Chapter Twenty

 

There was no Transformation of the Stag for me the next morning.

And maybe there never would be. There were worse things that could happen to a man.

When Andi arrived to pick me up, I explained about Rex, and she agreed that their need was the greater. We collected Bree and V. and drove straight to Our Lady of the Green Veil, arriving just before sunrise.

Rex’s family and a few other friends were already gathered, pale, tired, tearstained.

When word came, we crowded into Rex’s room, joined hands to form a circle around the hospital bed where Rex lay gray and still, and chanted the words of healing prayers and comfort spells as the sun slowly bathed the room in rose-gold light.

Afterward, Medicus Abioye said we had done all that could be done; the rest was in the hands of the Goddess.

So mote it be.

The most difficult of all the lessons.

On the way back to Andi’s car, V. said, “So the wedding is off, right? You can’t get married without undergoing the Transformation of the Stag.”

“Ha-ha.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but what if I’m right?”

Andi said, “I had no idea Rex was a detective. I thought they were a potter or something.”

“That’s a great disguise for a detective,” V. said.

“Did you know, Cos?”

“No.”

Andi shivered. “Their mother said a street person saw it happen.”

“Did they get a license? The make of the car?”

“No license. It happened too fast. The car was a black Mercedes Benz.”

“Maybe the self-driving Mercedes is roaming the streets again,” V. said.

“That’s an urban legend,” Andi told him.

“The hell!”

She said, “Anyway, self-driving or not, it wasn’t an accident. The witness said the car drove straight at them.”

Bree said, “Maybe they stuck their nose some place they shouldn’t.”

* * * * *

“Who comes to be joined together in the presence of the Goddess?”

I answered, “Cosmo Aurelius Saville.”

Inés, standing beneath the rose-twined arch in the white garden, smiled at me and turned to John.

John said, “John Joseph Galbraith.” He glanced at me, and I smiled. His mouth quirked, but his eyes stayed grave.

Two hours after Andi and I got back from the hospital, John and I stood within a circle outlined in flowers, our hands lightly bound by a braided ivory rope, surrounded by our loved ones as we exchanged our marriage vows.

The tiny garden was crowded with white wooden chairs, and every chair was filled, though this informal, private service was only the first ceremony of the day. The big event, an Episcopalian wedding service, would take place late afternoon in Maman’s garden. That second exchanging of vows was to be immediately followed by a country—the country being France—style reception.

The severity of John’s black suit suited his stern not-quite-handsomeness. A butterfly fluttered down, touched his shoulder for an instant, and fluttered away.

Despite everything that had happened, or maybe because of it, this morning seemed especially beautiful and truly magical. The air was sweet with the heady fragrance of an abundance of cut and newly planted flowers, the sun warm and caressing, and nearly everyone I loved was gathered round.

There were a few tears, but it was mostly smiles. Nor were all the tears from happiness. Neither Nola nor my mother were crying for joy. In fairness, Maman was not actually crying; it was more of a light mist with a slight chance of thundershowers. Nola was experiencing climate change: a severe downpour with a high probability of freezing temperatures.

Inés spoke in French and then repeated in English, “Cosmo and John have chosen to include the traditional handfasting in their ceremony. You may know this ceremony as the basis for such terms as tying the knot or bonded in matrimony. The yoking of their hands symbolizes their love and commitment to each other, but it is not ropes or rings that unite the hearts and bodies of two men for all their lives. Love is not a restraint or restriction or a predicament. Rings may be lost, cords maybe be cut, and bodies will die, but true love is eternal.

“Cosmo, is it with willing hand you take this man to have and to hold through all your earthly years?”

“It is,” I said.

“John, is it with willing hand you take this man to have and to hold through all your earthly years?”

John said, “It is.”

“Blessed be. Never forget that these are the hands that will protect and champion you the rest of your life. Never will these hands be raised against you. For his are the hands that will support you in your efforts, steady you when you stumble, raise you up when you fall. For his is the touch that will cherish your body, comfort your heart, and feed your spirit.”

“So mote it be,” I said.

“I do,” John said.

Inés nodded to my cousin Lucille, who strummed her guitar and began to sing Stevie Nicks’s “Your Hand I Will Never Let It Go.”

John’s lips twitched. He met my eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. I squeezed his hand.

When the song ended, Inés said, “Cosmo and John, with willing hearts you have pledged to take the man at your side to have and to hold through all your years. The Goddess and God smile upon this union. All gathered here today wish you a lifetime of happiness—”

Not everyone!” a woman screamed in bloodcurdling tones.

I confess that for one appalled moment, I thought it was Maman. But no.

Worse.

Ciara stood about a foot from me, outside the sacred circle.

She looked…unhinged.

It was not a Maleficent moment. This was not a witch in control of her powers; this was a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown. She was white and shaking and sick. She looked like she hadn’t bathed or slept in days. She was still wearing the short blue shift she’d had on when I came to see her on Friday.

People began to rise from their chairs. I heard the instant low hum of protection spells being spoken, like a swarm of bees rising, and I saw John’s groomsmen breaking rank and making for us. I saw Sergeant Bergamasco reaching for what looked like a shoulder holster. A dozen images imprinted themselves in a quick, confused rush upon my memory: my mother’s face, Lucille’s guitar twanging as she dropped it, Ralph Grindlewood’s astonished expression—and the equally transfixed expression of the young, dark-haired woman beside him.

Ciara cried, “Not everyone wishes you a lifetime of happiness, you lewd, vile, canker-blossom, maggot pie of a murderer!”

She pointed skyward—and I saw that she was holding a pistol. She didn’t fire it, though. She quoted, “Ùine, stad a-nis, Tha mo ghunna a ’dol gu pop.”

I didn’t understand the words, but it was easy to guess their meaning because I and everyone else instantly froze in place.

A holding spell.

Something old enough, arcane enough, powerful enough to hold even other witches motionless for a few vital seconds—and that was all the time she required.

She walked back and forth along the curve of the circle, pointing the gun at me, and crying. She said through her tears, “I would wish you a lifetime of pain and sorrow—only your life ends now.”

I had never seen a gun up close. John did not carry a gun. He owned guns, and we would have guns in the house, whether I liked it or not (and I did not), but he had not shown them to me. Ciara’s pistol, which seemed the size of a Schwerer Gustav Dora, wavered.

“Why are you so hard to kill?” she wept.

There was barely time to be afraid—although I was afraid—because in the space of describing what happened, it was over. In one lightning-swift motion, John shook off the silk rope binding us together, knocked me to the grass, sprang from the circle, and grabbed my besom, which was leaning against the side of the rose-covered archway in anticipation of the broom jumping. He whacked Ciara across the middle so hard, she fell backward and dropped the pistol.

It went off with a shocking bang! Everyone screamed, and the blue crackle-glazed seer’s globe on the nearest pedestal shattered into a million shining bits.

The holding spell was broken, and John’s groomsmen and cop buddies rushed Ciara, who was crawling toward the dropped pistol.

 

 

Several hours and many, many questions later, the ceremony was eventually completed, and John and I were married in the eyes of the Goddess.

Ciara was arrested. Not just for attempted homicide, but for Seamus’s murder. What John had not bothered—well, in fairness, he hadn’t had time—to tell me the night before was that when Seamus’s computer had been searched by SFPD’s computer forensics team, emails had been found between him and a woman who signed herself only as V.

Sergeants Kolchak and Iff theorized that Seamus and V. had been having an illicit relationship, Ciara had discovered it, and in a jealous rage murdered Seamus and then tried to frame me for the crime.

I’m not a detective, but I thought this was a pretty lame theory. But then there was a huge amount of pressure on Iff and Kolchak to solve this case—even though they didn’t have all the facts. Nor were they about to get them from me. I was grateful to no longer be under suspicion. Grateful to be alive, because Ciara might not have killed Seamus, but she had certainly intended to kill me.

It had turned out to be harder than she expected, and those two seconds of wavering reluctance had given John the time he needed to throw off the holding spell. The fascinating thing was no mortal, not a single one, including John, realized anything but shock and horror had held them in place.

Which was fortunate, to say the least.

What most fascinated and, if I’m honest, concerned me was John’s ability to resist the power of Ciara’s spell. Was that because she had delivered it in Gaelic? He had also resisted English and Latin.

Anyway, as I said, the ceremony was at last completed, and John and I received the congratulations and well wishes of the attendees—not to mention a few other comments.

Ralph Grindlewood paused to shake hands on his way out.

“That was a close call. The Goddess smiled upon you today, my friend.”

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “And sorry about the floor show.” I studied his companion. As usual, she was about twenty years younger than Ralph—probably my age. She had blue-black hair and eyes so pale, they looked like sea glass. She was beautiful, but it was an unsettling kind of beauty. She studied me back with equal curiosity.

Ralph chuckled, and said, “I don’t believe you two have met yet, have you? Cosmo, this is Valenti Garibaldi. Valenti, this is Cosmo Saville—or will you be taking John’s name now?”

I admit I didn’t hear the first part of his comment. I was still processing the fact that this was the Valenti. The supposed Witch Queen. It had to be. No way could there be two of them running around San Francisco. I couldn’t tell if Ms. Garibaldi really was a witch or not—which made me suspect that she was.

Then Ralph’s remark registered. I said, “No, I’ll keep my last name.”

“Ah. Of course, you’ll want to protect the line of succession in case of progeny.”

I was a little shocked he said that right out loud in front of John. Not about the possible progeny, but about the line of succession. Fortunately, John was busy talking to my father, who appeared to be giving him an eye-glazing amount of advice on only the Lord and Lady knew what. Home security systems?

I said to Valenti, “I think you know my sister-in-law, Jinx Galbraith.”

She smiled. “Yes, Joan and I were just speaking. In fact, we were speaking of you.” She winked. “She thinks you and I should get to know each other. I think she’s right.”

Ralph said, “I spotted young Ambrose earlier. I take it you’ve decided to keep him on despite everything?”

“Despite everything,” I agreed.

“I hope you don’t live to regret it.” Ralph smiled at John, who had finally freed himself from my father’s clutches and turned back to us. “Thank you for allowing us to share in this joyful occasion. We wish you both the best of luck.”

When they were well out of earshot, John said, “Have I met him before?”

“I don’t think so. Have you?”

“Not sure. Something about him pings my radar. You said he’s a close friend?”

“I thought we were friends. Maybe he’s more of a customer than a friend.”

“I don’t like his eyes.”

I’d always thought Ralph’s eyes were rather warm and kindly. It didn’t sound like a John sort of comment, but he seemed perfectly serious.

My heart began to thump in the wake of alarmed realization. I know. You’re wondering what took me so long. But like I said, nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition.

John was still following his own line of thought. “I heard wishing the married couple luck on their wedding day was bad etiquette.”

“It is. Hey, can you excuse me for one second?”

John’s brows rose. “Sure. Everything okay?”

“Yes. I just want to verify something. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I sprinted up the flagstone path, passing other guests on their leisurely way up the hillside, absently noting friendly, teasing comments—Too late now, Cosmo! or He’s right behind you, Cosmo! I reached the top, raced across our backyard, banged out through the side gate, and came to a stop on the sidewalk just in time to see Ralph’s black Mercedes disappearing over the crest of the driveway.