Chapter Twelve

 

“Hi there, stranger!” Our waiter—a tall, lanky blond with green eyes and dimples—twinkled down at John.

“Oh, hi…uh…” John threw me a quick look.

“Charlie,” Charlie supplied. “I used to wait tables over at the Bus Stop. Remember?”

“Of course!” John lied.

“He’s terrible with names,” I said. “Mine’s Cosmo, by the way.”

Charlie threw me a distracted, doubtful look before glomming his gaze back on John.

John said, “Charlie, this is Cosmo. My husband.”

“Husband?” Charlie repeated doubtfully. “Really?”

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t know why he keeps telling people that.” I grinned at John. “Why do you keep telling people that, John?”

“Because you’re my husband, and I want the witnesses to be able to tell the detectives who killed me.”

I laughed.

Charlie managed a feeble, “Ha, ha, ha,” handed us our menus, and fled.

John met my eyes, shook his head, but he was trying not to laugh. “Not nice.”

“But not as wicked as I could be.”

“That I don’t doubt.” His smile faded, and he expelled a long breath. “Jesus, I need a drink.”

“I’m sorry. Bad day?”

His nod was curt. “Stevens wants me to fire Morrisey.”

“Fire him?”

“Fire Morrisey, promote Danville to Chief, and if Danville can’t figure out who’s behind this blackmail ring within thirty days, fire him too and then resign.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” John’s tone was somber. “He’s devastated over his wife’s suicide. I get that.”

“Well, sure, but it’s not like the whole department hasn’t made this case a priority. It’s all you’ve talked about for the last month.”

“I hope that’s not true.”

“Not all you’ve talked about,” I conceded.

“We’re not getting anywhere, though, and now this has happened. For Stevens, it’s the last straw. And I understand why.”

“Yes, so do I, sort of. But you inherited this police department. I don’t see how any of this can be your fault.”

John’s smile was rueful. “Because that’s what leadership is about, sweetheart. Dependability. Responsibility. Accountability.”

Charlie arrived to take our drink order. John ordered a single malt. I asked if the bar could do a Black Magic martini. Charlie looked doubtful but said he would check.

“Wait. Never mind. What about an Automne en Normandie?”

Charlie said he would check—and departed before I could change my mind again.

I sighed, said to John, “Do you think it’s weird there’s been no follow-up on those pictures of Jinx that were sent to me? I’ve been expecting a muffled call from a phone booth every day.”

“Good luck finding a phone booth. Your blackmailer’s probably still looking.”

“True.”

“It’s a mind game,” John said. “They wait just long enough for you to start to relax again, and then they hit you with their demands.”

“Which is usually what? Money?”

“So far money seems to be the object. We’ve only been able to speak directly with three victims, though.” John added, “However, in your particular case, I think the blackmailer may have realized a miscalculation. Not only does my wayward sister truly not give a damn about embarrassing photos, I was never going to permit you to pay one penny in hush money.”

“Permit me?” I murmured.

“You know what I mean.”

I laughed. “Yes. Exactly what you said.”

He pretended not to hear that. “Which is why I think they tried breaking into our house. They needed something better. Better leverage. Something that one or both of us were willing to pay to keep quiet.”

Charlie returned with the sad news that Automne en Normandie was a no-go, but I had the choice of red appletini or caramel appletini. I ordered a single malt, and Charlie looked aggrieved and departed yet again.

John said, “If we at least knew how the victims were being targeted, I’d feel like we were making progress. We don’t even know that. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be much these victims have in common beyond being wealthy enough to pay up.”

“Disposable income. Disposable time. Who does that sound like?” I knew who it sounded like to me: Ladies Who Lunch.

John raised his brows. “I’ll bite. Who?”

I didn’t answer because it had occurred to me that if Sukie Stevens had been part of Solomon Shimon’s coven and one of his informants, it didn’t make sense that she would then be blackmailed. Did it?

It didn’t to me.

Which meant that Shimon probably wasn’t part of the blackmailing ring. Which meant that Ralph was probably telling the truth about the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm not being behind the extortion scheme. Which meant members of SPMMR were legitimately victims. Which meant my crazy theory that someone was trying to escalate conflict between witches and mortals was possible.

Wait. Was it possible? Was this extortion racket really a false-flag operation to incite a war between witches and mortals? Were there really those within the Craft mad enough to believe such a conflict could bring anything but destruction to all of us?

It was not a real question because I already knew the answer.

Yes. There were.

“Cos?” John prompted. “You look like you swallowed your gum.”

Now, to begin with, chewing gum is a detestable habit. I do not chew gum, and he knows I do not chew gum because he occasionally chews gum and has heard my thoughts on the matter. I opened my mouth to make them clearer still but never got the chance.

“Why am I not surprised?” a light, familiar voice interrupted.

I looked up, scowl in place. Phelon Penn, my mother’s former companion, stood beside our table, glaring down at me.

Phelon and I have never been…well, at best we have tolerated each other, and at worst—which was most of the years he was with Maman—we loathed each other. Phelon is several years her junior and was one of her fencing students. He was also Abracadantès and, according to Maman, high born, whatever that means. As far as I can tell, he sponged off her their entire relationship.

I will grant that Phelon is handsome, if you don’t mind someone with the looks and brains of an Afghan hound—also, once again according to Maman, virile. Which, right there, more than I ever wanted to know.

“I thought you’d decided to move to Paris,” I said by way of greeting.

“Estelle is facing treason charges, and here you sit, the cause of all her troubles, eating dinner with your mortal as though nothing’s wrong.”

I only heard the first part of that sentence—and it hit me like a punch in the chest. “What do you mean?”

Phelon’s lip curled. “As if you didn’t know.”

I pushed back my chair and rose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He looked dreadful. His face was red, and his eyes glittered like he was in a high fever. “The same thing everyone is talking about. Everyone but you, I suppose.”

I heard the scrape of John’s chair as he also rose, and realized belatedly that we had the fascinated attention of most of the long dining room. I raised my hand, said, “All time stop. Let nothing drop!”

Every mortal in the restaurant—other than John—froze. A couple of witches in the corner exchanged glances, grabbed their to-go bags, and exited out the front.

I said to Phelon, “What do you mean treason?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know she’s been summoned to appear before le Conseil Savant.”

“I know she was summoned to Paris.”

“She’s facing treason charges because of him and his family.” Phelon cast John a baleful look and, unbelievably, raised his hand.

I answered with a quick, angry arc that blocked the spell before it even began. It didn’t take much effort. Phelon has never been much of a spellcaster.

“How dare you?” Phelon snarled.

“How dare you?”

“Are you two lunatics out of your minds?” John snapped. “You can’t pull this shit in public. There are security cameras. There are people walking past the windows.”

Phelon stared at him, said slowly, “So it’s true. He’s immune to magic.”

John said, “I’m immune to bullshit, if that’s what you mean.”

Phelon turned to me. “You brought this upon Estelle. You brought this upon the Abracadantès. You brought this upon all of us.”

And with that, he raised his arms and disappeared à la the Wicked Witch of the West, complete with red smoke, because, yeah, he’s that guy. Anything for shock value.

A very long moment passed before the last sulfurous fumes dissipated and John spoke.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he said.

I was still rattled by Phelon’s news and snapped back, “I didn’t start that!”

“You’re—were—going to have a-a witch throw-down in the middle of a city center restaurant?”

“I. Didn’t. Start. It.”

John wasn’t having any of it. “But you were right there with him, casting spells and doing whatever the hell else that was.”

I understood that he was angry and shocked, but it felt unfair to blame me for not letting Phelon try to kill him—assuming that was what Phelon had in mind. Maybe he’d intended to burn the place down?

“I can’t just stand there and do nothing!” I protested.

John looked around the silent restaurant—silent except for the sound of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen—every single person statue-still in the midst of whatever they had been doing: forks halfway to mouths, streams of wine floating like little crimson or golden clouds, flirtatious looks frozen in time.

“Undo whatever you did,” John ordered.

I sat down at the table, irritably snapped my fingers, and everyone sprang back to life. Charlie dropped the drinks tray, and the smash of glass joined the din of voices. I rested my forehead on my hand.

John sat down, glowering. “That was not okay.”

I raised my head. “I don’t know what you want. I know it wasn’t okay. But what was I supposed to do?”

He didn’t have an answer, of course. He continued to frown at me. “What did he mean about your mother being accused of treason?”

Unexpectedly, my throat clamped shut. I squeezed out a half smothered, “I don’t know. She was called back to Paris last night. I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

He said slowly, “Is no news good news?”

“No news is no news,” I said bitterly.

Some of his disapproval faded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because there’s nothing you can do. Because if I let myself think about it, I can’t concentrate on anything else.” I looked away from him.

“That’s why Jinx is suddenly staying with us?”

“Yes.”

John studied me for a long moment. “I’m sorry. You should have told me. Even if I can’t do anything, I want to know.”

I nodded, wiped my eyes impatiently.

“Is our marriage—”

“I don’t know. No! It’s not. Laure d’Estrées, my great-aunt, gave our marriage her blessing.”

“And that means—”

“Everything. Or it should.”

“Okay. Well, if the problem isn’t our marriage, is it something to do with Jinx?”

John remained a bit vague on why Maman had taken Jinx as her protégée. Partly, that was because neither Jinx nor I were very forthcoming about her tutelage. Partly, I believe John did not want to know. I think he hoped that Jinx was mostly there as Maman’s personal assistant.

I said, “That doesn’t help. The problem is, while marriage to mortals is not forbidden, it’s less popular at some times than others. It’s not very popular right now. And it’s never been popular when it comes to la classe dirigeante.”“The what?”

“Let’s say, the people upstairs.”

John considered that, seemed to accept it. “Okay. Obviously, I don’t know how this works, but I’ve been in a few fights over the years, and my money is on your mother. Your mom versus the Spanish Inquisition? I’d bet on Endora.”

I laughed shakily. Nodded.

“It’ll be okay,” John said.

I nodded again, but despite his confident tone, I could see by his eyes he wasn’t any more sure of that than I was.

 

 

Jinx was still out when I got home around eight.

I changed into silk sleep pants and kimono, fixed a cup of Sleepytime tea—no lie, it’s as good as any witch’s brew—and curled up in the den with Pyewacket to watch Bewitched. “Your Witch is Showing” is one of my favorite episodes, and between the tea and the TV, I began to calm down a bit.

How comforting Samantha’s life was. Yes, Darrin was continually fussing and fuming about Sam using her powers—actually forbidding her attending her cousin’s wedding—but even Darrin usually agreed that everything always turned out for the best when Sam interfered.

Not that I would have traded John for all the Darrins—by the way, how did Sam not notice there were two of them?!—in the world.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes sometime later, the local news was on and Pyewacket’s purr had turned into something closer to a yowl.

I blinked at the TV screen.

The news anchor—a concerned-looking African-American woman—was saying, “Witnesses describe the suspect as a Caucasian male in his late twenties or early thirties, six feet or taller, slender build, with longish black hair and light blue or gray eyes.”

“Oh no,” I whispered. “No. Goddess. Don’t let this be what I think it is.”

But, of course, it was exactly what I thought it was.

“The suspect was dressed in black and may have carried an umbrella with a parrot head handle.”

Pyewacket and I exchanged alarmed looks as the camera cut away from the news anchor and the TV screen was filled with a black-and-white sketch of a disreputable-looking fellow with shaggy dark hair, my eyes, and an ugly snarl of a mouth.

The news anchor was still talking to the at-home viewers. “Working from eye witness accounts, a police sketch artist has come up with this composite drawing of the suspect. If you know this man, please contact the SFPD hotline at 415-553-…”