The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  “All present and accounted for, my dame!” he bellows, breaking through the mute and into my ears, and jumps back into the fray of a pit of serpents.

  I sit down between Cleo and Romola, and to distract myself from the kiss, quickly take some dutiful journalistic notes on my impressions, even as my mind works over what I know—or think I know—about Cheradon and Tyson. I’ve only filled half a page when my phone rings. It’s Cooper, and the sound of his voice fills me with homesickness and—if I want to be completely honest—guilt. Even though witches avoid guilt. After we check in on our days, I ask him about the locket.

  “Are you wearing it?” he asks.

  I touch it. “Yes.”

  “Good. I thought it was about time you started wearing jewelry again.”

  “I know. But tell me more about Foxy Lady. Was she selling a bunch of butterfly lockets or just this one?”

  “No,” he says. “But I didn’t look. Why? Does someone else have one too? Is it not a unique antique as she described it?”

  I almost tell him no, that no one else has it, but I think about what Smarter Memphis said, that Cooper knows nothing. “Actually, Romola and Cleo recognized it. They said their mom has one just like it.”

  There’s a silence on the other end for a long moment.

  “Cooper?”

  “Well,” he says. “That is rather deflating information. How disappointing.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” I say. “I love it. But I do find it odd.”

  “Coincidental?”

  “No such thing.”

  “Right.” He chuckles. “Everything is connected, my sweet infidel.”

  I laugh. “Where is this Foxy Lady?”

  “Hang on.” I hear him rummaging in his desk. “Here’s the receipt.” There’s the click of his glasses as he shakes them out and places them precisely on his nose. “Foxy Lady’s alias is Gladys Jones. And she lives in Santa Barbara. Well isn’t that a coinci—”

  “No, it’s not.” Because there’s no such thing. I make the connection immediately: Gladys Jones was Gru’s right-hand priestess, except she went by the magickal name Bright Vixen. Foxy Lady indeed.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  The door opens. It’s Chad Beane looking for me. I say goodbye to Cooper, grab my things, and tiptoe out of the room.

  “Don’t worry,” Chad says, maybe because I’m frowning. “You and me, we got the best seats in the house.”

  We head through a door that goes directly backstage. Chad leads me up some stairs and we are there on the skirt of the stage next to a lit-up control board. The drum kit, guitars, and mics await. A swirl of magenta, blue, and yellow lights dance around the hall, sweeping through the audience, a throng of mostly teenagers and twenty-somethings. Some in the crowd sport Yeah Right T-shirts over whatever they’re already wearing, Cheradon’s image front and center on their chests. She’s winking and biting her tongue in a way that looks as if it must hurt, but pleasurably.

  Chad tells me he’ll be back, gives my hip a squeeze—I need to kill Ned for setting me up with this handsy monster—and leaves. I pull two soft earplugs from my pocket and twist them into my ears. From stage left, Tyson, Babs, Horatio, and Hugo stroll out as if they couldn’t be less excited about performing. The crowd shouts its welcome.

  Horatio climbs up behind the drums, Babs and Hugo strap on their guns, and Ty grips the center microphone in his hands. No one can see his eyes behind the sunglasses, and his mouth is a thin line. Even though he’s not super tall he looms large in the spotlights, his oversized boots and jeans bulking him up, creating myth where he stands. His formfitting T-shirt enhances his skinny, muscled torso and makes the girls scream even louder. Yum.

  Don’t think yum! I tell myself. Shit.

  Babs, resplendent in go-go boots and a thrashed vintage Gucci minidress, strums the opening chords to their second biggest hit, “Baja Oregon.” During our interview they told me it’s a love song to Northern California’s liberal social and environmental politics, although it sounds to me more like an angry ballad about a teasing hoochie mama who won’t move up north from L.A. because her singing career is just getting started.

  Whatever it’s about, the crowd goes bonkers. Like a human wave, they surge forward as one, pushing against the metal barriers that separate them from the large men wearing yellow security windbreakers in front of the stage.

  Something dims one of the magenta lights and automatically I look up at the ceiling. Three fairies are just alighting on a steel beam. They’re dressed in dark colors, their clothing stylishly tattered, their hair sticking up. Pixie punk. One of them waves to me and I lift my hand slightly. They are rocking out and I wonder if they are here for me or the music.

  I go back to my scribbling. Not the things I’m thinking but the things I know readers will want to read, like what Arsenic Playground plays and what variations on lyrics Tyson uses—which I pick up because I’ve already memorized their best songs. Even if it weren’t part of my job, it wouldn’t be hard to do. They are that catchy.

  Next, the band moves on to some raucous, ear-challenging anger rock. Anger. That word is in my thoughts a lot tonight. I soften it in my notes: exasperation. With what, I’m not sure. With selfishness. With disrespect. With love gone bad. The usual rock/pop things. And then there’s grief.

  During their biggest single, “Cry, Gatsby,” I feel a whisper of air breeze the back of my neck. Chad Beane and his touchy-feeliness, I think, and wonder how I will handle him tactfully without giving in to my desire to magickally trigger a luxurious growth of hair out his ears and nostrils. But it’s not him. It’s Cheradon Badler.

  She winks at me, and I feel a thrill up my back. I have to remind myself that her attention’s not really real, that it’s not because of me. I glance up into the rafters. The fairies are gone.

  “Aren’t they awesome?” she shout-whispers into my plugged-up ear. She’s also wearing earplugs.

  “The kids seem to be lapping it up,” I shout back.

  “It’s Ty,” she says. “He’s so lappable.” Her tongue, fattened and pink appears clamped between her teeth in a girlfriends-only grin, the same one on the concert T-shirt. I wonder what she knows about Tyson and me.

  “Would you like to go on the record about something?” I ask. “About what’s going to happen in Anderson Valley?”

  She bats her eyelashes like an innocent deb and touches her nose, the infamous pink diamond ring now sparkling on her left hand.

  A shout goes up from the crowd as Arsenic Playground moves into the chorus of their song. Usually Ty and Babs duet on this, but Tyson points the mic at the audience and they swirl up to the task at hand:

  Cry, Gatsby, cry

  Your little fool don’t love you

  Your little fool don’t need you

  One more soul to die

  Cry, Gatsby, cry.

  Tyson’s shoulder are hunched, the microphone in his hand like a surrendered sword as the audience sings the lyrics that have been recently played in a couple of romantic movie previews and one slick car commercial. After they’ve gone through it three times, Tyson looks up and Babs strokes the guitar strings, launching into the squealing, heart-wrenching riff that leads to Ty’s climatic angst-ridden, howling finish.

  ****

  The house lights go up.

  “Listen,” Cheradon says. “D.B. really wants to meet you. Wait here, okay? I’m gonna go get him.”

  With a little peck on my cheek, Cheradon Badler slips away. There’s a twenty-minute intermission as the roadies break down Arsenic Playground’s equipment and set up Yeah Right’s. I stay in my place in the wings, scrawling down notes about the performance. I’m trying to find the perfect word to describe the way Babs strums her guitar when I feel the vibration of my cell phone in my bag. I answer it without glancing at the caller ID.

  “Ms. Zhang?” It’s an unfamiliar voice. “This is Kevin from the LeRoy Hotel. I’m afraid I have some alarming news.”

&
nbsp; Then I’m running, taking the stairs two at a time, thundering down the hall, my legs, my feet, my steps so heavy, too heavy, so very heavy and slow that I wish for fairy wings. If only a thousand pixies would lift me up—they could dig their nails into my skin if they had to—and get me to the nursery faster.

  I throw open the door and it bangs against the wall, bouncing back into me, and Saville screams, waking her brothers but not Viveka’s girls, who are safe and sound, still sleeping under their covers. Zanna in her corner comes lumbering out of the shadows with a what-gives expression, and all I can do is sit down in the doorway and catch my breath. Of course they’re okay. They’re here, not at the hotel. I’m confused by my leap of illogic. It’s only natural, I tell myself. It makes sense to lose a little bit of yourself when it comes to children, even if they aren’t your own.

  The cell phone, small and hot in my hand, is buzzing with noise and I lift it to my ear.

  “Ms. Zhang? Ms. Zhang, did we lose the connection?”

  I swallow. “No, I’m here. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what happened.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. There was a break-in into your guestroom tonight. We suspect someone of casing the hotel. He wasn’t very subtle about it. This almost never happens.”

  I tune Kevin out. Across the room, Cleo lifts her head and looks sleepily around. She sees me and puts her head back down, closing her eyes again.

  “Did he take anything?” I ask.

  “Not that we’ve found.”

  “Did you catch him?”

  “The police are investigating.”

  “So, that would be a no.”

  Kevin is kerfuffled. He gives me the contact information for the police. I hang up and rouse the girls. Romola is quiet in her exhaustion—I see now that she’s bone tired. Cleo, in contrast to her big sister, wakes up with no trouble, sipping some water and watching me with wide, bright eyes, looking as if she got a full night’s sleep.

  “Are we going home now?” she asks.

  What does she means by home—the hotel? My apartment? Or her real home with Viveka and Jesus Christ?

  “I’m not sure,” I say. And I’m not. Maybe it’s stupid to go back to the hotel. What if the person who broke in is still there? Perhaps it’s not a random burglar. It could be we are the targets. I reach out with my mind for the intruder, but without a start, not even a name, I get nothing.

  We’ve almost reached the doors leading to the parking lot as a tall, slender man approaches us. He’s bald with a snub nose and light-colored eyes, impeccably dressed in a dark shirt and elegant green tie. He pauses, taking in the girls and me. His eyes linger on Cleo before he looks directly at me.

  “Leaving so soon?” He extends a hand. “Dexter Berdin. Yeah Right’s manager. Call me D.B.” His grip is cool, almost clammy, but I don’t get anything from him except an unexplainable and excited self-satisfaction. I suppose I’d feel the same if I were in charge of an extremely successful rock band.

  “Right.” I flip up my press badge and introduce myself. “I hear you had something to do with me being here.”

  He almost closes his eyes and smiles. “You’re a good writer.”

  “Thanks. Sorry, but we have an emergency back at the hotel.” I herd the girls towards the doors.

  He steps aside and waves us along. “By all means.”

  My disappointment in missing Yeah Right’s performance—and our recent victimization has not extinguished that disappointment—is slightly lessened by being able to avoid talking further with this chilly man, the perfect complement to Cheradon’s ardent exuberance.

  ****

  Kevin the concierge assures me over and over that our new guestroom is safe. He gives us coupons for free hotel stays at any of the LeRoy’s sister hotels—nationwide! Clearly, staving off a lawsuit is on his agenda. I do a mental check of the premises. Everything I see, everything I sense, tells me something is out there but we are safe. And the girls look ready to curl up and sleep next to the check-in counter. The idea of repacking, getting them in the car, finding a new hotel, checking in, unpacking, seems more dangerously unpleasant than any unpleasant dangers we might face staying here.

  As we trudge off to our new room—apparently, the sliding glass doors leading to our room’s balcony have been shattered—I recognize the witching hour. Most nonbelievers and fairy-tale readers think that it’s midnight, but the true hour is ever-shifting. It’s the hour when deep, powerful magick happens. It’s that time of utter darkness when those who live for night have gone quiet and are about to rise and take advantage of their doggedness; and those who live for day are in the vulnerable yet rejuvenating thrall of deepest slumber.

  Right now, it’s that time of quiet in which most of the things stirring are those that are lost or up to no good.

  Romola and Cleo collapse into their bed. I check the locks as well as my luggage—that bellhop is still on my mind—but everything seems to be in place. I close the curtains onto our window. We’re actually in a bigger room but this one doesn’t have the ocean view, or a balcony. I turn off all the lights and peek out the window, searching for him. Or her.

  I’m just debating what to do first—sleep is off my agenda, and there’s either the tarot cards or calling on Smarter Memphis—when I hear that snicking sound.

  The fairy is hovering in the center of the room. He beckons to me. When I go to him he darts away towards the door, where he pops open the peephole glass and shimmies through, popping it back in behind him.

  Crap.

  I look back at the sleeping girls. It’s my only hesitation before I open the door and slip out. The fairy waits on the other side.

  “Hang on,” I whisper. I turn to the door and murmur a charm that ends with the words, “locked and loaded.” As an only child, I never really used this spell, but it’s supposed to make doorknobs send electric shocks through trespassers and is a favorite of kids craving privacy.

  I follow the fairy to the elevator. He pushes the button for the garage level and we descend. The elevator stops and I hold my breath during the long pause before the doors open. The fairy slips through the crack and I have to look around for him when I step out. He’s near an open door. There’s machinery churning away—a distinct parking garage sound. I take my time, trying to keep my footsteps quiet. I peer around the doorjamb.

  A man sits on the floor next to a shelf of folded white hotel linens. He’s dressed in khaki slacks, a white button-down shirt, no tie. He sports an Afro, which looks like it was recently liberated from braids—fluffy, soft, any movement or breeze stirring it lightly. He’s slender and handsome, and his dark skin, scarred on the cheeks by adolescent acne, is tight around his angular cheekbones and long, broad nose. I’ve seen him before. But the photo of Jesus Christ on the Holy Revival Redeemer website doesn’t do him justice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He’s older than he first appears to be. Lines deepen around his mouth and nose, his eyes. His hands are neither big nor small, but the tendons are prominent, his knuckles covered in gauze, speckled rusty red with blood. The pattern continues up his arms, blending into the dark skin of his wrists and streaking his shirtsleeves in uneven lines and splatters. His hair is black shot through with a bit of white and gray.

  Our eyes meet, and I can feel a magnetic pull even as I want to turn and run. The desire to be closer to him, to simply stand by his side, nearly tows me into the room. His aura is gray, gray, and gray.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” he says, his voice accented. “I’m going to leave.” Right. I look to the fairy, who is sitting on a high shelf of towels. He shrugs and nods.

  The elevator grinds into motion and I back away from Jesus Christ. A bell rings, signaling the car’s arrival. I turn to see who it is as the bellhop steps out of the sliding doors. He’s carrying an ice bucket and some antiseptic. He sees me and the color drains from his blotchy face.

  “That’s her!” His voice cracks.

  “You are mistaken,
” says J.C. “That is not my wife.”

  “That’s the woman in room 408. She has two little black girls with her.”

  I turn back to J.C. His eyes widen. “You have my daughters?”

  “They’re fine,” I say. “They’re safe.”

  His look turns wary, a coil of anger and confusion. He covers, not very well, with a dignified mien, straightening his back even as he sits on the floor. He’s afraid of what I’m going to do, of what I might have already done to his children. He loves them—that’s clear—but isn’t afraid to use them to get what he wants. And right now, he wants to know what I’m going to do to him.

  What am I going to do to him? He has Bellhop on his side. There’s no reason for me to escape back to the room. The bellhop probably knows where our new room is, or can find out. Something is welling inside me, a mama-bear-protecting-her-cubs instinct. I feel the need to beat them to the punch, literally.

  Without another thought, I hit the boy in the throat with the side of my hand. He drops what he’s holding and grabs his neck with a choking sound. It’s a little move from my college self-defense class. But in this case, it’s self-offense.

  “What are you doing with this guy?” I throw the question at both of them.

  Bellhop starts to cough.

  “Miss,” Jesus Christ says as he stands up. He is very tall, taller than the average man, and again I feel his pull. “How can I believe my girls are all right when you do violence to Bill?”

  “They’re fine. You still haven’t answered my question.”

  J.C. leans against a shelf and the fairy flitters off his perch before settling down again. “I got a message from my wife that she was staying here. This young man helped me find your room. I paid him a very generous tip.”

  I let this sink in. A message from Viveka?

  “She’s not here. You were given false information.”