by Josh Lanyon
I hoped it was true.
The first thing I did after arriving at Blue Moon on Monday morning was try to phone John at City Hall.
It was a relief to hear from Pat that he was in the office and working. It was less of a relief to learn he wouldn’t take my call.
Pat said apologetically, “I’m sorry, Mr. Saville, he’s on the other line.”
“I’ll hold.”
She said, with just a shade of discomfort, “The commissioner said not to.”
“Oh. Then… Could you…” I faltered.
Pat said kindly, firmly, “I’ll let him know you’d like him to return your call.”
Yes. To put it mildly.
John did not return my phone call.
I tried his cell phone a few times as the hours dragged on, but the calls went straight to message. I suspected he had blocked me.
I knew it would be best to let him cool down, give him time to think, to maybe even miss me a little. Even so, I had to fight with myself all morning long not to keep phoning.
Phone? Ha. I could make it impossible for him to ignore me and simply appear in his office.
But no. It was not just the possibility of materializing in the middle of a meeting that stopped me. I knew instinctively that the more I tried to bend John to my will, the stronger his resistance to me would grow.
Why, why had I done it? Why had I told him the truth—and in such a way? Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut?
The more I agonized over my foolishness, the more I wondered if in some dark corner of my subconsciousness, I had wanted this outcome. Well, no. I hadn’t wanted this outcome. But maybe secretly I’d allowed the argument with John to escalate so I could tell myself I had no choice but to reveal the truth to him.
If so, I’d seriously miscalculated.
Granted, I hadn’t expected him to take the truth well. I’d known there was always the risk it would change what he felt for me. When I’d been feeling particularly insecure, I’d relied on his pragmatism. His numerous practical reasons for wanting to marry me were still in place. If anything, I’d worried he might see a useful side to my gifts.
Lunchtime came and went with no word from John.
I did my best to focus on work.
Late afternoon, distraction came in the form of a surprise visit from Ralph Grindlewood.
“Can we speak in private?” Ralph asked with an apologetic glance at Ambrose and Blanche.
“Of course.” I led the way into my office.
Ralph took the Erwin-Lambeth plum velvet Neo-Chippendale wing chair as he had done so often in the past. He smiled. “We’ve been friends a long while now, haven’t we?”
I said, “I always thought so.”
“And friends should be frank with each other, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“As you know, I admire your decision to renounce a life of magic and live as a mortal. Your decision to marry John seemed to me to cement that resolve. Which is why I’m a little dismayed now to learn you’ve begun to involve yourself in things that are, to be blunt, no longer your concern.”
I raised my brows. “What things?”
“The activities of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm.”
It wasn’t a shock—I had suspected Ralph’s involvement since my wedding—but it was unexpected to hear him simply admit it like that.
When I didn’t react, Ralph tilted his head. “Surely you’re not going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“No.”
“Are you going to deny that you’ve been meddling?”
You meddling kids!
“Something funny?” Ralph frowned.
“To be honest, you sound a little like a Scooby-Doo villain. What is it you want me to do? Or rather, not do?”
Ralph’s smile returned. “Your appreciation of mortal culture is one of the more endearing things about you. To begin with, stop playing detective. These so-called Witch Killer murders are not in any way connected to Seamus Reitherman’s tragic death.”
I tried not to let my disquiet show. The only possible way Ralph could have learned that I was pushing for the police to connect Seamus’s death with the Witch Killer murders was if someone at last night’s party had reported it to him. Hard as it was to believe, someone in City Hall’s upper echelon had to be a member of SPMMR.
“How do you know?” I asked at last.
“I know,” Ralph said. “And I want to remind you that even if these crimes were connected, that would not be your concern.”
I said, “I’ll decide what matters relating to the Craft are my concern, Ralph.”
He studied me over his long, steepled fingers and then nodded thoughtfully. “Spoken like the young Duc of Westlands. But I don’t think that job description is compatible with being the husband of San Francisco’s police commissioner, do you?”
“Qui vivra verra.”
“Mm… Perhaps I can ease your conscience. SPMMR is not in any way involved in these crimes. We are a nonviolent organization.”
I didn’t answer, as yet another worrying question arose. How had Ralph come to know of my interest in the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm? The only person I’d discussed my concerns with was Andi. Well, and Maman. Both were above suspicion.
“I see,” I said.
“Do you?”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but I do understand what you’re telling me.”
“Let me clarify further. It could prove hazardous to your health if you continue poking your nose into what doesn’t concern you.”
I smiled. “Are you threatening me?”
“No. I most certainly am not. Of all members of the Société du Sortilège, your sympathies align most closely with ours. No one at SPMMR regards you as an enemy. There is concern that your meddling—”
“That word again.”
“Might bring you to the attention of someone dangerous. Someone who does not see you as a possible ally.”
I stared. “Ralph, if you know who’s behind these crimes, you need to speak up.”
He rose. “I’ve said all I intend to.”
I rose too. “You do know who’s murdering these women!” I was genuinely horrified.
Ralph’s expression remained impassive.
“You can’t permit this to go on. If this person isn’t part of your organization—”
“Of course not. It’s nothing to do with us. And it’s nothing to do with you. Stay out of it, Cosmo. I say this as your friend.” He headed for the door. Hand on the knob, he stopped. “One other thing. John’s sister. Joan.”
“What about her?”
“Valenti has taken the girl under her wing. Please don’t attempt to derail that friendship.”
“Or what?” I asked.
Ralph shrugged. “Or there will be hurt feelings all around.” He added, “And someone may feel it necessary to inform John about who and what you really are.”
I laughed.
“I’m not joking, unfortunately.”
“And I’m not worried.”
After a moment he nodded and went out of the office.
Near the end of the day, my cell phone finally rang.
I snatched it up, but to my disappointment, the caller was my mother. In fairness, it was not entirely disappointing to see Maman’s symbol flash up, as I did urgently need to speak with her.
I clicked to answer, and she said, “Cosmo, why have you been harassing Phelon? Is it so impossible you two could get along like adults in my absence?”
“Where in the name of the Goddess have you been?”
She said a little huffily, “J’ai profité d’un peu de temps au spa. If you must know.”
“With everything going on right now?” I cried.
“What is it that’s going on?”
“Ugh. I’ll see you in five.”
Three minutes later I stepped into the library of my mother’s Nob Hill mansion. She
was seated before the fireplace, pouring tea from a blue-and-gold Aynsley teapot.
She glanced up. “Come and have your tea, mon chou. What is all this drama, if you please?”
I kissed her cheek, took the proffered teacup, and proceeded to relate all the drama. Maman listened without interrupting, only the smallest frown marring the marble perfection of her forehead.
According to my aunts and uncles, I look like my mother. Same willowy height, same milky skin, same wavy dark hair. Her eyes are green, mine are gray, but yes, in looks we are similar. In other ways…not so much.
Which isn’t to say we aren’t close. We are. Occasionally, we even see eye to eye. Maman, that is, Estelle Saville, Duchesse d’Abracadantès, is many things. At fifty, she is beautiful, charming (when she chooses), well-educated, often wise, and frequently ruthless. She plays piano beautifully, has spent the last five years working on translating the memoirs of the witch Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart, Marquise de Montespan, and still gives fencing lessons (which is where she hooked up with the objectionable Phelon Penn, her current companion). What she is not and has never been is unduly—or at all—concerned with the affairs of mortals. Including Wiccans.
“How is this any of our affair?” she asked when I had finally come to the end of my recital.
I spluttered, “Seamus wasn’t a Wiccan. Seamus was one of us.”
She shrugged. “True, I suppose. But you don’t know for certain that these crimes are connected. This former friend of yours insists they are not.”
I winced at the former-friend comment. John was one thing. Those indiscretions could be overlooked. But it was painful to think how I’d confided in Ralph over the years.
Although, in my defense, I hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. I had certainly confirmed a few facts, though.
“I don’t think we can trust anything Ralph said.”
“No? You believe he was lying?”
I was silent, pondering. I was forced to admit, “No. I think he was telling the truth.”
“Eh bien.” She sipped her tea. “Why are you so sure Seamus’s murder is connected to these others? They don’t seem anything alike to me.”
“I’m not sure. Or at least I wasn’t. But the fact that Ralph seems convinced he knows who the killer is makes me think it must be someone mortal. Or else how would he know?”
“Hmm…”
“When I found Seamus, there was no scintilla, so the killer could well be mortal.”
“It isn’t much to go on.”
“I know.” I stared at the dregs in my teacup and set the cup on the table. “You haven’t said anything about the rest of it. About John.”
“Ah, yes. John,” Maman said wearily. “Descended from witch hunters. Ça explique beaucoup.”
“Did you hear anything else I said?”
She arched an eyebrow. “You mean, did I grasp the fact that John has left you?”
I looked away, biting my lip. “Yes.”
“Of course. It hardly comes as a surprise, since I predicted this from the outset.”
I said bitterly, “I haven’t forgotten.”
She made a small exasperated sound. “Come, mon fils chéri. It’s not as if I had any hand in his betrayal. I can’t say I’m sorry to have him out of our lives. Especially with this new information regarding his loathsome ancestry.” She shook her head, as though even now the thought of my foolishness stumped her.
I dropped my face in my hands. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m relieved to know the last forty-five minutes were merely a bad dream.”
I lowered my hands, glared.
“The question that remains is what do you think he will do with his newfound knowledge?”
“Nothing.”
Her smothered laugh was derisive.
“Nothing. He doesn’t pose a threat to any of us.”
“I hope not.”
“It’s not even for sure that our marriage is over.”
“Oh, Cosmo.” She seemed truly sorry for me, which was alarming.
“It’s not. Once he calms down, once we have a chance to talk, he may… It may be all right.”
She made a pained sound, though less sympathetic and more exasperated.
“I’m not ready to give up,” I said. “I think he still loves me. I still love him.”
“Épargnez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Now, as for your request that I approach la Société du Sortilège regarding these murders. Non.”
I sat up straight. “What? Why?”
She was brisk. “It would be preferable for you to go yourself, Cosmo. You have not spoken directly with your great-aunt since before your marriage. You chose not to ask her permission to marry a mortal. It is the least you can do to inform her of the risk to all of us now posed by this man.”
My great-aunt was Laure d’Estrées, currently Crone or the Abracadantès Queen of Witches. A real Witch Queen, not, like Valenti, a self-appointed ruler.
It was true that due to the fluke of my position on the line of ascension, correct protocol required my asking permission to marry anyone, let alone a mortal. I had not done so. I’d informed Great-aunt Laure over the phone that I was going to marry John, and that had been that.
She had taken it well. In fact, she had sent us a 19th century wedding armoire with carved lovebirds, flowers, and acanthus leaves as a wedding gift.
“But the murders have nothing to do with my marriage. This is a threat to all witchdom.”
“Perhaps there is no connection. Perhaps there is. How can you know? In any case, you are Duc of Westlands. These problems and challenges are as much yours as anyone’s. And, after all, you are the one with all the theories.”
I didn’t like it, but she was right.
I sighed. “All right. I’ll go to Paris.”
She refilled my teacup. We sipped our tea in silence.
She said finally, “Has it occurred to you that what most attracted you to John was his infatuation with you?”
Yes, actually, it had occurred to me once or twice. I had blocked it out, of course, because…well, because.
Because having insisted on going through with our marriage, it was unbearable to think I had been as deluded as John.
“No.”
She arched a single eyebrow. “The John you fell in love with was a man bewitched, n’est-ce pas? It was not the real man. Not the man in his right mind. In that sense, you were both under a spell.”
“Even so—”
“Even so, is there not something seductive about winning over someone who first seems unwinnable?”
“No.”
“But of course there is. What is it your Groucho Marx would say? ‘I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as one of its members.’ You were wounded when John did not want you as a member of his club, and won over once he did.”
I stared at her in astonishment. Not least because I had no idea she’d ever heard of Groucho Marx, let alone knew I’d watched every Marx Brothers movie during my teens.
“No,” I said again. “C’est ridicule.” I had certainly had boyfriends through the years, certainly people had fallen in love with me, but no one had swept me off my feet the way John had. And yes, probably some of that was the feeling of conquest.
“Je ne suis pas si sûre. After all, you’re used to being catered to, flattered, wooed by men you fear are more entranced by your wealth and title than yourself. I have heard you say this more than once. How irritating and yet refreshing it must have been to meet someone genuinely not impressed. And how…séduisant when you were able to win him over.”
I protested, “It wasn’t at all like that!”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No! It wasn’t.”
And yet…
She was right in that the first John I’d fallen in love with had been more fantasy than flesh and blood. A dream lover. Romantic and passionate and attentive to the point of noting my every change of expre
ssion. Willing to do anything and everything for me, regardless of his normal feelings and attitudes. In all honesty, it probably would have gotten tiresome eventually, but at the time…
Looking at it now, I could see—unwillingly—that it was possible there was some truth to what my mother suggested.
There had been something seductive about knowing someone as hard and unyielding as John, someone who had initially resisted me, was so completely smitten.
I said, “But this is true of all relationships, isn’t it? Everyone falls in love with a stranger. It’s once you come to know the person that you learn whether love is true. Even after the spell was lifted, even after I came to know the real John, I did still—I do still—love him.”
True. That part was true. I was reassured by the thought.
She cocked her head, considering. “But even now, you’ve only known each other a few weeks.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No? Well, you know best. However, it is my belief you were in love with John being in love with you. And now you are beginning to wake from that spell.”
“You’re wrong.”
She shrugged, and echoing what I’d told Ralph earlier, I said, “Time will tell.”
Chapter Twelve
Maybe I wasn’t such a bad detective after all, because it didn’t take me long to figure out where John was spending the night.
Sure enough, his Range Rover was parked on the street in front of Sergeant Bergamasco’s bungalow.
Lights shined behind the window blinds, and I could hear the sound of a televised baseball game as I walked up to the front door. My mouth was dry, my heart skipping as I rang the doorbell. I felt cold and sick, and I wasn’t even sure why.
The worst he could do was refuse to speak to me, and why would he? We were both grown-ups. We could surely talk this out like reasonable adults.
Okay, yes, I can’t deny that I was a little worried about what John might have told Bergamasco. I didn’t believe he would tell the sergeant the complete truth, though I wasn’t one hundred percent sure. That’s what a lifetime of paranoia regarding mortals will do to you. John would have to tell Bergamasco something, though, and it probably wasn’t that our house was being fumigated or that I had been placed in quarantine, even if last night he’d probably have been in favor of either option.