Chapter Two

 

Oakland’s earliest inhabitants were the Lisjan Ohlone people. These Huchiun natives lived there for thousands of years, so safe to say, there were plenty of posterns in that part of town, and I had no problem landing on Ambrose’s doorstep.

Well, not literally his doorstep. More like the landing of the Bancroft Avenue apartment he shared with his grandmother.

I don’t know what it was like in prehistoric times, but these days Eastmont is not a great neighborhood. In fact, the violent-crime rate is just about 700% over the national average. But the place looked okay. Bruised and battered but still standing. The blue building was gated and surrounded by autumn-colored trees. It was also surrounded by other apartment buildings and busy streets—and all the ground floor windows had bars across them—but there were definitely worse places.

No sound came from inside the apartment. I knocked softly on the peeling white door—and then knocked again.

I was getting ready to knock a third time when I heard locks turning and door chains sliding. The door swung open, and Ambrose stood in the doorway. A slight, almost frail-looking twenty-one-year-old in ripped jeans and a black sweatshirt. That afternoon his wiry dark hair looked wilder than usual, and he was wide-eyed—not with delight.

“C-Cosmo!”

I said, “Hey. I happened to not be in the neighborhood but decided to swing by anyway.”

He gulped. “I— Didn’t Blanche tell you I had to—that it was a-an emergency?”

“She told me.”

His creamy complexion went ghostly. He raised his chin to meet his fate head on. “Are you here to fire me?”

“I hope not.” I was sincere about that. “But we definitely need to talk. May I come in?”

Ambrose threw an uneasy glance over his shoulder, hesitated, but then moved aside. “I guess so. Yes.”

I stepped inside. The apartment smelled of candles, thyme, and stewing beef. It took my eyes a second or two to adjust to the gloom. The blinds were closed tightly, and the only light came from a small reading lamp at the end of a sagging sofa. A large book lay open on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Next to the book was a calligraphy pen set and a small indigo bottle of ink.

“GramMa is sleeping,” Ambrose whispered. “She had a bad night.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Did you…want to sit down?”

“Thank you. I would.” I went to the sofa, but the book on the coffee table caught my attention. I stared down at a diagram of the Cygnus constellation, looked up to find him watching me warily.

“You’re working on your grimoire?”

He nodded, dark eyes watchful.

Some of my tension eased. In June I had agreed to take Ambrose on as my apprentice in the Craft, which made firing him complicated. It would be difficult to continue as his master if there were hard feelings over his losing his job. Then again, I had started wondering if maybe he needed a different master anyway because we had argued repeatedly over his lack of interest in my training methods—in particular the building of his grimoire. It had turned into such a point of contention that I had refused to teach him another spell until he showed me that he had made some progress on his personal Book of Shadows.

To be honest, he could be so muleheaded, I hadn’t expected to win this battle so quickly. Or at all.

“May I see?”

Ambrose nodded again, moving to the table, picking up the book and handing it to me.

I took it carefully. Handling another’s grimoire must always be done with respect—and caution. But as I turned the fragile pages, I smiled. He had taken a book on natural history from the 1920s and overlaid several pages of text with his own notes, diagrams, and the spells I’d shared with him. The full-color plates of creatures both real and imaginary remained intact. It was beautifully done.

“Is it all right?” he asked gruffly.

“Oh yes. Very much so.” I met his gaze. “Are you happy with it?”

He shrugged, but then smiled reluctantly. “Yeah. You were right. It’s kind of in—”

The door to the apartment’s sole bedroom opened, and Ambrose broke off.

“Who here?” The voice was small and creaky.

An elderly woman swaddled in sweaters and a flannel nightie shuffled a few steps into the living room. She was tiny, fine-boned, and so pale she looked silver, inexplicably reminding me of a chimaera fish. Her white hair was in a braid that reached her waist. Her eyes were white too, and I remembered she was blind.

Ambrose threw me a quick, nervous look. “It’s my boss, GramMa. It’s Mr. Saville.”

“I’m sorry to intrude, Madame,” I said.

She stopped a few feet from us, swaying ever so slightly as though rocked by an unseen current. She began to sniff the air. Which was…a little different.

There was something else a little different about her, and I understood where Ambrose’s talent sprang from.

“There dark powa here,” she whispered.

My scalp prickled.

“No, GramMa,” Ambrose said quickly.

“No, Madame,” I said. “I promise you I mean no harm to you or to Ambrose.”

“You ave come yah to take my son!”

“No. No, really, I haven’t.”

Ambrose pleaded, “GramMa, Mr. Saville is my boss. He’s my master.”

I doubt she even heard him. She pointed at me and began to cast her spell.

Some of the words were French, some English, some…something else. Jamaican Patois perhaps? While words matter in spellcasting, intent matters more, and despite her age and mental confusion, her intent was focused and deadly. As the air began to change, grow misty and green, I made the avert sign. The coffee table flipped over, flinging blue ink everywhere, and the lamp next to the couch exploded.

“No, no! GramMa, no. Please no!” Ambrose was crying. He did not attempt to stop her, of course, would never have dreamed of using Craft against her.

Nor could I. Or rather, I could have, but such an act would be unthinkable.

It would also be unthinkable to let her slay me.

Open the door that hides within

Protect this crone from mortal sin

I shall return another day

But just for now I must away

The door to the apartment flew open at the same moment a blue rectangle appeared. I opted for the rectangle and sprang through the frame of light.

I landed on my hands and knees on a high wooden platform.

A high wooden platform surrounded by yellow prison bars and crowded with small children, one of whom shouted into my face, “It’s MY turn!”

“I—right. I see that.” I looked around and saw also that, in addition to the munchkins, there were several alarmed-looking women already on their feet and closing in on what turned out to be a large and elaborate play structure, complete with a plastic green palm tree that was preventing me from standing.

This is what comes of relying on kiddie Craft. And relying on kiddie Craft is what comes when you make promises you shouldn’t make.

“You’re too BIG,” another tiny terror bellowed, and kicked me with her pink daisy sneaker.

“Ouch! All right. I’m going…”

I dove down the wavy blue plastic slide, arms first, and landed ungracefully in a pile of sand and scattered toys. I could hear the cell phones clicking like paparazzi as I scrambled up and sprinted away, hands raised to shield my face.

* * * * *

“You can stop laughing now,” I told Andi.

We were sitting in the back office of the Mad Batter, the specialty cupcake shop Andi owns and operates.

I suppose you could say Andromeda Merriweather is my best friend, but when you’ve known someone as long as I’ve known Andi—all my life, in fact—the bond is closer to blood tie than friendship. And I say that as someone raised in a society where blood is everything.

Anyway, Andi is three months older than me. She’s tall and lanky, wears her coppery hair short and spiky, has hazel eyes and freckles as cute as cupcake sprinkles. Despite all that refined sugar, she’s not a frivolous person, but she laughs easily, and she was still laughing as she pushed a red-brown cream-cheese-topped cupcake my way.

“Sorry. But you have to admit, if this happened to Bree or V. or Whitby…”

“I’d be laughing my ass off if it happened to Whitby,” I agreed. Waite Whitby is my first cousin on my mother’s side, which means that if I were to break my neck falling off a kiddie play structure, he would take my place in the direct line of succession to trône de sorcière.

Well, no, because he’d have to get my mother and his mother out of the way first, but anyway, he’d definitely move up a rung on the ladder. Which is something he’s been aware of since he was seven and I was five and he tried to drown me in the fountain of our aunt Laure d’Estrées’ Parisian garden.

Not that you need to know about that now.

I took a bite of cupcake and raised my eyebrows. “Mmm. What is that?”

“Devil in Red Velvet.”

“Wow.” I savored another lusciously creamy sweet bite, said slowly, thickly, “Did you…?”

“Just a pinch,” she admitted.

“Kind of pushing the envelope, don’t you think?”

She acknowledged it. “They’re not for my regular customers. I’m thinking of starting an exclusive line, catering to Craft clients.”

I nodded. The idea bothered me, no lie. There’s so much bias against mortals, but I really didn’t expect that of Andi. For one thing, she’s in love with a mortal—although she won’t admit it.

“How’s Trace?” I asked, none too subtly. Trace Levine was probably John’s best friend. They grew up together, served in the SEALs together, and Trace had been Best Man at our wedding, which was where he’d met Andi.

She made a face, reading me correctly. “He’s fine. Everything is great between us.”

You would think that would be good news. But you would be wrong. Her sigh was wistful.

I changed the subject. Only not really. “Does John talk much to Trace?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“I mean, like we talk.”

“Oh.” Andi moved her head in negation. “No. John’s so busy these days. But no. He doesn’t talk to Trace about police business. Or even family business. Not anymore.”

I felt a little twinge over that “not anymore” because I knew that was John keeping my secrets.

She slid a blue mini cupcake with green and teal sprinkles my way. “Try this Neptune’s Nibble.”

I said regretfully, “I think I’m cupcaked out.”

“Not possible.” She tilted her head, studying me. “What are you going to do about Ambrose?”

At this reminder I checked my phone once again for messages, but there was still no word from Ambrose. I did see a message from my belle-mère, but pretended I didn’t.

“I don’t know. I certainly have a better understanding of the situation.”

She said slowly, “Does John realize you’ve taken Ambrose as your apprentice? Because you promised not to use magic, but how can you instruct the kid without using any magic of your own?”

“Right now, I’m just teaching him the history of the Abracadantès and a few basic spells. Elementary stuff. The Ten Precepts. How to build a grimoire. That kind of thing.”

“But you must be demonstrating the spells first. Anyway, isn’t that splitting hairs?”

I sighed my exasperation. It’s so annoying when people who disagree with you are right. “Yes. And yes. And no, John doesn’t know that I’m training Ambrose in witchcraft.”

Her hazel eyes were sympathetic. But she also thought I’d brought this on myself by promising John not to use Craft. And she was right about that too. “Do you think grand-mère is dangerous?”

“Hell to the yeah, grand-mère is dangerous. If she could have killed me, she would have. I don’t know if she poses a threat to mortals, but she sure as heck poses a threat to anyone Craft who crosses her path.”

“But that’s not likely, right? Surely, she doesn’t go out. Does she?”

“I have no idea what she does or doesn’t do. For all I know she has a regular gig performing magic tricks at the senior center. I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t give it much thought until now. I figured it was something Ambrose should be able to work out on his own, but this is not easily managed. I’m going to ask the Duchess if she has any ideas.”

“Has she ever not had an idea?” Andi said dryly.

“True.”

Andi licked a glittering sprinkle off her fingertip. “Speaking of your mother, I saw Phelon on Tuesday. He was having dinner at Gary Danko’s.”

Phelon Penn is one of Maman’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. I’m sorry. Did I say that aloud? Phelon Penn is my mother’s former companion. Like the other Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, he was the perfect lapdog and cost a fortune in grooming supplies.

“Was he alone?”

“No.”

“Was he with a woman?”

“Yes.”

I smiled and reached for the Neptune’s Nibble.