Love Spell

by Crowe, Stan

  Lindsay’s lips twisted into a “What did I get myself into?” pout. “That doesn’t even make sense, Jen. And he’s not that bad. Uncle Tom has to consider the needs of the force as a whole—you know. ‘Big picture’ stuff.”

  Lindsay took another bite of her treat, hoping to lighten her mood; the miniature peanut butter cups were ridiculously tasty. She scrunched her toes deeper into the duvet, and took a deep breath of the scent of her favorite dryer sheets that clung warmly to the fabric. It helped a little.

  “Well, he could have at least tried this time,” Jen said.

  Lindsay frowned. “Stop it, Jen. Be nice. Oh and anyway, guess what I found, today?”

  “What,” Jen asked, her ire replaced by curiosity.

  Lindsay smiled, and lifted the yearbook from the floor and began flipping through pages at random. “Sophomore year yearbook. I look perfectly hideous in it. But not as bad as freshman year.”

  “Give it up, girl. You’ve been beautiful as long as I’ve ever known you, and your baby pictures are the cutest ever. You’re so lucky! You’re going to have the most adorable kids the world has ever seen!”

  Lindsay groaned inside. “That would require me to get pregnant, Jen. I’m not big on the artificial insemination thing, so that would require me to… interact… with a man.”

  Jen snickered. “You’re still squeamish about saying ‘sex,’ huh? That’s cute, too.”

  Lindsay stuck out her tongue.

  “Yes, and I know you’re sticking out your tongue. I can see it in my mind,” Jen chirped.

  Lindsay smiled. “You know me too well. And you know how I am with guys.” She turned to the “activities” section of the yearbook, and found the picture of the clubs and non-sports organizations. When the concert choir came into view, she began scanning the page for her freckled face.

  “Totally,” Jen said, sourly. “Especially after that one butthead. What was his name?”

  A man’s scream cut through the night. Lindsay barely raised an eyebrow. She’d grown accustomed to the… oddities… of living in her particular neighborhood. Mom and Dad had made sure she hadn’t ended up in some seedy ghetto in Oakland, thankfully, but Lindsay’s… modest… income meant that she had to accept a dwelling in an area with its fair share of weirdoes, even if most of them were relatively non-threatening.

  “Yeah, him,” Lindsay said, and felt an odd skip in her heart. Without thinking, she reached to leaf back to the “seniors” section, and then caught herself. Back to scanning the choir.

  “Can you believe what that guy did?” Jen said. “Leading you on like that even after he left for college? You know, if he’d have come back for you, you may have been able to stick him for statutory rape.”

  The remark was groan-worthy. “Again, my lovely Jennifer, rape involves certain sorts of interactions with a guy. Cli… He never even held my hand, let alone tried anything else.”

  And that was the problem. Clint had never once even tried to reach out to her. Oh, he had with his eyes, with his words, and for most of the year, that had been enough. But how many times had she looked at his smile—the one she was sure was for her alone—and wished that those lips would even just lightly brush hers? How many times had she watched his hands move a pencil across the page of his sketchpad, and dreamed he was tracing curly-ques of affection on her cheek?

  Lindsay shook her head clear, and swallowed a double-spoonful of moose tracks without chewing. She gagged on a peanut butter cup.

  “Lindz? Are you alright?” Jen’s concerned tone was heartwarming.

  “Y-yeah,” Lindsay choked out, coughing. “I… sw-swallowed,” she gulped, “something too… quick. Give me a… second.”

  “Oh my gosh, Lindsay. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Ye-yeah. One… one… sec…” She coughed hard into her shoulder, and felt the offending morsel of chocolate and peanut butter dislodge and slide into the pit of her stomach where it belonged. She knew it would take its revenge on her waistline.

  “Okay,” she breathed, eyes watering slightly. “I’m fine now.”

  “Okay. Good. You had me worried there.”

  “Naw, I’m fine. What was I saying before?”

  Jen’s voice soured again. “You were telling me that jerky boy was going to come back from college and have his way with you.”

  Lindsay blushed hotly. She didn’t even want to think about doing that with men in general, let alone with Clint Christopherson.

  Actually, she very much wanted to think about it. But never consciously.

  “I most certainly did not say any such thing,” Lindsay sputtered.

  Jen sighed on her end of the line.

  More screaming sounded outside the tiny window next to Lindsay’s artificial fireplace. The yowl of a cat preceded a heavy thump against the glass. She jumped, and shot a glance across the room. For the briefest of instants, a shadow pasted itself on her Venetian blinds, and then it was gone again.

  Lindsay gently placed her ice cream on the glass coffee table, eased herself out of her blanket, and tiptoed into the kitchenette. She’d never had neighbor problems before, but…

  “One sec, Jen,” she whispered into the phone.

  “Lindsay?” Jen’s voice mingled confusion and anxiety. “What’s going on?”

  Lindsay said nothing as she reached into a drawer, and pulled out a steak knife. She set the phone down, and listened intently to the night sounds that surrounded her apartment. Dogs. Cats. Party music played way too loud. Distant sirens. And… rhythmic chanting.

  Lindsay exhaled in relief, and set the knife down, and returned to the couch. It was only the witches next door. Lovita had probably gotten a little too much of one of her homebrews again. The other ladies would likely be by in the morning to clean off the smudges on the window, she imagined.

  “Sorry, Jen,” she said in a normal voice, as she hefted the yearbook again and opened it to the spot she had bookmarked right after coming home that evening—the men’s track team. “I thought something weird was going on. We’re fine here. Anyway, I should go to bed. Work tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” Jen responded. “How’s that going?”

  Lindsay forced herself to beam, even as she stared down on the picture in the middle of the page, just to make sure her friend heard it over the phone. “Great! Big day tomorrow! I’ve followed up on tons of leads, and I have a feeling I’m going to get a big-time client tomorrow. I want to be in top form when they walk through my door.”

  Jen congratulated her.

  “And old dorkface won’t be here to see it,” Lindsay mused. “He’ll never know what a good thing he missed.”

  “You deserve so much better than that,” Jen crowed. “I’m so glad you never got hung up on that idiot.”

  “Yeah,” Lindsay absently responded. “Him or any other guy.” She shuddered to think she’d needed three heartbreaks before she figured out that her time was best spent on something other than men. But as she stared at the tiny picture of the track star with smoky blue eyes, and floppy, blond hair, she couldn’t help but wonder who it was who had really been missing out.

  She clapped the book shut, and squeezed her eyes closed to shake out the afterimage of the other picture of him that she’d… accidentally… found while perusing the yearbook earlier, and bid Jen a goodnight. With the merest thought, she once more banished Clint Christopherson—a.k.a. “that guy”—from her thoughts forever.

  At least until she slipped into unconsciousness that night.

  SIX

  Being mugged by a vagrant didn’t top Clint’s list of “Must-do’s in San Leandro.” Holding on to a sticky payphone, he decided he wouldn’t mention it to Molly when she answered his call. He didn’t need her reaming him on top of everything else he’d been through in the past twenty-four hours. Spending the night on a bench in a nameless park had been bad enough without the nightmares that haunted him long after he finally managed to ditch the trio of lunatic witches. Waking up early to confront so
meone digging in his pocket wasn’t the best way to start the day. He’d fought the mugger off without loss, only to find the battery on his phone was dead when he tried to report the incident. By the time he found a public phone in a Safeway, he decided there was no purpose in calling the cops; he was short on change, and would rather phone Molly anyway.

  The sun wasn’t high enough for any time past maybe seven o’clock. Cue the usual morning birdsong. Traffic was light enough that he could pick out the scent of a local bakery over the exhaust fumes. The fragrance set his stomach rumbling; he hadn’t eaten since that quick snack from Sancho right before… He cut off the memory again.

  He reached up to massage the kink in his neck as he punched in Molly’s number. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Weatherpound. Who’s calling?”

  Clint felt his heart skip a beat at the sound of her voice.

  “Name, please,” she said.

  Clint shook his head clear. “Oh, hey, Molly. Bug you for a lift?”

  He swore he almost heard relief in her voice when she answered. “Clint. I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. You never answered your hotel phone.”

  Clint shrugged. “Should have tried the cell. Anyway, about that ride, I—”

  “You didn’t have your cell when we checked in, Clint.”

  Busted, he thought.

  “It wasn’t in your apartment when I went there either,” she continued. “I told you it wasn’t safe to return. You can’t afford stupid risks. I can’t afford you taking stupid risks, either.”

  That was interesting. Was Molly actually concerned for his well-being? He could see a number of ways to use that to his advantage. He remembered her saying something about her “ideal date,” and smiled at the idea forming in his head.

  “Please tell me you haven’t used your cell phone since yesterday,” she said with unexpected fervor.

  “Nope. And it’s dead now. I’m at a payphone at Safeway in San Leandro. By the way, what are you doing tonight, Molly?”

  “Clint, I…” She stopped short for a few moments. “You say you’re in San Leandro? Stay put. I’m coming to you.”

  Clint hated lying to Molly. There were some people that you could bend the truth with and never feel an iota of guilt. Molly was too sharp to fleece easily even if he hadn’t cared about being honest. And he had to admit he was really starting to like her—even more since she’d come rushing back into his life like a business-suit hurricane in a BMW. Sometimes, though, it really was better to hide the truth. His real regret was that he’d felt the need to go around her in the first place.

  Over the clink of silverware and crystal, Clint speared another bite of one of the best pork chops he’d ever had. Steam wafted from a china mug of chamomile and mint tea with a hint of honey; he hated the beverage but he’d ordered it for Molly’s sake. Drinks aside, he had to hand it to her for her tastes in food. He also appreciated her generosity. On his budget, he was unlikely to ever see the inside of a café like this in anything but pictures. The post-modern artwork arranged around the dining wasn’t his style (and he didn’t recognize the artist), but the joint had been done in mild earth tones and dark wood paneling that made it feel relaxed instead of depressing in the meager light of orange-glass sconces and a smattering of elegant Mediterranean chandeliers.

  In his left hand he held the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. With his right hand, he moved a rook to E-5. The waiter had seemed a bit baffled when he’d inquired after a chessboard but, surprisingly, one had been available. It had been set on a serving stand alongside their dining table.

  Molly glanced at the rook and cocked an eyebrow for a moment. One of her pawns was moved into a sacrificial position between Clint’s rook and one of her bishops. Clint obliged her by taking the pawn and, as he found out moments later, her bait.

  “Checkmate,” she said, with a perfectly straight face, turning to sip from her tea.

  Clint eyed the set up, and agreed with her. With anyone else he may have tried arguing the point. With Molly, chess was only a matter of facts. Actually, everything was a matter of facts with her, and Clint was never quite sure about the strange attraction he felt toward her. He preferred a girl with a bit more imagination, who wasn’t afraid to show a bit of vulnerability, and whose voice was sweet. Molly was none of these, and yet he found himself drawn to her all the same. Perhaps some poetry would sweeten her on him?

  “Once upon a midnight dreary,” Clint started, as he set about rearranging his chess pieces, “while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ‘‘Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—‘Only this, and nothing more.’”

  Molly looked up at him, her chess slaves already back in their proper positions, eagerly awaiting their mistress’ next command. “You never read it that well in high school either, Clint. The Raven isn’t supposed to be sung.”

  Clint stuck his tongue out at her, and he thought he saw her stiffen for the briefest of instants. The motion was gone almost before it had happened, and he decided he’d merely imagined it. He didn’t think she really offended quite that easily.

  “Yes, well it rhymes,” he retorted. “Not like the emo stuff, where some kid vomits his depression all over the page and then slices his arm a few times to penalize himself for his mere existence. I like rhymes, and when I think of rhymes, I tend to think of songs. And music. Songs aren’t much without music.”

  “Your insights are mind-blowing, Clint. You should write a book.”

  He grinned despite himself, and spent some long moments letting his gaze penetrate her eyes and memorize her face. She held his stare without blinking. It had been far, far too long since he’d seen her, but something inside him moved him to want to see her much more often.

  “I dreamt about you last night,” he said.

  That invoked her usual look of inquisition, even as she sipped her tea.

  “Just a cameo,” Clint replied, before mirroring her sip. “Nothing naughty at all. I was fishing on a dock, and you climbed out of the water and sat next to me on the dock without saying anything.”

  “Are you asking for an analysis?”

  Clint shook his head. “A dream’s a dream. Weird projections of the mind when you’re passed out in bed. No real reason to put stock in them.”

  Molly frowned deeply. “You really believe there’s no merit to subconscious activity?”

  He shrugged. “Never really had a reason to.”

  She peered at him through half-lidded eyes, and his pulse count doubled, and he hoped she couldn’t see the blush he felt.

  “There’s far more to the mind than most of us can even conceive,” she nearly whispered. “What’s going on in your dreams might not seem important to you. That doesn’t mean it isn’t important at all.”

  Clint sat up in surprise. “Are you saying I should have had the fillet of sole instead of the pork?”

  The corners of her mouth turned down slightly. “Clint, how often do you dream?”

  He tapped his chin in thought for a moment. “Not really sure. Maybe a few times a week. I don’t usually remember my dreams.”

  Her stare intensified. “Have your dreams changed since the incident with the gypsy?”

  Clint thought again before answering. “Like I said, I don’t really remember them much to begin with. And dreams are pretty random by nature. So…, what’s the difference between one kind of random and another, right?”

  “Clint? I need you to start telling me your dreams.”

  That sent a pleasant shiver through him. “Are you asking for a starring role?”

  She paused, unexpectedly, on a word. Quickly she slipped a small forkful of her watermelon and crab salad into her mouth and chewed furiously.

  “Speaking of dreams,” he said, “whatever happened with the whole photojournalism thing
? You were the queen of that stuff in high school.”

  “Aspirations change.”

  “Let me guess. April Fools’ Day, senior year. Is that what put you off?”

  She glared at him. “That was your idea, not mine. You never did apologize for getting me kicked out of the Journalism Club.”

  “Principal Winters did that,” Clint replied with a shrug. “He didn’t seem too picky about placing blame once he found out you were the one behind the Photoshopping job.”

  She chewed through another bite of salad before adding, “You’re at risk.”

  “Because I pulled pranks at high school or because I remember dreams of fishing?”

  She waved it away impatiently. “We’ll discuss dreams later. I brought you here for more important things than dreams or Poe or chess. I brought you here because I need you—”

  Clint wouldn’t have been surprised if the room had started to actually glow under the automatic smile that exploded across his face.

  “But not in the way you seem to think,” she quickly added.

  Clint frowned. Why couldn’t women ever speak in a clear, straightforward manner?

  “Jane has actively tried to kill you,” Molly said. “I suspect she hasn’t given up.”

  There, he thought. That was simple and clear, wasn’t it?

  “That ain’t news, Molly.”

  Still the events of the past twenty-four hours had been enormously disturbing. From all indications, the effects of his cursed Touch upon Jane had gone wrong by orders of magnitudes more than he thought possible.

  “There’s more to it,” Molly continued. “I can’t discuss the details, but please believe that your survival is vital not only to putting an end to Jane’s recent… odd behavior…, but also vital to stemming a rising tide of organized crime in this area.” She waved a finger in a circle, indicating the region at large.

  Clint grimaced. How had a case of “love gone wrong” turned into an installment of The Godfather? “Wait, wait,” he said. “You’re telling me that Jane is in with the Maf—”