by Josh Lanyon
I walked slowly, lost in my thoughts along once familiar paths, passing houseboats and river cruises.
Of course, there was Ambrose to consider, but I couldn’t help feeling that Ambrose’s enthusiasm for being my apprentice was fading as fast as John’s enthusiasm for being my husband.
That reminded me that I still needed to phone my mother. I got out my cell phone, and three tries later finally managed to reach her.
“Cosmo, où étiez-vous? I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”
“I’m in Paris.”
I heard her small gasp. “Ah. He has filed for divorce.” She barely bothered to conceal her satisfaction.
The pain was so sudden and unexpected, I put a hand to my chest. “No! He hasn’t.” Although I was sure it was only a matter of time. I wasn’t going to admit that, though. “I’m here on the other matter.”
“Is that true? Cosmo, I’m so pleased. You are demonstrating true leadership in your handling of this affair.”
I made a gruff sound in my throat.
“Don’t fear, mon chou. You will have to put up with a little scolding from withered old ones who don’t remember what it feels to have blood running through their veins. Just bow your head and nod. The only one whose opinion matters is your Aunt Laure, and she is very fond of you.”
“Maman, I wish to ask a favor.”
“Of course, darling.”
“Will you invite Joan, John’s sister, to stay with you while I’m in Paris?”
After a pause, she said lightly, “Très drôle, mon fils chéri.”
“Yes, but I’m serious. I’m afraid she isn’t safe on her own. I know she’ll be safe with you.”
“And what of the rest of us?”
I didn’t bother to answer that. I’d have bet the house on ma mère versus any serial killer.
Maman said, “Why should I do this? I don’t know this girl. Je ne voulais pas ce mariage et je n’approuve pas la famille.”
I said patiently, “Je sais. Je demande une faveur à ma mère. Regardless of what happens with John, I consider Jinx my sister.”
I could hear the frown clear across the Atlantic. “What sense does that make? It is only through John that any tie exists.”
“It’s not only her safety I’m thinking of. Jinx claims to be a witch.”
Maman made a pained sound.
“I know, but perhaps there is latent talent there. John—”
“That girl has as much Craft in her as a dumpling. You said John was descended from witch hunters on the paternal side. These two siblings do not share a father, n’est-ce pas?”
“Right. But even so. She’s so sure. And there must be some reason the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm has targeted her.”
“What makes you think they have? Cosmo, you leap to many conclusions. You cannot assume SPMMR is behind these murders. It seems most unlikely to me. Nor should you assume this so-called Witch Queen is working with them merely because she is romantiquement impliquée avec Grindlewood.”
“Well, what is Valenti doing with him, then?”
Her chuckle was pure evil. “You’re not that naive, mon chou.”
“No, I know that. I only mean, it’s a lot of coincidences if she’s not part of this SPMMR conspiracy.”
“I’m not suggesting there is no connection, just that you are perhaps rushing to the first and obvious, not necessarily the most accurate.”
I was silent, considering. Ralph had denied SPMMR’s involvement, but he’d lie about that anyway. But given that SPMMR knew Craft was quite distinct from Wicca, did it make sense to target Wiccans? Or was it their goal to wipe out every single instance of practice?
I said, “Either way, this would give you a chance to assess Jinx. You’ve never spent any real time with her before.”
“For which I have been grateful.”
“If she does have the potential, you’ll know.”
She sighed irritably. “And what will John have to say about this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care.”
She brightened. “I suppose he will loathe Joan’s staying here?”
“I’m sure he will.”
“Bien. The girl may stay here while you’re away.”
I smiled reluctantly, “Merci, maman.”
I put my phone away and turned my attention once more to the green-gold swirl of water rushing along below me, eddying against the stone walls of the quay. I noted the dark watermarks from years of flooding, the giant rusted iron rings used to tie river barges to the docks, the odd iron grate or doorway leading to an underground passage, an ancient sewer system, metro portals, a yet undiscovered catacomb?
Like bedraggled homing pigeons, my dreary thoughts returned to Tuesday night’s argument with John.
I cringed every time I thought of the things I’d said—the things he’d said. I was so horrible at trying to make my case. Maybe if I wrote it out? Maybe if I sent him a letter?
Or maybe not.
Eighteen-page missives—not even counting all the footnotes and addendums and tearstains—were always a mistake.
No. If I couldn’t find a way to make John listen in person, giving him something he could ball up and toss in the trash was certainly not going to work.
Anything I tried was going to fail because John just didn’t care en—
Something struck me hard between the shoulders. Like getting hit by a linebacker. I pitched forward, too astonished to even call out, lost my footing on the muddy grass, and felt myself falling.
I saw the glittering river glinting below—felt the shock of cold water rushing into my nose, mouth, ears as bubbles streamed past my terrified eyes. I sank into a bright yellow-green distance.
It takes longer to drown than you might think, and it is a terrifying process. I was flailing and kicking as I drifted down, but nothing seemed to be happening, and all the while I was instinctively—and what in the name of the Goddess is that instinct—gasping and gulping in water. I knew that was wrong, but I couldn’t seem to coordinate the effort to stop.
I clawed desperately for the surface, yet I kept sinking, water burning in my nose, burning in my lungs, burning in my throat. I could hear myself coughing and choking, hear the sounds of panic and pain and the noise of bubbles streaming past.
The last time I nearly drowned, I had been a child, and I had blacked out so quickly, I really hadn’t much memory of it. This agony seemed to go on and on and on.
Blackness edged my vision, I knew I was going to die, and I didn’t want to. I wanted to live. I had a sudden, unexpected surge of energy, and I began to kick again. Hard. I shot up toward the sunlight, my head broke the surface, and I began to suck in huge, hurting lungfuls of air—which I coughed right back out again.
I was not alone. I was not miraculously swimming. Someone was towing me toward the shore in long, powerful strokes, and I dimly understood I’d had no sudden burst of energy. My oxygen-deprived brain had mistaken the efforts of my rescuer for my own actions.
I was still gulping and coughing and choking as we reached the muddy bank, where the waiting crowd dragged me out of the river and finally dropped me on the grass. All I could seem to do was wheeze and shake convulsively. Directions were shouted over my head. People—it seemed like a lot of people—began to pound my back and push my stomach.
When I could, I rolled onto my side and coughed up the dregs of the river onto the now pulverized and slimy grass. I drew a couple of sobbing breaths.
Hard hands fastened on my shoulders, dragging me upright.
I blinked dazedly into John’s white, dripping face. His eyes were fierce, and there were harrowed lines carved around his nose and mouth.
He said harshly, “Are you all right? Cosmo? Can you get your breath?”
I wiped my eyes, nodded, gulped out, “I told you…a pool was…a terrible…idea…”
Chapter Fifteen
Nearly drowning in the Seine is not a quiet or private process.
There was a lot of activity and a lot of questions.
No, I had not seen who pushed me in.
No, I had not noticed anyone following me. (I hadn’t even noticed John following me, which was proof of how lost in my own concerns I’d been.)
No, I could not think of anyone who wished me harm.
Fortunately—depending on how you looked at it—John had witnessed my being shoved into the river, so at least there was no suspicion that I’d tried to kill myself or was emotionally unstable and trying to get attention. There were several theories as to my mishap. Perhaps it had been a robbery gone wrong. Perhaps it had been a prank gone wrong. Perhaps I had attracted the attention of someone emotionally unstable and trying to get attention.
The whole situation was embarrassing and awkward, but it gave me time to absorb the fact that John was really there. Not a hallucination of my oxygen-starved brain. He had followed me to Paris.
He had saved my life.
When the police car dropped me off at my hotel, John came along too. I didn’t know why, but I was grateful.
Somehow, the hotel management had been alerted to my misadventure, and there were extra blankets and a hot water bottle waiting in my room. Room service brought up a pot of hot tea on a tray, which I drank, still shivering after two cups, before jumping into the steaming shower.
The tea and the scalding shower helped a lot to clear the mists, and by the time I stepped out of the bathroom, warmly wrapped in my navy bathrobe, I had recovered my wits enough to wonder what exactly John was doing there.
Which was the first thing I asked him.
He was standing at the one of the tall windows overlooking the hotel’s small courtyard. He glanced at me. “I could use a drink. Does the hotel have a bar?”
“Yes. It does. But why are you here, John? How did you know I was in Paris?”
“Bergamasco.”
Cryptic, even for John. I said slowly, “You mean Sergeant Bergamasco was following me?”
“Correct.”
I sat on one of the brown velvet overstuffed club chairs. “But why?”
John said curtly, “Just be glad he was.”
I stared at him. I was glad not to be dead, of course, but I was not thrilled at the idea that John trusted me so little, he had assigned Bergamasco to tail me.
“Thank you for saving my life. I sincerely hope you don’t get gastroenteritis for your trouble. But why was Sergeant Bergamasco following me? And why did you follow me to Paris?”
He said calmly, “I want to know what you’re up to.”
I tried to answer with equal calm. It wasn’t easy. “I came because I need help. And SFPD hasn’t been much so far.”
He didn’t like that, but all he said was, “But you can get help here in Paris?”
There was still so much he didn’t know—and probably didn’t want to know. So much I couldn’t tell him even if he had still cared for me.
“I hope so. I have family here.”
“Oh yes,” he said dryly. “Your family. And all those French traditions.”
I held his scornful gaze with my own. “You didn’t believe that anyway.”
“No, I didn’t. But I sure as hell didn’t suspect the truth.”
No, of course not. No one expects the…well, the truth.
I said instead, “You could have sent Bergamasco. You didn’t have to come yourself.”
“Fortunately for you, I came myself.”
He was still not answering the question. That was interesting.
“You could have just asked me.”
He said sardonically, “And you’d have told me the truth?”
“I’d have tried to be as truthful as the situation permitted. I didn’t like lying to you. I never wanted to.”
“Not good enough.”
All at once I’d had it. I stood.
“Really, John? You really think honesty is always the best policy? You think the world is a safe and accepting place for people like me? We lie for our safety. We lie for our survival. Which you should now understand, given that your sister nearly died only a couple of days ago simply because someone imagines she’s a witch. It could be Andi next. It could be me. It nearly was me today.”
I don’t think I’d ever known him not to have an answer, but that was just was well. I wasn’t done yet. “You’re right. I was wrong to marry you if I couldn’t be honest. I know that now. I should have called off the wedding the minute I knew the truth. I was weak. I’m sorry. I will regret that mistake all my life. All I can do now is try to make it right.” I had to stop to steady my voice. “I promise you I won’t contest anything in the divorce. Take what you like. Take it all. I don’t care. None of that matters to me.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Was it maybe a little disappointing to prepare for war only to find you’d already won?
Now came the hardest part. “But. I’m not going to apologize for what I am.” Humiliatingly, my voice shook. “You made it clear on Tuesday night that you think…what you think. So mote it be. We—all of us—are as the Goddess made us.”
He moved restively, started to speak, but then folded his lips together and looked out the window.
So that was that.
I wanted to believe he had followed me because he still loved me, because he wanted me back. But getting me back didn’t require a plane ticket. He had to know he only had to say the word.
Even as this thought formulated, something in me rebelled. More. Recoiled.
No.
The last few days had changed me. At this point, it would take more than John telling me he forgave me to convince me there was any sense in returning to our marriage.
Oh, I still loved him. I probably always would. And I still took full responsibility for my actions. I’d meant what I said. I knew it had been wrong to proceed with the marriage once I discovered his love for me was probably still partly based on enchantment.
Not that I hadn’t given him plenty of opportunity (and incentive) to pull out. I had allowed myself to be convinced there was no harm, no foul by John’s pragmatic, hell, even cold-blooded reasoning for moving ahead. But ultimately the blame was mine because I’d had all the facts. John had not.
I had relied on not being able to tell John the full story as an excuse not to be honest with him. But that was a false equation. Having determined I could not tell John the truth, it behooved me to break off our relationship. I could have come up with any number of excuses, or none. It would have hurt him, it would have been expensive and awkward and embarrassing, and he might have ended up as angry and hurt as he was now, hating me as he did now, —but it was still the right course.
Too late, I saw it clearly.
I also saw that by entering into a relationship under false pretenses, I had ceded all power to John. Ours had never truly been a relationship of equals. Knowing what I did, fearing that his love was not strong enough to withstand much pressure, I’d backed away from trying to assert myself, from being honest, from being me. And honesty being the foundation of intimacy, how strong had the bonds been between us?
As it turned out, not strong at all.
So, the idea of going back to that? Returning to status quo? Not as appealing as I would have once believed.
Busy with my own epiphany, I was startled when John said finally, tersely, “I came for the reasons you stated. You could be next. And it looks like you were right because that guy shoved you. It wasn’t an accident.”
“Again, merci. Thank you for jumping in after me. I appreciate the gesture. I should have taken you up on those swimming lessons.”
His face went bleaker still. Well, and I can’t deny I was taking a masochistic pleasure in rubbing salt into both our wounds.
John said, “What’s your plan? Do you have one?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, I can’t really di
scuss it with you. But yes. Also—”
“Also?” John prompted at my sudden stop.
I cleared my throat. “Also, I must inform my—the head of my family that my marriage is…over.”
Just for an instant, there was something in his eyes. Some turbulent mélange of emotions: confusion and hurt and anger. Something like I felt. Like I had been feeling since he walked out of our marriage.
In the next instant, it was gone. Maybe I had imagined it.
“I see. Where does this leave us?” He hastily corrected, “After you speak with whoever you’re going to meet, what happens? Is there some kind of witch police force?”
“Uh…no.”
“Then how does this work?”
“Well, I mean, I’ll ask for advice and get council—”
His expression was almost comical. “That’s it?”
“No. Of course not. Not entirely.” I tried to explain. “It doesn’t— It’s not like—”
“Is the person who killed those women, the person who came after Jinx, the same person who came after you?”
“I don’t know. I’m assuming yes. I’m not sure.”
“Is this person a witch? Do they have magical powers?”
“Again, I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I think this person is mortal. I’m almost sure.”
“So you really don’t know anything. And there is really no practical help to be had from whoever it is you’re here to see?”
“Not practical in the way you define practical.”
John gave a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, give me your definition of practical.”
“Once I have a better idea of what I’m dealing with, I’ll—hopefully—be able to come up with a plan for stopping them.”
“Him. The person who pushed you into the Seine was male.”
“Did you get a good look at this person?”
“No. He was wearing jeans and a white hoodie with skull and crossbones on the back. I didn’t even realize he was also following you until he pushed you in.”
“He may not be working alone.”