by Ani Gonzalez
But most of the articles were not related to the Caribbean religion. There was a Greek Aphrodite, a Celtic Bridgit, and others she didn't recognize. Although she was pretty sure that that scary thing behind the counter was a life-sized replica of Fenris the Wolf. She walked through the stores. A wall showed off a selection of faery pictures. Other shelves held esoteric books, including paranormal investigations guides, Western mysticism, Spiritualism, and a whole section devoted to Linda Goodman's Star Signs series. A poster announced Yoga classes at the Banshee Creek community center.
It was every...eclectic. Which, she supposed, was to be expected. This wasn't a neighborhood store serving local customers. It was a tourist store catering to supernatural aficionados. The diverse offensive should look jumbled and untidy, but they didn't. The walls were painted in a soothing green color and the polished wood floors and shelves gave the place the look of an established, if slightly eccentric, book store. The poster of Guan Yin, Chinese goddess of...something or other, she couldn't remember, looked perfectly at home next to the Norse rune display.
"You are here for the ad?" A cheerful voice asked. "I've been waiting for you."
She turned and came face to face with a tiny old lady with brown skin and curly gray hair. Her eyes twinkled behind bright pink glasses. She was wearing a plastic apron that said "Yolanda's Hair Salon." The apron, like the glasses, was a blinding shade of pink.
The beaded necklaces around her neck were pink and maroon. A tacky plastic skull hung from one of them. Oyá, warlike Mistress of the Dead, give us peace.
Cat tensed. In spite of Yolanda's unassuming appearance, she was painfully aware that she was standing in front of a powerful Santera. Oya, she knew, was no one to be trifled with. She ruled the cementeries and and a particular fondness for dead warriors. The best you could say about Oya was that she didn't like zombies. Unlike its rivals, Voodoo and Palo, Santeria did not approve of the undead. It was, in many ways, a very bourgeois religion concerned mainly with love spells, debt collation, and employment prospects.
And speaking of prospects. "Um, what ad are you talking about?"
The Santera pointed to a bright yellow piece of paper next to the Yoga class announcement. "Store clerk wanted. Good Benefits. Free manicures. Call Yolanda."
Yellow for Oshún, Cat thought. To act as an attractant. Although who needed magic when they had complimentary nail art?
"Oh, I'm not here for that," she corrected with a smile. She wasn't in Banshee Creek for a job, well, at least not a conventional kind of job. And her new assignment didn't include free manicures.
Unfortunately.
"Ah," the old lady replied, pushing her pink glasses up her nose. The dark eyes assessed Cat intently, as if reading her soul.
"Well, you should find what you came here for, then." She glanced up, pausing as if waiting for something to happen.
The seashell wind chime tinkled as the door opened. Bless us, Yemanya, bring us joy.
Yolanda's eyes twinkled. "Right about now."
***
The stupid wind chime jangled as he opened the door. Liam Hagen gritted his teeth and closed the door gently behind him, avoiding Yolanda's low-tech but highly efficient alarm system. He had an important meeting today, possibly the most important one of his life, and the last thing he wanted to do was negotiate a ghost cleansing with the local Santera.
But that was exactly what he was here for. His project at 24 Witchduck Drive was stalled because the workers claimed that something was messing with the tools. In Banshee Creek "something" could be anything, a ghost, a faery, a welder with a hangover.
Anything at all.
The easiest way to get the project back on track was to get Yolanda to do a cleansing. She'd bring some colored water and beads and nag his workers into using it to clean the site. Then she'd light up candles and things and chant for a while. The whole thing would look ridiculous.
But it would work. It always worked.
Well, almost always. It hadn't worked last year. He'd paid Yolanda a pile of money to clean up his most expensive property and she'd shown up with a pickup truck full of white rose petals, salt and scented water. They'd spent the entire night washing the house. First, they'd wiped salt water around every window and doorway, a task that had seemed endless at the time because the house was huge and it had many, many windows. Next, they'd lit candles in every room and washed the floors with a rose water mixture. Finally, they'd left Yolanda alone with her statues and spells to do whatever it was that she had to do.
It hadn't worked. That particular property was still unsellable. Well, that couldn't be helped. Hopefully, his upcoming meeting would go a long way toward fixing that problem.
Which was why he had to get 24 Witchduck taken care of, ASAP.
"I need a ghost cleansing, Yolanda," he said. "At the old Lotham place. The guys say there's something there messing things up. A poltergeist or something."
"Poltergeist?" Yolanda perked up. "That will cost you."
He didn't doubt it. The Santera's services were not cheap. They were, however, worth every penny. Keeping a work site running in Banshee Creek wasn't easy. He had to think of this as an investment.
Yolanda smiled. "I'll send you a bill. This will be expedited service, I presume." She walked over to the door and flipped the Closed sign around. "I'd better go find out what it is."
Why was she was closing up the shop? Oh, that's right. Her last assistant left a few weeks ago to join a vegan coven in Brooklyn and she hadn't found a replacement. That wasn't good. It would probably up the price.
Yolanda took off her apron. "I'll exit through the salon. You two stay here and...get acquainted. I think you have a lot to talk about."
That's when he first noticed the girl behind the jewelry stands.
She was tall, with dark eyes, tan skin, and curly black hair, just like the pictures the private detective had sent him. But the grainy, low-quality pics hadn't done her justice. She was dressed in monochromatic business clothes, but the morning sun came through the window and hit the unruly mass of curls turning it into a halo. Her eyes, he realized, weren't brown, but a deep golden color, similar to the pretty stone that hung around her neck. In her floaty, cream-colored blouse, she looked like one of Yolanda's goddess statues.
Which was oddly appropriate. She was, indeed, his salvation.
"Ms. Ramos?" he asked, stepping forward and extending his hand. "I'm Liam Hagen, the owner of the Hagen House."
Her grip was warm and strong. How odd, her hands were callused, as if she did manual work. He'd seen her profession listed as "Jewelry designer," but hadn't realized that she actually made her own stuff.
With her own hands. He liked that.
She licked her lips nervously, and he was suddenly painfully aware that she had a truly luscious mouth, very kissable.
He stopped that thought immediately. He wasn't here to kiss her, at least not...
This was more complicated than he'd thought.
"I sent the rest of the papers last night," she said. "I hope everything went through."
Ah, yes, the papers. She'd sent him a lot of those, including birth certificates, baptism records, immigration papers dating back to the eighteen hundreds, and property records. They had everything short of a DNA test.
This had to work.
"Yes, I was really impressed with the amount of records you had." Her family had moved several times, yet her records were better than his even though his folks had stayed in Banshee Creek.
She giggled. "My grandmother was really into genealogy. She was a regular at the local Knights of Columbus chapter and spent hours going through their archives. I think she got a kick from having Italian ancestry. She said it explained both her fondness for pizza and her killer meatballs."
"Well, her hobby turned out to be a good thing." He was certainly grateful for it as it had saved him a lot of work.
She laughed, a merry, tinkling sound, much like the sound of Yolanda's wind chime
. He liked her laughter. It made him feel good.
"That's easy for you to say," she replied. "You didn't spend your childhood in dingy church basements, looking through old papers."
True, but he'd definitely spent the last couple of months that way. That's how he'd tracked her down. He'd dug up some records, found some names and birthdates and then hired a private detective. It had been hard but he'd eventually found her. Now, hopefully, all that effort would pay off.
"Some of the stories were interesting," she went on and he suddenly realized that the chattiness was an attempt to cover up her nerves. It was, he had to admit, quite endearing.
"Particularly, the ones about the Santellis," she continued. "There were love affairs, and vendettas, and bloodshed. The New York branch of the family was very colorful and somewhat tragic."
And the Banshee Creek branch was not far behind, he thought bitterly. It was just a different type of tragedy.
One with consequences. And long-lived ones at that.
"I loved hearing those stories," she finished with a sigh. "They were so exciting."
An image popped into his head. A little girl with dark curly hair stuck in a dusty file room, dreaming up thrilling stories. It was hard to reconcile that vision with the businesslike creature standing before him.
For the first time he wondered why she was doing this. He'd assumed it was the money, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe it was more than that.
"Well," he replied. "I'm glad you like excitement. Banshee Creek can definitely deliver on that." He took a deep breath. "And speaking of excitement..."
He looked deep into her amber-flecked eyes. She was perfectly still, as if she were holding her breath.
"Shall we go get married now?"
***
Thanks for reading. A Very Witchy Wedding will be available in Spring 2016
Copyright and Disclaimer
Copyright © December 2015, Ani Gonzalez
Cover Art by Ani Gonzalez © December 2015
Edited by Rhonda Helms
Copy Edited by DJ Hendrickson
Produced in U.S.A.
Published by Ani Gonzalez
25883 N Park Ave
Suite 520608
Elkhart, Indiana 46514
http://www.AniGonzalez.com
My Ghostly Valentine is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any from or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.