Hex, Love, and Rock & Roll

by Kat Turner

  She patted his arm and sauntered back to her interview chair, swinging her hips and presenting her full, round bottom to his gaze.

  The air grew oppressive with gamy odors of human bodies doused in grooming products, the stench of too many people in a room. He squinted at her backside, biting his cheek, her crudeness having diluted his interest. She’d sat in pink chewing gum, the poor thing. A big glob, right in the middle, puckered her skirt like an external arsehole.

  Christine whipped her glossy mane and flashed Brian a smoldering look, sitting down and crossing her legs high on the thigh.

  He mustered a polite smile. Had she walked around all day like that?

  Jonnie leaned close and laid a palm over his microphone. “Really mate? When was the last time you did a stranger?”

  Brian covered his own mic. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had some meaningless encounter with a woman he hadn’t cared about. No wait, he remembered. Right after Janet died and left him a single dad. “I need to forget Helen. Get her out of my system. I feel like I’m going barking mad.”

  “Perhaps what you need is the opposite of getting her out of your system—”

  “Okay, we’re rolling in five, four, three.” The upbeat reporter who’d staged the bookcase spoke.

  Never more than a few moments of privacy, stolen snatches of time to have meaningful conversations. Brian slapped on his winning smile for the cameras.

  “Two, one.” Electronic clicks followed.

  “We’re honored to be here with the Brian Shepherd and Jonnie Tollens of the classic, veteran rock band Chariotz of Fyre.”

  Classic and veteran? Ouch.

  “The honor is ours.” Brian’s fake grin hardened to stoniness fit for a statue.

  The interview kicked off with some inane chit chat. Brian went through the motions, staying in character.

  “How do you see yourselves staying relevant in a changing music industry defined by youth culture?” Surfer Lad leaned forward, hands on his knees.

  The question’s subtext stung. You old boys washed up yet? Perhaps wiped vigorously, with a damp cloth?

  Jonnie tipped his chin at Brian.

  Brian returned the gesture, thanking his bandmate, a shared understanding passing between them. Brian could field these loaded questions with acumen. He pushed aside his insecurity and handled the issue.

  “Our approach has always been fairly intuitive. We make the music we want to make, we create what inspires us. I do think, though, the key to staying fresh in these times is innovation. We have a changing sound that remains true to our roots yet reflects the energy of the current moment. Wouldn’t you say, Jon?”

  “I think that’s true, but also willingness to honor the fan base matters a lot. Recognize and respect what they want. If they want the hits, play the hits. Strike a balance between the expected and the unexpected. Keep listeners guessing, but not too much.”

  Brian hummed an agreement. “We’ve always had a blues influence. And the New Wave of British heavy metal, of course, shaped our music significantly. Zeppelin and Sabbath, followed by Def Leppard and Iron Maiden and The Cult, all the rest of the bands associated with the movement. You get that, even in songs like “What’s Your Sign?” The wordplay, the free association. London rhyming slang. In my opinion, lyric fluidity absolutely captures the English hard rock tradition. We’ll always embody that and always have.”

  Christine licked her lips. “What are you working on now?”

  Brian looked at his lap, tactile memory of Helen’s silky hand tingling from wrist to fingertips. He stroked the crystal through his jeans. Wouldn’t be the worst thing, to drift a bit and discuss what she’d inspired. “I’ve got an idea for a new song, about wholeness. The theme is synecdoche—part to whole, whole to part. There are rare times when you see a luminous element in a person, and her shine resonates with you on a cosmic level. A woman’s body can symbolize her soul, and her soul touches universality. Even in something as tiny as a freckle.”

  An epiphany broke, clear as the crystal he’d lost. He couldn’t give up on Helen. After this interview, he’d ring her with an apology for his skittish, reactive behavior on the bus.

  Brian’s face warmed. He rubbed the chronic soreness out of his hands. Decades of guitar playing caused the pain, but he’d grown accustomed to the ache. His pain was part of him now.

  He flicked his gaze up to the reporters. Opening up freed awareness and peace in him.

  Jonnie slapped Brian’s back, two strong and supportive pats. Brian squeezed his bandmate—his brother’s—shoulder.

  “That’s gorgeous, Brian.” Christine laid a hand over her cleavage, big dark eyes going to liquid. “You express your thoughts with such poetic depth. No wonder you’re a songwriter.”

  His stare fell to the floor, the blush seeping to the roots of his hair. He was a songwriter at heart, now wasn’t he? Perhaps he could scrap this executive goal and ditch Joe along with it. Even the idea felt liberating, thrilling. Dumping his cumbersome shed load of baggage would free up time and mental space to write. Then he could focus his energies on his art.

  A cracking sound, followed by a sizzle like oil in a hot pan, injected urgency into the room. Reporters swore and shouted. A chair hit the ground with a clash of metal against metal.

  Brian snapped his focus to the source of the noise. Stress hormones zapped his extremities. On the floor, resting against the leg of the chair in which he sat, a frayed cord jerked.

  In the throes of spasms, the live wire belched luminous white sparks.

  The petroleum reek of electronic smoke and melting plastic gassed him. Brian fanned the space under his nose. How had the team failed to notice such severe equipment damage?

  “Sorry, sorry.” Surfer Lad, his hand wrapped in a towel, yanked a plug out of the wall. The offending cable flopped dead.

  The incident put a damper on the interview, which wrapped up in short order. Everyone shook hands and exchanged polite thanks.

  Christine undid Brian’s mic, silky hair brushing his cheek and feminine touch ghosting his collarbone. “So you’re the sensitive, thoughtful, artistic type, eh? A musician, not a rock star.”

  “I suppose.” Still rattled from the sparking incident, Brian attempted without success to steer his thoughts back to writing. Drama and chaos sure snuffed creativity. But as his mind meandered to Helen, and the song she’d inspired, tranquility filled his chest once more.

  “I bet there’s a caveman in there, though, begging to come out and play.” Not to be deterred, Christine waited, wrapping the skinny microphone cord around her fingers.

  She pushed her full lips out, though her latest attempts did nothing for Brian.

  He knew who he wanted. “I met someone I can’t forget. I’d be using you.”

  “So use me. Pretend I’m your someone.”

  But he didn’t want to pretend with a woman fixated on some illusory fantasy of him. She craved an image, whatever false and shallow idea of him ran through her mind.

  With her talk of pretending, Christine sealed the non-deal. “No thank you, sweetheart.”

  The journalist pouted. “Someone’s a lucky lady.”

  Yet he felt lucky, having met a woman who saw through to the real him. He could at least hear Helen out, allow her more space to explain while he listened with an open mind.

  “Thank you. And it appears you have something stuck to the bottom of your skirt. Thought you might want to know.”

  “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” Christine left in a huff, picking at the gunk in her clothing.

  Why waste another second? Brian pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and fished in his trousers for Helen’s business card. Her crystal came loose and fell to the ground, skipping across linoleum in a clacking rhythm. He pushed out of his chair, stooped, and picked up the rock. Touching the stone hadn’t hurt his hand since the knife handle debacle. So he’d imagined the sensation. Or perhaps someone had put the charm in the bus’s toa
ster as a prank. Who knew?

  Brian rose.

  “Duck, man,” Jonnie shouted, a hard shove to Brian’s upper back sending him sprawling forward.

  Brian swiveled his neck in time to see the vase sail over his head, smack the opposite wall, and shatter into pieces.

  Surfer Lad, mouth agape, pointed to the bookcase. “It flew across the room. Fucking flew on its own, nobody touched it.”

  Jonnie’s grim expression tendered agreement. “It launched the second you picked up that stone.”

  Alternating a withering look between the wreckage and the malevolent trinket, Brian put the Helen issue on the back burner and pulled up Joe’s number instead. The bloke had some major explaining to do, and Brian would pull the truth out of his shifty manager.

  Seven

  “You have reached Nerissa Ivanhoe, purveyor of strange. I’m indisposed at the moment, but leave a message and I will get back to you. If you have an appointment for a consultation, please come to my home office in Uptown Minneapolis, but do not park in my designated space. Violators will be toad, hehe.” A tone beeped.

  Helen adjusted the straps of the messenger and yoga mat bags digging into her shoulder and continued her stride down the sidewalk.

  A spreading yolk of sun dipped below the horizon, giving way to the purple bleed of sunset. The first notes of frost perked up end-of-summer warmth, adding an autumnal zing to the air. Perfect atmosphere for getting proactive.

  “Hey, it’s me, Helen Schrader, again. I was hoping I could come over today and touch base with you about spells. Or talking on the phone is fine if that’s more convenient. I also text, and I’m on social media. Anyway, I’m finished teaching for the day, and I’ll have my phone on for another thirty minutes. Please call me back.”

  With an impatient sigh, she hung up and tucked the phone in the front compartment of her messenger bag. Helen supposed she lacked grounds for irritation. The old witch wasn’t home when Helen called or dropped by at lunch, either, but Nerissa was locally famous. She had to be on the move a lot, booked and busy.

  Regardless, Helen didn’t have an eternity to wait around for Nerissa’s schedule to open, not with the clock ticking on L&E and Brian being stalked by a mist monster. Nope, she needed to level up, and pronto.

  Helen patted her bag, brushing the bulge made by the crystal pouch. Nerissa’s guidance or no, it was witch o’clock. She breezed though her condo lobby and opened the elevator with her key fob. The silver door closed, reflecting Helen’s flushed face and sweaty ponytail.

  “Wait, wait. Sorry.” A young woman pushed the door open and stepped inside, her fingers capped with French-tipped acrylic nails. Platinum-blond hair, dip-dyed black, cascaded down her back, ending at a plaid miniskirt. Shy smile serving as thanks, she poked the button to her floor. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. It’s fine.” Helen had been there, apologizing for existing. The other woman’s concert T-shirt, jagged-font logo the color of flames, advertised an all-too-familiar band. “You go to the Fyre show at the fair?”

  The blonde’s hair fell in her face as she looked at her strappy sandals. Her pedicure matched her manicure, those chalky ends with the pink base. The elevator dinged up a couple of floors.

  “Yeah. It was kind of a fucked up night, or morning I should say. I’ve been seeing their bass player for a few years now. We hook up when they come to town or nearby, but there’s more to what we have than sex. He met my mom last year.”

  The woman referred to Thom James, Fyre’s notorious playboy bassist. Hm. If the dejected groupie had been backstage or on the buses, she might have seen or heard something related to Joe or the hex. “Fucked up how?”

  Thom’s lover snorted and flipped long locks to one side. Silver hoops and barbells competed for limited real estate on her ear.

  “I really thought we were moving toward exclusivity, you know? He went down on me until I came, which the other girls say he never does. After we had sex, he got out some weed, and we smoked while I read him a few poems I’d written. But in the morning? Poof. He goes all cold and distant, telling me he doesn’t think we’re compatible anymore. Bullshit, you know? Like he’d studied Sex and the City for lame breakup lines. I’d rather he said ‘your voice is ugly and your vagina stinks.’”

  Helen laughed. She liked this chick and her salty attitude. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

  The blonde sliced Helen a sly look. “Ask whatever you want. I’ve got the gossip on everything from dick sizes to drug preferences.”

  Bubbles blinked from white to pale yellow in numeric succession, the elevator moving up floors. She didn’t have the luxury of easing in, not when she couldn’t be sure if she’d see this person again.

  “Did you or Thom see or hear anything strange? People acting off, this manager guy named Joe doing weird stuff? Or even ghostly whispers, clouds of white smoke?”

  The young woman dropped her stare to Helen’s forearm. “Are those prayer beads? You mediate?”

  Helen ran a finger along the pearlescent strand of mala beads circling her wrist. “Yeah. I teach yoga, meditation, and chakra and energetic cleansing in Uptown. And I think there might be some bad energy following Fyre. Brian in particular.”

  The blonde swayed back and forth and made a wailing sound fit for a wandering haunt. “You’re a trip, dude. And no. All I saw that night was an aging rock star with an ego the size of Antarctica. Sorry.”

  Blind alley, dead end. “Never mind.”

  “Naw, naw, it’s cool. I like that kind of stuff. The Secret knocked me on my ass. Law of attraction. You think I’d like yoga?” The elevator door opened, and the blonde pushed the button to hold it. The squeaky and girlish way she asked the yoga question changed the game.

  A gentle sister of sadness nudged Helen. The blonde sounded lost, like she lacked a sense of self and a toehold on her personality. And damn, had Helen been in a similar place. She rummaged in her bag and gave out a card for one free class.

  Brian situation not withstanding, she had a life to lead and a business to save. And attracting new students served that goal. Plus, this woman might remember helpful details about the fair down the line, so it made sense to stir her into the mix.

  “Yeah. I think you’d love yoga. You should come sometime. Light & Enlightened is on Calhoun Street, between that organic ice cream shop for dogs and the haberdashery.”

  Thom’s ex-conquest read the card and slipped it into her bra. “Cool. I’ll see you around hipster central, Helen. I’m Stacy, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Stacy exited the metal box, and the elevator continued to Helen’s floor.

  Helen unlocked her condo with a tinkle of keys and swung open the front door to a dark living room. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out over the view that had sold her on the place four years ago.

  Near the border of the sculpture garden, where grass met sidewalk, a pond reflected glinting winks of starlight. The famous cherry spoon statue stretched across the water in an illusion of flotation, garnet dollop poised at the oval tip of an outsized piece of cutlery.

  On the wall perpendicular to the window hung the magazine she’d framed, featuring her and Lisa on the cover of their special issue about local women entrepreneurs under thirty. Nostalgia threaded a needle through her heart.

  Four years ago, Helen was high on herself. Her business was gangbusters. She’d finally achieved success. Come a helluva long way from the bitter, anxious, unloved little bitch who’d aged out of the foster care system with zero life skills and owning nothing except the pieces of meat almost any woman can sell.

  L&E had thrived in a squished, ultra-competitive market, no less. Though her ego had ballooned to bloated proportions, the largess of arrogance never managed to fix the low self-esteem underneath.

  Enough reflection. She had work to do.

  After a shower and change of clothes, Helen turned on every light in the house. She tugged the grimoire
free from a bookshelf, sat on the floor, and leafed through the tome.

  God, where to even begin. Translucent, whisper-thin page after page brushed by, making soft flutters. Drawings, runes, and script inked in Latin and German, as well as arcane languages she didn’t recognize, filled ancient parchment. Too much foreign writing for Google Translate to handle in a timely manner, and her high school Spanish would not offer jack.

  So much esoteric, pagan symbolism. Helen’s neck hairs stood at attention. A creak in the building’s foundation prompted her to look over her shoulder before returning to squinting at symbols for which she lacked a frame of reference.

  The occult material was overwhelming, charged with a frightening, unpredictable obscurity. This stuff was real. Why did Nerissa think Helen would be qualified?

  She glimpsed at her phone. No green light signaling a call or text.

  Flips through the pages growing aimless, Helen streamlined her thoughts in hopes of gaining direction. She had two goals: neutralize the hex and get L&E solvent. Meaning her best bet was to find a spell that could promise both.

  Starting at the beginning of the book made sense, so she shut the volume with a thud, dust tickling her nose, and re-opened the cover.

  After passing a few blank pages, she settled on the first viable page one, a table of contents broken up by six symbol headings. She tapped a finger on the one matching the spirit circle on the inside cover and opened to the first page attributed to that section.

  At first, she skimmed more unreadable script, a mix of handwritten notes and inked calligraphy. Upon coming across a peculiar graphic, Helen stopped and studied. Crude stick figure etchings of bodies lying spread-eagle in the middle of circles filled a sheet. Additional sketches showed X’s and pentagrams overlaying identical human forms.