Death Retires

by Cate Lawley

Hector returned with a shot of some dark liquid. He saw me eyeing the fat shot glass. “Espresso.”

  Sylvie reached out to take the glass but then her hand hovered in the air. “Oh, it’s so . . . beautiful.” This time when she reached out her hand, it wasn’t for the espresso.

  Hector dodged her, placed the shot glass in front of her, and retreated. “Ah, no. You can’t pet someone’s aura.”

  Sylvie blushed a fiery red. “I am so sorry. I have no idea what I was thinking.”

  Tamara walked into the kitchen with a grocery bag that looked to be full of actual groceries. “No need for embarrassment. You were thinking what everyone thinks when they catch their first glimpse of Hector’s daytime aura: that it’s one of the most gorgeous things you’ve ever seen. Angelic, even.” Tamara shared a glance with Hector that made him look decidedly uncomfortable.

  Lilac arrived on Tamara’s heels and craned her neck to see what was in the bag. “Wait—whose beautiful aura?”

  “Hector’s,” Sylvie replied.

  Lilac’s head shot up, groceries forgotten. She scrutinized Hector—who I’d swear was blushing, except his skin was dark enough to hide it—and finally said, “No, I can’t see it. I’ve never been able to see auras.” She grinned at Hector. “But I’m not surprised yours is gorgeous.”

  Hector might be comfortable with his physical self, but his metaphysical self was something else entirely. And that made me wonder if this was in part the cause of his daytime grumpiness. Tamara had clearly said “daytime aura.”

  But I took pity on him and redirected the conversation. We were guests in the man’s home, after all. “Sylvie cracked the rock—metaphorically, anyway.”

  “Hm. Yes, I see that.” Tamara set about unloading the groceries she’d retrieved, seemingly quite at ease in Hector’s kitchen. “It appears, Sylvie, that your grandmother was holding out on you. She wasn’t a medium. With her power, you have all the markings of a necromantic mage. Now, who would like a sandwich?”

  28

  Small problem with being a necromantic mage—or anything else that was visible to the trained eye—Nicky might see the signs, just like Tamara, and know immediately that Sylvie had cracked open the family vault.

  Unlike Sylvie’s family, who’d been less than enchanted by their wacky, sometimes ghost-seeing grandmother and denied any connection to the supernatural world, Nicky’s family seemed to have embraced magic with open (and greedy) arms.

  Tamara and Sylvie had declined help preparing the sandwiches, and I suspected Tamara had used their time alone to answer some of Sylvie’s questions. Whatever was said had put Sylvie more at ease. I was itching to mimic Lilac and blatantly ask—about necromantic mages and ghostly grandmothers—but unlike Lilac, I had some self-control.

  It was well past lunchtime, so when the pile of sandwiches arrived, they didn’t last long. Our hunger sated, we sat around the kitchen table and spitballed the best methods for shielding Sylvie’s newfound powers.

  Lilac asked, “Why not dig around in that magic man cave of yours, Hector, and pull out the perfect solution?”

  “The concern is that Sylvie’s magic, which is still new and unfamiliar, might interact unpredictably with a cursed object,” Tamara explained, as if they’d not just been talking about this very issue for ten minutes.

  Lilac rolled her eyes. “Like that’s a greater risk than asking poor Sylvie to do the equivalent of complex math while being grilled by kidnappers and negotiating Clarence’s safe return.”

  “What do you think, Hector?” Tamara asked. “Worse to try new magic or to try a cursed object with new magic that not’s actually in play?”

  “Ah, do I get a vote?” Sylvie asked. Everyone turned to her. She’d been very quiet through the discussion. “These powers you guys are talking about? They don’t exist, not in any usable form. I vote cursed object, because I can’t do magic.” Now that she had everyone’s attention, she took it down a notch and, in a lighter tone, said, “Also, I vote we stop calling them ‘cursed’ objects.”

  Lilac looked intrigued. “Why cursed? Why not enchanted, ensorcelled, or even just magical? Cursed is so . . . dark.” She looked at me and nodded. “You were right. Demons have a PR problem.”

  “We’ll change what centuries of culture and myth have wrought—just for you, Lilac. Let me get right on that.” Hector leaned back in his chair. “After we’ve retrieved the cat. And I’ve recatalogued my library.”

  I took that to mean no time soon. “So, Hector, what type of cursed object do you think might do the trick? Won’t Nicky be able to see a cursed object as easily as someone’s else’s magic?”

  Hector quirked an eyebrow at me. “Plant the curse deep enough within the fibers of the object’s being and you can hide the magic from most people. Not a demon, but most others.”

  Lilac’s eyes lit up. “So are you going to make something? Or do you have the perfect ‘cursed object’ in mind?”

  Her blatant attempt at compliance amused him. He didn’t flash his usual easy smile, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, giving him away. “No, Lilac, I will not be making something in the next few hours. It’s not like ordering pizza; it takes time.”

  Eyes huge, Lilac sat on the edge of her seat. “So? What have you got?”

  He listed a few options and watched as Lilac and Sylvie paid close attention. I couldn’t help but worry that Lilac’s blind enthusiasm, her outright exuberance for all things magical, might be leaving her open to harm. Sylvie’s more cautious approach seemed safer.

  Tamara patted my hand. “She’ll be fine. She’s just young, and you’ve forgotten what youth is like.”

  Quietly, I asked her, “What kind of witch can read minds?” If she was going to continue to pry inside my head, then my reservations about her own privacy were going to diminish in equal proportion.

  “The kind who isn’t all witch,” she replied quietly. “And you’re right, I shouldn’t be prying. But you also need to put protections in place. You’re a very open person, Geoff, which makes you a lovely man, but also very easy to read for those of us with the talent.” With a concerned look, she patted my hand again and then joined the most-suitable-cursed-item debate.

  The eyeglasses won in the end.

  Hector handed Sylvie a pair of feminine-looking glasses. “So long as you’re looking through the lenses, your magic should be hidden from view. So don’t take them off.” With a serious look, he added, “And don’t lose them.”

  Tamara sighed. “Don’t start with the ‘cursed objects in the wild’ speech.”

  “Since you mention it, there are several excellent points that you should all be made aware of. And it’s not a speech.” Except Hector was wrong. It was definitely a speech, which was especially entertaining because it conflicted with the lady-killer image I’d developed of him over the last few hours.

  What I gathered from his serious, heartfelt, and very speech-like pep talk was that cursed objects could be very powerful and that sometimes they were unpredictable. We should do exactly as instructed with them, no more, no less. Only some of the items under his control were created by him. Cursed objects in general could be unpredictable, and even more so if they’d been created by a demon with morally questionable objectives.

  Only trained, responsible individuals should be allowed access, and under no circumstances should we ever allow one of his toys—uh, catalogued items—to return to the wild where just anyone could use them.

  “The ‘wild’ being anywhere that’s not here or under your direct supervision?” Lilac asked. And she wasn’t even poking fun. She looked quite serious.

  “Basically,” Hector said. “There are a few responsible curators in the state, one in Austin, but certainly cursed items shouldn’t be allowed into the public domain. Everyone got it?” He looked at each of us, and one by one we agreed that we did, in fact, have it.

  Hector took a little of the fun out of playing with magic toys.

  And then he handed me my very own ma
gic toy: an iron knife he retrieved from a case that contained a dozen or so knives.

  I turned it over in my hands. “Wow, this looks old.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s made of iron, so it gives that appearance. And it’s not cursed. If Nicky’s created one construct, he could have another on hand. Iron works well against constructs, as Lilac discovered.” He gave Lilac an encouraging smile

  “Oh!” She perked up. “I have my gargoyle in my purse downstairs. I’ll make sure to bring him back to the shop.”

  “Excellent choice. It certainly can’t hurt to have him on hand. Gargoyles can be fierce protectors and are always good luck for the owner.” Hector turned his attention to me. “Works like any knife, maybe a little sharper, maybe a little more accurate. It’s slick if it gets . . . uh, wet, since it’s constructed entirely of iron.”

  I inferred wet to mean bloody, and appreciated both the warning and his discretion. Then I realized that iron shouldn’t be as sharp as any knife, and certainly not more so. And increasing accuracy meant there had to be some magic, unless Hector had put some kind of whammy on me. “Wait, I thought you said the knife wasn’t cursed.”

  “Well, there’s cursed and there’s just a pinch of helpful magic.” Hector winked, and then handed me an ankle sheath he pulled from under the knife case. Then he retrieved an old-fashioned key from his pocket. He removed it from his key ring and presented it to Lilac. “This is for you. Just put it in your pocket and don’t lose it.”

  He’d just given her something he clearly carried as a personal token, and I hoped she understood its value. She opened her mouth to reply and nothing came out, then she gripped it tightly in her fist for several seconds before stuffing it in her pocket. She patted her pocket and then nodded. Maybe she did understand.

  Hector paused to strap on two knives of his own, as well as a wooden stake. He saw me eyeing the sharpened implement. “Useful against more than one type of undead creature, and since we don’t know what we’ll be up against, it’s a good precaution.”

  All I heard was “vampires,” even though he never said the word.

  My fear must have shown, because he pulled out the stake and handed it to me to inspect. The point was wickedly sharp. “I grew the tree from a tiny seed and whispered words of magic to it until it let loose of this particular limb.” He flashed a devilish grin. “Those words were very sharp and pointy.”

  My eyebrows lifted. Not like ordering a pizza indeed. I quickly returned the stake.

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, but just in case . . .” He held up a finger. He left to pull a jar off the shelf furthest from the stairs. He returned and placed it on the table we’d gathered around. “A small insurance policy against infection from the dead.”

  Lilac thumped the table. “I knew it! Vampirism is contagious.”

  “Not like you mean.” Tamara peered intently at Lilac. There was a warning in her eyes. “The bite of most undead will infect but not turn you. Every creature has its own methods for continuing its kind, but an undead bite will get you sick and possibly dead—not undead.”

  Looking slightly paler, Lilac turned to Hector. “What do we have to do?”

  He unscrewed the lid of the jar and a pungent, not unpleasant aroma escaped. It was earthy, like freshly turned soil. And spicy. No, perhaps floral? Or grass. Maybe—

  Tamara leaned close. “You can’t parse the scents, because they’re not intended to be identified.”

  Lilac looked at the jar like bugs might crawl out at any moment. “What do we do with it?”

  “Inhale,” he replied, so we all did. He passed the jar around, and we all got a solid whiff of the multifaceted, ever-changing, impossible-to-pin-down scent.

  As Hector screwed the lid back on the jar, he said to Lilac, “Nothing’s foolproof, so try not to get bitten.”

  While Hector replaced the jar and Lilac tried not to hyperventilate, Tamara pulled several charms from her bag. They dangled on the end of thin leather cords.

  As she handed them out, she said. “Protection isn’t where my expertise lies, but these may have some small benefit.”

  Hector snorted but didn’t comment. So either they were basically useless, or our friendly neighborhood witch was being excessively modest.

  Sylvie received a tiny pouch that smelled suspiciously of baked goods. Lilac’s charm was a little cloudy crystal. She laughed when she touched it and said, “It’s a salt crystal!”

  And I got a cat. I know we were out to rescue my furry housemate, but still—my protection charm was a cat?

  “Thank you,” I said.

  But Tamara had pried into my head, or my thoughts were shouting, because she said, “Trust me.”

  “So anyone have a good idea of what this Nicky character looks like?” Lilac pulled out her phone and, after a few swipes, presented us with a picture from the file Clarence had put together.

  “Neither of us have met him.” Tamara looked to Hector for confirmation. He nodded agreement, and she said, “Only Mrs. G. Nicky doesn’t come and go much. He’s kept to himself since he moved in.”

  They both leaned in for a good look, as did I.

  Sylvie nodded. “A few times.”

  Uh-oh, she looked really mad. And then the volcano erupted.

  “How long have they lived here?” Sylvie asked with a disgusted look at Nicky’s picture.

  Lilac stuffed the phone back into her pocket, quietly supplying the answer: two and a half months. She must have had more than a passing look at the files.

  Sylvie took the information in stride and kept right on going. “Two and a half months they’ve been here. I can’t help wondering what other snooping they’ve gotten up to, non-magical things that wouldn’t have triggered Tamara’s alarms.” She clutched the glasses in her hand, and Hector winced. “It’s just so creepy to think about. They basically stalked me. Stalked me like a, a, a—”

  “Deer?” Lilac supplied.

  Pointing at Lilac, Sylvie nodded with terrifying enthusiasm, stabbing her finger in the air. “Like a deer! And probably would have kept on doing it if you hadn’t shown up, Geoff. Right across the street, and you were so sweet”—not how I remembered our initial meeting, but far be it for me to interrupt a righteously angry woman’s rant—“and we talked, and then Bobby, and ohmygod! Nicky killed Bobby. Because of the names, and the will, and the divorce, and so they found Bobby and not me, and this is all my stupid family’s fault!”

  She stood there, panting, looking as one does after a righteous tirade: a little high on anger, a little relieved to have let it all out, and a little tired.

  The names and the divorce part were a little confusing, but the rest I basically understood. Best not to question the unclear parts, so I asked, “Do you feel better?”

  She brushed a few strands of hair away from her face, straightened her back, and took a breath. “Yes, thank you, I do. Let’s go get ourselves a cat.”

  29

  Since my car was expected, I drove to Lilac’s shop.

  “It’s not a granddad car, Lilac. It’s an American-made luxury sedan that comfortably accommodates myself and my cat and, when the need arises, four of my closest partners in crime.” I couldn’t believe we were having this argument now.

  Lilac leaned forward so that she was wedged in between Hector and I. Hector had taken the front passenger seat, since even my spacious backseat would be cramped for him. “Granddad car. Do we need to take a poll?”

  Hector and Tamara both raised their hands, which made Lilac squeal in victory. Maybe this was how she relieved stress.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror at one supporter. “Thank you, Sylvie.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “I’m abstaining.”

  And the results were conclusive: I drove a granddad car. Cars were expensive, and new cars doubly so. I wasn’t getting a new one, so I gave up and shrugged. “I like it. It’s a nice car.”

  “It is a nice car.” Hector nodded amicably. “A smooth r
ide, plenty of legroom—but definitely a grandpa car.”

  No doubt Hector’s car made a statement, but quietly. Nothing flashy, but definitely cool.

  Sylvie’s eyes crinkled, and her lips quirked with a suppressed smile. “It’s okay, Geoff. If anyone can pull off a grandpa car, it’s you.”

  When I pulled into the strip mall where Lilac’s store was located, everyone fell silent. We’d arrived at the shop well in advance of the allocated time. The lights were on, and the shop sign was flipped to Open.

  My concern must have shown, because Lilac leaned forward again. “I have two part-time employees that usually man the store when I have readings, need to do paperwork, or just can’t come in.”

  Lilac, with her green hair, her lip piercing, her ghosts, and her abundant enthusiasm, was an adult who owned her own business. It was easy to forget. I’d assumed the store had been closed while she was helping us.

  “Just a second.” She leaned on the console between the two front seats. “They should be coming out any minute. Phoebe’s closing early today, and I had her invite her boyfriend to tag along for the day.”

  “That’s”—odd, but I opted for a gentler alternative—“generous of you.”

  Lilac snorted and pointed. “Not even a little.”

  A small giant dressed in khakis and a T-shirt emerged from the store, followed by a petite girl with shockingly pink hair. The pink-haired girl locked up and then the two got in the giant’s truck and left.

  “Perhaps not a match for a construct,” Hector said, “but yes, I can see how he’d be useful generally as a deterrent.”

  “Yeah. She really needs the money, and I hated to close the shop for an entire day.” Lilac huffed out a breath. “I made her promise if any big, scary-looking guys came in the shop and asked odd questions, she and Neil were to leave immediately, not worry about the shop, and call me after they’d left. I didn’t really know the right answer, you know? This job pays Phoebe’s rent. Look, are we gonna dissect my poor life choices or go in already?”