Belle, Book and Candle: A Fantasy Novel by Nick Pollotta

by Nick Pollotta

  “You too!” she squealed, wiggling both of her primary assets against his ruffled shirt.

  Having known the pneumatic woman for years, Colt took no offense, or notice, of the attempted seduction. That was just her way of saying hello to anybody of the masculine gender.

  Not quite as demure as a thermonuclear explosion, Colette Sanders was wearing a shockingly tight red dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and apparently was blissfully unaware of even the theoretical existence of underwear. Her wrists and neck were dripping with a glittering assortment of diamond jewelry, and, as usual, she was barefoot for no sane reason that anybody had ever been able to fathom.

  Once at a fundraiser for the president, Colt had been foolish enough to ask about the barefoot thing, and she prattled on for hours about some East Coast people he had never heard about, before or since. The only Snooki he knew was a fictional character who hunted vampires.

  “Some day, Colette, you must overcome this crippling shyness,” Colt said, gently prying her away.

  “Come again, Emile?” she asked, radiating raw sex appeal the same way a furnace did heat.

  “Colt, please. Just Colt.

  “Whatever you want, darling.” Expectantly she waited, somehow violating the laws of physics by seeming to be in constant motion even while standing perfectly still.

  Colt had no idea how she accomplished that, but the effect was quite galvanizing. Unfortunately, he also knew what was expected of him in this sort of social situation, and struggled heroically for several seconds before finally succumbing. “Shall we dance?”

  “Absolutely ever so!” she squealed in delight.

  Lord, give me strength. Offering a crooked arm, Colt escorted the bouncy woman toward the dance floor and they twirled their way into the other couples.

  “By the way,” he asked, moving in time to the music, “why did you tell that reporter we’re engaged?”

  Throwing back her head, she laughed. “Because we are, darling!”

  “Actually, no. We’re not,” Colt said honestly. However, the soft flesh under the satin was making the material tantalizingly warm, inviting, yielding, and her dangerously low-cut gown was invoking an uninhibited host of sensual images. Summoning his resolve, Colt quickly started thinking about doing his quarterly taxes, then old nuns.

  Clearly sensing his dilemma, Colette smiled like a tiger about to feast upon a fallen gazelle. “But every man wants me!”

  From the lustful expressions of the other men in the passing crowd, Colt could see her point. “Be that as it may,” he conceded politely, “I’m still not interested.”

  “Really?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Which only makes me want you all the more!” she said brightly. “See? It’s symmetry!”

  It was something, all right, but unable to combat that level of lunacy, Colt started to debate pretending to pull a muscle when his cell phone loudly buzzed.

  “Excuse me, I’m expecting a business call,” he lied, letting go of the woman and flipping open the phone with a jerk of the wrist. “Hello, Emile Coltier here ... what was that? Yes ... no ... damn. Okay, warm up my jet. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Trouble, Colty?” Colette asked, chewing on a finger.

  “Afraid so,” he said, snapping the phone shut. “There’s a strike at my plant in Venice Beach that I have to take care of immediately. The boss is never off the clock, you know.”

  “I adore Italy,” she said suggestively.

  That took a moment to decipher. Right, Venice Beach, Italy. “Do you have a passport?” Colt asked with a strained smile, his mind racing to find a polite way to extract himself from the social limpet.

  “Not on me,” Colette said with a pout, pumping up the wattage by leaning forward slightly. “But since you have a private plane ... ”

  “Sorry, no passport, no travel,” Colt interrupted. “That’s a matter of national security, part of the Patriot Act. We all have to do our part, eh?” He added a laugh to soften the rejection.

  She seemed genuinely disappointed, and Colt knew that if he changed his mind she would come happily along and hop into bed with him at the first opportunity, eager as a yearling to gambol at play. Parts of his body liked the idea quite a lot. Down boy, down! But the rest of him was not at all interested in becoming involved with a supercharged sexbomb who had never read a book in her life, and could probably be easily outwitted by a ripe persimmon.

  Taking Colette firmly by the shoulders, Colt planted a kiss on her forehead, then turned to stride across the crowded ballroom and into an empty hallway.

  Standing near a curved flight of stairs, Laura was just closing her cell phone. On the carpeting near her dress was a frosty can of beer wrapped in a gold napkin.

  Snagging the beer in passing, Colt gave her a wink.

  “Coward,” she snorted, shaking her head in frank disapproval.

  Continuing straight out the front door of the hotel, Colt reached the sidewalk with a profound sense of relief. He had wanted to leave early, and for once the universe had been paying attention. Much obliged!

  Opening the beer, Colt took a long drink, then tucked the can into the pocket of his tuxedo, out of the sight of any passing police officers. He knew that a lot of his business acquaintances enjoyed using their wealth and power to make the local law enforcement turn a blind eye to their minor peccadilloes. But that had never seemed fair. Just because you could do a thing did not mean that you should. The only thing people ever seemed to show any self-restraint about these days was self-restraint. Which certainly explained a lot about the condition of the world.

  Strolling along the sidewalk, Colt relished the cool evening breeze after the steamy gala. It wasn’t the heat, but the humanity! Traffic flowed steadily in every direction, rivers of headlights illuminating the shadowy twilight.

  The city of Atlanta was massively larger than his peaceful little home town; it was a bustling metropolis that sprawled for miles. The skyline rose in Cubist mountains of chrome and glass, each of them crowned with a satellite dish, and every store window softly glowed with a rainbow of neon lights. What was that old joke about New York? That Broadway was the only place where Heaven was turned on by an electrician.

  Well, that also worked for Atlanta, he guessed sagely.

  Stopping at a bench, Colt took a seat and stole another drink from the can. Across the street, the Centennial Park fountain was shooting up from the terrazzo to rise high, then come playfully splashing back down in a sort of syncopated patter. The music of the spheres, allegro-aquatic.

  Smiling at that, Colt was suddenly hit by the overpowering need to have somebody to share little moments like this. The silly nonsense that made life bearable. He had plenty of friends, but nobody special. Not for many years. After all this time, he still missed Zenny, the one that got away.

  Gazing up at the darkening sky, just for a moment, Colt wished with all of his heart to find a woman he could talk to about anything and everything. Somebody who did not love him for his money. Someone smart and sexy. Somebody who would never use the word “like” as a pejorative. He wanted more, a woman to be his friend and lover. Was that asking too much? Not a Scarlet O’Hara, or a Beatrice Kiddo, but somebody in between those two extreme ends of the female spectrum. Somebody smart, and pretty, like Truvy Jones, or Joan Wilder.

  “Do you know of any such women in real life?”

  That brought him back down to earth fast. “Beg pardon?” Colt asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Only a few yards away was an old woman, sitting behind a card table draped with a black cloth. In the middle of the table were a large crystal ball and an open cigar box filled with loose bills. Perched on a plastic folding chair, the woman was wearing a white turban and a flowing gown covered with mystic symbols: crescent moons, hearts, clovers, and shooting stars. Rings flashed on every finger, and ratty old sneakers peeked out from under the embroidered hem of her gown.

  “I am
Madam Olga, and you are ... in desperate need ... of guidance!” she announced, both hands making passes over a crystal ball that began to glow softly.

  Rising from the bench, Colt laughed. “No offense ma’am, but I’m from Savannah, the heart of voodoo country,” he said, letting his accent free rein.

  “Bah, I’m from New Orleans,” Madam Olga sneered, compressing the name of the town into a single word. “Compared to me, you’re a damn Yankee.”

  “Sad but true,” Colt chuckled, pulling out his wallet and extracting a twenty. “All right, mystic mullah, dazzle me. Part the invisible curtains of forever, and reveal that which cannot yet be known!”

  She grinned widely, displaying oddly perfect teeth. “Shoot, son, that’s pretty good! Mind if I put it on my business cards?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Thanks ... and now, behold the future!” Redoubling her arm waving, Madam Olga began mumbling something that sounded curiously like instructions to assemble imported Swedish furniture.

  Unexpectedly, the glowing crystal ball darkened, then became filled with a violently swirling white cloud that crackled with miniature lightning bolts. Moving through the clouds came a woman with curly auburn hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and emerald-green eyes.

  Colt felt his heart skip a beat at the vision. She was wearing nothing except for a silver chain around her neck, and some sort of blurred tattoo ... then she was gone, and there was only the cloud.

  Crossing his arms, Colt had to admit that this was pretty impressive. The crackling noise was audible over the splashing fountain. He could only guess that the ball was reflecting some sort of a laser hologram, with the stereo speakers hidden under the table. This was very high tech for a street performer. He was certainly getting his money’s worth, that was for damn sure.

  “I see a woman from the south of the North!” Madam Olga cried out cryptically, both hands waving over the turbulent ball. “There is a mighty bronze dragon, and ...

  and ... bees!”

  “Bees?” Colt repeated, trying not to laugh.

  “Lots of bees,” she repeated with a worried expression, a trickle of sweat rolling down her cheek. “As well as bats and fire, love and death, and life everlasting! But be warned, young horse—” Just then, a loud bell tolled, and something dark swelled inside the crystal, an inhuman spiderlike figure, sheathed in red flames.

  Yanking off her turban, she covered the ball and hugged it tight. “The ... ah ... portal has closed,” Madam Olga muttered quickly. “That is all for tonight. Sorry.”

  “Perhaps another offering will do the trick,” Colt said, fishing out a second twenty.

  “Keep it!” she snapped, wiping the back of a hand across her mouth. “I’m a fake. This is all fake. Everything is fake. Go away, please.”

  Glancing around for the police that he felt sure must be coming this way, Colt saw only the passing stream of traffic and a few wandering pedestrians. “There’s nobody watching ... ” he started, but stopped short.

  Hastily gathering up the ends of the tablecloth, Madam Olga was sweating profusely, and seemed to be having trouble breathing.

  “Are you okay?” Colt asked stepping closer.

  “Don’t come near me!” she yelled, wrapping up the ball and stuffing it into a military-style python bag.

  Tucked inside the bag Colt spotted a wireless credit card scanner, a thermos, and a taser. Voodoo for the twenty-first century. “What’s wrong?” he demanded suspiciously. “Look, if this is a scam—”

  “Yes! I’m a crook. Go call the police!” Reaching out, she took the twenty and crumpled it up to throw at him. It landed short and rolled into the gutter.

  Confused and more than a little worried, Colt made no move for the money. He had been in enough courtrooms and corporate business meetings to know the truth when he saw it. This woman was terrified about something. What that might be he had no idea. Maybe a vision of his future lover?

  “Is she already married ... kidnapped by aliens?” he asked, half joking.

  “How should I know?” Madam Olga snapped irritably, stuffing the cigar box into the bag. “I saw nothing. Not a goddamn thing. I’m just a fake, an old fake!”

  The hairs rose on the back of his neck. “No, you’re not,” Colt said quietly, the entire universe seeming to crystallize around them. The evening breeze stopped, traffic froze motionless, and even the fountain stopped splashing, but only for a split second; then everything was perfectly normal once more.

  “Think whatever you wish,” she snarled, closing the bag and throwing it over a shoulder.

  “Look, if she’s in danger ...”

  Already walking away, she glanced backward. “Not just her,” she said in a strange tone of voice, then charged directly into the fountain, moving surprisingly fast for an old woman.

  On impulse, Colt started to follow, and immediately slipped on the wet terrazzo. He went flying and landed hard on the beer can. It crushed flat under his weight, and cold spread across the entire left side of the tuxedo.

  Painfully getting back up, Colt rubbed his bruised hip, the smell of beer permeating the air for a moment before it was washed away. Wiping the falling water from his face, Colt squinted into the gathering night. But there was no sign of the old woman anymore, just the slap of her sneakers fading into the distance. Then it was gone, replaced by the sound of the falling water and the gentle murmur of the busy downtown traffic.

  “My god, what did you really see?” Colt muttered, standing in the artificial downpour.

  As if in reply, thunder softly rumbled high overhead, warning of an approaching storm.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As the Amthrax train pulled into the station, Rissa looked through the window half expecting to see the antiques dealer standing in the crowd, poised and ready to pounce. But thankfully there was no trace of him, only the standard parade of humanity; couples tearfully separating, friends joyfully reunited, scowling loners, yawning students, bored business executives, and the usual assortment of temporarily confused tourists.

  Reclaiming her backpack, Rissa unfolded her jacket and stumbled from the carriage to head directly for the ladies room. A few minutes later, she reemerged in clean clothing, hair combed and teeth brushed, with underwear and sneakers smelling faintly of fresh talcum powder.

  The Savannah Union Station was small in comparison to the colossal edifice back home, but much more pleasant with lots red brick, clean floors, and twice as many stalls in the ladies’ rooms than she had ever seen before. Finally, somebody designed a public lavatory for the real world! It’s about damn time.

  Stepping outside, Rissa was hit by the overpowering impression of sunshine and greenery, the air redolent with the smells of flowers and plants for which she had no names. Summer or winter, Chicago smelled like diesel fumes. This was much better. The sweet perfume of nature! Lovely.

  “Welcome to Savannah,” Rissa whispered under her breath, hitching up the backpack.

  Passing a newsstand, she saw the handsome rainbow again, this time on the front page of the local newspaper. He was receiving some sort of award in front of City Hall. There was no sign of his supermodel fiancée in the photo, but standing very close was a gorgeous redhead in a Chanel two-piece. She was beaming with pride and looking directly at him, not the camera or the award. Their names were obscured by a stone holding the papers in place, but Rissa didn’t really care. The lifestyles of the rich and famous had nothing to do with her world. Except when I watch them on cable.

  Catching an electric trolley outside, Rissa rode directly into the heart of downtown, and got off at the world-famous Forsyth Park. She had certainly downloaded enough pictures of the place, but was quite unprepared for the hard reality. Deliciously quiet and cool, Forsyth Park was a flowering oasis, surrounded by stately Victorian mansions and several office buildings of stone and glass. A huge tiered fountain dominated the center of the sylvan landscape, while ancient trees shaded every footpath and brick-lined sidewalk.

 
Bizarrely, there were no hot dog vendors, three-card monte dealers, or street performers. Nor was anybody playing football on the smooth grass, or badly singing to loud music. The park was idyllic, almost serene, and so different from a public venue in Chicago that to Rissa it felt like another country, almost a different planet. Mayberry meets Avatar.

  On top of which, even though this was the middle of a work week, everybody in sight was strolling along at a leisurely pace, the men in lightweight summer suits, the women in loose dresses and hats. That really caught her off guard. Hats are in fashion down here? Glancing awkwardly about, she quickly saw that the only people wearing jeans and sneakers were college students or tourists. Oops.

  Feeling like a hobo, Rissa claimed a wooden bench off the main thoroughfare and had a quick meal of granola bars and bottled water. Afterward, she stuffed the garbage into a wrought-iron trash container, washed her hands with a moist towelette, then broke out the journal. Time to start working.

  Carefully reviewing her notes, Rissa began scribbling on the city map as a horse-drawn carriage rattled by looking like something from another century. All right, her grandparents’ sunporch caught the morning breeze, which meant that it faced the ocean. Check. And the city had ordered her grandparents to put safety screens on all of their chimneys, which meant at least two, possibly three or more. Grammy complained about the constant ringing of the bells on the horse-drawn trolleys, so their house was along a main street, and there had once been a terrible crash at their corner from a malfunctioning traffic light. Okay, facing east, main street, corner with a light. That was enough to start canvassing the neighbors.

  Rising from the bench, Rissa walked through the arbor of interlacing tree

  branches and exited into the bright sunlight once more, then stopped dead in her tracks.

  There it was. Fifty feet away. The house sat directly across the street in plain sight.

  Correction, that is not a house, Rissa mentally noted, slowly folding away the map. It was a sprawling Victorian mansion, five stories tall, with two chimneys, a widow’s walk on top, and a weathervane in the shape of a winged horse that was missing a leg. That was the clincher. Her grandfather had broken off the leg installing it himself. Better the horse than him, Grammy had jokingly written in a letter.