Phantom Quartz

by Barbra Annino

  There was a knock at the door.

  Cinnamon squeezed my hand. “Go ahead and wait outside. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

  She smirked. “I do. This is not something you can unsee, and I’d rather keep my dignity until I no longer give a rat’s ass.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be right outside.”

  Cin told the nurse to come in and I scooted past a fortyish woman with kind eyes and pink cheeks on her way inside.

  If I had seen who was standing on the other side of the door before I opened it, I never would have left that room.

  Chapter 8

  I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked like a Corvette that had been stripped of its paint job, and, oddly enough, its headlights. Her hair was three shades darker. So rather than the color of the sun at high noon, it was a subtle shade of honey. Her nails were trimmed and coated with a pale pink polish—a sharp contrast to the cherry red she normally favored. Her face had at least three layers less shellac than usual. It was dusted with a hint of powder, a thin coat of mascara, and a smear of nude eyeshadow. She was wearing a candy cane-striped dress over a white shirt buttoned all the way up to her chin, and the kind of sensible sneakers that nurses and servers wear.

  She looked...pretty, and...modest.

  It was completely freaking me out.

  “Monique? Is that you?”

  She hadn’t seen me yet. She was pushing a cart loaded down with reading material, water and various snacks. She was smiling. Then her eyes caught mine and her face fell right off its axis. She nearly jumped out of her shoes.

  Monique fumbled into her large pocket and produced a rosary, a silver cross dripping from it. “Stay back!”

  I tilted my head. “And what is that supposed to do? Shoot holy water?”

  “It’s supposed to...to...” She looked around, frantic. “Keep you the hell away from me!”

  “Good Goddess, Monique, I’m not a vampire.” Honestly, the woman was off her rocker.

  Her hand shook as she held the rosary in front of my face. “I don’t know what the hell you are, Stacy Justice. All I know is that whenever I’m around you or your lunatic family, bad shit happens.”

  “Well to be fair, whenever I’m around me and my lunatic family, bad shit happens. And I don’t think you’re allowed to curse after you’ve been released from the convent.” I cracked a smile, referring to her makeover and newly found love of religion.

  She gulped. “H-how did you know I was in a convent?”

  My turn to gulp. “Geez, Monique, I was kidding. Were you really in a convent?”

  She frowned and glanced to the floor. “I’m not exactly sure. It could have been a cult.”

  That would make more sense.

  Monique faced me again and narrowed her eyes. “And it’s all your fault!”

  Here we go again. Monique Fontaine loved to blame me for her problems, when the real reason was her sandpaper personality.

  “That’s absurd. I didn’t make you join a cult.”

  “No, my mother did. I live with her now, thanks to you destroying my apartment and my business.”

  Well okay, maybe it was more like 50-50. Although to be fair, it wasn’t me who destroyed her business, it was a fairy named Pickle. Of course, I couldn’t very well tell her that.

  She began counting off on her fingers all the ways I had wronged her.

  “I have no job, no bar, I live with my mother, I have to dress like a goddamned nun because she insists on it, I spent a month with the sisters of...some freaking thing, there’s three days of my life I don’t even remember, and I have to do eighty hours of community service! All thanks to you!” She looked at the rosary, then back to me. “I oughta just cram this down your throat.”

  “All right, take it easy there, candy stripper Barbie.”

  “It’s candy striper!” she shouted.

  I sighed, because a lot of this really was my fault. Except— “What’s the community service for?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Solicitation.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Oh, relax.” She rolled her eyes. “I was just asking for a ride, but the guy was cute so...I got a little handsy. Turned out to be an undercover cop.” She frowned. “Apparently. The whole thing is kind of fuzzy. Part of that lost time problem, thanks to y—”

  I held a hand up. “Yeah, I get it. Thanks to me.”

  Monique did have a point. Much of her trouble stemmed from my actions. A few months back, a demon succubus blew into town to enact a centuries-old curse on my family, only she needed to inhabit the body of a harlot to pull off her plan. Monique Fontaine wasn’t actually a harlot, but she was the closest thing Amethyst had to one, so my aunts and Birdie thought I should keep an eye on Monique. This was not an easy task. First, because keeping tabs on Monique was like herding wild cats in heat, and second, because Monique and I had never gotten along. Not even in high school. Mostly because she tried to steal every boyfriend Cin and I ever had, but also because she had the disposition of a bridge troll.

  Anyway, because of the whole demon curse thing, I had to resort to some pretty drastic measures to keep her safe. Some of those decisions led to a few blackouts and the destruction of Monique’s property, which I still felt bad about.

  But to be honest, I didn’t hate zapping her with my taser.

  “Listen, Monique, if you want to come back to the paper, you can write your old column.”

  Monique pretended to buff her nails. “Do I get a raise?”

  “No.”

  She scoffed. “Then forget it. I don’t want to work for that crappy paper anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She pushed the cart towards Cin’s room.

  “Don’t go in there,” I warned.

  “Screw you, Justice. I’ll go wherever I damn well please.”

  See, what I mean? Bridge troll.

  “Monique, I’m telling you...”

  But she barged through the door anyway.

  A lot of screaming and banging followed, and the door opened wide enough for me to see Cinnamon practically toss Monique onto her cart. She and the cart sailed back into the hallway and crashed into a wall.

  I rushed to help her up, but she slapped my hand away. “Leave me alone you, you...” She was struggling for a good one, I could tell.

  “Snotsausage?” I offered.

  “Yes!” Then she burst into tears. “I hate my life,” she sobbed into the skirt of her dress.

  At this snapshot in time, I hated mine too. Because I was about to be nice to Monique Fontaine, and it made my tongue itch.

  Chapter 9

  “YOU DID WHAT?” Cinnamon yelled.

  It was a while later, and I had just returned from the cafeteria with coffee and a donut. Cinnamon was pacing the room in a hospital gown and fuzzy red socks, and I couldn’t help but notice her maternity undies were stamped with www.kissmyass.com across the backside. For a brief moment I wondered if she had ironed that on herself or if there was a store where you could purchase such undergarments.

  I reached my arm out. “I brought you a donut. It’s your favorite. Double chocolate.”

  “No, no, do not change the subject.” Her hand made some weird gesture. A cross between a fist and triple flip-off. “Repeat what you just said. I’m either having a stroke or the acoustics in this hospital room are terrible, because I know you did not just say that you ‘hired’ the town twatwaffle to work at my bar.”

  She was foaming at the mouth as she said that last part and she put air quotes around ‘hired’. Cinnamon hated people who used air quotes. She thought that if a person wanted to emphasize a point, she should do it with inflection, tone, or a right hook.

  “Yes, you heard correctly, but let me explain.” I looked toward the curtains to avoid facing Cinnamon’s stink eye. The ivy print only served to remind me that I had just planted a seed that would likely trail me the rest of my life and whose v
ines could choke a brick house.

  Cinnamon took another deep breath, pinched the bridge of her nose and blew out a sigh. Without looking at me, she said—eerily slow, like a psychopath in a slasher flick—“I am literally going to kill you.”

  I won’t lie. I peed a little.

  “Come on, Cinnamon, I kind of owe her.” Because I did.

  “You owe her, not me.” Which was true, but less to the point.

  Then she threw an empty paper cup at me. I ducked, and it failed to connect with anything—just floated through the air like a poorly designed paper plane before sinking to the shiny tile floor with little fanfare.

  “Will you calm down?” I said. “Think of the baby.”

  Cinnamon rubbed her swollen belly. “Did you hear that, little one? Aunt Stacy betrayed us.”

  I parked a hand on my hip. “Now that’s just harsh.”

  Cin made a face. “I won’t do it. No way will that dongbag set foot behind my bar.”

  “Did you ever think that maybe the reason Monique is....Monique, is because she doesn’t really have anybody in her corner?” I was totally working off the cuff, but I saw Cin’s lip twitch a little so I went with it. “You and I have a lot of people who love us, Cin. Monique’s own mother doesn’t show her any kind of affection.”

  “How on earth would you know that?”

  I shrugged. “She told me. After her bar flooded. She said her mother called her a loser.”

  Cin sighed and thought a moment. “That really doesn’t change all the crap she’s pulled. A lot of people have shitty mothers. They don’t all grow up to be Moniques.”

  I completely understood her point, I did, but the fact of the matter was that Cinnamon wouldn’t even be at The Black Opal after the baby came, and Monique’s customer base would likely follow her there. Now that Down and Dirty was gone, those folks would need a new watering hole, and The Black Opal could use the extra business, especially now. Plus, a young, female, and attractive bartender would bring in more customers than say, 80-something year old Scully. Not to mention I would feel a lot less guilty for electrocuting Monique’s building.

  It seemed like a win-win-win.

  My cousin was still bitching so I cut her off and said, “You know, this is your fault, really.”

  She stopped as if she’d hit a speed bump. “Excuse me?”

  At the risk of having it lopped off, I pointed a finger at her. “You were supposed to hire someone to replace you, and you haven’t done it yet. You’ve had eight months to find someone to take over after the baby was born and you haven’t interviewed a single soul. What are you waiting for?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. I guess I thought maybe I could bring the baby to the Opal. keep working. Tony could watch her most nights.” She looked at me, hopefully.

  I stared back like she just sprouted a third eye. “Are you nuts? That is the dumbest idea I ever heard. You are not raising that baby in a bar, Cinnamon.”

  She sank into a chair. “I know.” She pulled the curtain away from the window and gazed down at the park. “I guess I’m just scared.”

  I stepped forward. “Of what?”

  She picked at a thread on her gown. A tiny thread that unraveled ever so slightly as she tugged. “Of being a bad mom.”

  That took me aback. Of course she would be a good mother. There was no doubt in my mind. Cinnamon was the most loyal, fierce, protective, strong, savvy woman I knew. She would do anything for the people she loved, and I knew she would love this baby like nothing else in the world. I told her all of this. I also pointed out that she had a great role model in Angelica.

  “You’re going to be great.” I placed a hand on her shoulder. “And you’re not alone. There are at least a half dozen other women who are going to tell you exactly how you should raise this baby.” I smiled.

  Cinnamon said, “Don’t I know it.” She sighed, “But not yet, anyway.” She patted my hand and stood. “It was false labor. They’re sending me home.”

  “Oh.” I was surprised to hear that. She seemed ready not so long ago. “Okay. I’ll pull the car around.”

  “No, that’s all right. I called mama while you were downstairs. She should be here soon.”

  “That’s not necessary, I can take you.”

  Cinnamon walked over to the bed where her bag was sitting. “No, that’s okay.” She reached inside and pulled out her pants. “Sometimes a girl needs to talk to her mother.” As she said that, she stopped short as if something had terrified her.

  “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  She looked at the quilted bag and rolled her eyes, then squeezed them shut and tilted her head down. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.”

  “Say what?” I began digging in my own bag, looking for the phantom quartz.

  “Agh!” She spun to face me and slapped the bed. I shot her a curious look.

  “Fine. Monique can work at the bar, but you train her.”

  I smiled. “You sure?”

  Cinnamon snapped, “Of course not, so let me finish before I change my mind.”

  I folded my arms and stared at her.

  “I don’t want her there until I take my leave.”

  “Of course.”

  “And she cannot decorate. I don’t even want her to bring her own pens!”

  “No pens. Got it.”

  “She can’t wear that raunchy perfume she bathes in, or her stripper shoes, and she has to wear a shirt at all times. And for the love of God, I want her nowhere near my husband. If she so much as blinks at Tony, I’ll carve out her implants and feed them to her in a sandwich.”

  I plucked the present from my bag and walked over to my cousin. “You know, you’re really kind of a softie.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  I held out the box. “For you and the little one.”

  She accepted the gift, and I explained what it was, what it represented, and all the magical properties the crystal held for both she and the baby. “I think you should open it now. Who knows when we’ll get another calm moment alone, and it has to be between just us. I don’t want anyone else’s energy clouding the charge.”

  Cinnamon opened the box and extracted the clear crystal quartz within a quartz. She cautiously placed it on the small table next to the bed and stared at it for the longest time.

  Finally, she looked up and grinned. “It’s beautiful, Stacy, thank you so much.” She ran her hands along the smooth stone, examining every corner and crevice. The phantom quartz stood about sixteen inches tall, hexagonal, with a pointy top and a flat base. The quartz inside was anchored on the bottom in a cluster of smaller crystals, but it too was tall and clear and with a sharp point.

  I explained that I had already cleansed the stone with water and bathed it in moonlight for three days, but that once the baby arrived, I could bind it to both of them. Cinnamon wasn’t well versed on the magick that ran through our family tree since it was passed from mother to daughter. Nor had she ever been particularly interested in it. But she did know a thing or two about the Old Ways simply by being constantly exposed to a family of witches. Although lately I couldn’t help but notice that every once in a while—ever since her pregnancy—my cousin seemed not only curious about magick, but downright entranced, like she was now.

  Her face took on an ethereal glow as she caressed the stone, her eyes swirling with light and flecks of gold I had never seen before. I watched her, carefully calculating if this was the baby penetrating through Cinnamon’s life-force, or if this was all my cousin. Her gaze was intent, as if she were bespelled. She shouldn’t have been. I couldn’t bind the stone to her until the baby arrived, not if I wanted to do it properly, though it was an incredibly powerful piece.

  “Cinnamon?” I stepped forward, examining the quartz closer. There was the typical glow and hum that came with any freshly charged gemstone. Nothing more.

  My cousin swung her head to me and said, “Sorry. Guess I spaced out for a moment there.” She se
t the quartz back on the table and said, “It’s kind of intoxicating. Like looking into a crystal ball.”

  I looked at the stone again, certain I had shielded it from any spells I had recently cast. Nor had it been anywhere near Birdie and the aunts’ magic room. Unless...had I not cleaned it properly?

  “Cinnamon—” I began.

  Angelica’s booming voice bounced down the hall before she even arrived, cutting off my question. Cinnamon quickly placed the stone back in the box and tucked it inside her bag.

  Angelica was an older, slightly taller, heavier version of Cin. But while Cinnamon had more curves than a racetrack, her mother was shaped like a pear.

  “There you are! My baby!” my aunt called, arms open.

  Angelica rushed forward to collect Cinnamon into a bear hug. I couldn’t see my cousin’s head for about twenty seconds.

  “Ow, Mama, stop squeezing me!” Cin’s arms flailed and I tip-toed backwards toward the door, planning an escape.

  Angelica said, “You don’ta move, Stacy!” She didn’t even turn around. Just pointed a long finger at me.

  Great. That was her pissed off voice. I’d been hoping to sneak out without taking a wooden spoon to the head.

  Angelica slowly turned to me, her dark eyes serious. I raised my hand and waved, “Hiya, Auntie! What’s shakin’?”

  The older woman approached me with the look of a lion stalking her lunch. Cinnamon didn’t move a muscle. Clearly, it was every woman for herself.

  Then, to my utter astonishment, Angelica pounced and gave me the motorboat of my life. Now it was my turn to flail my arms. I have no idea how she bent my head so quickly, but she smelled of gingerbread cookies, so it wasn’t so bad.

  “Thank you for taking good care of my baby.”