to the broken pieces of the piano from Seamus’s shop.

Someone had tried to kill me.

Whether it was that realization or I’d been hit harder than I knew… I reeled dizzily, and John’s face changed. He caught me and swung me up into his arms. Just like that. As if I weighed no more than a kid.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he said.

Sweetheart.

It was a bit embarrassing and at the same time ridiculously comforting. I let my head drop on his shoulder. “Sorry,” I mumbled into his collar. “Low blood sugar. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Yeah, I think it’s a little more than skipping breakfast.”

It was silly. I really was okay… But it was so nice to be in his arms, nice to know he really was worried about me. And he was. I could hear the fast, energized pounding of his heart. Battle stations ready.

“I promise I’m not the swooning type.”

“I know. I’ve got you.” He easily carried me up the two steps to our porch, shouldered open the door, and brought me inside. The house was pleasantly cool and dim after the blazing sunshine of outside.

“Hey, carrying me over the threshold,” I felt obliged to point out as he adroitly managed to avoid falling over the tumbled stack of wedding presents next to the door.

He made a sound of exasperated amusement. “Uh, not quite the way I pictured it.”

“Me neither.” I closed my eyes, twitched my nose.

That shows you how out of it I really was. Like a lot of witches of my generation, syndicated reruns of the television show Bewitched were a huge and consequential childhood influence. Samantha Spell-casting, as it was known, was absolutely forbidden at school because of the dangers of a mistimed sneeze or even a puzzled frown—which, let’s face it, is a daily occurrence when children begin formal education.

“When did you have your sofa delivered?” John asked in surprise, pausing at the top of the steps leading into the sunken living room.

“A little while ago.”

“That’s handy.”

“Mm-hm.”

He carried me down the steps and deposited me on the gray velvet cushions. Pyewacket, clinging to the back of the sectional, arched his back and hissed at him.

“Ssst. Tais-toi,” I muttered.

John added mildly, “And…you brought your cat.”

He was more diplomatic than Pyewacket, but they shared a lack of enthusiasm for each other.

“Yeah, he… I thought if I wasn’t coming home tonight…” I let it trail because honestly, I had no idea if I was spending the night or not. We were supposed to be having our wedding rehearsal in a couple of hours. I couldn’t even imagine it.

John wasn’t listening. “Just rest here for a minute. I’m going to see what the hell is happening in that building.”

I opened my mouth, but he was already gone, and what was I going to say anyway? Oh, don’t bother. That piano was thrown from Valencia Street.

I sank back against the cushions.

What in the name of the Goddess was I going to do? Like everything wasn’t already bad enough? Someone wanted me dead? Who? Ciara? Or could the person who had slain Seamus be after me as well? But why? A blood feud? There had not been a blood feud within the Abracadantès since the 1600s. In fact, I did not know of a blood feud within the Craft during the last four centuries. There was nothing like a common enemy—in this case, the 16th century witch-hunters—to bring people closer together.

I suddenly recalled the dark presence that had followed me down Valencia Street.

Pyewacket bumped his face against mine and meowed pâté breath in my face.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

…

“I don’t know,” I said. “It may be a coincidence.”

He headbutted me. I turned my head, kissed his furry little face. “Thank you.”

“Who are you talking to?” John asked from above us. He moved quietly for a big man. I hadn’t heard him return.

“Pye,” I replied. “Did you find anything?”

“No. The building is sealed shut. The front and back doors are locked. No one seems to be there. I couldn’t spot any open windows.”

He sat down beside me on the sectional. Pyewacket sprang from the couch to the wrought-iron railing above us and then another leap to vanish up the staircase. John said, “Let me look at your shoulder. Can you lift your arm?”

I lifted my left arm—it felt stiff, but everything seemed to be working—and John helped me wriggle out of my T-shirt. His face got tighter at the sight of the bruise already darkening my chest and shoulder.

“If that had struck you on the head…”

“But it didn’t,” I said quickly. “And a miss is as good as a mile.”

“What I don’t understand is how it could even happen. The building is locked up like a bank. There was no one on the scaffolding. There were no vehicles parked in front when I arrived. If no one is in that building, how the hell did a piano get shoved out the window?”

“It must have…fallen out,” I said. Which of course was idiotic, but the truth was even more unbelievable.

“It would take two people to move even a small piano.” John threw me a look of impatience, but then his expression softened. “Cosmo, it’s one thing to turn down an ambulance ride, but a doctor needs to take a look at you. You don’t know. You could have cracked your clavicle. You could have a concussion. You were knocked cold.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was just surprised.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Well, and stunned. For a second. But I have my own doctor. My uncle Lucien will be at dinner tonight. I’ll ask him to take a look at my shoulder.”

John shook his head but let it go, preoccupied with the puzzle of a piano falling from the sky. He took his phone out. “I’m going to have that building searched stem to stern. Pianos don’t simply fall out of the clouds. And that is definitely the wreckage of a piano out front.”

He began to press the numbers on his screen.

Why couldn’t he let it go?

I rose. “John.”

He glanced up, distracted, and as I reached out, I saw him flinch.

It was no more than a flicker of wariness crossing his face, but infinitesimal as it was, I saw it, felt it like a knife sliding into my heart—he didn’t trust me.

He was right not to.

I put my hands on either side of his face. He did not pull away, but his eyes were watchful.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Truly. It won’t happen again. I promise you that.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

I spoke the words of a forgetting spell:

 

Forget what was, let’s start anew

The recent past’s no good for you

Think of the future that lies ahead

The last ten minutes are gone and dead.

 

My voice died. I let go of John, sat down on the sofa, and pulled my T-shirt on. I waited, watching him.

John blinked, looked briefly confused. “What was I saying?”

“You wanted to know why I wasn’t here when the detectives came by.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said slowly. “There was something else.”

I studied him uneasily. Was I that out of practice? Or was he resisting the spell?

How was that even possible?

“You were hurt,” he said. He sounded like someone trying to feel his way through the dark.

“I fainted,” I said. “I missed breakfast and got a little woozy. I cut my lip when I fell.”

His expression cleared. “That’s right. I was going to get you something to drink.”

John left the room and was back a minute or two later. I raised my head from my hands as he sat beside me on the sofa.

“Here you go.” John handed me a glass of orange juice over ice. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“I hope there’s vodka in it.”

“Uh, no, you young maniac. No booze.” Despite the teasing tone, his expression was so concerned, so caring, it made my eyes sting. I nodded, drank the orange juice in a couple of gulps, and shuddered.

“Better?”

I whispered, “Yes, thank you.”

“Good.” He took the empty glass from me, set it aside, and said neutrally, “Okay, Cosmo, now talk to me. What’s going on?”

Sweetheart. Earlier, he had called me sweetheart. The first time he had ever used any kind of endearment. And that was after the spell had been removed. So, it had to mean something. It had to be a good sign, surely? I could see in his eyes that he cared, that he was worried for me—for both of us.

I wanted to tell him everything. With all my heart. I wanted his help. I wanted his reassurance that nothing had or would change. I wanted…things that simply were not possible.

I cleared my throat, said, “I know it looks…funny. But really, it’s only a series of unfortunate… coincidences.”

“Cos.” He was still kind, but I could see him struggling to stay patient.

I said earnestly, “I’m happy to talk to the detectives. I swear I’m not trying to avoid them. It’s just that after we spoke, I stayed later at the shop than I’d planned. Ralph Grindlewood—I’ve mentioned him a couple of times—sent me someone who could potentially replace Antonia. And I stayed to interview him.”

John wasn’t buying it. He shook his head. “Cos, I know you this well. Something is very wrong.”

“I know you this well.” John was beginning to acknowledge to himself that he did not know me very well. Once again, tears sprang to my eyes.

He saw it, and his face twisted. He put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me to him so I could rest my head on his broad chest. He was breathing quietly, evenly, forcing himself to patience, reminding himself I was not…myself.

His voice was warm against my ear. “You know you can talk to me. I’m on your side.”

I nodded.

“What are you so afraid of?”

I raised my head, met his gaze. “John, do you think— They’re saying I’m the only suspect.”

I didn’t even have to specify who they were. The lines of his face grew somber.

“I know. I can’t control the media, but I’ve made it clear to everyone on the team that public speculation about this case will not be tolerated. The department’s official position is we do not yet have a prime suspect. We have only lines of inquiry. You are just one of several lines of inquiry.”

“But am I? Are there other suspects?”

He barely hesitated. “Of course. The spouse is always a suspect. Reitherman’s wife is under scrutiny as well. It’s early in the investigation.”

“Okay. But how does that work? Where does an investigation begin? Because it seems pretty obvious everyone is speculating that I killed Seamus. And I understand that I was there—at least I was there after it happened—but…”

“The investigation begins with the victim. The detectives will look into Reitherman’s background. His finances, his social circle, his business dealings, his marriage, his employees. Everything is fair game in a murder investigation. They’ll look to see if he had a significant insurance policy, if he was in debt to the wrong people, if he had any recent arguments or conflicts with anyone.”

I nodded automatically.

“Reitherman dealt with the public, so right there that opens another potential avenue. He could have had a run-in with a crazy customer. On top of all that, he apparently dealt in the occult. CSI found Satanic paraphernalia in his store. That alone opens the door to some very weird and unsavory possibilities.”

I cleared my throat nervously. “I’m pretty sure Seamus wasn’t involved in anything Satanic.”

“Witchcraft, Wicca, Satanism. It’s all the same.”

“Actually, it isn’t.”

John’s expression grew wry. “You don’t think so? Fine. I’m talking about selling items like T-shirts and tote bags with Satanic logos printed right on them.”

I said defensively, “I’m not sure what you mean by Satanic logos.”

“Potions and oils and black candles all labeled as having magical properties and stamped with an official logo featuring a goat head in an inverted pentagram.”

He was speaking of the Sigil of Baphomet, which was, in fact, trademarked and copyrighted by the Church of Satan. So, okay, yes, he was not totally wrong. About that.

John cut into my thoughts. “To be clear, I’m not talking about collecting a few antique books on witchcraft or sorcery or poetry.”

My face turned warm at that pointed reference to antique poetry books—I hadn’t thought he’d noticed my collection of antique grimoires; he’d never said a word—but I felt obliged to protest, “Okay, but I think you’re confusing the Satanic Temple with the Church of Satan. They’re not the same thing. And neither has to do with Wicca.”

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t make me happy that you think you know enough about this to want to argue with me about it.”

I could feel all the blood that had flooded my face draining right out again. I said huskily, “No. Sorry.”

“Anyway, you asked how an investigation like this one proceeds, and that’s how it works. We look at all the evidence. All the indicators. No one is going to rush to judgment.”

“Right. Of course.”

John sighed, studying my face. “I think maybe we should cancel the rehearsal.”

“No.” I drew back, unable to hide my panic at the idea.

He held on to my hands, keeping me beside him on the sectional. “Cos, listen, you’re still pale and shaky, your hands are clammy. You fainted a few minutes ago. I’m worried about you. Maybe it’s just stress, but maybe you’re coming down with something.”

Persecution complex?

Except it’s not persecution when the hunters are in the majority. Then it’s called purification.

I shook my head. “I’m not. Really. I would know, and I’m not. Please. I don’t want to postpone the wedding.”

John frowned. “I didn’t say we should postpone the wedding. But how much rehearsal do we need? The service is in our own backyard. I think it would make more sense if we got you checked out and then have a quiet evening here tonight.”

A quiet evening together sounded like heaven, but I was terrified that what this was really about was John finding the first reason for deciding to pull the plug. “It’s too late.”

“Of course it’s not too late.”

The doorbell rang.

“See? It is too late.” I pulled my hands free and went to answer the door.