The office went icy cold, and something slammed Colt so hard against the wall that the wood paneling splintered. Struggling to breathe, the man felt a strange numbness seep into his mind, fogging his thoughts and stealing his memories. Then the side of his neck painfully flared white hot, as if a sizzling road flare were being pressed against the bare skin. He cried out from the unimaginable pain and the wintry onslaught completely and instantly vanished.
Furious, Colt glowered down at Laura; she backed away in fear.
“This is impossible ...” she whispered, raising both hands as if to ward off a blow.
Stumbling across the office, Colt collapsed weakly into his chair behind the desk and slapped at the intercom. “Security! Code One! Repeat, code one! This is not a drill!”
“We’re on the way, sir!” the speaker crackled.
“And bring me some clothing!” Cold added, spotting the gray suit smoldering in the corner. The material looked as if it had been hit by a flamethrower. “Anything will do.”
“Sir? Ah, I mean ... yes, sir! Confirm!”
“Now, Mr. Coltier, after all of my years of faithful service,” Laura started, rising gracefully from the carpet, her rings oddly glowing. “You would not really—”
“Get dressed,” Colt interrupted rudely, “or get dragged from this building buck naked.” He pointed. “Your choice!”
Still hoping for a reprieve, Laura hesitantly stood waiting. But as Colt sat coldly imperious and unflinching behind the desk, she seemed to finally accept defeat.
Stepping into the bathroom, Laura come out again a split second later fully clothed. Astonished, Colt raised both eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Emile, please let me explain,” Laura started smoothly.
“One more word and I’ll cancel your severance package,” he growled, slinging a corner of the shower curtain over a shoulder.
Just then, four burly security guards unlocked the office door and marched inside with their hands full of stun batons.
“Put those away,” Colt directed. “She’ll go quietly.”
Turning about, Laura arched an eyebrow in a silent question.
“Or else you’ll never get a reference,” Colt stated simply.
A long moment passed, then she nodded assent.
“Come along quietly, Ms. Stone,” the biggest guard said, taking a firm hold on her arm.
***
A few rushed minutes later, Laura was standing on the sidewalk outside of the building, holding a check for two years’ salary; a cardboard box full of personal belongings lay at her feet.
As a throbbing headache started, Laura tried to think of some way to recover from this total disaster. The plan had always been to marry Colt, pump out a couple of screaming brats, then divorce the fool and live off the alimony for the rest of her life. How could she have possibly failed? I’m gorgeous, was stark naked, and used magic! What is wrong with that man?
The answer arrived hard and fast, like a slap to the face from a close friend. Rissa Harmond. Her ring must be much more powerful than these homemade versions from Dominic. Even together, they simply weren’t strong enough to break the enchantment the Yankee had on Colt.
Laura clearly remembered the faraway look in his eyes every time he talked about Rissa. Anybody else would have thought it was love, but Laura knew that it was magic. It had to be! There was no other possible explanation.
There briefly flickered in her mind the distant possibility that perhaps he was a gentleman and did not go hunting in his own backyard, so to speak. But Laura dismissed that as nonsense. All men were dogs that would go jump on any women they could, without rhyme or reason. They’d hump a knothole in a tree stump if it weren’t for splinters.
“So be it,” Laura muttered hatefully, twisting the rings on her fingers to new positions. “But if I cannot have him ...”
Giving the corsage a few drops of sugary water to keep the roses fresh, Rissa placed it into the refrigerator, and crossed the living room on her way to the stairs. Her step was light, she couldn’t stop smiling, and from somewhere a ghostly Gene Kelly was singing about the weather again.
“You seem very happy, dear!” the painting of her grandmother said, rearranging some flowers in a bowl.
“Delirious!” Rissa replied, skipping to the staircase, then floating the rest of the way.
“How nice. Mind the chandelier; it’s imported!”
“So am I!”
“Wait, there’s a letter for you!”
“Later!”
Grabbing a quick shower, Rissa kept the ring on this time, and concentrated on singing Broadway show tunes to avoid any undue costume changes. At one point, the water briefly turned into a glittering spray of sequins, but only for a moment. Aha, victory!
When finished, Rissa gratefully stepped out of the colossal shower, pleased that she was gaining some small degree of control over the ring. Mental note: when in doubt, sing, baby, sing!
Rubbing herself dry, Rissa tossed the towel into the hamper along with the rest of the dirty clothes from yesterday. With fond memories she smiled at the sandy stains and saltwater residue, then commanded everything to fly off to the laundry room for a good long soak. Obediently the laundry soared through the air, but Rissa made them stop before reaching the door.
“Whites and colors separately, please!” she scolded, the ring growing warm.
Dutifully, the clothing sorted itself. However, a gray T-shirt kept trying to tag along with the whites until Rissa forcibly stuffed it under the hamper. Clearly, magic had some unexpected limitations.
Or at least it does for rank beginners, Rissa amended dourly. Since his jacket and pants had been horribly rumpled, torn, and sandy, she had gone to get Colt something from her grandfather’s closet. However, she was unable to get any of those suits off the rack; they were locked in place with some kind of an antitheft spell, she supposed. With no other choice, Rissa was forced to use her old Girl Scout skills and improvise.
Finding the linen closet, she used the dragonbone ring to convert a stack of terrycloth towels into a nice charcoal gray three-piece suit, with French-cut shirt and silk socks. Ta da!
Except that she couldn’t make a necktie; the hand towels kept becoming ascots instead. It would seem they had an overdeveloped sense of importance, or else it was just her lack of training again. Somehow Rissa felt certain that most witches did not have so much trouble with their good linen! Then she paused in thought. Okay, perhaps kindly old Merlin did, but his crazy half-sister Morgana? Never.
Just then the intercom chimed and Rissa walked over to tap a button. “Harmond House! How may I help you?”
“Try opening the gate!” Melissa laughed, her voice crackling over the speaker. “Damn, girl, what kind of staying power does that man of yours have anyway?”
“Olympic!” Rissa squealed in delight, pressing another button.
“Excellent! Any pictures?”
“Only in 3D!” she laughed, releasing the button.
Scampering down the stairs, her entire body tingled as Rissa used the ring to get dressed again; she jumped the last few steps, landing hard enough to make the bells chime inside the grandfather clock.
“No running, please!” sang out the painting.
“We have a guest!” Rissa sang back, pushing aside the heavy bolt and pulling open the door.
Smiling broadly, Melissa was standing on the front porch carrying a leopard-print suitcase and, of all things, a bowling ball bag. Her long hair billowing freely in the morning breeze, the woman was dressed in a thin white blouse with a black bra clearly visible underneath, more silver and turquoise jewelry than the entire state of Arizona made in a year, and a flared denim skirt that brushed across the top of her snakeskin cowboy boots.
“Is the rodeo in town?” Rissa asked curiously.
Melissa snorted. “And where are you going, Buckingham Palace?”
Glancing down, Rissa saw that the ring had put her in a white taffeta ballgown, red velvet sash,
and pink satin slippers. Oh, crap. Experimentally she reached up to find her hair done in a conventional manner, but perched on top was what felt like either a very large tiara or a small crown.
“Lose a bar bet, kid?” Melissa smirked, walking inside to set down her luggage.
“Of course not, darling,” Rissa drawled, closing and locking the door. “This is how everybody dresses in Savannah!”
“Aw, that’s sweet. You’re all equally insane.”
“Well, that’s better than looking like a reject from the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas road company!”
“Is it, Contessa?”
“Absolutely ... Tex!”
“Damn, I missed you!” Melissa exploded, grabbing the smaller woman in a bear hug and squeezing with all of her might.
“Air ...” Rissa wheezed from an armpit. “Need ... air ...”
“Complain, complain,” sighed Melissa, letting go and looking over the foyer. “Nice digs! It reminds me of that old joke: This is what God could have done if She had money.”
“He, please.”
“She; all creation is female.”
“Tell that to Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Who was gayer than Freud, i.e., female.”
“Freud was gay? Oh, yeah ... everything is a penis, right.”
“Speaking of which, any chance of some coffee?” Melissa asked over her rumbling stomach. “I’m starved. Breakfast was a blowjob and a breath mint.”
“Good God, woman! Have you no shame?”
“Nope, I had it removed for tax purposes. Whyever do you ask?”
“Never mind,” Rissa muttered, heading down the hallway. “The kitchen is this way!”
“In regard to tasty morning treats ... is your new guy blond by any chance?” Melissa asked sharply, following along.
“No, Colt has black hair. Midnight in a coal mine. So black it’s almost blue.”
“Okay, then,” Melissa muttered uneasily. “Just watch out for blonds.”
“You’re blonde.”
“My point exactly!”
“Of course, once back in high school—”
“Don’t go there.”
By the time they reached the kitchen, the percolator was bubbling and a refreshing smell of strong black coffee filled the air. As Rissa got a pair of mugs from the cabinet, the oven musically chimed.
Taking down a pair of crocheted potholders, Melissa checked inside. “Chocolate scones!” she cried in delight. “Were you expecting me?”
“No, just a happy coincidence,” Rissa muttered, casting a furtive glance toward the living room.
Over breakfast, Rissa brought Melissa up to speed on current events, judiciously leaving out anything to do with magic, vampires, or time travel.
During the recitation, Melissa quietly ate a few scones and drank her coffee without undue comment.
“Well, that was certainly a lovely bedtime story,” she said, at the end. “Now tell me about the magic.”
Caught in the middle of a swallow, Rissa blew coffee out of her nose. “The, ah, what now?” she asked, grabbing for napkins.
“Magic,” Melissa said, pushing back her chair and standing. “This whole mansion is haunted, but I can sense something exceptionally powerful in this direction ...
”
“No, there isn’t!” Rissa said, crumpling the wet napkins. But the woman was already on the move.
Scampering after her, Rissa caught up with Melissa in the middle of the living room. Slowly she was turning around, her fingers caressing the empty air as if waving at invisible friends.
“Sweet goddess, this entire place is a storehouse of arcane power,” Melissa muttered excitedly, a tiny smile constantly coming and going. “Just be very careful of that armoire. There’s something inside ... Nothing malevolent, mind you, but it’s not totally benign, either ...”
“Oh, really, now,” Rissa scoffed from the doorway. “Are you going to do some card tricks next?”
“Maybe later,” Melissa whispered, slowly turning to face the huge portrait on the wall. “By any chance, do you know what ... who that is?”
“My grandmother,” Rissa said, forcing a smile.
“Well then ... good morning, Lady Harmond,” Melissa said, walking closer. “May I have a moment of your time, please?”
Nothing happened.
“Come on, let’s finish those scones,” Rissa said hopefully, starting back toward the kitchen.
“In a minute,” Melissa muttered, running a fingertip across the surface of the painting.
From somewhere there came a ghostly giggle.
Immediately, Rissa burst into laughter to try and cover the noise. “They’re getting cold!”
“Please shut up!” Melissa sang back, wiggling her finger along the feet of the woman in the portrait.
As the painting burst into laughter, Rissa gave a squeal somewhere between an orgasm and a heart attack.
“Sorry, dear heart!” the portrait gasped. “But I’m extremely ticklish!”
“So it would seem!” Rissa snorted, crossing her arms. “Mel, leave my grammy alone!”
“Is this really your grandmother?” Melissa asked, lowering her hand.
“No, I’m just the answering machine,” it said, shifting position to protectively sit on her feet.
“Hmm, a soulless reproduction created for a specific task, or series of small related tasks,” Melissa muttered as if quoting from memory.
“Such a clever girl,” the woman in the painting said slowly, looking directly at her for the first time.
“This is beyond amazing,” Melissa whispered, her face bright with eagerness. “How was it done?”
“The technical term is magic, dear,” the portrait replied with a dignified sniff. “There’s a dictionary on the shelf if you require further illumination.”
“Ah ... so, are you naturally rude, or just painted that way?”
“Some may ask you the same question,” it scowled in disdain. “Or do you always dress like a circus whore?”
“Perhaps I like to clown around a lot.”
“That would explain your layers of makeup.”
“Such a pity your artist was a fan of Picasso,” Melissa said with sad sigh. “Does it hurt having your face on backwards?”
“Only when I laugh,” it said, breaking into a wide grin. “Rissa, I like this woman. She has a lot of spunk!”
“Hey, I used a breathmint!”
The portrait scowled. “Whatever does that mean?”
“Oh nothing,” Rissa chimed in, trying to radiate innocence. “Mel, meet my grandmother, Henrietta Durand Harmond. Grammy, this is Melissa Elizabeth Linnet Somner, my former best friend.”
“Charmed,” Melissa said, giving a little bow.
The portrait pursed her lips. “Tsk, tsk, a lady should always curtsey, dear.”
“That’s why I bow.”
“Oh, she is nice,” it chuckled, clapping her hands. “Please feel free to stay here as long as you wish! Consider our home to be yours.”
“Right back at ya, toots,” Melissa said, shooting the portrait with a finger pistol and giving a wink.
Flopping down in a wingback chair, Rissa sighed. It was painfully clear that these two were going to get along like drag queens and duct tape. God help me.
“If you don’t mind a personal question, Melissa,” the portrait whispered eagerly, “why do you have so many tattoos? Are they each a reminder of a former lover?”
“Oh, hell, no!” she said, sweeping an arm downward. “There’s not enough of me for that. Make it a one-to-five ratio.”
“Really?”
“All right, one to ten.”
“Heavens!” Then it added, “I’ve never been with any man but my Richard.” Wistfully, the portrait glanced at a framed cameo of a soldier resting on a nearby table.
“True love, eh?” Melissa chuckled. “Guess it runs in the family.”
“Do you mean Mr. Coltier?” the portrait asked, shifting in the chair.
“Yes, they do seem to be getting along rather well.”
“Now how can you possibly know that?” Rissa asked, suspiciously alert.
“I have ears,” it replied smugly, suggestively looking at the stairs to the second floor.
Utterly mortified, Rissa grabbed a pillow and tried to hide behind it, but she could still hear their inane giggling, followed by hushed whispering and then more girlish laughter.
“Mel dear, would you care to hear something weird?” the portrait asked, pausing for breath.
Chuckling, Melissa came closer. “Always!”
“Strange as it sounds, I’ve never seen Mr. Coltier,” it confessed. “Only heard his voice from other rooms. Is he very handsome?”
“Dunno, I’ve never seen him either.”
“Nope, not good-looking at all!” Rissa said through the pillow, trying to derail any further embarrassment. “He resembles a cross between Humphrey Bogart, and Carrot-top!” She lowered the pillow. “Say, who wants ice cream?”
“Me!”
“Could that possibly be true?” the portrait asked skeptically.
Melissa shrugged. “I always want ice cream.”
“No, I meant his appearance.”
“Hmm, let’s find out,” Melissa said, retrieving the bag from the foyer.
Taking out the crystal ball, she balanced it in the palm of a hand. “Show me, Emile Coltier,” Melissa commanded with a dramatic wave.
Instantly, the crystal filled with swirling clouds of dark smoke. Then the center cleared to display Colt running through a burning building, flames everywhere. Smashing open a glass box on the wall, he grabbed a fire axe, then charged back into the raging inferno and disappeared from view ...
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Using fire extinguishers, a group of people battled a blaze near the elevators. However, the gushing foam was strangely having little effect on the flames, and the pressurized containers soon became exhausted.
By now, everybody was coughing from the thick clouds of billowing smoke that filled the fifteenth floor, and the temperature was rapidly approaching stifling. Drenched in sweat, some of the office staff were starting to remove items of clothing to try and battle the oppressive heat. Meanwhile, a handful of other people sat meekly at their desks, poised before dead computers, waiting for the disturbance to pass so that they could continue the important work of the day.
Belle, Book and Candle: A Fantasy Novel by Nick Pollotta Page 17