Beware What You Wish

by Diana G. Gallagher

  “Good point.” Prue did an about-face.

  Not really, Phoebe thought as they entered through the back door into the storage area. She just hadn’t decided how to tell her sisters she was suffering from premonition overload and didn’t know if she could stand the constant and demanding responsibility. She had to come clean and soon, though, which was why she had agreed to come to P3 with Prue. If The Book of Shadows didn’t contain a remedy, there wasn’t a cure for a runaway power.

  She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life in her room or forsake her duty as a Charmed One, but she wouldn’t be much good to anyone if she went mad.

  Phoebe paused in the storage area doorway to survey the crowded club. There wasn’t a vacant seat in the house, including the bar stools. Hard Crackers was apparently on a break, but that didn’t deter the habitually energetic. The dance floor was packed with couples gyrating to the music on the band’s promotional CD. Piper was washing glasses while the bartenders, Jimmy Dougan and Monica Reynolds, poured drinks.

  Phoebe was more relieved than disappointed to see Jimmy and the dark-haired, willowy Monica instead of the blond, tan Rick behind the bar. The run-amok visions had put a definitive crimp in her easygoing style, and a new relationship wouldn’t have much of a chance until she had the problem under control. Just holding hands to dance might prompt a too-powerful premonition.

  No one was sitting in the alcove on the back wall because Piper had put up a reserved sign. Phoebe assumed Piper had held the comfy couch for them since Prue had called to say they were on their way. She was silently grateful. The alcove was set so far back she wouldn’t have to worry about bumping elbows with anyone.

  After she got there.

  “I’m going to go sit down!” Phoebe shouted at Prue to be heard over the noise and motioned toward the bar. “You get Piper!”

  Nodding, Prue gave her a thumbs-up and slipped into the throng like a knife cutting butter. The sea of bodies separated and closed back around her in a fluid movement as she passed.

  “Now my turn.” Taking a deep breath, Phoebe eased along the wall hoping whoever she touched led a completely disaster-free existence. No such luck.

  A heavyset guy wearing no-style-whatsoever baggy pants and a loose shirt leaned against the wall in front of her to block her path. “Hey, cute thing, I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Funny, but no thanks. I’m meeting someone.” Donning a perky smile, Phoebe edged by him. The vision hit like a lightning bolt.

  . . . open refrigerator, plate of cold chicken . . . the man clawing at his throat, choking on a bone . . .

  Phoebe stepped back and looked him in the eye. “When you get home, do not eat chicken.”

  “Chicken?” Startled, the man blinked, bewildered.

  “The leftovers in your fridge.” Phoebe didn’t care if he thought she was a nut case as long as she made her point. “It’s bad, rotten, spoiled chicken. Eat it and you die. Got it?”

  Dumbfounded, the man just nodded. “I’m not kidding,” Phoebe added as she pushed past him. She immediately brushed against a young woman who was staring into space and fighting back tears. The woman’s lower lip trembled as she raised her glass and downed her drink.

  . . . stopped by a cop, too drunk to stand without wobbling, arrested . . .

  Rocked by the second vision, Phoebe couldn’t move for a moment. Pressed between the woman, who was drowning her sorrows over a broken love affair, and a man who would stub his toe on his way to bed, she struggled for control. When the disorientation passed, she moved back to the wall and flattened herself against it.

  With her stomach in knots and her head throbbing, Phoebe took her time and reached the alcove without another close encounter. Settling down on the couch, she made a mental note to tell Piper that the heartbroken woman would need to take a cab home. She took comfort in knowing she had kept two more lives from being ruined, but that didn’t solve her problem.

  When Piper and Phoebe arrived a few minutes later, Phoebe’s stomach had started to relax and the pounding in her head had diminished. Even so, she must have looked terrible.

  “What happened?” Piper exclaimed, sitting down beside her. “You’re shaking.”

  “And white as a sheet.” Prue placed her hand on Phoebe’s forehead. “No fever.”

  “I’m not sick,” Phoebe said. “It’s worse.”

  Composing herself, Phoebe filled them in on the escalating number of visions and the debilitating effects, physical, emotional, and mental. She was near tears herself when she confessed that she wasn’t sure she could take it.

  “And we were worried about responding to endless false alarms.” Piper gently brushed Phoebe’s hair back from her face. “I didn’t stop to think how hard this might be on you.”

  “Me, either.” Prue gripped Phoebe’s hand. “I was too busy worrying about an old stone that turned out to be just an old stone.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Piper asked.

  “Pretty sure.” Prue shrugged. “I mean, nothing strange has happened.”

  “Except that Phoebe’s suddenly a walking code blue lightning rod,” Piper said. “My power got stronger gradually, not all at once.”

  “True, but I discovered my ability to astral project instantly.” Prue frowned. “The telekinesis got stronger gradually.”

  “The cold wind thing was sort of strange.” Phoebe was relieved now that her sisters knew she was having trouble with her increased sensitivity. Still, if there was any chance that her enhanced power wasn’t a natural occurrence, she really wanted to know. Before, she had connected only with desperate people who were threatened by demons and other evil entities with lethal intent. Being oversensitive could prevent her from getting the mental messages she was supposed to receive.

  Piper tensed. “You mean like a gust of ice-cold air that shouldn’t be there on a hot afternoon?”

  “You felt it, too?” Prue stared at Piper intently.

  “Today when I wasn’t saving Linda.” Piper’s worried expression changed to one of curious puzzlement when she glanced toward the bar. “Oh, my.”

  Phoebe looked up to see a tall, muscular man with thick sandy blond hair and a killer tan moving through the crowd. Her breath caught in her throat when he stopped before them, shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled. Dimples and perfect white teeth, she noted.

  “Hi, Piper,” the man said.

  Deep, husky voice and a twinkle in green eyes flecked with amber, Phoebe thought, continuing her inventory.

  “How’s it going, Rick?” Piper struggled to control a grin when Phoebe stiffened with surprise.

  Prue cocked an eyebrow and subtly nodded her approval.

  “Great.” Rick smiled at Phoebe, holding her stunned gaze for a moment before turning back to Piper. “Monica said you were looking for more help to set up your booth at the charity bazaar on Saturday, and I’m available.”

  “So am I.” Phoebe quickly qualified the remark. “To work on the P3 booth, I mean. This Saturday.”

  “The fringe benefits of working for your sister.” Rick’s smile widened as he looked into Phoebe’s dark eyes again.

  “Be here at seven Saturday morning,” Piper said. “We’ll be arriving at the park separately, but Jimmy will let you know what to do.”

  “I’ll be here.” Rick started to back off, then turned toward Phoebe. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  “You most certainly will.” Phoebe was caught completely off guard when he suddenly lifted her hand and kissed it. The images that flooded her mind masked what happened next in real time.

  . . . Rick raising a fist to defend himself, attacked from behind, a club crashing down on his head . . . blood gushing from his smashed skull . . .

  “Come on, Phoebe.” Prue’s anxious voice broke through the fog that muddled Phoebe’s mind, but she couldn’t shake off the physical effects for several more crucial seconds.

  “Where’s Rick?” Phoebe finally managed to whisper. Sharp pains arrow
ed through her brain and ricocheted off the inside of her skull. Shaky and nauseous, she breathed in and out deeply to quell the sensations. Apparently, her system reacted in direct proportion to the intensity of the violence in the disasters she foresaw.

  “He just left,” Piper said, scanning the crowd.

  “He gets mugged in the alley.” Phoebe’s eyes widened with horror. “They’re going to kill him.”

  “No, they won’t.” Prue jumped up. “You stay here. We’ll take care of it.”

  Phoebe grabbed Piper’s wrist. “Don’t do anything we can’t explain. About us . . . ”

  “We’ll handle it.” Piper squeezed Phoebe’s hand, then shoved through the crowd after Prue.

  Feeling sick and disoriented, Phoebe pulled herself up and pulled herself together. Rick hadn’t worked for Piper very long. Still, Phoebe realized, her sister had intuitively recognized that she and Rick would connect. For a while or forever, the immediate rapport had been there. She couldn’t just sit while her sisters tried to stop a gang of street thugs from bashing in Rick’s brains.

  Hugging the wall again, Phoebe worked her way to the storage area door. Her progress was hampered only by a fleeting vision of an awkward nerd slamming his fingers in his car door. He’d survive. She pressed on, driven by the need to know that Rick would, too.

  Phoebe found Piper and Prue watching the brawl from the shadows of the exterior doorway. Prue glanced at her with disapproval, then quickly turned her attention back to the alley. Rick was managing to block and strike back at a burly unarmed teenager while keeping an eye on the two other boys as they moved to flank him. When Rick smashed his fist into the burly kid’s jaw throwing him off his feet, the boy on his right charged with a knife.

  Phoebe didn’t question why Piper and Prue were letting the fight play out. Knowing that she wanted to get to know Rick better, they were waiting until the critical moment before they intervened in the hope that they could save him without revealing themselves.

  Phoebe’s heart leaped into her throat as Rick’s hand clamped around the boy’s wrist, staying the blade’s downward plunge. With practiced precision, he swung his leg to knock the attacker’s legs out from under him. As the second boy fell, Rick swung to face the first boy, who staggered back with his fist raised. Behind Rick, the third boy picked up a broken table leg that had fallen out of the P3 dumpster.

  “Get it!” Phoebe whispered in Prue’s ear.

  Prue acted instantly. With a targeted flick of her finger, she telekinetically seized the table leg, yanked it out of the boy’s hand, and heaved it onto the roof, out of reach.

  Stunned, the third boy jerked to a halt.

  Since his back was turned, Rick did not know why the boy behind him suddenly panicked and took off down the alley toward the street. Already beaten by Rick’s superior fighting skills, the other two ruffians turned tail and ran after him. Exhaling, Rick bent over to catch his breath.

  Prue, Piper, and Phoebe eased back from the doorway and ducked into the storage room.

  “Thanks.” Phoebe leaned against the wall to steady herself. Her pulse was still racing, and the pains in her head had subsided to a dull but tormenting throb.

  “No problem. At least, not with Rick.” Smoothing her hair back, Piper turned to Prue. “I don’t think it would hurt to dig a little deeper into ancient tribal cultures of South America. Cold winds in August might have a scientific explanation, but it can’t possibly be coincidence that we all felt one at different times in different locations.”

  Prue nodded. “I don’t know much about spirit stones, but assuming they were used as receptacles to bind spirits —”

  ” — maybe one got loose,” Piper finished. “The question is which one and why? And what does it want?”

  “Professor Rubin in the anthropology department at the university might be able to help,” Phoebe suggested. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve heard he’s a little eccentric. He’s written a few books about early cultures, though.”

  “Why didn’t you say so today when we were there?” Prue asked, looking a bit perturbed.

  “Because he’s a joke around campus.” Phoebe made a circling gesture around her ear. “Apparently, Professor Rubin didn’t go off the deep end until after they gave him tenure. Besides, this afternoon I didn’t really think we had a problem.”

  “I’ll go see him tomorrow after I drop my Tremaine shots off at 415.” Prue didn’t look convinced that the effort would be worth the trip. “Can you give me directions to his office?”

  “Better. I’ll take you there,” Phoebe said.

  “No!” Piper objected. “You’re confined to quarters until we figure this thing out. No leaving the house.”

  “Don’t even answer the door,” Prue added. “But —” Phoebe started to protest, then realized Piper and Prue were right. If they did have an unidentified demon problem, they couldn’t afford to waste time and energy rescuing people from fender benders and bee stings.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Dr. Gregory Rubin’s office was in the basement of the cultural sciences building. Prue walked down the dim corridor with Phoebe’s directions clutched in her hand, a photo of the spirit stone in her bag, and a nagging sense that she was wasting her time.

  For one thing, the professor’s subterranean domain was obviously not a maintenance priority. Paint was peeling off gray walls, and several wire light fixtures had burned-out or missing bulbs. Condensation from overhead air conditioning ducts dripped, forming small puddles on the floor, and water pipes rattled. Since the administration couldn’t fire the tenured professor for being a kook as long as he did his job, they had, apparently, banished him to the basement, hoping he would quit.

  The dismal surroundings didn’t instill Prue with confidence that the research trip would be worth the effort. However, since she had come this far she might as well follow through. Eccentric academics were often brilliant.

  “I can hope,” Prue muttered as she stopped before a solid door with Prof. Rubin stenciled in black on gray. A bulletin board hanging on the wall beside the door caught her eye as she started to knock. She skimmed over the class schedules and seminar flyers to a faded book jacket that was curling at the corners: Ancient Cults of the New World by Dr. Gregory Rubin. A yellowed newspaper review was tacked up beside it. The book had made the nonfiction bestseller list twenty-seven years earlier.

  Phoebe hadn’t mentioned that Rubin was an expert on cults, but the knowledge boosted Prue’s hopes. Quite possibly, his reputation for being unhinged stemmed from an academic prejudice against anything related to the supernatural.

  As Prue raised her fist to knock, the door was thrown open from the inside. A stoop-shouldered, elderly man wearing a crumpled brimmed hat, a wrinkled suit with a loosened tie, and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from the papers in his hand. Startled to see her, he gasped and staggered backward.

  Afraid the old man might have a heart attack on the spot, Prue quickly moved to steady him. “I’m so sorry, Professor Rubin. Are you all right?”

  “I’m too old to be all right,” the professor grumbled. “And according to my esteemed colleagues, I’m too daft to be right . . . about anything. Now, if you’ll unhand me — ”

  Prue let go of his arm. “Sorry again.”

  “So am I. That I’m not forty years younger.” He winked, disarming and charming Prue. “Now, what’s a pretty girl like you doing wandering around down here? Are you lost?”

  “No, I came to see you.” Prue pulled the photo-graph out of her bag. “About this.”

  The old man took the photo and squinted through his glasses as he studied it. “Why would you be asking me about Stephen Tremaine? I detest the man.”

  “You do?” Prue wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t want to offend the old guy.

  “Most definitely!” Rubin’s eyes flashed with anger. “Tremaine may have the finest private collection of primitive artifacts in the world, but he doesn’t give a hoot about their cult
ural or historical significance. The man is contemptibly incurious.”

  They were on the same page there, Prue thought.

  Rubin shoved the picture back at her. “You can forget about asking me to vote for this scoundrel. I won’t support someone who’s more interested in lining his friends’ pockets than protecting our endangered environment.”

  “I’m not campaigning for Tremaine, Professor Rubin. I want to know about this.” Prue pointed to the artifact in Tremaine’s hand.

  Rubin tilted his head back and squinted at the photo again. “Oh, I see. Interesting.”

  Taking the picture, the professor wandered over to a desk that was piled high with books, notebooks, file folders, empty fast food containers, and various office items including a banker’s lamp with a green glass shade. He settled into a desk chair, took off his hat and dropped it on the floor, then picked up a magnifying glass. The old chair squeaked as he leaned back to examine the photo more closely.

  Prue took a moment to look around the office, which more closely resembled a combination warehouse, museum, and library. Gray metal shelves covering most of the wall space were stuffed with books, rolled charts, and artifacts. The overflow was stacked or scattered on the floor. The old man’s definition of filing was just to get the folders in the vicinity of the filing cabinets, she surmised. Several folders were jammed into open drawers while others were piled on top of or around the old metal cabinets. Packing crates, opened and unopened, stood along the far wall by two huge workbenches. She found herself wondering if, perhaps, the professor liked being in the basement where no one would complain about his functional disorganization.

  “Do you know where Tremaine acquired this?” the professor asked.

  “South America somewhere.” Prue perched on a dusty chair opposite the desk. “He said it might be a spirit stone and that it was over three thousand years old.”

  The old man grunted. “Remarkably astute of him, although I hate having to admit it.” Setting the magnifying glass down, he peered at Prue intently. “So what is it you need from me, then?”