Sympathetic Magic (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 4)

by Christine Pope

  He thought he’d done a good job of trying to forget about Margot. There were days of golf with his friends while the trees around them shifted into brilliant shades of gold and red and orange. He puttered in the garden, had dinner at Connor and Angela’s house — that girl definitely knew how to cook — read the financial papers and waited for the twinge that would tell him which stocks to buy and which to sell. In between, he sometimes went out to the bars and restaurants in downtown Flagstaff. He met women there, women who were pretty clear about their interest in him. The only difference was, now he found he really wasn’t interested in them. One or two he took out to dinner, then realized there was no point in going any further than that. He’d been down that road before, tried dating civilians, tried seeing a few of his more distant cousins. None of it worked. His love life was where his luck invariably failed him.

  Mornings like this one, though…he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have Margot here next to him, making tea — he preferred coffee, but he’d make that sacrifice for her — planning a walk in the woods to enjoy the last of the autumn colors…experiencing the afterglow of early-morning sex.

  Ha. Considering she’d barely look him in the eye, getting from there to making love was sort of a jump. Never mind that he hadn’t seen her for more than a month. Now, Halloween was just a little more than a week away.

  Halloween….

  Lucas pondered that thought for a moment. He knew Connor had first seen Angela in person at the Jerome Halloween dance, his identity as a warlock carefully concealed by one of Damon’s clever spells. There was no stricture against Wilcox clan members going now — in fact, he’d heard that Mason was planning to attend, as she and Adam McAllister had been conducting a long-distance relationship over the past month. Her parents were not all that happy about the situation, and his apparently even less so, but the couple seemed to be following Angela’s lead in saying the inter-clan feud was over.

  So, great for them. What was he thinking, that he could just go down there and hope lightning would strike for him the way it had for Connor and Angela? History didn’t tend to repeat itself that way. Besides, he had no idea if Margot was even going. She didn’t exactly seem like the Halloween costume type when you got right down to it. Then again, the dance was a Jerome institution, and from what he’d heard, the elders did go to show their support.

  Well, that clinched it. He only had a few days to figure out what he’d wear, and maybe he’d end up looking like an idiot, but he wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to face Margot Emory on her home turf.

  * * *

  Was there ever a witch with less enthusiasm for Halloween? Margot wondered, and frowned at her reflection. Yes, it was traditional that all the elders go to the dance, but she didn’t quite see the point. It wasn’t as if it were a McAllister function, not really; the dance was put on as a fundraiser by the volunteer fire department, about half of whom were civilians. But she’d given up trying to get out of it.

  She smoothed her long skirt, then reached up to adjust the golden circlet she wore on her head. If she had to go to this thing, then she’d go looking dignified, which was why for the past few years she’d dressed up as Eleanor of Aquitaine, in a flowing medieval gown with a jeweled belt and a crown and veil, her long dark hair lying loose over her shoulders. All right, apparently Eleanor had been a strawberry blonde, but Margot somehow doubted most people attending the Jerome Halloween dance were that dedicated to historical accuracy.

  A glance at the clock told her it was already almost eight. The dance was always full to capacity, but she knew she didn’t have to worry about getting in, nor having no place to sit once she got there. The elders always had a table reserved for them, and for whichever family members they decided to favor by allowing them to sit in the empty seats.

  It was a cool night, with a brisk wind blowing from the east. Over the Mogollon Rim, a horizontal half moon, the one sometimes called the “witch’s cup,” had begun to rise. Margot allowed herself a brief glance at it, then continued to walk steadily toward Spook Hall, where the dance was always held. Another good thing about this costume — she could wear flat ballet-style slippers with it. Much better for negotiating Jerome’s slanted and uneven sidewalks than the heels some women forced themselves into for the event.

  As always, she ducked in through the side entrance, avoiding the queue at the front. Matt McAllister, one of Jerome’s volunteer firemen, was standing guard duty at that door to prevent people from doing the very thing she had just done, but of course he merely waved her through, saying, “Your table’s in the same place, Margot.”

  Of course it was. And it would be the same people sitting at it, just as they always did, year after year. Well, except last year. Then it had been Angela’s contingent of “bodyguards,” of whom Margot had been one. Fat lot of good that had done. It still wasn’t easy to admit that Damon Wilcox had managed to slip his own brother into this event, right in the very heart of McAllister territory. Even now she couldn’t help wondering if there was something she could have done to detect Damon’s spell, although logically she knew that merely being able to cast illusions didn’t necessarily mean you could see through those created by someone else.

  She repressed a sigh and pushed through the expanding crowd to the table where Allegra and Bryce were already seated. Allegra’s husband sat next to her in one of the spare seats, and Bryce’s wife beside him. That left three extras, after Margot claimed hers, and she always let Allegra and Bryce hand those off to those of their children who might need them. It wasn’t as if Margot ever brought a date.

  A date. There was a good one.

  Luckily, it was dark enough in the room that she doubted the others could see the sour expression she currently wore, although she did her best to remove it before she sat down. “Evening,” she said, nodding at the group, all of whom had drinks in front of them already.

  “Happy Halloween!” chirped Allegra, and Margot felt the scowl begin to creep back. Samhain itself wasn’t for another three days, after all, and it should mean something quite different to the witches in her clan than it did all the civilians around them. It was a time for acknowledging the change of the seasons, and those who had gone before them, not for dressing up and looking for any excuse to attend a party.

  She managed a faint smile and sat down, then realized she probably should have gone to get a drink first. Not that she ever drank much at these things. Still, something told her this was one night where getting mildly intoxicated might not be such a bad idea. It wasn’t as if she had to worry about driving home.

  In the meantime, there were bottles of water sitting in the middle of the table, so she reached over and took one.

  “A good turnout tonight,” Allegra said, her voice pitched unnaturally loud to carry over the music. At the moment it was a recording; the band wouldn’t start playing for another fifteen minutes or so.

  Since that was the same thing Allegra said almost every year, Margot summoned another half-hearted smile and nodded, but didn’t bother to reply. Obviously used to this sort of behavior, Allegra gave a slight shrug and turned back to her husband, continuing the conversation they’d been holding as to whether having ten pumpkins was enough for Halloween, or whether they should go get some more.

  As if it matters, Margot thought. Yes, there were a score of McAllister children in Jerome young enough to care about trick-or-treating, but she thought they probably cared a good deal more about the type of candy the Moss household would be handing out rather than how many pumpkins decorated the front porch of their somewhat ramshackle Victorian house.

  She drank some water and gazed out at the crowd. The room already seemed filled to bursting, so fairly soon they would start turning people away at the door. Where those disappointed attendees would go, she had no idea. Possibly there were other Halloween parties down in Cottonwood. She’d never paid much attention to the existence of any alternatives, as of course she always had a place here.<
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  The band started up, roaring into a spirited rendition of “Monster Mash,” and Margot let out a sigh. Same music, different year. It wasn’t even that she disliked loud music, although she was sure most people who knew her would be surprised by that. No doubt she looked to them like the type who would have Mozart playing in the background all day. Little did they know that sometimes she’d close all the windows and shut the blinds, and blast the music she’d loved back in high school, Pearl Jam and Nirvana and Green Day, singing along as she dusted and watered her plants. What was that saying? “Dance like nobody’s watching”?

  No, it was just that it was always the same music at these things. Not in the same order, necessarily, but even when the band tried to mix things up, it all had a depressing sameness. Then again, how many Halloween-themed songs were there?

  As she watched, Adam McAllister led Mason Wilcox out onto the dance floor, he in a cowboy getup she thought he’d worn last year, too, she in a fanciful Indian maiden dress with her long dark hair in two braids. So much for cultural appropriation, although Margot supposed Mason had more claim to it than some, considering how many members of the Wilcox family had some amount of Navajo blood.

  Speak of the devil. Two tables over she saw Angela and Connor, her friend Sydney and Sydney’s fiancé, Anthony, and sitting opposite them, Angela’s father and his new — well, they weren’t married, and Margot didn’t know if they planned to be, but it seemed fairly clear that Andre Wilcox or Begonie or whatever he was calling himself these days and Marie Wilcox, his significant other, were pretty serious about each other. In fact, Andre was taking Marie’s hand and leading her out to the dance floor, and she was laughing, actually laughing. Margot had spent too much time wearing a less-than-pleasant expression on her face not to recognize that history in someone else’s features, but even so, Andre seemed enchanted by Marie.

  In fact, just about everywhere she looked, she saw people paired off — the other elders and their spouses, Adam and Mason, Connor solicitously bringing Angela a bottle of water, since she was so big now that trying to navigate the crowded room would have been even more of a chore than usual. Even sour-faced Marie wasn’t alone. Not that she looked particularly sour-faced at the moment.

  And then it all felt to be too much, and Margot set down her own bottle of water and stood.

  “Going somewhere?” Bryce inquired.

  “I just need some fresh air,” she replied, voice sounding strangled even to herself.

  She pushed through the ranks of people who weren’t dancing, heading out the front door with no place particular in mind, as long as she didn’t have to stay inside. Half a block up the street was the Cellar 433 wine-tasting room, and as they weren’t currently open, she guessed they wouldn’t mind if she sat on their front steps for a few minutes to clear her head.

  Immediately outside Spook Hall, the sidewalk was nearly as crowded as it was inside, but once she got past those clots of people smoking or just chatting, the area was clear. No point in any of them going where she was headed, with the business closed for the evening.

  The steps to Cellar 433 were low and wide, but a bench she’d forgotten about had been placed in front of one of the windows, so she took a seat there, then breathed in some of the cool night air, trying to compose herself. Really, she didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had plenty of time to get used to her solitary existence. Certainly it had never bothered her much before this.

  And she did not want to be one of those hateful people who begrudged others their happiness. Connor and Angela had certainly earned theirs, and Marie and Andre, too, if what Margot had heard was true. No, she was probably just tired. Tired of doing what everyone expected of her. Tired of thinking ahead and realizing that every year was going to be more or less like this one, right up to the day she died and someone else took her position as elder.

  If you came out here to try to cheer yourself up, you’re not exactly going about it the right way, she told herself. Try to get your wits together, for the Goddess’ sake!

  A flash of white approaching her took her by surprise, and she blinked. For the barest second, she thought maybe she was seeing one of Angela’s ghosts, then realized the white was simply a dinner jacket. The man wearing it stopped at the bottom of the steps and smiled up at her.

  “Hello, Margot,” said Lucas Wilcox.

  3

  The last thing Lucas had counted on was driving all the way down here to Jerome, only to be turned away at the door to the hall where the Halloween dance was being held.

  “Sorry, man,” said the kid at the door, who was wearing an old-fashioned black and white striped prison uniform. “We were sold out by eight-thirty. Better luck next year.”

  Luck. There was a joke. His much-vaunted luck hadn’t helped him out much in this situation.

  It passed briefly through his mind to try pulling a Damon, to rise to his full height and demand, “Do you know who I am?” But this was probably the last place in the world a trick like that would work, and so he’d only muttered, “It’s fine,” and then moved a few paces away from the building so he could gather his thoughts. Turning around and going straight back to Flagstaff seemed anticlimactic at best. Well, he’d passed a bar as he walked down here. Maybe he should go in and have one pity drink, then head home. He couldn’t think of what else to do with himself.

  As he climbed back up the hill, though, he saw the slightest movement in the shadows in front of a small building at the end of the street, right before the place where he’d turn to go up toward the bar and the spot where his car was parked. Something glittered there in the darkness, and as his eyes focused, he realized it was a woman wearing a regal-looking costume, a circlet studded with paste gems on her head. And then he looked closer, and realized it was Margot Emory.

  What she might be doing sitting out here, he couldn’t begin to guess, although if it was really that crowded inside, he could see why she’d want to make her escape to someplace a little quieter. He approached, and greeted her. She started, looking as if she’d seen a ghost — not that strange in Jerome, he supposed — then tried to cover up her reaction by giving him a sardonic smile.

  “You do turn up in the oddest places,” she said. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “I thought I was going to a dance,” he replied, jerking a thumb down the street in the direction of the hall. What did they call the building? Spook Hall.

  Crazy.

  “So they’re already turning people away? You should’ve gotten here earlier.”

  “Well, this is my first time at one of these things,” he replied, and wished he’d kept his mouth shut. The comment only seemed to point out that, up until recently, the Wilcoxes had been persona non grata in Jerome.

  She got up from where she’d been sitting, moving out where he could see her more clearly. Now he could tell that the gown she wore was dark crimson velvet, with a jeweled belt clasped around her slender waist. Her inky hair lay loose over her shoulders under the long white veil that covered her head, and she was positively breathtaking.

  Somehow he managed to find his breath, despite that. “Well, since I’m shut out, and it doesn’t look like you’re too interested in being there, why don’t we go up the street, and I’ll finally buy you that drink? It’s definitely not eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning.”

  Her mouth opened, and he tensed, waiting for the inevitable refusal. Her next words surprised him. “What on earth are you wearing? This is a Halloween party, not a wedding.”

  He straightened the white dinner jacket. “I couldn’t think of what to wear. I’ll admit this would’ve worked better if I could’ve gotten inside and ordered a martini.”

  “Shaken, not stirred?”

  “Exactly,” he said, relieved that she hadn’t yet shot him down, and shocked that she’d gotten the James Bond reference. For some reason, he’d gotten the impression that the witches of Cleopatra Hill tended to be a bit det
ached from popular culture.

  “Well,” she said, and hesitated. It almost looked as if she was debating with herself, attempting to decide what she should do next. Then she smiled at him, a smile with no irony or sarcasm in it. The expression brightened her face so much that he could only stare at her, wondering what on earth she was about to say.

  “Well,” she went on, and her voice sounded firmer this time, “if we go up to the Spirit Room, I’m pretty sure the bartender can get you that martini.”

  * * *

  Temporary insanity?

  Maybe.

  She sat with Lucas in one of the high booths at the back of the bar, a place where they were guaranteed a bit more privacy than if they’d taken one of the tables toward the front, and definitely more than if they’d sat at the bar itself. Thank the Goddess that the bartender on duty tonight was a civilian, and not one of her many McAllister cousins. Word would still get out that she’d been seen in here with a strange man, but at least it would take a little longer for the gossip to get through the family grapevine. What the bartender — or the few other civilians in here — thought of a medieval queen sitting down with a man who looked like a refugee from the set of Casablanca, she didn’t know. Then again, it was close to Halloween, and the dance was going on around the corner.

  Oh, who was she kidding? No one in Jerome would have batted an eye at what they were wearing, no matter what time of year it was.

  When he’d asked her what she wanted to drink, she hesitated. Considering the circumstances, it probably would’ve been wisest to order something very light, like a white wine spritzer. Never mind that that wasn’t the sort of drink people generally ordered at the Spirit Room.

  “Jack and Coke,” she’d said recklessly, and Lucas’ right eyebrow lifted so much that he really did look a bit like Sean Connery for a split second.