Romancing The Dead (17 page)

“You said you thought that the ‘Higher Power’ wanted us to try to find Sebastian together,” I said. Rolling up sub detritus in the paper that I’d used as a makeshift plate, I stuck it in the plastic baggie. “I’d be up for that.”

Micah nodded. Putting down his book, he seemed to be waiting for me to say more.

“So are you busy?”

He laughed. “You mean now? Boy, you don’t waste any time, do you?”

“I guess not,” I said. “So are you? We could go to my place . . .”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“A Jeep Cherokee?” I asked when he led me to the spot where he’d parked. “Not seriously. Aren’t you offended or something?”

He shrugged. “Do you think there’s a bunch of naval officers pissed off that there’s a Jeep named the Commander?”

“Ha-ha, but they’re not . . .”

“And I’m not Cherokee,” he said over the red hood. It sounded like one of Micah’s quips, but I thought I detected a slight edge. He’d parked underground and I couldn’t read his expression in the stark, fluorescent light. “Get in.”

For the second time in so many hours, I slid into the seat of a stranger ’s car. Broken in but well kept, the seats and floors were clear of major clutter. There were a few library books—fiction, mystery or thrillers from the looks of them—stowed in the back and a paper bag half full of Coke bottles and other typical car garbage.

Wisconsin Public Radio came on when the car’s engine sprang to life. He glanced at me almost apologetically as he switched it off. He probably expected me to say something snarky about his choice in stations, but my horizons had expanded a lot since dating a vampire who loved country and western. I could hardly point fingers. Besides, NPR was comfort radio to me. My hippie folks tuned in every Saturday for
A Prairie Home Companion
for as long as I could remember. Micah powered down the window on my side a little bit, as a way of indicating that natural air flow was the driver ’s preference. There was something inviolable about the prerogative of the owner of the vehicle and the use of AC. One didn’t question it, at least not the first time you rode—maybe after you had dated several months. For instance, Sebastian and I could argue about it—well, we
could
if any of his cars were new enough to come standard with a cooling system. Not that I minded the fresh air. I’d gotten used to it with Sebastian to the point of preferring breeze, no matter how warm, over the ultra chill. Besides, this way there was less shock going from car to building. Even though he’d been parked underground, the Jeep still smelled of overheated leather. I found the control and dropped the window another inch or so—just enough to catch a breeze. Because I knew we’d be taking the highway, I resisted opening the window all the way and hanging an arm out. Like a dog, I loved the feel of the wind on my skin, and, if it were socially acceptable, I’d ride with my face blasted with sun and speed.

“You’re not Cherokee,” I said, even though I knew it might be a sore subject. “What are you?”

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, as he backed us out of the parking space. “I’ll tell you what, Garnet. You tell me your flavor, and I’ll tell you mine.”

I was probably supposed to buy a clue that he didn’t want race on the table, but I forged on cheerfully. “Scots-Irish, English, German, and Latvian.”

“Latvian?”

I nodded. “My grandmother Apsitis.”

“Me too,” he said. “That is, I’m lots of things. But the answer you’re looking for is Ojibwe.”

Being a transplant to this area, I had no idea if there were Ojibwe in Wisconsin. However, I did know there were a lot where I was from. “Are you from Minnesota?”

“Yeah, you?”

For the next ten minutes, Micah and I bonded over Norwegian bachelors, “Minnesota Nice,” butt-freezing winters, lakes “up north,” and how much we both loathed the movie
Fargo.

“Yeah.” He laughed. “Except, one time when I was trying to make the point that most people in Minnesota don’t talk like that, this guy comes into the café and we have this conversation. ‘Hot enough for you?’ he asks. ‘Yah,’ I go, ‘At least it keeps the mosquitoes down.’ ”

I laughed so hard I nearly peed. I’d had conversations just like that. “It’s embarrassing isn’t it? I once overheard my grandfather, who was standing around watching my dad put up a fence, say, ‘Other guys might have measured that twice.’ ”

“ ‘Other guys might have.’ ” Micah snorted. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard that one a lot too.”

We pulled up to my apartment. My front gardens— really a wide tangle of purple-blossomed oregano, foxgloves, and yellow snapdragons—looked a little droopy in the afternoon heat.

“Your place is certainly, uh, bright in the day, ” Micah said, miming shielding his eyes from the horrendous Day-Glo hot pink my landlord had painted the exterior in a misguided attempt to be historically accurate. I grimaced. I’d actually tried to plant flowers I thought would help soften the color scheme, thus all the soft indigos of violets and Johnny jump-ups and bluebells of the creeping bellflower. It didn’t help. “It’s better inside, I promise.”

Micah followed me up the stairs, making admiring noises at the woodwork and leaded glass. His hand traced reverently along the plaster, as though acknowledging the hardships of a noble, worn sanctuary.

As I dug my key from my purse, I heard Barney yowling. She sounded like the time she ’d been cornered by a neighborhood cat that had slunk up the back stairs into the apartment. “Barney? You okay?”

I cautiously opened the door a crack, not wanting to startle her. I was greeted by more deep-throated warning growls and a hissing spit.

“You’ve got an attack cat?” Micah asked, amused, from above my shoulder.

“Not usually,” I said, still trying to catch sight of what was going on inside. “It sounds like there’s something inside she doesn’t like.”

“Maybe it’s me,” Micah guessed.

As if in answer, Barney let out another territorial yell— not unlike the “I don’t want to go to the vet, you can’t make me” screaming I hear annually.

It occurred to me that Micah could be right. Barney didn’t like magic and, given that the last time I peeked at Micah’s aura I nearly fell over, Barney might be pitching a fit over that much raw power waltzing over the threshold. I closed the door. “Let’s do this in the backyard.”

Micah stiffened. “You take orders from a
cat
?”

Ah. That could be the other part of Barney’s literal hissy fit. Micah spent part of his time as a dog —or at least a doglike being. Barney did not like canines of any sort. Magical dogs—well, she’d just see that as insult on injury. More to the point, besides the fact that Barney rightly considered the house half hers, she
was
my familiar. As such, she acted as guardian. If she put up this much fuss to keep Micah out, maybe she had a reason. Given my trust/not trust in him, I was apt to agree. “In this case,” I said, “I do.”

He shook his head at me as if he couldn’t quite believe the absurdity of it all. “It’s your call.”

After tucking my purse inside of my apartment, I shut the door without locking it and guided Micah back down the stairs, through the communal hall to the back door. A cedar privacy fence surrounded my backyard. I had a clay chiminea on cinder blocks in one corner, a little too close to the house and the wood to satisfy the fire marshal. But my landlord liked it, so we both pretended we used it “for cooking,” which was the exception that would make its placement fall into legal parameters. He also gave me free rein when it came to gardening, being especially thrilled that Sebastian was a “Master Gardener” and a parttime horticultural instructor at UW. The pride of our efforts this season was the herb garden along the far wall. Tufts of sweetgrass and mounds of curly parsley formed the edges of the garden. Tall, stiff stalks of white betony poked up among pink, puffball onion chive flowers. Dark-leaved chocolate mint aggressively crowded the delicate red, tubular blossoms of the peach pineapple sage. The air smelled of French thyme and basil.

“Oh,” Micah said, after taking it all in with a deep breath. “This is lovely.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Though we had no trees in the yard proper, much of the lawn was shaded by the neighbor’s oak, whose thick branches stretched high over the fence, nearly touching the spire of the tower. Even on hot days, the backyard stayed relatively cool. When it was really scorching, I commandeered the kiddy pool that the downstairs tenants had bought and mostly forgotten about. Currently, it was stashed under their kitchen window, filled with brackish water, leaves, and dead and/or drowning bugs.

“Where shall we . . .” Micah started, and then looking down at his feet, he added, “Never mind, I see. Here is good.”

We stood in the center of a natural circle. Early in spring, Sebastian and I had dug a nine -foot diameter ring and filled it with creeping thyme, which had stayed mostly invisible until the white, star-shaped flowers began to bloom. Now the image stood out starkly from the blue-green of the grass.

“Cool, isn’t it?” I couldn’t resist a little brag, but not wanting to force flattery from Micah, I quickly continued. “I haven’t gotten a chance to really use it yet.”

Something about that made Micah’s perpetual smirk deepen. I could see the hint of dimples. “Virgin, eh?”

I rolled my eyes at him, but I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of using this circle first with someone other than Sebastian. I reminded myself that we were planning on casting a spell to help find him, and if any place was invested with Sebastian ’s energy it was the garden he’d planted with me.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” I said.

“Au naturel too, I like that,” Micah said as though we were talking about sex instead of a magical ritual. “No fancy tools or special outfits. I like that kind of rough-and-ready witchcraft.”

“You would,” I said with a smile, despite the sense I had that encouraging him was a bad idea.

“So let’s get down to it, girl,” he said, holding out both hands for me to grasp. I took them and felt a hard shock, like static. Between our feet, a small eddy of wind like a dust devil swirled. Startled, I glanced up into Micah’s eyes, and saw the obsidian glint of Coyote looking back at me.

“Bring up the Goddess,” he demanded in a sinister, yet soft, almost loving, command. “Let me see Her.”

I hesitated. There was too much power here. The grass stood on end under my shoes, shivering in the preternatural breeze.

“For Sebastian,” he reminded me. “You want to find him, don’t you?”

I did. Even if Micah had only offered to assist me because he wanted to see Lilith in action, it didn ’t negate the fact that adding his strength to Hers was an expedient solution. If Sebastian was in trouble somewhere, this would help. Closing my eyes, I woke the dragon.

It began as it always did, like a sudden jolt of heat between my legs. Myth would have it that Lilith was a seductress, a succubus, that entranced men in their sleep, and I could believe it. Her rising within me bordered on arousal. Micah seemed aware of the changes inside me. He purred appreciatively, and his grin grew impossibly more magnetic and tempting. I could feel my body reacting under his gaze.

Lilith surged along my nerve endings. My muscles trembled with fiery awakening. Micah stepped closer, so that our bodies touched. He was hard and hot, and my knees began to tremble with a desire to merge with him sexually and magically. I tipped my head back, and my lips parted without my volition. He leaned down. I could feel his breath tickle my skin. I started to push away, but an unseen force held me firm, willing me to submit. The more Lilith rose, the less control I could exert. I felt my arms weakly push against him, even as the rest of my body began to yield. When his lips touched mine such intense fire reared up I thought I might orgasm on the spot. His tongue darted inside me, first tentative, then hard, almost violent, violating.

Wind roared in my ears for a split second before I surrendered my consciousness.
I dreamed of running. Wolves surrounded me. Jaws snapped and teeth glistened yellow in moonlight. Spruce trees, erect
and dense, blocked the starlight. The pack closed in. Terrified, I sprinted. Feet pounded on uneven ground. Leaping over a
fallen log, I fell onto four feet, running faster now. The night brightened, and the air tasted crisp and clean. Those who had
pursued became companions, running closely alongside,encouraging me to greater speeds, to test limits, dance on the
edge
—
play. Something that had been held back released with a crash of thunder.
Rushing faster than ever before, the world blurred. The forestturned into a green smear, objects barely discernible, except
one that caught in the corner of my eye
—
a saint, tied to a tree, pierced with arrows.

“Sebastian!”

Rain poured down in sheets from an eerily green-yellow sky. I blinked the water from my eyes. Soaked to the bone, I shivered and looked around for Micah. I stood alone in the circle. My flowers were battered to the ground by drops of rain so heavy and fast that mud splattered. The tops of the trees bent in the wind. A pop of lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder so near it rattled the fence.

Then, I heard a wailing sound so low that it took my brain a few moments to distinguish the noise from the spray of rain and rush of wind. Then, it came through clearly: sirens.

Tornado sirens.

I bolted for the back door, slipping in the slick, oversaturated grass. Water flooded in as I swung the screen open. The wind ripped the handle from my grasp and banged the aluminum frame against the house. I scrabbled for it, wrestling it closed. As I secured the lock and shut the heavier wooden door in front of it, the sky outside blackened ominously. I flicked the light switch several times before I realized the power was out. I took two hesitant steps into the darkness. Thunder rattled the house again, and this time I thought I could hear a thin, plaintive meow. Oh, great Goddess—Barney!

I galloped up the steps, my clothes pressing heavily against my skin. My shoes soaked the hardwood. The wind screeched around the gables. My ears popped.