Binding the Shadows

by Jenn Bennett

  And, dammit, even if I did bind David Merrimoth when he was jumping from his balcony, he was trying to kill us—for no good reason! Sure, I wish things hadn’t turned out like they did for him, but I did the best I could at the time.

  Lon was right: I wasn’t a killer. Merrimoth’s death was not my fault. I was not turning into my crazy, bloodthirsty parents. I was just a girl trying to do the right thing in spite of very abnormal circumstances.

  The hollows of Lon’s cheeks deepened when he smiled down at me. I tightened my hand around his and put all the bad stuff out of my mind.

  We slowed our pace in front of the church. People mingled outside heavy wooden double-doors, chatting and smoking valrivia cigarettes. Lon shook a few hands and grunted at several Hellfire Club members, tilting his chin up in answer to people who waved from afar. The few brief conversations we had with other attendees all started out with “Such a shame about David” and “I just can’t believe he’s gone,” but quickly progressed to “Where are they serving lunch after the burial?” And these were Merrimoth’s peers.

  The inside of the sanctuary was packed. We decided to forgo the pews and stand along the back wall. We weren’t the only ones. When a couple squeezed in next to us, Lon shifted me in front of him, pulling my back against his solid chest. I relaxed, grateful for the comfort his warm body provided. He ran his thumb down the side of my arm from my elbow to my wrist and up again, a slow, soothing stroke.

  “You look nice,” he murmured in my ear, so low and close it tickled. I turned my head sideways, trapping his cheek with mine. He smelled really good, like clean laundry and soap . . . and like Lon—that same identifiable scent I caught yesterday when Telly was tearing the bridge down over us. I breathed him in, a small pleasure, as he whispered, “Wish we were dressed up for a restaurant instead of a funeral.”

  “Me too,” I whispered back.

  A few seconds passed, then he said, “Better yet, I wish we were alone.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Completely alone. No Jupe. No Mr. and Mrs. Holiday. No in-laws. What do you think?”

  “Right now?” Funerals were turning out to be way better than I imagined.

  “A vacation.”

  “Oh?”

  Sometimes communicating with Lon was like pulling teeth. But I’d learned if I stayed quiet, he’d eventually spit out what he was trying to say. So I didn’t answer. I just waited, watching people file into the crowded sanctuary.

  After a long pause, he continued murmuring in my ear. “I got an offer for a photo shoot in the Alps. Thought maybe you’d like to come along and we could make a vacation out of it.”

  “As in Europe?”

  “I could choose Switzerland or France. I thought maybe you’d like to go to France.”

  Hmm. My parents’ families were both originally from France (my mother grew up in Paris, and my father’s parents were from Marseille) and they used to speak French when they were alone. My mother had a heavy French accent up to the last day I’d seen her alive. I’d always been curious about France. I still had family there—distant cousins and whatnot—and I often wondered what they were like. But I’d never been out of the states.

  Lon raised a finger and shifted a lock of hair away from my ear, then continued to speak in a low, quiet voice. “A small village in the Alps. Just the two of us. I was thinking we could rent a villa. A nice one. Indoor pool. Big fireplace. Drink wine. Go skiing.”

  “Skiing?” I said incredulously. I doubted I could roller skate, much less ski.

  Then he admitted, “Mostly I was just thinking about getting naked.”

  My throat made a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a gasp. A little thrill zinged through me. “A sex vacation?” I whispered.

  He chuckled. “No Jupe, no Tambuku. Just you and me.”

  “I’ve never been on a vacation before.”

  “Ever?”

  “Never.” My parents had always left me at home with someone from our esoteric order when they went on vacations, and then, of course, I separated from them when I turned seventeen. Being on the run and living under an alias doesn’t exactly lend itself to relaxing vacation time.

  “Another first,” Lon whispered in a sultry voice. It was one of his favorite pastimes, cataloging any “first” experiences I shared with him. He kept a mental list. I think it was some kind of male pride thing. Kind of endearing.

  “France at the end of January,” he said. “It’s settled.”

  It was a glorious thought, this little vacation fantasy of his. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll talk to Kar Yee.”

  “I already asked her. She said it was fine.”

  I cocked my head, confused for a moment until I remembered Kar Yee’s words last week before the robbery: I know a secret you don’t know. “Well, damn,” I muttered, a nervous happiness spreading through my chest.

  “Eight nights, and I only have to work two of those. I’ve got everything booked already. Just wanted to make sure you’d be okay with it.”

  My heart squeezed. I turned my face up to his and kissed him on the bottom of his chin, right below one point of his pirate mustache. “Nicest surprise ever.”

  He hugged me closer as a familiar face bobbed into view. Lon’s head snapped back from mine as he looked where I was gazing, toward a smiling man strolling down the side aisle, waving in our direction.

  “Father Carrow!”

  It took the good Father a few seconds to pick his way over to us, wending his way around the crowd gathering behind the pews. The sight of his silver hair and cornflower-blue halo made me happy. Yes, he was an Earthbound and a former priest. The first one I’d ever met, but there were others, like the current priest of this church. Being retired, Father Carrow was dressed in a suit today instead of robes. He waved a fedora he held in hand as he greeted us. “Cady and Lon, two of my favorite people.”

  I hugged Father Carrow’s neck. “It’s good to see you,” I said, and meant it. He lived a couple blocks from me back in Morella, and we used to talk frequently. But since I’d unofficially moved in with Lon and Jupe, I saw less and less of him.

  He gave Lon’s hand a hearty shake. “How’s life been treating you?”

  “Can’t complain,” Lon answered, running a hand down my back.

  “And I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know I’ve played cupid so successfully.” Father Carrow had introduced us several months ago.

  One side of Lon’s mouth tilted up briefly. “We agree.”

  Father Carrow grinned in reply.

  “Are you, uh, working here today?” I asked.

  “They often ask me to lend a hand for big events. I’m helping out at the gravesite. Did you know Mr. Merrimoth personally?”

  “I did,” Lon answered.

  “I’m so sorry,” Father Carrow said, his brow furrowing.

  Lon shook his head. “We weren’t close. I’d go so far to say that we almost enemies, unfortunately.”

  Father Carrow leaned in closer. “Then you won’t mind me saying that there were some nasty rumors going around about his knack before he died. Folks say he set fire to his own house.”

  I’m not sure why that surprised me. I wondered if it was Dare who yapped, or one of his henchmen. Word spread fast in a small community like this. I hoped there weren’t accompanying rumors about some silver-haloed witch helping him jump to his death.

  Lon grunted. “You hear similar rumors about anyone else around town?”

  Father Carrow squinted. “Setting fire to things? Or . . .”

  “Knacks being stronger than they should,” I clarified. “Way stronger.” I quickly filled him in about Tambuku being robbed, touching on Noel Saint-Hill’s grim death. I didn’t think it was a good idea to volunteer the bionic drug information, so I skipped over that detail.

  “That’s definitely unusual. And to your question, Lon, there is a rumor that comes to mind now. Do you know Peter Little?”

  “Former city councilman?”
<
br />   Father Carrow nodded and explained to me, “He has a luck knack. Folks say that’s how he got his position.”

  “Among other things,” Lon agreed. From the dour look on his face, he wasn’t a fan.

  “But have you heard that his luck has gotten . . . luckier?” Father Carrow asked.

  Lon’s melon-green eyes narrowed. He waited for more.

  “He won the lottery.”

  Not a surprise for someone with a luck knack, I thought to myself. It wasn’t a common ability, but I knew a Tambuku regular who won a lot of bets at the horse track.

  “I heard about the lottery win,” Lon said. “Three hundred grand, right? Last week.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the only instance. He’s won three times this month. First was five thousand on a scratch-off ticket. Second was that three hundred thousand you mentioned. And the third time was two days ago.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know,” Father Carrow said. “It was all over the news. He won the Mega Millions jackpot. Fifty-nine million.”

  “Holy shit,” Lon mumbled, then quickly apologized to Carrow, who made a shooing motion with his hand.

  “Seems a bit odd,” Father Carrow said. “Even with a luck knack, how many people win the lottery three times in two weeks?” He glanced at the door. “They’re waving for me. Service is about to start. Maybe we’ll talk again later?”

  Lon nodded.

  Father Carrow patted Lon on the shoulder before squeezing my hand. “Come visit me, Cadybell. I miss chatting with you.”

  I did too. I hugged him, then watched his blue halo trail behind him as he left.

  “Peter Little,” Lon murmured.

  “Is he into drugs?” I asked.

  “He’s a dirty politician.”

  “Hellfire?”

  “No. He doesn’t live far from here, though. We could drop by. Congratulate him. Ask if he’s bought any strange red potions lately.”

  Follow the drug, find Telly.

  “Couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

  Lon pulled me back against his chest and wrapped his arms around my waist as the organist walked across the stage behind the altar at the front of the sanctuary. I let out a long breath, thinking about Peter Little’s knack, and about Telly’s bottle of bionic juice. Several heads turned when someone walked into the sanctuary. Curious, I glanced to see who was causing all the hubbub and spotted Dare’s shiny bald head. My muscles turned to stone.

  The Hellfire leader slowed his already casual gait as he glanced in our direction. I flinched but didn’t look away. Not even when his black, hate-filled gaze drilled into my skull. It only lasted a moment, that look he gave me, before he turned and continued on to the front of the church without another glance.

  I knew right then and there that Ambrose Dare damn well hadn’t forgiven me.

  I half expected someone named Peter Little to reside inside a toadstool in Smurf Village, but after the funeral, Lon drove us to a fancy condo overlooking the La Sirena boardwalk. The building that housed the condo was five stories high and secured by gate. Instead of stopping at the guardhouse, Lon drove the silver Audi to the striped gate arm and typed four numbers into a little metal box.

  “How do you have a security password to get inside here?” I asked as the arm began rising.

  He gave me a faster-than-light sideways glance. “Used to date someone who lives here.”

  Ah-ha.

  “Megan Pierce,” he elaborated, surprising me. “She laughed like a hyena at every damn thing I said. Drove me crazy.”

  “Hate her already. Will rip her eyes out if we see her inside. Just a warning.”

  “Mmm, catfight.”

  “Rawrr.”

  He chuckled. “Have I told you lately that you’re my favorite person?”

  I smiled as he drove toward the building, swerving through empty parking spaces to avoid speed bumps before pulling into a spot near the entrance. Freshly planted yellow and purple petunias lined the sidewalk. I skirted around a misfiring automatic sprinkler and spotted a white van with a Morella Channel 5 logo driving away from the condos. “Father Carrow wasn’t lying,” I remarked, pointing it out to Lon.

  “Everyone loves a winner.” He typed in another code and held the door open for me.

  The lobby, if you could call it that, was a single room ringed with four elevators. A lush cluster of palms and tropical plants anchored the middle of the room below a skylight. Opera floated from hidden speakers. We took an elevator up to the top floor, then stepped out into a chandelier-lit corridor with two apartments. Lon strode to a door flanked by an umbrella stand and pressed a gently chiming doorbell.

  Bass-heavy music thumped through the walls. Lon cocked a brow. Yeah, it didn’t sound good to me, either. This might’ve been a bad idea. After a few seconds, a voice crackled from a small speaker near the doorframe. “Yes?”

  “It’s Lon Butler.”

  There was a short pause, then the sound of a lock turning. The door flew open to reveal a very tan, very blond man, maybe a few years older than Lon. Long navy board shorts hung to his knees. An unbuttoned short sleeve shirt flapped open to a broad chest dusted with graying blond hair. Mr. Little clearly spent a lot of time at the gym doing ab workouts. He was also in the middle of hosting a party, it seemed. A girl in a bathing suit walked past a doorway behind him, and I could hear distant laughter from somewhere deeper inside.

  “Butler,” he said enthusiastically as some obnoxious Top Forty club music filled the air. “How the hell are you?”

  “Not as good as you, apparently.”

  Mr. Little looked me up and down. A slow, lecherous grin spread across his face. “Please, come on in and join the party.” He closed the door behind me and locked it. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

  “Cady,” I replied, looking around. His condo had blinding white-on-white walls, furniture, rugs, floor, occasionally broken up by a startling accent color, a shade of turquoise blue that matched both his halo and his too-blue eyes.

  “Don’t even think about it or I’ll fucking punch your teeth in.”

  I twisted around to look at Lon. His eyes were narrowed to slits. A proprietary grip on my wrist tugged me closer to his side.

  Peter held up his hands. “Whoa, calm down. I wasn’t—” He glanced at me, then gave Lon a sheepish smile. “Okay, I was, but . . . Dammit, Butler. I forgot how much I hate your knack.”

  Feminine voices tinkled from another room.

  Peter glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “I’ve got my hands full anyway.” He shouted over the music at the girl in the bikini. When she came over, he whispered something into her ear. She looked at Lon and smiled, then nodded at Peter and meandered off somewhere. What the hell was that all about? I glanced at Lon for guidance, but he had a funny look on his face. That better not have been that hobag, Megan Pierce.

  “You two heading out or coming from somewhere?” Peter asked, gesturing for us to come farther inside. The volume of the thumpy dance music lowered.

  “David Merrimoth’s funeral,” Lon answered as we followed Peter into a sunken living room capped by a wide, white fireplace. Sunlight spilled through long windows. How in the world he lived in a sterile place like this was beyond me. But when I looked closer, I noticed a lot of clothes scattered around. Mostly women’s clothes.

  “Oh, the funeral. That was today?” Peter said, flopping down on a sofa. His shirt fell open a few more inches. Four empty wine glasses sat on a glass coffee table next to a wine bottle. Where was the party? I briefly saw a figure move through a hallway at the back of the room, and thought I heard talking in what seemed to be the kitchen, but I didn’t see anyone.

  Peter sniffled and wiped his nose. “I meant to attend, but . . .”

  Lon perched on white leather loveseat across from him. “I guess I’d forget too if I’d just won fifty million dollars.”

  An enormous shit-eating grin lit up Peter’s face. “I still can’t believe it.” H
e puckered his lips and exhaled a long, slow breath. “They don’t give you the money right away, you know. Have to deal with lawyers and accountants. More red tape than I ever saw on city council.”

  “Rumor has it that this is your third win.”

  Peter dialed down his smile. “Wishing you could trade knacks with me?”

  “No, just wondering why you haven’t won the lottery before.”

  He shrugged. “Never really tried.”

  “You have a luck knack and never played the lottery before?” I said. “That would probably be the first thing I did.” I was sitting on something. Rising up slightly, I pulled out a pair of purple panties from beneath my ass. And immediately chucked them on the floor. God only knows whose crack they’d been up.

  Peter didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe I played it a few times when I was younger. Won bits here and there, I don’t know.”

  “But suddenly you win three times in a month?” Lon said.

  Peter sank back in to the sofa and crossed his ankles. “I’ll be fifty this year. Guess I thought why not? You only live once.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Tiny lines filled Peter’s forehead as he raised his brows. “What are you implying, Lon?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you, I know something’s changed.”

  “Like what?”

  “You tell me. What are you doing to increase your knack?” Lon’s tone was unfriendly and accusatory.

  I tried to smooth things over. “Because if you’ve stumbled on something good? Boy, we definitely want in on it,” I said, smiling my best flirty smile.

  “ ‘We?’ ” Peter said. “I thought people like you used magick to get everything they want.”

  A quick anger flickered inside my chest. “And just how many magicians do you know?”

  He curled his thumb and index finger into an 0. “Unless I count you.”

  “You don’t,” Lon said.

  “So protective.” Peter reached for the wine bottle and tried to pour a drink, but nothing came out. “If you ever get tired of Killjoy over here”—he pointed the bottle at Lon—“give me a call. I could use a little magic in my life.”