Gmork seemed unusually alert in the reading room. He didn’t want to sit or lay down. He stood, sniffing, his ears straight up.
“Gmork? What’s wrong?”
“He smells Hestia.”
“Is that some kind of herb?”
Mercedes smiled. “She’s my cat. She’s supposed to stay upstairs, but somehow she always manages to come down here and sleep on my reading table.”
Nora noticed little black hairs on the lacy white tablecloth, where a dozen tarot decks lay in a neat row.
“You aren’t in the market for a black cat, are you?” Mercedes asked. “I have a spare. People dump them on my doorstep. Either a joke or they really think all witches have black cats as familiars.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue, tut-tutting the ways of fools.
“I’m not sure I could handle a weird dog and a weird cat. But if I change my mind, I’ll let you know.”
“Please. Hestia is much happier as an only child.”
Mercedes pulled a chair out for Nora. She sat, still studying the reading room. Shelves were stacked with books stuffed with loose papers. Impressionistic paintings of hares and harts hung on the walls.
“I like it here,” Nora said, not meaning to. The words just came out. Mercedes nodded like she wasn’t at all surprised to hear that. She took a seat opposite Nora.
“Every four days I charge the whole place, stem to stern, with good energy. I just did it yesterday, focusing on welcoming. The Goddess must have known I’d have a special guest.”
“How do you do that?”
“How does your pope bless rosaries?” Mercedes said. “Same way I imagine. You hold it, you speak words of power over it, sometimes you sprinkle it with water. I don’t know if your pope puts magical herbs in the water, but the Church used to sprinkle holy water with bunches of rue.”
Nora couldn’t deny it. She’d seen Søren himself using flowers to sprinkle holy water.
“My priest used basil,” Nora said.
“Basil’s good,” Mercedes said. “I use it in love spells. Maybe your priest wanted his people to love God more.”
“I think he just liked the scent of it.”
“Would your priest approve of you being here?” Mercedes sat back in the chair and crossed her legs. She wore an ankle-length floral-print skirt, sandals, and a white blouse embroidered with flowers at the low neckline.
“No,” Nora said. “He definitely wouldn’t. But maybe not for the reason you think. None of the men in my life would approve of me being here right now.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Probably.”
Mercedes said nothing. Nora folded her hands in her lap, crossed her legs and patted her thigh. Gmork rested his head against her leg. Nora took comfort in his presence.
“They’re all scared of you,” Nora said.
“I believe I would be, too, if I were them. It’s not often I get this involved in a situation that’s out of my control. I just…I didn’t know what else to do. When something’s boiling, you can’t but watch the pot.”
“They think you’re a crazy stalker,” Nora continued.
“Stalker? No. Crazy? Ah. Who’s to say?’
Nora smiled. “You’ve been putting cursed Mardi Gras beads on my house for three years. Hard to explain that away as harmless.”
“Blessed,” Mercedes said, her voice sharp. “Blessed beads. Not cursed. Charged with power, good power. Nothing evil. I don’t curse anyone. Unless you cut me off in traffic. And those are just the usual curses.”
“Charged Mardi Gras beads?”
“Something my mother used to do,” Mercedes said. “A lot of women got hurt around here during Mardi Gras. It’s a prime hunting time for male predators. She would charge beads with protection spells every year on Fat Tuesday, hoping to protect some of those girls from rapists. That’s all I was doing with those beads in your tree. Trying to protect you from bad influences.”
“Bad influences? Like what? R-rated movies? Violent video games?”
“Men who don’t know what they’re talking about,” Mercedes said. “Men who don’t know anything about anything. In other words…men.”
Mercedes pointed at the silver bracelet she wore around her wrist.
“Silver,” she explained, “is feminine. Female energy. Female wisdom and intuition. That’s why I put up the silver beads. The black beads are straight-up wards against evil. Red for courage and blue for opening your mind. No curses in there at all.”
Nora stroked Gmork’s long back as she considered how much to tell Mercedes, how much to keep to herself.
“One of the men in my life tried to call a tree-trimmer this morning to cut all the beads down. I wouldn’t let him.”
“Good.”
“He’s scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of everything. His girlfriend’s about to have a baby. He’s seeing danger everywhere.”
“Potent days, right before a baby is born. The veil thins between the other world and this one. Has to thin so the soul can break through. Tell him to burn some sage incense and sleep with an agate under his pillow.”
“Got anything that’ll just knock him out until the baby’s born? He’s turning into a control freak.”
“Fear will do that to a man, make him into a tyrant. You can’t let him rule you.”
Nora smiled to herself.
“What is it?” Mercedes asked, her head tilted like a curious cat.
“His name is King,” Nora said. “Just funny, you called him a tyrant, said he shouldn’t rule me.”
“Is he family?”
“Sort of. Like common law family. I’ve known him since I was sixteen. His oldest son is one of my two lovers.”
Mercedes picked up one of her tarot decks and found a card with quick fingers. The Knight of Cups.
“Yes, that’s him,” Nora said. “Nico. He owns a winery in the south of France.”
“He’s good,” Mercedes said. “Good for you. Protects you. Respects you. Serves you. A wine-maker…he’ll believe in earth magic, whether he’s ever said it aloud or not. His love for you is simple and powerful, like a sword. But not a sword for battle. He uses it to cut through the thorny vines in your heart. He’s where you go when you want to be safe.”
“All that’s true.”
“That one I don’t worry about,” Mercedes said as she flipped through the deck. “If it was just him, you’d never have to lose a wink of sleep in your life. It’s this one that worries me.”
She flipped through the deck again and pulled out another card, The Hierophant, otherwise known as The High Priest, and set it on the table between them.
Nora stared at the card and said nothing.
“What is this card to you?” Mercedes asked.
“You tell me.”
“The cards aren’t books full of answers,” Mercedes said. “They’re doors. They tell us what doors we need to open in our lives. But only you can open that door and walk through. All I can say is that this card, it’s male. Male power. Male energy. Male power and men in power. I would guess you have a male authority in your life who has great power over you. Too much power. Power that influences you and leads you astray.”
“I can’t believe that. Not of him.”
“Him?”
“Him,” Nora said. “My him.”
“Might not be a him. Might be an it. The cards have people on them but they don’t always represent actual people. This could be a force in your life, not necessarily a person.”
“The High Priest,” Nora said, “is a person to me.”
“Who is he then?”
“Someone I will never leave.” Nora met Mercedes’s eyes.
“Someone you love.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, Mistress Nora. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”
“I don’t believe in any of this.” Nora waved her hand, as if to knock it all aside.
“You believe in all of it,”
Mercedes said sharply. “You’re Catholic. You believe in prayers, which we call spells. You believe in blessing, which we call charging. You believe in God. We call that force the Goddess. You believe in magic, except you don’t call it that. But it is magic, all the same. Magic words, magic songs, magic spells. Light a candle, whisper a name, summon him home to your bed. That’s a love spell. You cast one and it came to pass.”
“I decorate for Christmas, too. I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”
“But you believe in Jesus.”
Nora couldn’t look at Mercedes and her dark waiting eyes anymore. She glanced away, stared at a painting on the wall, a painting of a white stag in a field of snow.
“What is it? What are you afraid of?”
Nora swallowed a lump in her throat.
“I’m not leaving the man I love. I’m not. I won’t.”
“I would never tell you to.”
“You already did.” She reached out, picked up the card of The High Priest.
“Your lover is a priest, isn’t he?” Mercedes asked. Nora nodded slowly. “You’re the mistress of a warlock. No wonder there’s so much power around you. You’re sleeping with a warlock.”
Nora laughed out loud. Rude? Yes. Unbelievably rude. But she couldn’t stop herself. It was all too ridiculous. Søren. A warlock.
“Laugh all you want,” Mercedes said. “Laugh all you can. I know you think I’m crazy. It’s all right. I’m not the one sleeping with a priest. Even I know better than that.”
“What’s wrong with sleeping with a priest? Other than I’m not supposed to do that and neither is he.”
“Priests have power. Too much of it. You can’t go around sticking your fingers into light sockets and not expecting to get shocked. But be the Fool if you like. There’s a place for them in this world, too.” She held up another card—The Fool.
“You’re not going to make me leave the man I’ve loved my entire life. The only reason I came here was to make sure I didn’t need to be afraid of you. I can tell I don’t have to be, so I won’t be. Although if I were you, I’d stay away from my house from now on. We’re installing a security system.”
“I’ll stay away.”
Nora stood up though she didn’t want to. The shop felt as comfortable as a soft warm bed and leaving it just as hard. Mercedes stayed at her table, staring at the cards before her.
“Nora,” Mercedes said. Nora turned back. “Just so you know, I’m more scared of you than you are of me.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Okay, so Nora had been right. Going for a run with Søren? It was a trap.
The first mile was okay. Cyrus could do an eight-minute mile, no problem. He could do an eight-minute mile for a mile. Mile two got a little tougher. For Cyrus, that is. Søren kept on running, feet pounding the pavement like clockwork, breaths pumping steady and hard as a locomotive. But that couldn’t last, right? Not running eight-minute miles.
Mile three? Holy shit.
Cyrus actually said, “Holy shit!” out loud when the run stretched into mile four.
“You need to stop?” Søren asked.
“Two minutes.”
They jogged to a stop and stepped off the trail. It had been Søren’s suggestion they run the Mississippi River trail, something he’d been meaning to do. Cyrus had assumed they’d run a couple miles of it, maybe make a loop.
Seemed to him like Søren was intent on running all 60.8 miles of it. That morning.
“Are you all right?” Søren asked.
Cyrus glared at the man. They’d both shown up at the start of the trail wearing t-shirts. Cyrus paired his with his favorite Nike shorts, while Søren wore black running pants. Cyrus had stripped out of his t-shirt by the end of mile one. Søren was still wearing his. Cyrus was breathing hard, eyes burning from sweat. Søren wasn’t even winded.
“What did I ever do to you?” Cyrus asked.
Søren grinned. He pushed his black wraparound sunglasses up on his head. “It’s not personal.” A red-headed woman of about twenty, twenty-two jogged past them and glanced back over her shoulder to smile seductively at Søren.
“I hate you.” Here he was, doubled over trying not to puke from running four miles in thirty-two minutes, and this big blond Viking son of a bitch was over here getting eye-fucked by an Emma Stone clone.
“I’m fifty-one. Let me enjoy it. Shall we go again?”
“Hell no.”
“We can walk back.”
“Thank God.”
Cyrus stood up straight, took as much air into his lungs as he could manage, and set off back toward the parking lot.
“I have a long stride,” Søren said. “That’s why I can run a little faster than most men my age.”
“Yeah, tell me I’m short. That helps.”
“You aren’t short. I’m tall. There’s a difference.”
“Fuck off with all that. We’re done. I’m getting a new running buddy, and he’s gonna be short and fat, and I’m gonna pull him behind me in a wagon.”
“I can tell why Eleanor likes you so much. She approves of anyone who is comfortable telling me where to go.”
“Eight-minute mile for four miles? And you don’t even get a free t-shirt at the end? Nora’s right. You are a sadist.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said. “Though I promise, I’m getting no sexual pleasure from this run. Or…stroll.”
Cyrus shook his head. He swore to himself he would never—ever—go running with Søren again. He was also definitely not getting a wedding invite.
“What’s this about then? You trying to see if I’m tough enough to hang with Nora?”
“You’ve survived four whole days in her company and don’t seem any worse for the wear.”
“She does wear me out though. How do you sleep at night knowing your woman is that wild?”
“Helps to tie her ankle to the bedpost,” Søren said.
“No offense, but you’re kind of a weird priest. Ex-priest. Whatever.”
“There is no such thing as a normal priest. I would know.”
The morning was warming up fast. When they started running, it hadn’t quite been seventy yet. Now it was on its way to eighty, fast.
“I have to ask. You grounding Nora after last night? Keep her from playing detective with me?”
“I’ve tried grounding. Doesn’t work.” He shook his head, exasperated as the father of a rebellious teenager. “Honestly, I wanted to thank you for helping Eleanor on Bourbon Street last night.”
“Guess it was my fault she was there to start with.”
“Eleanor is wholly responsible for her own decisions. If she didn’t want to go with you, she wouldn’t have been there. I’m only glad you were there when she was being harassed.”
“No problem. I don’t let that shit happen around me if I can help it. That it?”
“I was also hoping you’d fill me in the case. It’s consuming Eleanor. That worries me.”
“I think she thinks because Ike called her, she’s responsible for figuring out why he killed himself. It’s more than just curiosity, I can tell you that much. She’s taking it as seriously as I am.”
“If Father Murran were still alive, I might kill him for dragging her into this. I can’t say I blame her. If someone had called me right before committing suicide, I would have trouble sleeping until I knew why.”
“It’s more than that. She keeps seeing you in this case. Like when we found Ike’s Bible full of private notes, she said you do that, too. She thinks he was kinky on the side and that somebody drove him to kill himself. I can tell she’s thinking that could happen to you, too, someday. That girl loves you, man. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know. But it never hurts to hear it again.” He smiled to himself. “Any breaks in the case?”
“Right now, I’m running on the theory Ike was being blackmailed, only because it makes sense, not because it fits the evidence. Nothing fits the evidence except he had a secret something weighing o
n him, and he died keeping it.” Cyrus rubbed fresh sweat off his forehead again. “I’m thinking of going to Dunn and talking to him. He seems pretty convinced Ike was depressed. And they’re old friends.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. Archbishop Dunn is more a politician than a pastor these days. He’ll simply hint that he knows more than he can say about Father Murran’s mental state, and he’ll pat you on the head and send you home.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“I don’t know trust most members of the clergy. Not because they’re clergy. Because they’re people.”
“We’re on the same page there.” Cyrus exhaled. “You got any other ideas?”
“I’m intrigued by the Rumi poem you found in his Bible.”
“The butterfly poem? Why is that?” Cyrus had wondered about that himself.
“I keep very personal notes in my Bible. Old notes from my high school love. Letters Eleanor sent me while I was in Rome working on my Ph.D. Photographs of my son. The sort of irreplaceable things I would save first in a fire. If Father Isaac and I have anything in common, the poem might be meaningful. You can pick up a copy of Rumi’s poetry in any used bookstore. Why write the poem out by hand on fine paper and slip it in your Bible like some sort of billet-doux?”
“A what?”
“A love letter.”
Cyrus wasn’t too sure about that, but he filed it away as a “maybe.”
“Well, you know priests and their shit better than I do.”
“True. And we have a lot of shit,” Søren said. Cyrus laughed to himself.
“You do. Seriously. You sure you want to be a priest? Don’t take this the wrong way,” Cyrus said, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “But you got Nora. Now she’s not my type, but she’s your type. Why don’t you marry that girl? Hit it for the rest of your life without having to look over your shoulder to see if the archbishop’s watching.”
“The girl in question has little to no interest in marrying me. I ordered her to marry me once and didn’t see her again for a full year.”
“Damn. Most girls just say ‘No, thank you, let’s be friends.’”
The Priest: An Original Sinners Novel Page 25