The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  “It is?”

  He nods.

  “Well, what is it?”

  He steps closers and leans so that I feel his breath on my ear and neck. “Magick is magick.”

  He steps back and puts the sunglasses back on. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it. And with that pressure, the images hit me like rocks. Piles of severed hands. Soldiers smoking and playing cards around a dimly lit table. Voices arguing about being on duty Christmas day. A movie screen with flashes of classic horror films like Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th. A pentagram splattered in clotted blood.

  I shiver and pull my hand away.

  “Let’s get out of here, Memphis. Let’s just put the girls on the side of the road here and drive away. Someone will pick them up, right? They’re little girls, cute as hell. They’ll be fine. Five-oh will be along any minute now. You and me—we have a connection. We should explore that.”

  All I can do is gape at him. “You are out of your fucking mind.”

  He grabs me and kisses me. And despite what he’s just said, sparks zing through me. For a moment I forget everything else except how good it feels to press up against him, feel his strong hands grip my back, his lips at once soft and rough on my mouth, his tongue sensuous against my own tongue and teeth.

  He pulls away first, and I hate that he does. “You need to come with me,” he whispers. “Baby, I’ll show you magic you never imagined.”

  “Memphis!”

  A small, childish voice breaks us apart. Romola and Cleo stand by the car. I didn’t even hear them get out.

  “We have to go,” Cleo says.

  I take a step towards the car, but Ty reaches out and grabs my hand. I turn back to him. “Run away with me, Memphis.”

  I stand there facing him for a moment—no more than a second. In that moment, I know great confusion. I could go in one direction, putting my faith in what I want to believe; or I could go in the other direction, trusting what I see before me.

  I run. Away.

  From Ty.

  “Girls. Get in the car. Now.”

  I throw myself into the driver’s seat and hit the door-lock button before driving away about a hundred yards, all the while keeping my eyes on Tyson’s face in the rearview mirror. He’s grinning.

  “Where’s Ty?” Romola asks, worry in her voice, as she helps her sister buckle up.

  “He had to pee,” I say distractedly. “He needs privacy because he’s a guy.”

  Romola looks back, craning her neck. “I think he’s all done.”

  I stop the car and grab his duffel bag, which he’s left on the floor. I rummage through it, not sure what I’m looking for until I feel cool metal against my hand and the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. It’s my butterfly locket.

  I look back out the rear window. Tyson is running towards us, an all-out sprint, the expression on his face hard and dangerous. I toss his bag out my window onto the road, the locket in my lap, and drive away, watching him stop and scoop up the clothes and things that have burst from his luggage all over the asphalt.

  Bright Vixen’s cat slinks out from under my seat and climbs into Tyson’s vacated place.

  I’ve just left a rock star, a most-likely-possessed rock star, by the wayside.

  I told Tyson he had to trust me. But what I failed to comprehend, in spite of his jinxed sunglasses, is that I should not have trusted him.

  PART FOUR: THE ELDER

  Chapter Eighteen

  Romola stares at me through the rearview mirror with wide, panicked eyes, her seatbelt cutting into the tender skin under her neck as she strains forward. “What about Ty?”

  “He’ll be okay,” I say. “Won’t he, Cleo?”

  “Sort of,” she says.

  “STOP IT!” Romola screams, an eardrum-piercing screech.

  “Sweetie—” I start to say, but Romola screams some more.

  “No! Stop doing that! Stop acting like you have a secret!”

  “Like I have a secret?”

  “No—like both of you have a secret together—and I don’t.” Romola starts to cry.

  I wish I could slow down, pull over, and hug her. This outburst calls for a hug. But I don’t know how far gone Tyson is or what he wants. Why did he take the locket? He knows we’re going to somewhere near Pasadena, but he doesn’t know where exactly. Just that the girls’ grandfather is there, and possibly their parents.

  If he figures out where we are, will he do anything about it? He has a gig in San Diego tomorrow night, but I have to assume the worst—that he’s off the deep end and involved in some heavy magick he probably doesn’t understand or maybe even know about.

  The lockets, Viveka’s and mine—I’m beginning to wonder if all of this might have something to do with the girls. But what? Why did Tyson want us to leave them behind?

  I reach back awkwardly and find Romola’s knee. She doesn’t pull away, and I can feel her sobs shaking her entire body. “Romola, I’m sorry. You’re right—I’ve been acting like a jerk. I’ve been insensitive towards you. I’m really sorry.”

  She doesn’t answer. I find Cleo’s eyes in the mirror and after a moment, she reaches for her older sister, stroking her hair and patting her shoulder. We hang on to Romola like this for a while until her crying subsides. Her face emerges from behind puffs of hair—hair that needs a good brushing. I’ll braid it when we stop, I vow. Romola wipes her wet cheeks and runny nose on her sleeves. I’ll do their laundry too.

  “I miss my mom,” she says and starts to cry again.

  “I know you do, sweetie.”

  “She talks to me the way you talk to Cleo.”

  I’m sure she does. And how does Viveka treat Cleo? Does she know that her youngest is special, or gifted or whatever? I wonder what Jesus Christ must think. If he knows, does he see his daughter’s nascent ability as God-given, or the mark of Satan?

  ****

  We exit into downtown Santa Cecilia. There is something nonchalantly charming about this commercial area, a combination of nineteenth-century ranchero California and the twentieth- and twenty-first-century architecture that tries to replicate it with chicken-wire and foam-core foundations. I park in front of a quaint diner with picnic tables outside. We stretch our legs and I order some food. Bright Vixen’s cat doesn’t move, even though we’ve cracked the car windows.

  While the girls pick at their chicken tenders and fries, I try to get the image of Ty running after us out of my head by sifting through Viveka’s documents. Still, his cold determination comes back to me. Leave the girls by the side of the road, he said, all the while trying to seduce me. Over and over I see him running, and I finally give up trying to stop it, feeling like I’m about to fall. The image changes, and he is running, but it’s a different moment. He’s on a soccer field, going after the ball, his determination focused but not on some dark deed. His teammates run with him, shout encouragement. Like a salve, the memory of Tyson erases the small bursts of panic that have taken up residence in my heart.

  I turn with more attention to Viveka’s notes. I know I’ve seen Tucker’s name somewhere in here, but it takes me a while to remember where. And no wonder—his name is the return address on the envelope holding all that cash she gave me. I hold it for a while (most of the cash is safely squirreled away in the car’s trunk). It was a letter or a check—maybe both? I see Viveka at a bank handing it over, getting cash in return. Tucker sent her the money, thousands of dollars.

  He knows something, I’m certain of it. Maybe he can illuminate for us the sticky wicket we’re in. I use some of the money to pay for our meal and ask the kid at the register how to get to 1405 Oak Leaf Lane.

  I’m jotting down the last of his directions when my cell phone bleats. It tells me I have three missed calls and three voicemails, one from early in the morning around the time Gladys’s house disintegrated, the others while we were driving through Nowhereland and I was impressing Tyson with my magickal gymnastics. There’s also a text message fro
m Tess. It reads: U’ll never believe wh.

  I tap a reply: Never believe what??? Who???

  The first voicemail is from Cooper, just checking in. The next is from Viveka.

  “Memphis, I hope everything is going all right with the girls. I’m fine, by the way, despite whatever Jesus told you.” She sighs. “I know you saw him. We’ve talked and he’s on his way home. Back to his flock.” Long pause. “Please tell the girls I love them and miss them.” She sighs again. “It looks like this is going to take a little more time than I thought it would. Okay. Oh, I hope your business trip went all right. Or is going all right. I don’t know.” There’s another long pause and some strange noises in the background, like she’s talking to someone and muffling the phone with her hand. “Thank you, Memphis. God bless. I mean, blessed be. Oh, you know.” Click.

  I want to smash the phone on the table, but I settle for stabbing a packet of sugar with a plastic fork tine instead. I try not to think it but I can’t help myself: Viveka is not being a good mommy. What the hell is she doing? Isn’t she the least bit concerned about her children? I have a thing about neglectful mothers.

  There’s one more voicemail, from Chad Beane. Tyson’s manager.

  “Hi, Memphis. We’re looking forward to seeing you tonight in San Diego. Sorry about the—ah—incident with your hotel room. Really odd. Listen, I was wondering if you’ve seen Ty? No worries, but Cheradon is a getting a little antsy to find him and she thought maybe he rode down with you. Just ring me up when you have a sec, will you? M’bye.”

  This message does not exactly adjust my mood. I close my eyes for a little on-the-fly meditation. Watching imaginary rainbow flowers open and close with my mind’s eye works wonders.

  ****

  We drive through the twin pillars of a gated community, although the gate is open and the guard post is empty. The houses all look the same—unassuming moss-colored mini-mansions with prominent three-car garages, in what I believe is marketed as a “contemporary” style. I’m not sure how I’m going to distinguish Tucker’s house from the others since the address numbers are often hidden behind shrubbery, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out that there’s no way anyone could ever miss it.

  Tucker Murray’s house is completely covered in Christmas ornaments and lights. And not just subtle white fairy lights and year-round-friendly ethnic baubles, but full-on Santa Claus and North Pole out of some wacky, uber-Hollywood/Disney/Macy’s One-Zillion-Watt Parade of Gaud. Life-size Santa, nine reindeer (Rudolph and his red nose take the lead), a sleigh, and an impressive sack of gifts are cozily ensconced on the roof, looking a little careworn if I’m being completely honest. Elves look on from the lower roof of the garage, some with their arms raised in a sort of “Touchdown, Saint Nick!” salute. Mrs. Claus stands at the front door with a basket of candy canes, as if she got Christmas confused with Halloween and is expecting trick-or-treaters. Maybe with the eve of All Saints’ Day just around the corner, that’s exactly what she’s doing. A small colony of emperor penguins dressed exclusively in knit hats and scarves, if they’re dressed in anything at all, stand in the middle of the lawn, frozen in a Styrofoam snowball fight.

  Either this is all a decoy for Tucker’s pagan ways or he’s making a very determined ironic statement. I’m already convinced he’s more than a little off his rocker.

  “Does it always look like this?” I ask the girls.

  “Uh huh,” says Cleo.

  “One Christmas, my dad said the decorations were okay except there wasn’t any crèche, and then Grandy just left it all up,” Romola says. “That was, like, when I was four.”

  The penguins have spotted us, and they begin to waddle in figure eights and make small clucks and meeps. This gets the attention of the elves, who do a double take at us. They lower their arms and give us a thumbs-up, jigging in place. The near life-size Mrs. Claus calls up to the rooftop, “Look who’s here, Nicky!” and Santa coughs and gives a raspy “Ho, ho, ho!” He also cracks his whip, which startles the reindeer, and they rear up and down, their hooves clattering on the roof as they try to get up into the sky. They can’t, however, because they’re bolted in place by at least one leg, and after a moment they settle down.

  Tucker’s house also has energy pulsations coming off it. It has what Cleo would call wiggly air. A definite portal hot spot. As if the Yule reception weren’t clue enough.

  We make our way up the front steps and pass Mrs. Claus, who turns to look at us. Cleo smiles at her and waves.

  Romola gives her sister a look and shakes her head. “Stop being weird,” she says. It’s got to be hard having a magickal sister.

  At the door, I take a deep breath and exhale. I do a little reading of the place, searching for signs of life—Viv, Jesus Christ, Tucker. Come in, says a voice inside my head that is not my own, nor is it a memory. The door opens and a sexagenarian man stands there with a trim, gingery beard and long nose.

  “You could have just knocked,” he says, his voice a pleasant, smiling growl. The energy vibrating from Tucker Murray is powerful but not draining. Instead, I feel slightly renewed. He is a witch as strong as Gru, if not stronger.

  “No,” I say. “I couldn’t.”

  He laughs. “You’re probably right. It’s good to assess a new place. You’re smart to do it. But I couldn’t miss your arrival even if I were asleep. Those reindeer make quite a fuss.”

  “You should put in some soundproofing or insulation.”

  “I did!”

  Romola laughs. “Grandy, you’re so funny.”

  Tucker mockingly smacks his forehead. “So I am! But never mind. As I said, come in, come in. It’s not everyday I get to see my granddaughters.”

  He closes the door behind us before getting down on his knees and giving each of the girls a hug and kiss. They cling to him, big, gleeful smiles on their faces. When the hugs are done, they pull away from their grandfather, their eyes wide with questioning, and he holds up his hands like the victim of a couple of gun-toting delinquents. The girls merrily ransack his vest pockets, which look pretty empty to me, and come up with miniature wooden yoyos, chocolate peppermints, and hand-sewn books with fabric covers. With a “Thank you, Grandy!” they run up one side of a double staircase and disappear down a hallway. I wonder if Tucker always has treats in his pockets or if he’s just that good a witch.

  “Oh, I am that good,” he says to my unspoken musings. “I only see them once or twice a year, but I keep a room for the girls. They have clothes, nightgowns, dolls. Everything little princesses could desire.” He presses his lips together in a smile, hands in his pockets. “I thought you all might show up. I hoped you wouldn’t, but I thought you might.” He points at me. “You’ve been sending out smoke signals, young lady.”

  “Do you even know who I am?”

  “Of course. You’re little Memphis Zhang, daughter of Wendy Tsu and Noel Zhang, goddaughter of Contessa Cho, former pupil of my ex-mother-in-law, Gertrude LeBrun.”

  “That’s right. You’re related to Gru. Or were. Ex.”

  He starts to stroll away from the front door, and I follow. “Divorce, even from a handfasting, is just legalese. We’re never clean of each other once a compact has been made.” He laughs, as if the idea of divorce couldn’t be more delightful.

  “You know it’s almost Halloween, right?” I ask.

  “If you mean, do I honor the witches’ New Year of Samhain, don’t worry—I represent, as the kids say, my beliefs with the appropriate decorations and candies and such. Just between you and me, I’ve always had a weakness for Christmas. All that tinsel.”

  “So the Christmas decorations,” I say. “Are they guards?”

  He wags his head from side to side, considering this. “I suppose. Better than some electric alarm system that never works. I won a prize the year I moved here for Best Christmas Spirit, so I just decided to keep ‘em up. Now the neighbors like it. Makes giving directions to their own homes easy.”

  “The girls said you l
eft them up because their father criticized the lack of a crèche.”

  “Did he?” Tucker’s voice is too innocent. “I forgot all about that. That man never ceases to have an opinion. When Viveka first joined up with him I thought I’d be bitterly disappointed, but he’s kept us entertained many a year now.”

  Even with Tucker’s general joviality, I find this assessment of Jesus Christ unsettling. It must show on my face because he grows suddenly serious. “She’s not here, you know.”

  I poke around the house with my mind and even though I haven’t been able to find her these last few days, I know he’s telling the truth. Viveka is nowhere near Santa Cecilia. “But she was,” I say.

  He nods.

  “Where is she then?”

  “A tropical island, probably drinking a virgin mai tai and learning the local dance traditions. Piece of work, isn’t she?” Tucker flashes his smile again. “Come! You’re hungry and so are the girls. We’ll order from my favorite Chinese restaurant. The food is delicious and they claim it’s all organic.”

  I follow him to the kitchen, taking in the elegant furnishings. The house is like a showcase except for a few signs of real life here and there—wadded tissues, cups with cold puddles of coffee at the bottom, piles of books, CDs, and DVDs. The semblance of normalcy reminds me of Gladys’s house, a similar attempt to get some distance from the occult.

  “Maybe she’s distancing herself, but not me,” Tucker says, rummaging in a kitchen drawer. Great. A mind reader—the real deal. “I’m rich and I like nice things. New things. Rather unwitchy of me, isn’t it?” He pulls out a tattered, greasy take-out menu for a place called Simply Fried. Several dishes have been circled emphatically with ballpoint pen to the point of ripping through the paper. When he asks what I’d like, I defer to his choice and wait while he calls in the order.

  “I’ve never met someone with a talent for communicating telepathically,” I say after he hangs up the phone. “And reading thoughts to boot. I don’t really like it.”