Power Play

by Kimberly Keane

  “Thank you!” she said.

  “He’s not cursed anymore. We need to talk. Please call me as soon as you can.” I hoped my words didn’t sound as clipped to her as they sounded to me.

  “The doctors want to run some tests on him. I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.

  I walked to Mr. Bradley and stood facing him. He was bent over, his elbows on his knees and his forehead pressing into his fingertips. He was mumbling something under his breath. I leaned in, listening.

  “I can’t lose. I don’t lose. I won’t lose. I don’t lose. I don’t lose. I don’t lose,” he muttered over and over again.

  I was thankful he’d done nothing while we were attending to Peter. It dawned on me he might not be able to go into the alternate realm and, as such, would be unaware of our deconstruction of his spell on Carol. I wasn’t sure how much time we had before he figured out what we’d done.

  “The curse is removed,” I said.

  He didn’t so much as raise his head, let alone stop his mantra. Despite that, his binding spell rose in response to my statement. I watched a shudder roll through him when he felt the release, but that was the only change. I berated myself for feeling uncomfortable with his lack of response. It could have been much worse. He could have gotten in the way. He could have discovered what we had done for Carol and tried to stop us. But he should have shown some relief or happiness because Peter had survived. He should have shown some sign of love for his son. If he had thought Peter’s turn for the worse reflected upon his own self-worth, the news of Peter’s recovery should have heralded a recovery of his own self-esteem. Instead, he continued to sit quietly in his rage, self-doubt, and arrogance.

  Chapter Seven

  The phone woke me yet again, only this time I surfaced from sleep slowly. By the time I regained my mental faculties, Miriam was talking to someone on my cell phone. I hadn’t even heard her rise after spending what little was left of the night in my suite.

  “Who is it?” I mouthed to her as I belted my robe.

  “Harry,” she mouthed back.

  “What time is it?” I said aloud.

  She covered the mouthpiece. “It’s one. Coffee’s on, and I have some room service for you.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Only if you can spontaneously switch genders.”

  “I like being a woman too much.”

  I grabbed a cup of coffee, savored the first sip, and motioned for the phone.

  “Harry, what do you have for me?” I sounded tired, even to my own ears.

  “Darlin’, how are you feeling?” Harry’s voice was quiet. I don’t think I’d ever heard him reserved. Obviously, Miriam had updated him on the curse situation.

  “Like shit. But I’ll live.” I waited for a moment, but Harry didn’t respond. “I have no intention of crossing to the other side just yet. So, help me out here and tell me what you’ve got.”

  “If I were in a sparring mood, I’d have a great response to that.”

  “You’re always in a sparring mood.”

  “I lose my charm and wit in potentially fatal circumstances; even my rakishly handsome features are less radiant, and my ever-existing desire to pursue the fairer sex is lost.”

  “That’s the Harry I know and flirt with. Now, out with it.”

  “All right. Peter Bradley. Good student, but better in math and science than literature. Never been in trouble. Teachers like him but indicate he doesn’t apply himself as much as he could. He has only two close friends but knows quite a few kids in the school. From what I learned, it seems incredibly unlikely someone would wish him dead or cursed.

  “Michael Bradley. Thirty-four. Born to a very wealthy New York family. Earned better than average grades, but not of the caliber required to gain entrance to his father’s alma mater, Brown. He was accepted anyway. During college, he disappointed his parents by avoiding relationships with the social elite and had several clandestine interludes with young ladies of lower social classes, including a number with his household staff. Two of his lovers ended up dead. Official cause of death was unknown. The autopsy reports indicate that the irises were white, and organs were withered.”

  “Sounds like akasha.”

  “It certainly does.”

  Akasha was a drug with one of two possible side effects: it either killed you, or it removed any obstruction to spiritual gifts—it deepened, widened, and developed an inborn preternatural talent. The gained level and type of talent varied. Combine that with a user mortality rate of eighty percent and it wasn’t hard to see why it never gained much of a foothold. Most people like living too much.

  I knew a handful of people who tried it anyway. They were all convinced they were psychic in some way, and one even did have a modicum of talent. Most of them lost their lives. One developed, at last count, three abilities over the course of three years. He saw future events but could only look ahead five minutes, he knew if someone was being truthful, and he made plants grow. He had other abilities that came along with being psychic too, like shielding and minor spell casting. I never asked him if it was worth it.

  “Akasha? This was how long ago?” I said.

  “Fourteen years.”

  “Was it around that long ago? Helheim, that was long before the gods returned.”

  “It was long before the gods claimed they returned. On the akasha front, it was around then. It’s been around much longer than that, but its use was very limited and much riskier. Not many knew about it, and only those that had serious occult interests. I should also mention, three young ladies who attended the same high school as Michael died from unknown causes.”

  “That would have been, what, seventeen years ago?” I said. Maybe akasha had a hand in those tragedies as well. “Was Michael interested in the occult?”

  “I don’t have any evidence to support it.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Me either.” Harry continued with his debriefing. “Michael met Carol Miller at college during his senior year and her freshman year. They were married the following year and moved to Las Vegas. Peter was born two years after they were married. Professionally, he owns and operates a consulting firm. He holds his client list confidential but is rumored to have two of the Fortune 100 companies as well as some of the wealthiest people in the world on it.”

  “Swanky,” I said. “What does the firm do?”

  “Negotiates and guarantees contracts.”

  “Guarantees contracts?”

  “His marketing materials state they ‘guarantee contractual obligations are met to the fullest degree.’”

  I wished I’d taken a closer look at the binding spell Mr. Bradley placed on me before releasing it. I bet it and the others like it were well constructed, with any possible loopholes sealed tight. He had to have a very talented and potentially dangerous staff. Perhaps Mr. Bradley also had some angry business associates who’d found themselves unwittingly on the other end of these binding contracts.

  “How many employees?” I said.

  “Six, not including office staff.”

  “I assume you have them by name.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay. The occult and akasha angle is ominous, but the events are so dated, it probably doesn’t have anything to do with the curse. For now, try to find names of employees dating back five years. Also, see what you can get me on anyone not happy with his services, either clients or business associates of clients, for the same time frame. If we can find the person who created this curse, maybe we can convince them to get rid of it, or at least get it out of me.”

  “You got it, darlin’.”

  “By the way,” I said, “you need more pro bono work these days, right?”

  “I was waitin’ for you to get here. I can only go fifty-fifty on it. Too much alimony.”

  “Thanks, Harry. I appreciate you doing what you can.”

  I hung up and gritted my teeth—this was getting more ex
pensive by the minute. Next time the Fates did their bit, I was going to run screaming in the other direction. Then I was going to take down all the mirrors in my house—sometimes Miriam had excellent ideas.

  I’d no sooner set the phone down than it rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Linda.”

  “Hi, Linda,” I said.

  “The ceremony is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at seven in the evening. It will cost five hundred dollars. That will cover the price of the sacrifice as well. I will pick you up at your hotel three hours before the ceremony, so you can help prepare for the feast.”

  “Okay, but there’s a change in the situation.”

  “What is that?”

  “The curse is no longer in the boy. It’s in me.”

  “That will not affect the ceremony.”

  My brain froze for a subjective eternity. At a minimum, I’d expected a platitude. Gods, she annoyed me, and it pissed me off that I might need her to save my life. “Okay then,” I said and hung up the phone. Two could play the socially inept game. Call me petty.

  Chapter Eight

  I was sorely tempted, but I would not throw my laptop out a window. After coffee and some room service, Miriam retired to her room to catch up on sleep while I spent the time surfing the web for information about curses. I was now the beneficiary of a plethora of useless knowledge. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to find Removing Curses for Dummies, but some information more reliable than lighting a white candle would have been spectacular.

  I closed the laptop too hard and cringed. Dear gods, I was tired. It was probably the curse taking a toll on me. What if it made me sick? What if it gave me cancer? I started to rub at the pressure behind my right temple. Just great. I was getting a headache.

  I found the bottle of ibuprofen in my purse just as the phone rang. I set it on the coffee table and grabbed my cell. Thank the gods, Carol remembered to call me.

  “How’s Peter doing?” I asked.

  “He’s still improving. The tests won’t be back until next week.”

  “I hope the leukemia is cured.”

  “Me too. So, I guess we should wait to see what the tests say before trying to work with that goddess.”

  “That makes the most sense.” I ran my free hand through my hair. “Carol, there’s something you need to know.”

  “What?”

  I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and dove into the uncomfortable conversation. “It’s your husband.” I paused. “He’s been stealing psychic power from you.” The line fell silent, and I waited a few moments before asking if she was still there.

  “That’s impossible.” Her voice was so quiet I almost didn’t hear it. She continued, as if she were talking to herself. “I don’t have any power. He’d never . . . he stood by me. . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Silence again.

  “Carol?” I said, but the silence stretched out longer.

  “You’re wrong.” Her voice, strong and flat, startled me.

  I opened my mouth to respond, but Carol’s outraged voice cut off what I was going to say.

  “How dare you! You don’t know what he’s done for me.”

  “I know what he’s doing to you.”

  “He’d never! He provides for Peter and me. He takes care of us. He even stood by me when I got so sick I almost died. No. He’s not doing that. He couldn’t.”

  “There’s no other—”

  “I’m not psychic, dammit!” I heard her take a deep breath and blow it out. “Thank you for what you did for Peter. I’ll call if we need to contact the goddess.” She hung up the phone.

  I set my cell phone down on a side table and rubbed at my head. The pain escalated, and it felt as if my head throbbed with each heartbeat. Dark spots played in my sight, and the sharp edges of my thoughts dulled to formless shapes. Fatigue rolled over me. I fought with the bottle of ibuprofen and won, then took a couple of pills with a glass of water I polished off quickly, and finally crawled into the bed that hadn’t even been made.

  When I woke, it was dark outside. I swept my feet out of the bed and onto the floor. I stood up, and my head exploded. I dropped to my knees and slapped my hand over my mouth. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I moved as quickly as I could to the bathroom on one hand and both knees. I made it to the toilet before throwing up, thank the gods. The bitterness of regurgitated coffee laced my tongue and made my eyes water. I hoped it wouldn’t ruin my taste for it.

  I put my hand on the toilet seat and pushed myself to standing. The nausea was gone—the only plus side of vomiting. Pain curled around my right eye and awaited the opportunity to reassert itself. I washed my face and rinsed out my mouth with water as cold as the tap would allow. I walked to the couch on the balls of my feet, setting them down as lightly as possible, and heaved a sigh when I sank into its folds. I’d slept for hours and the pain only worsened. It was time to find a less common cure for what ailed me.

  Before I turned to the god realms, I spent a few moments developing an image and an emotional feel for the realm I wanted. I thought about the place where Airmid and the other Celtic deities lived. Fables say the Celtic gods and goddesses went under the hills and became the fey. They didn’t appear fairy-like to me—they weren’t ethereal and didn’t sport wings—but I nicknamed their home the Hill Realm anyway. When I turned my head, I expected to turn into that realm, but I found myself staring at the hotel door.

  I rubbed my temple, then put my cold hands on either side of my face and concentrated on the chill of my skin. I let the worry and fear that inevitably accompanies pain drift from me. They didn’t matter. This time I turned, and the sound the breeze made as it danced through the trees of the Hill Realm soothed me. I let it engulf me until the throbbing became too difficult to ignore. I called out.

  Airmid, I bid thee, come.

  Rid me of this hex

  And its effects.

  Don’t ask me how I come up with verses on the fly—perhaps it’s part of my gift—but the gods only answer my call when I recite it.

  “Well met, Amanda,” Airmid said.

  “Well met, Airmid.” I lowered myself carefully into a curtsy.

  “I see you’re cursed.”

  “Yes,” I said gravely. “Are you able to remove curses?”

  “That skill does not lie with me.”

  “Might you be able to cure a headache?”

  “Yes, but I fear you would be visited with something else unless you rid yourself of that first.” She raised her hand, palm up, and indicated the creature coiled within me. “It is strange for a curse. I don’t recall having seen its like.”

  “What are curses usually like?”

  “They have less power, less . . . life.”

  “Might you know of another who could help?”

  She cocked her head to the side as if listening to distant music. I strained, but could hear nothing. After a moment, she replied, “I do not.”

  The last time I’d seen her in Drew’s hospital room, I hadn’t had the opportunity to mention Peter. I did so now, giving her a quick description of the boy’s illness and what I’d seen, or rather, what I hadn’t.

  She nodded her head.

  “I’ll be on my way then,” I said and lowered into another curtsy. “I bid you farewell.”

  “Slán agus beannacht leat.”

  I rose and awaited the translation she always gave when she spoke Gaelic.

  “Goodbye and blessings upon you,” she said and was gone.

  The turn back to my world came easily.

  The pain was getting worse, slowly edging its way and taking more space in my head. I looked out the window, taking a quick note of how many people lined the strip, before the flashing lights and bright neon bore into my brain. I pulled the curtains closed.

  I really didn’t want to reach out to any of the major deities. I had finally gotten used to dealing with minor gods, except for Ostara. And, being a fertility goddess, not
one that would be able to help me. I wanted to try at least one other lesser healing goddess before I struck out into more dangerous waters.

  The gods and goddesses had gotten used to socially acceptable offerings instead of the animal and human sacrifices that served them in the past. I guess they had to change with the times like the rest of us. So, I did what any good, modern American woman would do: I phoned room service and ordered a meal fit for a goddess.

  Half an hour later, food covered the coffee table end to end. The pain was throbbing and getting steadily worse. The nausea returned, although not as fierce as its first appearance, which made it easy not to sample anything. I had to get to another realm quickly. If the pain exploded again, I didn’t know if I’d be able to concentrate well enough to turn. I settled myself on the floor in a sitting position, my legs crossed. I shifted to take some of the strain off my knees, pressed my hands to the legs of the table, and concentrated on the smoothness of the faux wood. I turned again, only this time toward Asgard, one of the Norse god realms. The smell of marsh and sea air assailed me, and my sight confirmed what my nose concluded.

  Fensalir, the hall that housed Eir, the goddess to whom I would make my request, lay to my right. The roof of the main hall looked like a knarr, one of the short, sturdy Viking ships, turned upside down. Fensalir’s walls were made of stone and wood woven in beautiful patterns, as if the wood grew from the stonework and the stones from the woodwork.

  I rose carefully and lay my hand against Fensalir. Blessed cold raced through my palm and made the bones in my hand ache. Without thinking, I pressed my forehead against the stone, hissing at the freezing temperature and then sighing as the sensation overpowered the hammers in my brain. Oh my gods, I wanted to stay that way forever. I closed my eyes, sighed, and reveled in the relief. Too soon, the pain pounded past the cold, and my stomach rioted again. I swallowed audibly, took a few shallow breaths, and pushed the bile back. I pushed away from the wall, steeled myself against the horror in my skull, and knocked softly on the door three times.