No Rest for the Wicca

by Toni LoTempio

  I didn’t, but I just smiled and nodded, reluctant to upset her. “Of course.”

  “Once she dug her heels in—why, just a few weeks ago I heard her arguing with someone on the phone—one of them, most likely. The discussion got quite spirited. Something about points.”

  “Points?”

  “Points in a star, I think. She said the Wiccan star had eight, and how could he be sure there was a spell—or something similar, I think.” She spread her hands. “I confess, I tried not to pay attention. Didn’t want her to think I was prying into her affairs.”

  “I can understand. I know it’s been difficult for you, but try to stay positive.”

  “I know you understand, dear. It’s been a relief to talk with you. After all, you’ve had your own share of grief to deal with. You know how it is.”

  I finished the tea, made some more small talk, and drove home deep in thought. I wasn’t familiar with any Wiccan or Voodoo rituals having to do with seven points, but that didn’t mean one didn’t exist. I figured research was one more thing to add to my ever-growing “to do” list.

  Chapter 10

  Be it Middle, High, or University, I’ve always found school cafeterias to be pretty much the same. Same rows of tables crowded together, same groups of students split into cliques or dining alone, same stainless steel wells containing food that looked as if it had seen better days. I took an orange plastic tray and walked down the aisle, looking at the selection of decidedly unappetizing food I could only describe as ‘mush’. I finally selected a chef’s salad, a Diet Coke and a tall glass of some squishy green substance claiming to be Jell-O, paid the cashier, and stood for a moment, surveying the masses. I saw an empty table for four near the rear entrance and made my way to it, set my tote on an empty chair and unloaded my tray. I had just picked out the last offensive cucumber in my salad when I heard the soft voice behind me.

  “Cafeteria food always reminds me of a horror movie. How about you?”

  I looked up to see Drucilla. She held a tray laden with items very similar to what I’d chosen. I smiled at her.

  “Now there’s an odd analogy.”

  She inclined her head toward the brown, cracked seat to my left. “Is anyone joining you?” I shook my head and she set her tray down, eased into the chair. “Good. If you don’t mind the company, I’ll explain.”

  “Not at all.”

  I watched as she put a salad and container of milk in front of her and pushed her neon-orange plastic tray off to the side. She thrust a well-manicured hand in front of me. “Sorry, where are my manners? I’m Drucilla Cooke.”

  “Morgan Hawkes.”

  “Yeah, I remember you from class yesterday.” She looked me up and down. “Graft really seemed to like you, Morgan.”

  I smiled. “Is that an asset around here?”

  She fiddled with opening her plastic milk container, finally jabbed her nail into the top and dug a hole. She plopped her straw in. “Depends on who you’re trying to impress. It can be, I guess.”

  I turned back to my own unappetizing lunch. “So, Drucilla—“

  Her verdant gaze pinned me. “Call me Dru. Everyone does.”

  “Okay, Dru. I’m interested to hear the answer to your riddle. Why is caf food like a horror movie?”

  Her laugh tinkled out. “It’s not a riddle, I’m afraid, merely an offshoot of watching so many of those disgusting slasher flicks in my formative years. Every time one of those disgusting monster types would appear on screen, my boyfriend would point and say, “Cripes. That’s where the caf gets its food from.”

  I choked back a giggle. “Oh, no.”

  She smiled. “Oh, yes. And really, when you think about it, it could be true. Some of the stuff they serve in school cafs could be human byproduct.”

  I set down my fork and swallowed. “Well, if that isn’t an appetite killer, I don’t know what is.”

  She took another swig of milk. “How do you think I stay so thin?”

  I gave her an appraising look. “How about your boyfriend? Is he thin too?”

  Dru shrugged. “He used to be, but I have no idea what Lee might look like now. I dumped him after High School graduation. He could well be one of the short-order cooks here, for all I know.” She popped a cherry tomato into her mouth. “Wouldn’t that be a kick? I mean, really.”

  We laughed, then picked up our forks and ate in silence for a few minutes. Dru picked up her milk container, took a swig through the white plastic straw, and set it back on the table. She clasped her hands in front of her and looked at me.

  “So, you’re enrolled in the Entrée program?”

  “Yeah, I thought I’d start out that way. I dropped out of here years ago, just couldn’t make up my mind about a major.”

  “You dropped out? What made you decide to come back?”

  I shrugged. “Well, with a degree I can get farther in my nine to fiver. Only problem is, I’m still not settled on a career.”

  Dru sucked louder on her straw. “I hear ya. The working world is scary—scarier than half of the inhabitants of Central City. It’s the reason I opted to study full time. My father said he’d pay, so—I figured I might as well.”

  “You’re lucky. I have to get by on my own. At least with this program, I can test the waters, see what appeals.”

  “Yeah, Entrée’s a good program. It doesn’t tie you into getting a full degree, while it gives you an opportunity to sample a lot of things, find out where your bliss lies. Maybe it’s the way I should have gone.” Dru speared a piece of lettuce with her fork. “If you don’t mind my asking, how come you’re in the day program? Most of the Entrée students do the night shift.”

  “I’m lucky, I guess. They gave me a LOA to take this program.” I leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Her eyes lit up. “Of course.”

  “I kind of have to take this program. My chances of getting a raise are nil without it. Plus, my employer’s nephew would like nothing better than for me to be sacked so he can move right in.”

  She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “I hear ya. Nepotism sucks.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes before I asked, “So, what’s your major? You said you’re full time.”

  “Finance with a concentration in Accounting, but I’m not sure I want to be a bean counter.”

  My eyebrow lifted. “The Math majors don’t usually take the Supernatural Science courses as an elective, do they?”

  “Nope,” she chuckled. “Most of my fellow Finance majors wouldn’t be caught dead in Salem Hall. I took Graft’s course for the hell of it, on a friend’s advice. I thought it’d be an easy A. Now I’m not so sure.” She regarded me thoughtfully. “So what is it you do for a living, Morgan?”

  “I’m a paran—a paralegal,” I amended quickly. Whew. I’d almost said paranormal investigator, which would have blown my cover and supremely pissed off Cole, not to mention Commander Stone. I had to be more careful.

  Dru attacked her salad again. “Paralegal, huh?” She eyed me over her fork. “I’m a little puzzled. Why would a paralegal want to take a course in voodoo and witchcraft? I mean, it doesn’t exactly seem as if it’d enhance your career goals.”

  I shrugged. “Not ordinarily, but the firm I work for has a lot of supernaturals for clients. My boss thought it’d be good to have a more thorough understanding.”

  She considered this a moment, nodded. “I can dig it,” she said. “Gotta cozy up to the money, right? Make the customer happy and all that rot, right?”

  I laughed. “Right. Besides, I admit to a certain fascination with the so-called Black Arts.”

  “Yeah, me too. I think it’s the main reason for the percentage of pure humans that take ‘em. Honest, when you read the brochure, some of the courses sound really interesting and cool. And sometimes, learning how to cast a spell or two might come in handy.”

  “True. I wouldn’t mind knowing how to do the thingy with the pins in the voodoo doll. There are days
when I sure could use it on certain people.”

  Dru nodded. “I hear ya.”

  “The voodoo angle interests me,” I continued. “I’m curious to see how Graft ties them together.”

  Drucilla nodded. “Yeah, me too. Although I have heard people say there’s a thin line between Voodoo and Satanism.”

  “Well, practitioners of voodoo worship individual gods, called lwa’s. Satanists worship the Devil. Seems to be it’s a pretty big difference.”

  She shrugged. “I guess. You seem pretty well versed on the subject, Morgan.”

  I spooned up the last of my verdant Jell-O, which had actually tasted pretty good, considering. “I read a lot. You know, just in case I ever feel the urge to go on a game show. Can I have Satanism for fifty, Alex?”

  She laughed, then suddenly grabbed my arm.

  “Hey, look. There’s the new substitute prof over there on the checkout line. The girls from Admissions told me he was a dreamboat, and they weren’t kidding, were they?”

  I looked up. Cole stood on line right behind a slightly shorter man, whose khaki-colored suit contrasted sharply with the rich ebony of his skin. The other man had curly gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an air of authority. Cole pulled out his wallet, and the other man made a gesture with his hand, said something to the cashier. Both men picked up their trays and started a curtained alcove on the other side of the large room.

  I glanced at Dru, still watching Cole’s back as he disappeared behind the curtain. I reached across, tapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Who’s his friend?”

  Dru dragged her gaze back to me. “Dean Robbins, the head of this grand establishment. Guess I can see how the new prof got his job. I bet he’s got himself a full time gig here before too long. Some of the profs who are up for tenure had better watch their step. If you’re cozy with the Dean, you’re in like flint.” She sighed. “Graft and Morrow are both pretty tight with the Dean. I’m almost certain their relationship contributed heavily to Florrie’s problems,” she added softly.

  I raised one eyebrow, and hoped the hammering of my heart wasn’t loud enough to be heard. “Florrie?”

  “Yeah. She’s a good friend of mine. To be honest, she’s the one who recommended I take this dingy course. She’s really into all this stuff.” Dru’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “If you think I have a temper—sheesh, you should see Florrie in action. She almost came to blows one day with Graft over some of the research material.”

  “Really? Wiccan material?”

  Dru shrugged. “I’m not sure. They argued over most everything. She had it out a couple of times with Morrow, too, but Graft was the worst. Florrie always said she got the job because no one else wanted to work with those two. Unless, of course, you count Margit Culhane.”

  “Margit Culhane?”

  “Yeah.” Dru shrugged. “Talk about an ass-kisser! She always tried to simper up to Graft, but I think he found her a bit too intense for his taste. He likes people whose buttons he can push.” She scrubbed at her chin with the heel of her hand. “The old buzzard sure knows how to press my buttons. I almost popped him one the other day.” Her voice trailed off, and she scooped up the last of her salad. “I guess he’s thinking about starting fresh, seeing as how he offered you the job.”

  “He didn’t exactly offer, per se,” I said quickly. “He merely suggested I post. Besides, it’s not his decision alone.”

  “Yeah, well, trust me, most of these student jobs are fixed. And as for his partner, I hear Morrow lets Graft make all those type of decisions—he can’t be bothered. Graft wanted Florrie for some God-know-what reason, until she defied him. Now it appears he wants you, too.”

  “You make it sound like a detriment.”

  She laughed. “Depends on how you view it, I guess.”

  I shrugged. “Some people like those who challenge them. It keeps their mind sharp.”

  Dru shook her head. “I doubt Graft is one of those people. His mind is sharp as a tack, and he knows it. He’s conceited and supercilious. Thinks his you know what doesn’t stink, to be blunt.”

  I pushed my tray off to one side. “Do you recall anything in particular she questioned?”

  “Hard to pinpoint any one thing. He and Florrie disagreed on so much.” Dru puckered her brow in thought. “Hell’s bells, yeah, I can think of something. Have you ever heard of Odic Force?”

  I frowned. Something about the term stirred a memory in me, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It has to do with energy, I think. Metaphysical energy. He had something in his notes about—oh, crap, what was it now? Seven points of something. Oh, I remember. It was a star. Florrie went bananas, said the Wiccan symbol for a star had eight points, and how could it possibly relate to OF? I heard her on the phone, she sounded really wild.” Dru shrugged. “But that was Florrie-so anal about details.”

  “Really.” I pulled a pen and paper from my tote. “Odic Force, you said?”

  “Yeah.” Dru rolled her eyes. “Florrie really got caught up in all this. Don’t get me wrong, I love the girl, but sometimes—man, she could get strange. And she was such a loner. Hard to get close to.”

  I felt an odd stirring in my lower region and realized it was my phone, which I’d put on vibrate. “Excuse me,” I murmured. I flipped the instrument open and saw I’d gotten a text message.

  SETTLING IN? C.

  I glanced over at Dru. “I’m sorry. It’s work.” I held up the phone, shrugged apologetically. “They just can’t do without me.”

  “It’s okay. I have a Principles of Accounting class I really should attend. I’ve skipped the last two.” She rose. “I’ll see you around.”

  As she walked off, my fingers flew over the keypad, texting a return message.

  PRETTYMUCH. AND U?

  A few minutes later, this:

  WE NEED TO MEET.

  I answered: FINE. WHERE.

  NOT HERE. TONITE. THE GROTTO.

  My fingers flew over the keypad.

  MEET U THERE AT 8?

  FINE. SEE U THEN.

  I snapped my cell shut. The Grotto was an exclusive restaurant, located on the outskirts of Central City. A little classy for an info dump, but then again, hell, why not? It qualified as out of the way, most likely the reason he’d chosen it. I rubbed my hands together. Since Cole would, no doubt, put it on his expense account, the least I could do was order filet mignon. It’d been quite a while since I had steak, and the thought made me start to salivate.

  My next stop was the University Library. I found a bank of computers wedged off to one side, chose a secluded one, and typed in “Odic Force.” No less than ten sites came up. I clicked on the top one and read what popped up on my screen:

  Odic Force: A specific type of energy, believed to be the underlying principle of metaphysical nature, the very fabric of the universe. Can also be referred to or known as an aura – a glowing emanation that outlines the human body and can only be seen by sensitives.

  I skimmed the site, but found no references to symbols, anything that could remotely possess seven or eight points. I made a mental note to ask Xia if she’d ever heard the term. I was just about to navigate away from the screen when a sentence at the bottom of the page caught my attention:

  Odic Force is sometimes referred to as prana in the practice of ancient Haitian rituals, such as voodoo. Animal and human sacrifices were used in ancient magick to increase the effectiveness of a spell. When the sacrifice was made it released the creatures life force which the magician would use to increase his own magical power.

  I sat back, rubbing absently at my chin. Could the deaths of those witches somehow be tied to human sacrifice, a rite of ancient magick? Maybe the seven points referred to the voodoo definition of Odic Force, and not the other? Could there be someone—a magician or sorcerer, most likely—using the energy obtained from them to increase his own power, and if so, for what purpose? My little exercise in research had only served to rai
se more questions, infinitely puzzling ones. Oh, well, I thought as I switched off the computer, maybe Cole would have some ideas over dinner tonight.

  At least, we’d have plenty to talk about. And who knew? It might actually lead somewhere.

  Chapter 11

  “You’re certainly making a fuss about dressing. I thought you said this is a business dinner.”

  “It is, but last I checked, it’s not a crime to want to look nice.”

  “Uh-huh.” Xia surveyed the litter of shoes littering my bedroom floor, the tangle of dresses, pants and lacy lingerie scattered helter-skelter across my bedspread. “Either you’ve emptied out the entire contents of your closet, trying to decide which of this mess you’ve decided to donate to Goodwill, or you’re getting ready for a date. Now which is it?”

  “Neither,” I growled from the recesses of the closet. I emerged, pair of black heels in tow. “I told you, it’s merely a business dinner. Cole wants to compare notes.”

  “Cole, eh?” Xia folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you speak of a co-worker named Cole. Who is he? A new hire?”

  “More or less,” I grumbled. I held up a black halter, studied my reflection in the mirror, then tossed it aside. I dragged a hand through my tumbled mass of black curls. “He’s—ah—sort of working with me on a special assignment.”

  Both of my cousin’s perfectly arched brows went up. “Special assignment? Since when do Ghostbusters have special assignments?” Her eyes went to blue slits. “What is it you’re not telling me, Morgan?”

  “Nothing,” I hedged. I pulled out a steel-gray vest and pants set, held it up. “What do you think of this?”

  “Not much. The color does nothing for you.”

  “No?” I made a face at my reflection in the mirror. “And here I thought it might be a good way to go, you know, not too dressy, not too casual. Team it with a pink halter top—“