by Josh Lanyon
I was just about to ring the doorbell again when the porch light came on. I heard the lock turn, and the door swung open.
Sergeant Bergamasco stood before me in gray sweatpants and a red T-shirt that read: Stones No Filter Tour 2019. I’d never seen him out of his uniform of suit and tie.
“Hi, Sergeant,” I said. “Is— May I speak to John?”
Bergamasco said awkwardly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Saville. The commissioner isn’t…” It wasn’t in him to lie, so he just stopped.
I’d told myself I was braced for it, but I really wasn’t. It took me a second to find my voice. “Sergeant, please. If you could just…” I broke off as Bergamasco began to shake his head.
“Can I give you some advice, Mr. Saville? Let him cool down. He’s not in a good frame of mind right now.”
“And I know that’s good advice,” I said quickly, hoping if I got the words out fast, my voice wouldn’t shake. “The problem is, I have some information regarding these murders—”
I broke off as Bergamasco threw a quick look over his shoulder and stepped out onto the front step, half closing the door behind him.
He kept his voice low. “Look, I don’t know what went down last night between you and the commissioner. But I do know he was mad as hell during the party when you started going around insisting we ought to be interviewing High Priestesses, and then telling the mayor our occult expert is getting things wrong.”
As much as I wanted to avoid further antagonizing anyone at City Hall, I couldn’t help replying, “Do you care about solving these murders, or do you only care about how things look?”
Bergamasco sucked in a deep breath. He said evenly, “Mr. Saville, I know you’re upset. I know this is rough on you too. But this is not the way to get back in the commissioner’s good graces.”
“His good graces?”
“Okay, this is not the way to get his attention, if you prefer.”
“What I’d prefer is actually speaking to my husband.”
Bergamasco said grimly, “You think I wouldn’t prefer that too?”
My shoulders slumped as my righteous indignation drained away. “I’m sure you would. Look, I’m sorry to put you in the middle. Could you… Could you ask John again? Could you tell him I’m begging him to give me five minutes? That’s all. Just five minutes.”
Bergamasco hesitated, sighed, and went inside.
I didn’t even have time to get my hopes up. He was back a moment later, shaking his head.
“He won’t see you,” Bergamasco said. “I’m sorry. He says go home. He’ll let you know when he’s ready to talk.”
He waited a moment, watching me with a glimmer of unwilling sympathy as I stood motionless, absorbing it, and then he quietly, almost softly, closed the front door.
I listened to the buzz of the porch light, the soft battering of moths hitting the glass, and then I turned and walked down the steps.
* * * * *
“That’s the other risk of telling them. What if they can’t accept us for who we are?” Andi murmured sympathetically.
It was Tuesday afternoon, and we were having lunch at a little café not far from the Mad Batter.
I nodded wearily. I had not slept the night before. I could not imagine ever falling asleep again with that great stretch of empty mattress next to me.
“Have you ever used magic on Trace?”
She shook her head.
“No, of course not.” I expelled a long sigh and pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes.
“Are you sleeping at all?”
My turn to shake my head.
She made a sound of distress and sympathy. “This is why I don’t want—can’t let myself—get too involved with Trace. It doesn’t work with witches and mortals. This isn’t your fault, Cos. It was inevitable. Sooner or later we all find ourselves in the position of either betraying our own kind or using magic against someone we love. The best-case scenario is we spend our lives lying to them.”
“It shouldn’t have to be like that.”
“But it is.”
“But it shouldn’t be. I should have been able to tell him the truth.”
Andi looked alarmed. “Of course you couldn’t. And you know why. Especially John, of all people.”
I stared at her, wondering how she had learned of John’s family history.
I didn’t have to wonder long, though, because she said, “A cop? And not just a cop. A police commissioner.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me. Not like that.” Whatever that was. I wasn’t even sure. Were we talking about the bad old days of witch hunts and witch trials? Or the less bloody but equally devastating modern move of outing me on social media?
I insisted, “He wouldn’t have posed a danger to any of us. He’s not like that. He’s angry because I lied to him, tricked him, tried to control him—and he’s right to be. I-I vowed to put him before all others. But he’s not vindictive, he’s not vicious.”
She looked sympathetic and not at all convinced. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t cast that cursed spell…”
“I don’t know. If John and I were destined, then I’d have met him again anyway.”
“But you weren’t destined. You aren’t destined. John is—was—just a-a circumbendibus. Your true beloved consort is still out there, still waiting.”
I said nothing. She didn’t mean to hurt me; she was trying to give comfort. In a minute she’d be telling me my best years were still ahead of me.
She must have read my face because she said softly, “And if I’m wrong, if you are destined, then it will work out.”
I looked up quickly. “Yes.”
We spoke of other things then, mostly work, before moving on to the topic of mutual friends. I told her Rex was still in a coma and that Oliver had turned up unscathed. She told me that V. and Bree were dating again.
“You’re joking,” I said. “Bree and V.? They tried that in high school. It was a disaster.”
Andi shrugged. “Maybe they’re destined.”
“Very funny. No way.” A thought occurred to me. “Do you think there’s a chance Seamus was bi?”
“Seamus? No.”
“Me neither.”
“Why?”
“Those emails the police found on his computer, the ones that led them to think he was having an affair, were from someone who signed themselves V.”
Andi gaped at me. She started to laugh. “And you think that person might be Vaughn?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
“I thought you were convinced it was the Garibaldi woman.”
“It seems a lot more likely.”
“I’ll say!”
We were nearly finished with our meals when Andi said slowly, hesitantly, “Has John ever talked to you about Somalia?”
“No.” I studied her face. “I didn’t know he— What about it?”
“I don’t know the full story, and Trace spoke to me in confidence. He wondered if John had told you.”
I shook my head.
“It’s just…something terrible happened there. Something that changed them all—especially John—forever.”
I said lightly, trying to hold back the tide of instant anxiety generated by her words, “That sounds very dramatic.”
Andi shrugged.
“You can’t tell me more than that?”
Her hazel gaze flicked to mine. “No. It would be for John to tell you. It’s just, I wonder… Trace said you’re good for John.” She smiled faintly. “He said you’re an oddball, and not at all John’s type, but you make him happy. That since he met you, John is more like his old self.”
I felt a prickle behind my eyes, and stared down at my plate. “So much for that.”
She said sadly, “I know you can’t see it now, but maybe it’s for the best. You did try so hard, Cos. And it seemed like you were having to do all the work, make all the concessions, make all the compromises. Maybe he’s just not capable of feeling as deeply as you do
.”
Because of the terrible thing that happened in Somalia? Or because of another reason? Like the fact that he was descended from witch hunters.
I said, “I don’t believe that.”
But I can’t deny that Andi’s words shook me. I hadn’t even known John had been in Somalia, let alone that something terrible happened there. I knew almost nothing of his life before me, and this was one more thing to add to the list—a list that was beginning to feel never-ending.
I said, “Thank you for telling me. I should probably get back to the shop.”
“Me too.”
It was her turn to buy, and after she paid, we stepped outside and said goodbye beneath the blue-and-white awning.
As she hugged me, Andi said earnestly, “Cos, everything will work out in the end. You’ll see. Put your faith in the Goddess.”
I hugged her back and nodded.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have faith in the Goddess. It’s that I knew only too well, sometimes the Goddess answers no.
* * * * *
“Oh, there you are!” Blanche said brightly when I walked into Blue Moon a few minutes after leaving Andi.
Both she and Ambrose had such odd expressions, I glanced at the Orfac sun clock behind the counter. “Sorry. Am I late?”
“No, no.” Blanche slid her gaze sideways.
I glanced at Ambrose, and he did the same thing: pointedly glanced sideways.
It’s the kind of look hostages in films have when they want the police to know the mad bomber is right behind them.
I looked uncertainly to my right and saw that someone was indeed hovering. A tall man about my age with blond-streaked brown hair and smiling eyes.
“Surprise,” Chris Huntingdon said.
“It is, yeah.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about it either.
He offered his hand, and we shook. His grip was warm and firm, not too aggressive, not like grasping a dead fish.
Blanche handed Ambrose a duster, gave him a little push, and they vanished into the forest of furniture on the other side of the showroom.
Chris was saying, “I remembered the night we met you mentioned owning an antiques shop, so I’ve been visiting antiques stores trying to find the right one.”
“You’re persistent, I’ve got to give you that.” I guess I was sort of flattered, but I was also bewildered.
It must have showed, because he offered that appealing lopsided smile. “I know. You’re probably thinking I’m some kind of weirdo stalker. I promise you, I’m not.”
That’s what all the weirdo stalkers say. But I smiled politely. “Okay. If you say so.”
Chris winced. He threw a quick look in the direction Blanche and Ambrose had gone, and lowered his voice. “And it’s not that I believe in love at first sight or anything like that. I’m not, you know, a nut.”
I laughed. He laughed too, a little uncertainly.
“It’s just that I felt a connection that night, and believe me, I know how ridiculous this sounds, not to mention inconvenient given that you’re married, but I made a decision a few years ago—don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with that story—that I would never again let something good, maybe something even potentially wonderful, slip through my fingers without at least making an effort to see if it was real. If it could be real.”
“That’s…wow. I don’t know what to say.” Truth.
“I get it. Believe me. I know what you’re thinking. Especially since your guy is a cop.”
“How do you know that?”
“You said. You said you were marrying a cop and your family wasn’t thrilled about it—which I have to say, did kind of make you sound sort of sinister.”
“Yeah, my father’s a mob boss.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yes.” I deadpanned, “It’s actually my mother who’s the mob boss.”
Chris laughed. He had a nice laugh. But I mean, who doesn’t? Laughter is a nice sound—unless it’s unkind and directed at you.
He said, “And see, I’m still not scared off, so maybe there’s something here.”
I shook my head, smiling but rueful. “That’s nice of you, but I really am crazy about my husband.”
Crazy being the operative word.
“Aw.” He grimaced. “That’s sweet. Not what I want to hear, but sweet.” He tilted his head, considering me. “Did you keep my card?”
“Nope.”
“No second thoughts at all?” He studied me. His eyes were brown. Not the fierce gold-brown of John’s eyes. Chris’s eyes were softer, darker. The color of teddy bears and chocolate kisses.
I said, “None. Sorry.”
He hesitated. “Can I buy you a farewell drink? Or a farewell cup of coffee?”
“No. Thank you, but I really do have a lot of work to get through this afternoon.”
Chris sighed. “Well, at least I tried. Right?”
“Right.”
He stuck his hand out again. “Okay, then. Goodbye forever, Cosmo.”
We shook hands. “Goodbye, Chris.”
He stared at our linked hands for a long moment, then turned away. He started toward the front door, then turned back. “I hope we’re not making a mistake here. How would we know? What if you are the one? What if I am the one?”
I stared at him. Chris showing up here and now, posing that particular question was so odd. Like destiny with a capital D knocking at the door.
Except I already gave at the office.
I shook my head. “Timing is everything.”
Chapter Thirteen
That night I opened the Drambuie we’d brought back from Scotland a million years ago.
I told myself I was trying out recipes for Andi’s line of cocktail cupcakes, but truthfully, I just wanted to get plastered. And get plastered I did.
Also sick.
Very.
Drambuie is a proprietary liqueur the Scots have been making for about two hundred years. It’s a blend of pot-still scotch and heather-flavored honey, and the taste is a bit dry, a bit aromatic. It’s not really the kind of thing most people would choose to get drunk on. It would not ordinarily be my first choice, but the bottle reminded me of John. Reminded me of Scotland and our honeymoon. Reminded me that the last time I’d tasted Drambuie, it was on John’s lips.
The classic Drambuie cocktails are the Rusty Nail and the Highland Margarita, but I was trying for something a bit sweeter and more delicate, so I opted for—in order of appearance—Autumn Leaves, the Kingston Club, and the Screaming Viking. I’m not sure why I thought a Screaming Viking would be sweet or delicate. Anyway, the two Kingston Clubs are what did me in, although the Screaming Viking didn’t help.
The bed was spinning—and not in a magical way—when I finally collapsed. Unsurprisingly, I woke in misery a couple of times later. The third time I woke, the phone next to the bed was ringing, and Jinx was on the other end of the line, screaming and crying.
“What’s wrong?” I dropped the receiver. Snatched it up again. “What’s happened?” I was groggy as hell and feeling very unwell.
“Oh, Cos, get John,” she sobbed. “He was here. He tried to kill me.”
I stammered, “W-what? Who? Did you call the police?”
She shrieked, “John is the police!”
John. Right. The guy who didn’t live here anymore.
I half fell out of bed, kicking free of the sheets, narrowly avoiding stepping on Pyewacket, who yowled in outrage and scooted under the four-poster. “Jinx, did you call 911?”
“Yes, yes. Can you guys come? Oh, Cos, can you guys hurry?”
I panted, “Yes, yes. We’re on the way,” still stumbling around in the dark, trying to find my jeans and shoes. My head was swimming, my heart thumping unpleasantly with the aftereffects of way too much alcohol as I dragged on my Levi’s, shoved my feet into shoes, and yanked open the door to the 19th century wedding armoire. I pushed back the row of shirts scented of John’s Eau Sauvage, climbed awkwardly into the cupboa
rd, and croaked the words.
I arrived on the landing outside Jinx’s apartment at the same time the cops did—which was about thirty seconds before John did. That meant Jinx’s address was flagged in some mysterious way I knew nothing of, and it meant Dispatch must have known where to find John, knew that John was not currently residing at 1132 Greenwich Street. I didn’t think of any of that until later. At the time, I was sick, shaking, and terrified.
The sight of John striding my way, looking sallow and stone-faced in the feeble overhead light of the landing, did not help my equilibrium.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he barked out.
The four—yes, four—uniformed officers jumped, thinking he was addressing them, then noticed me approaching from the left, and started to pull their weapons.
The apartment door flew open, and Jinx threw herself into my arms, sobbing. “Oh God, he was here, he was here in my apartment. Why would he come after me?”
“Who?” one of the officers asked.
I did a double take and saw that it was my old friend Officer Young. Young also did a double take and hastily holstered his weapon.
The other cops followed suit as Jinx cried, “The one on the news. The Witch Killer. He came for me.”
“Spread out,” John yelled. “Find that sonofabitch. He can’t have gone far.” He jabbed a finger at Young. “You’re with me. I want to know how he got into that apartment.”
I hugged Jinx tightly as the officers dispersed, weapons drawn once more, police-issue shoes pounding down the walkway. Suddenly she seemed so small and so young.
“Did he hurt you?” I demanded. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Jinx shook her head and then nodded. “I maced him.”
If she was right, if it really had been him and not a garden-variety rapist, it was only thanks to the Lord and Lady that she was alive.
Doors were opening and then quickly closing again all down the landing. A few people in bathrobes and pajamas stepped out of their apartments, demanding to know what was going on. The officers ordered them back inside.