Fire Touched (2 page)

Holy Avon, Batman,
I thought as worry relaxed into annoyance-tinged humor,
I've been attacked by a multilevel marketer.

Sounds from the upstairs quieted again, for just a moment, then Darryl rumbled something that was nicely calculated to be just barely too quiet for me to pick out. Adam laughed, and they went back to talking about interest rates. They had abandoned me to face my doom alone. The rats.

“I don't take vitamins,” I told her.

“You haven't tried
our
vitamins,” she continued, blithely unconcerned. “They've been clinically proven to—”

“They make my hair fall out,” I lied, but she wasn't listening to me.

As she chirruped on enthusiastically, I could hear Izzy's voice drifting down from Jesse's room. “Mercy is going to hate me forever. Mom's gone through all of her friends, all of her acquaintances, all of the people at her gym, and now she's going after my friends' parents.”

“Don't worry about Mercy,” said Jesse soothingly. “She can take care of herself.” Jesse's door closed. I knew that with the door shut, the kids were too human to hear anything that went on in the kitchen short of screams and gunfire. And I wasn't quite desperate enough yet for either of those sounds to be an issue.

“I know there are other vitamins out there,” Izzy's mother continued, “but of the twelve most common brands, only ours is certified by two independent laboratories as toxin- and allergen-free.”

If she hadn't been Jesse's best friend's mom, I'd have gently but firmly (or at least firmly) sent her on her way. But Jesse didn't have that many friends—the werewolf thing drove away some people, and the ones it didn't weren't always the kind of people she wanted as friends.

So I sat and listened and made “mmm” sounds occasionally as seemed appropriate. Eventually, we moved from vitamins to makeup. Despite rumors to the contrary, I do wear makeup. Mostly when my husband's ex-wife is going to be around.

“We also have a product that is very useful at covering up scars,” she told me, looking pointedly at the white scar that slid across my cheek.

I almost said, “What scar? Who has a scar?” But I restrained myself. She probably wouldn't get the
Young Frankenstein
reference anyway.

“I don't usually wear makeup,” I told her instead. I had an almost-irresistible need to add “my husband doesn't want me attracting other men” or “my husband says makeup is the work of the devil” but decided that any woman whose name I couldn't remember probably didn't know me well enough to tell when I was kidding.

“But, honey,” she said, “with your coloring, you would be stunning with the right makeup.” And, with that backhanded compliment, she was off and running, again.

Izzy's mom used “natural” and “herbal” to mean good. “Toxin” was bad. There was never any particular toxin named, but my house, my food, and, apparently, my makeup were full of toxins.

The world wasn't so clear-cut, I mused as she talked. There were a lot of natural and herbal things that were deadly. Uranium occurred naturally, for instance. White snake root was so toxic that it had killed people who drank the milk from cows who had eaten it. See? My history degree
was
useful, if only as a source of material to entertain myself with while listening to someone deliver a marketing speech.

Izzy's mother was earnest and believed everything she said, so I didn't argue with her. Why should I upset her view of the world and tell her that sodium and chloride were toxic but very useful when combined into salt? I was pretty sure she'd only point out how harmful salt was anyway.

She turned another page while I was occupied with coming up with more toxins that were useful—and I was distracted from my train of thought by the picture on the page. A mint leaf lay on an improbably black and shiny rock in the middle of a clear, running stream with lots of water drops in artistic places. It made me a little thirsty—and thirsty reminded me of drinking. And though I don't drink because of an incident in college, I sure could have used something alcoholic right then.

Come to think of it, alcohol was a toxin—and useful for all sorts of things.

“Oh, this is my favorite part,” she said, caressing the dramatic
photo, “essential oils.” The last two words were said in the same tone a dragon might use to say “Spanish doubloon.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a teal box about the size of a loaf of bread. In metallic embossed letters, “Intrasity” and “Living Essentials” chased each other around the box in lovely calligraphic script.

She opened the box and released the ghosts of a thousand odors. I sneezed, Joel sneezed. Izzy's mother said, “God bless you.”

I smiled. “Yes, He does. Thank you.”

“I don't know what I would do without my essential oils,” she told me. “I used to have terrible migraines. Now I just rub a little of our Gaia's Blessing on my wrists and temples and ‘poof,' no more pain.” She slid out an elegant, clear bottle that held some amber liquid and opened it, holding it toward my nose.

It wasn't that bad. I admit my eyes watered a little from the peppermint oil. Joel sneezed again and gave Izzy's mother the stink eye. From upstairs came a gagging noise and loud coughing. Ben wasn't here, and I didn't think Zack was the type. I'd have thought Adam and Darryl would both have been more mature. If I had any doubt that they were teasing me, it would have been dispelled by the way they were careful to be just quiet enough that Izzy's mother couldn't hear them.

Joel looked at me and let his tongue loll in an amused expression. He stretched, got up, and trotted up the stairs, doubtless so that he could join in the next round of fun. Deserter. I was left alone to face the enemy.

“Gaia's Blessing contains peppermint oil,” Izzy's mother said unnecessarily because that was the one making my eyes water, “lavender, rosemary, and eucalyptus, all natural oils, blended together.” She capped it. “We have remedies for a variety of ailments. My
husband was an athlete in college, and for twenty years, he's battled with jock itch.”

I blinked.

I tried to keep my face expressionless, despite the laughter from upstairs, as Izzy's mother continued, apparently unaware of the meaning of TMI. “We tried everything to control it.” She dug around and pulled out a few bottles before coming up with the one she wanted. “Here it is. A little dab of this every night for three days, and his jock itch was gone. It works for ringworm, psoriasis, and acne, too.”

I looked at the bottle as if that would keep inappropriate images from lingering. It helped that I had never met Izzy's father, but now I hoped I never did.

The bottle label read: “Healing Touch.” I wondered if Izzy's mother's husband knew that his jock itch was something that his wife brought up in her sales pitch with near strangers. Maybe he wouldn't care.

She opened that bottle, too. It wasn't as bad as the first one.

“Vitamin E,” she said. “Tea tree oil.”

“Lavender,” I said, and her smile wattage went up.

I bet she made a mint on her multilevel marketing. She was cute, perky, and very sincere.

She pulled out another bottle. “Most of our essential oils are just one oil—lavender, jasmine, lemon, orange. But I think that the combination oils are more useful. You can combine them on your own, of course, but our blends are carefully measured for the best effect. I use this one first thing every morning. It just makes you feel better; the smell releases endorphins and wipes the blues right away.”

“Good Vibrations,” I commented neutrally. I hadn't been
pulled back to the sixties or anything; that was what the label on the bottle read.

She nodded. “They don't advertise this, mind you, but my manager says that she thinks it does more than just elevate your mood. She told me she believes it actually makes your life go a little smoother. Helps good things to happen.” She smiled again, though I couldn't remember her not smiling. “She was wearing it when she won a thousand dollars on a lottery ticket.”

She set the bottle down and leaned forward earnestly. “I've heard—but it hasn't been confirmed—that the woman who started Intrasity”—she pronounced it “In-TRAY-sity”—“Tracy LaBella, is a witch. A white witch, of course, who is using her powers for good.
Our
good.” She giggled, which should have been odd in a woman of her age but instead was charming.

Her comment, though, disturbed me and made me pick up the bottle of Good Vibrations. I opened it and took a careful smell: rose, lavender, lemon, and mint. I didn't sense any magic, and mostly if magic is around, I can tell.

LaBella wasn't one of the witch family names, as far as I knew, but if “Tracy the Beautiful” was her real name, I'd have been surprised.

“Now, this little gem”—Izzy's mother pulled out yet another bottle—“this is one of my favorites, guaranteed to improve your love life or your money back. Does your husband ever have trouble keeping up?” She held up a finger, then curled it limply downward as her eyebrows arched up.

The silence from upstairs was suddenly deafening.

“Uhm. No,” I said. I tried to resist, I really did. If Darryl hadn't said, “Way to go, man—for a moment I was worried about you,”
I think I could have held out. But he did. And Adam laughed, which clinched it.

I sighed and picked an imaginary string off my pant leg. “Not
that
way. My husband is a werewolf, you know. So
really
not, if you know what I mean.”

She blinked avidly. “No. What do you mean?”

“Well,” I said, looking away from her as if I were embarrassed, and I half mumbled, “You know what they say about werewolves.”

She leaned closer. “No,” she whispered. “Tell me.”

I had heard the meeting-room door open, so I knew that the werewolves could hear every word we whispered.

I let out a huff of air and turned back to her. “You know, every night is just fine. I'm good with every morning, too. Three, four times a night? Well . . .” I let fall a husky laugh. “You've
seen
my husband, right?” Adam was gorgeous. “But some nights . . . I'm not on the right side of thirty anymore, you know? Sometimes I'm tired. I just get to sleep, and he's nudging me again.” I gave her what I hoped would come out as a shy, hopeful smile. “Do you have anything that might help with that?”

I don't know what I expected her to do. But it wasn't what happened.

She nodded decisively and pulled out an oversized vial with “Rest Well” written on the label. “My manager's father, God rest his soul, discovered the ‘little blue pill' last year. Her mother just about divorced him after forty years of marriage before she tried this.”

“God rest his soul” meant dead, right? I took the vial warily. Like the others, it didn't
feel
magical. I opened it and sniffed. Lavender again, but it was more complex than that. Orange, I thought, and something else. “What's in it?” I asked.

“St. John's wort, lavender, orange,” she said briskly. “This isn't quite chemical castration, but it will bring your life into balance,” she said, and she was off on her sales pitch as if the phrase “chemical castration” was a common concept—
and
something one might consider doing to one's husband.

And she looked like such a nice, normal person.

I sniffed the vial again. St. John's wort I knew mostly from a book I'd once borrowed about the fae. The herb could be used to protect yourself and your home against some kinds of fae when placed around windows, doors, and chimneys. If it protected against the fae, maybe I should see if we could get it somewhere and stockpile. Maybe we could grow it. Lucia had our flower beds looking better than they had in years, and she was talking about putting in an herb garden somewhere. St. John's wort was an herb.

Eventually, Izzy's mother finished her sales presentation and began the hard sell.

I have a strong will. I didn't join up to sell Intrasity products to all my friends. She could say it “wasn't a pyramid scheme” all she wanted, but that's what it was. When she offered a 10 percent discount for names and phone numbers of friends, I thought about giving her Elizaveta's name. But I wasn't all that keen on sending a perfectly nice woman to the scary witch. I also wasn't sure that the witch really counted as a friend.

I would let Elizaveta know that Tracy LaBella was styling herself a witch to sell her products and let the old Russian deal with it herself.

So I paid full price for one normal-sized and one oversized bottle of Rest Well, which was Izzy's mother's entire stock. I mostly bought it because it was funny, but also because I intended to see what kind of an effect the St. John's wort would have on a fae.

With Zee and Tad stuck on the reservation, I might need something to use against the fae.

I also bought a small vial of Good Vibrations. I hadn't intended to, but Izzy's mother gave me 5 percent off because she'd used it as a demo. I could give it to Elizaveta to make sure it wasn't really magical. It wouldn't hurt anything if I tried a little of it myself first.

It was when I bought some orange oil that I acknowledged that Izzy's mother had beaten me. But the orange oil smelled really good. Izzy's mother told me it was supposed to promote calmness—and it worked in cookies. I'd used orange extract in brownies before, but Izzy's mother said the oil worked better.

I saw her out and put my back against the door once I closed it. Adam cleared his throat. I looked up to see him halfway down the stairs. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded as he did his best to appear disgruntled. But there was a crinkle of a smile at the edge of his eyes.

“So,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm too much for you. You should have said something. We might be married, Mercy, but no still means no.”