Kindling the Moon (15 page)

He finished emptying the hematite and folded up the empty plastic bag before stuffing it inside a trash can. Correction, my trash can. He'd taken it hostage. “Don't just put that in there like that,” I complained. “The city won't take it away unless it's inside a garbage bag. Anything loose in there, they leave behind.”

“Well, then, can you please put that knife down and bring me a garbage bag?”

“Fine.” I pocketed the dagger and hiked through the yard.

“While you're at it,” he called out behind me, “you might want to change into something grubby. This shit is messy as hell.”

“I never volunteered to help.”

“Then I guess I'm going to have to charge you.”

“I didn't request your landscaping services—I'm not paying for something I didn't order.”

“Bring an old spoon too,” he added as I rounded the corner to unlock my door.

After changing clothes, I returned to find Lon using a dolly to tote a large white plastic bucket toward his wheelbarrow. When he lowered the dolly, with some effort, the contents of the bucket made a sloshing sound. I opened up one of the black garbage bags I'd brought with me and fished out the loose bags from the trash can.

“So, how did you charge this ward the first time you did it, and how long have you been practicing magick … and what else can you do?”

“You look cute with your hair up,” he said in response. “Jupe's right—Bride of Frankenstein.”

I couldn't tell if he was making fun of me or giving me a compliment. Either way, I resisted the urge to straighten my ponytail, which sat high on my head. “You're a strange man,” I muttered as I squatted down to pick up one of the shovels he'd brought. “How far away does your empathic ability work?”

“Why? You plannin' to whack me on the head with that shovel?”

“Don't give me any ideas.”

“Only a couple of feet away. Maybe five feet max, if the emotion is clear and strong. It's much easier for me to read a person if I'm touching them.”

“Note to self, always maintain a five-foot distance,” I said with a smile.

“Only if you have something to hide.”

“I don't.”

“You sure about that?” he asked with a suggestive smile that sent an unexpected ripple through my chest. Christ, could he sense that?

“
So
sure,” I answered, forcing away the unwanted feeling. “How does this ward work?”

He studied me for a moment longer, the corners of his mouth twitching once, then dropped his eyes. “It emits a strong suggestive vibration. Anything that comes within a couple of feet of it with the intent to do you harm will be dissuaded. Most will just give up and leave.”

“And if they don't?”

“If they cross the barrier completely, first you'll see that the ward's been breached. A network of blue lines will appear. Then a high-frequency sound will drop them to their knees. It's like a dog whistle—you won't hear it, but they will. If they persist, the sound will incapacitate them.”

“Hmm, sounds good. Now tell me how you charged a ward this big.”

He bent down over the white bucket and made repetitive digs around the lid with a small metal object to slowly pry the lid off. “I hooked myself up to a small electrical generator.”

“What? You shocked yourself with a generator? Are you joking?”

“Nope.”

“That's … insane. You could have been killed, you know?”

“Yep.”

“You can't pull electricity on your own?”

“Not well enough to kindle the amount of Heka I needed to charge the ward sufficiently.”

“I'm speechless.”

“I didn't bring a generator this time. After seeing how well you pulled from my car last night, I was kinda counting on you being able to kindle enough Heka by yourself.”

He finally got the lid of the bucket open far enough to leverage it off. I took a few steps closer, I peeked inside, smelling it before I saw it—pig's blood. It had already started coagulating.

I puffed up my cheeks and held my nose while backing away. “Good God almighty.”

“You've never worked with pig's blood?” Lon said.

“Not that much of it. I buy it by the pint!”

“It's not so bad when you get used to—” He turned his head to the side and winced. His eyes began watering. “Fuck, I forgot how bad this reeks in big batches.”

“Is it rotten?”

“No. I got it straight from the slaughterhouse this morning.”

“Are we going to need all of it?”

“Maybe. If you've got any circles you need to make with
the leftovers, feel free.” He coughed once, then backed up another step toward me.

I eyed it with greater interest. “Now that you mention it, I could use a couple of new imp portals. I burned up my last one at Mrs. Marsh's house the other night.”

“Come on. Let's finish this first before it gets too dark.” He held his hand out, requesting the shovel, then dipped a large metal can inside the bucket and began scooping blood into the wheelbarrow with the hematite powder.

“What do you want me to do?”

“See that jar over there?” He nudged his elbow at the grass behind me. “Be careful when you're opening it. Sprinkle two or three spoonfuls into the wheelbarrow. Don't get it on your skin or let it blow in your face. There are gloves and a surgical mask inside my truck if you want them.”

I cautiously picked up the large mason jar. The contents were black. “What's this?”

“Ashes.”

“What kind of ashes?”

“Don't ask.”

“You didn't kill someone, did you?”

“Not so far, no.”

I donned the gloves and mask and followed his instructions as he mixed up the nefarious concoction with the tip of the shovel. It churned together into a thick, dark paste.

“Tell me what you found out in San Francisco,” he asked while he worked.

I related the story of my visit to the Tamlins in great detail until he started shooting me impatient scowls; after that, I sped up my narration. I followed behind him while he began shoveling the dark red paste around the base of my house, making a foot-wide border.

“Do you have to put it right up next to my house?” I complained.

“I'm going to cover it up with pebbles. Would you rather have an unexplainable ring of pebbles a few feet away from your house, or right next to it?”

I sighed. “Go ahead.”

It seemed unfair to let him do all the labor, so I picked up the second shovel and offered to help. He instructed me to scoop up the nasty paste and sling it on the ground a few feet ahead of him; he followed and packed it down. As we worked, I continued my story until I got to the part about the glass talon.

He dug the shovel into the ground, leaned on it, and furrowed his brow. “No shit?”

“I know.” I pulled the surgical mask down to hang around my neck. “If they're right and not crazy, then the bad news is that the albino demons you already found—”

“Probably aren't the right ones.”

“That's
if
the Tamlins aren't insane,” I reminded him.

“I wonder if there's any way to find a photo of the glass knife anywhere, to see if it looks like it could've been a talon.”

“I've never seen a photo, but I was thinking about
Devil's Friends
on the way back from San Francisco.”

He bent his head to wipe his chin against his shoulder. “Huh?”

“Some cheap exploitation paperback written about the Black Lodge slayings. I only thumbed through it, but I remember a drawing of the glass knife. The writer said it was based on a police officer's description. The handle was round and the blade slightly curved. I remember thinking that it looked more like … never mind.”

Lon cocked a brow.

“Anyway,” I quickly said, “what I mean is that the Tamlins could be right about the talon. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to start looking for Æthyric demons with glass claws.”

“I found four more albinos today. None with glass body parts of any kind.” Something close to a smirk briefly crossed his mouth, then faded. “I don't know. Maybe you should hold off on summoning anything right now and let me refine my search for a day or two. If I can identify some with glass talons, you could start with those. What do you think?”

“Maybe you're right. I guess I still have time.” Honestly, the thought of summoning a host of unknown Æthyric demons for a lineup made me bone-weary. “Well, the good news is that it will be easier to identify, right?”

He pushed the half-empty wheelbarrow forward a few paces, then continued shoveling. “A hell of a lot easier to identify, but no easier to find. Still the same number of books to go through.”

I hadn't thought about that. “I guess you're right,” I said glumly as he patted down the section he was working on with the back of the shovel. I snapped my mask back over my mouth and returned to my work in silence.

We finished with the first batch, then he hauled two more bags of hematite from his truck and we started the process all over again. After three batches, we were halfway done. The sun was beginning to set, but we were both sweaty and aching, so we allowed ourselves a short break. We washed off our hands with the garden hose as best we could, then I went inside to get water. When I came back out, he was sitting in the backyard on an old rusted lawn chair lighting a valrivia cigarette. Shirtless.

In the last of the day's light, his skin was golden—in
contrast to my own complexion, which was either pasty or milky white, depending on your point of view. He was also lean and muscular. Not in an I-work-out-at-the-gym way, but more natural and honest. My eyes followed a thin line of honey-colored hair that bisected his torso from a small patch in the center of his chest down past his belly button. My clothes suddenly felt too tight.

I stopped in my tracks and pretended like I'd forgotten something, then turned back and rounded the corner of the house until he was out of sight. A few cleansing breaths gave me some control over my feelings. No way was I going to let him catch me mooning over him like some teenage girl.

The second time I approached him, I kept my head down and tossed him a bottle of water, then dragged another lawn chair over. Not too close. How far had he said his ability extended? I made a quick calculation and placed my chair several feet away.

“Do I smell that bad?” he asked before offering me a valrivia cigarette.

Dammit.

I leaned forward out of my chair to reach for it, then quickly sat back down, only to realize that I had no lighter. So I held out my hands, coaxing him to toss his over. Instead, he flicked the lighter and puckishly beckoned for me to come to him.

Double damn. I begrudgingly got out of my chair.

“Yeah, you kinda stink,” I said after my cigarette was lit.

“So do you,” he answered with a grin. Before I could make it back to my seat, he scooted down, stuck his leg out between mine, and hooked his foot around the leg of my chair, dragging it closer. Well within range of his ability. I plopped down in defeat.

“When's your servitor supposed to return?” he asked.

“I allowed it one day, so by tomorrow night, give or take. That kind of magick sometimes has problems adhering to strict schedules, so it could be a couple days.”

He nodded, then we smoked in silence for a long moment. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn't help it. Fine lines creased the outer corners of his eyes. As he ran a hand through his hair, stray strands of ash blond and platinum floated in the wind at the crown while deeper shades of caramel brown flittered over the tops his shoulders. My eyes stubbornly wandered down his bare skin. He had a thick, pale scar, several inches long, that ran diagonally across his lower left ribs.

“What did that?” I asked.

He looked down, tucking his chin against his chest, then slumped back in his chair, his legs lazily falling open. “My ex-wife, Yvonne.”

“Uh … wow. I thought she was a model, not a grizzly bear.”

His knee rocked sideways once, almost touching mine. He studied me through slitted eyes. A smile threatened to lift up one side of his mouth as he took a long drag off his cigarette. “You've been studying up on me, I see.”

“One of my waitresses lives in La Sirena. She thought I should be impressed that you were once married to a super-model.”

“Were you?”

“I'd never heard of her, so not really.” I did, however, look up images of her online. She was lovely, all right. Medium brown complexion, full lips. Her face was long and regal—a feature she'd passed along to Jupe—and the lower half of her was just as stunning. Though, petty or not, I
personally thought her hips were a little skinny. She was also flat-chested.

“From what I could tell, she seems quite attractive.” And in some of the photos, Yvonne bore the same green-gold halo that Lon had. I started to ask about this, but he spoke before I could.

“She is. She's also high-strung and gets off on danger. If she's not getting coked up and gambling, she's participating in orgies or wrecking her car.”

My mouth twisted as I remembered the image of my own car wrapped around a tree.

“Your wreck was different,” he acknowledged with a smile. He flicked ashes and ticked off a short list of complaints. “Yvonne hated La Sirena—hated the beaches up here. Too full of sea lions and driftwood instead of sexy sunbathers. Hated my job. Hated being a mother; said it slowed her down, and she had no patience for Jupe's energy and questions. In her defense, though, he was kind of a handful when he was a toddler.”

“I can only imagine.” I chuckled, pushing hair out of my face. “What does Jupe think about her?”

“When he was younger, he thought she was glamorous. She'd bring him expensive presents when she visited. A couple of years ago he started to see her for what she was. Now he just feels sorry for her.”