Spellcasters (10 page)

Savannah sized Cortez up. “Good, ’cause if you want a sorcerer lawyer, you can do much better than this.”

“I’m sure you can,” Cortez said. “However, since I am the only one who’s here, perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“You can’t,” I said. “Now, if you’ve forgotten the way to the door—”

“Hold on,” Savannah said. “He’s pretty young, so he’s probably cheap. Maybe he’ll do until we can get someone better.”

“My services are extremely reasonable and will be agreed upon in advance,” Cortez said. “While it may seem at this point as if Nast doesn’t have a case—”

“Who’s Nast?” Savannah asked.

“He means Leah,” I said, shooting Cortez a “don’t argue” glare. “It’s O’Donnell, not Nast.”

“My mistake,” Cortez said without missing a beat. “As I was saying, Leah has not withdrawn her petition for custody and shows no signs of doing so. Therefore we must assume that she plans to pursue that endeavor. Thwarting her efforts must be our primary purpose. To that end, I have drawn up a list of steps.”

“The twelve-step program for un-demonizing my life?”

“No, there are only seven steps, but if you see the need for more, we can discuss making the additions.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who cares about lists?” Savannah said. “All we have to do is kill Leah.”

“I’m glad to see you’re taking such a keen interest in this, Savannah,” he said. “However, we must proceed in a logical, methodical manner, which, unfortunately, precludes running out and murdering anyone. Perhaps we should begin by going over the list I prepared for you. Step
one: Arrange to have your homework brought to the house by a teacher or student known to both you and Paige. Step two—”

“He’s kidding, right?” Savannah said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m not hiring you, Cortez.”

“I really do prefer Lucas.”

“And I’d prefer you found your way to my front door.
Now
. I don’t know you and I don’t trust you. You might very well be what you say you are. But how do I prove that? How do I know Sandford didn’t send you here? Hey, Paige’s lawyer quit, let’s send her one of ours, see if she notices.”

“I don’t work for Gabriel Sandford or anyone else.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, no sale. You’re a sorcerer. No matter how hard up you were for a job, I can’t believe you’d offer to work for a witch.”

“I have no quarrel with witches. The limitations of your powers are hereditary. I’m sure you endeavor to use them to their full potential.”

I stiffened. “Get out of my house or I will show you the limitations of my powers.”

“You need help. My help. Both as legal counsel and added protection for both you and Savannah. My spell-casting is not outstanding, but it is proficient enough.”

“As is mine. I don’t need your protection, sorcerer. If I need help, I can get it from my Coven.”

“Ah, yes. The Coven.”

Something in his voice, a nuance, an inflection snapped the last restraint on my temper.

“Get the hell out of my house, sorcerer.”

He gathered his papers. “I understand you’ve had a difficult day. While we must go over this list soon, it’s not necessary to do so immediately. My advice would be to rest. If you’ll allow me to listen to your telephone messages, I can return calls from the media, after which we can review this list—”

I grabbed the paper from his hands and ripped it in two.

“If that makes you feel better, by all means, go ahead,” he said. “I have copies. I’ll leave you a new one. Please add any concerns that may have escaped my—”

“I am not going through any list. You are not my lawyer. Want to know when I’d hire a sorcerer to represent me? Ten minutes after being hit by a transport and declared a vegetable. Until then, scram.”

“Scram?” His eyebrows rose an eighth of an inch.

“Leave. Go. Get lost. Beat it. Take your pick. Just take it with you.”

He nodded and returned to his writing.

“Listen,” I said. “Maybe I’m not making myself clear—”

“You are.” He finished his note, then put the papers into his satchel and laid a card on the table. “In the event that you reconsider—or experience an unfortunate collision with a large trucking conveyance—I can be reached at my cell number.”

I waited until he was gone, then cast fresh lock spells at all the doors and vowed never again to answer the bell. At least not for a few days.

After Cortez left, Savannah decided to watch TV, so I slipped downstairs for some spell-casting. After what happened last night I could hardly let my neighbors catch me sneaking into the woods to cast spells. The forest is my preferred location for spell practice. Not only does nature provide peace and solitude, but something about the very primordiality of it seems to provide an energy of its own. From the earliest times, shamans and spell-casters have trekked into the forest or the desert or the tundra to reconnect with their powers. We need to. I can’t explain it any better than that.

My mother taught me to spell-cast out-of-doors. Yet, as strongly as she believed in it, she was never able to impose that belief on the Coven. For several generations now the Coven has taught its children to practice indoors, preferably in a locked room with no windows. By forcing neophytes into locked rooms, it seems to me that they reinforce the idea that we are doing something wrong, something shameful.

That idea is also reinforced in neophytes by the way the Coven handles their first menses ceremony. First menses marks the passage into true witchhood, when a witch comes into her full powers. A witch’s abilities increase automatically, but she must also undergo a ceremony on the eighth day, which fully releases her powers. Skip the ceremony and you forever forfeit that extra power. The Coven’s stance on this was that if a mother wished her daughter to go through the ceremony, she had to find the ingredients, study the rituals, and perform them herself. Understandably, few did. My mother had performed it for me, though, and when the time came, I would do the same for Savannah.

I headed down to the basement. It’s a large, unfinished single room that stretches the length of the bungalow. The far corner, under Savannah’s bedroom, was the spot she’d staked out for her art studio. So far, I’d only thrown down an area rug for it, but eventually I planned to finish it into a separate room for her.

I won’t say I understand Savannah’s art. Her dark-themed paintings and cartoons tend toward the macabre. When her choice of theme began
to worry me last fall, I talked to Jeremy Danvers, the werewolf Pack Alpha, who’s the only artist I know. He looked at her work and told me not to worry about it. In that, I trust his judgment, and I appreciate the encouragement and help he’s been giving Savannah.

This past year has probably been a nightmare for Savannah, and she’s been so strong about it that sometimes that very strength worries me. Perhaps here, on canvases covered with angry splotches of crimson and black, she finds an outlet for her pain and, if so, then I must not interfere, however strong the temptation.

When I spell-cast in the basement, I do it in the laundry area, right near the bottom of the steps. So, I settled myself on the floor, then laid the grimoire before me and leafed through the yellowed pages. I had two such spellbooks, ancient and ripe with the stink of age, a smell that was somehow simultaneously repulsive and inviting. These did not contain Coven-sanctioned spells. Yet they were Coven property.

That might seem like the Coven was asking for trouble, having these books around where any rebellious young witch could get hold of them. But the Coven wasn’t worried about that. Why? Because, according to them, the spells didn’t work. And, I fear, after three years of tinkering with them, that they were mostly right.

Of the sixty-six spells contained in these tomes, I’d managed to successfully cast only four, including a fireball spell. Admittedly, with my fire phobia, I’d been nervous about the fireball spell, but that very fear made it all the more alluring, and made me all the more proud of myself when I’d mastered it. That bolstered my determination to learn the rest, convinced me that all I needed to do was find the right technique.

Yet, in the ensuing two years, only one other spell had showed any sign that it might work. Sometimes I wondered if the Coven was right, that these were false grimoires, passed down only as historical oddities. Still, I could not put the books aside. There was so much magic in here, magic of true power—elemental spells, conjuring spells, spells whose meaning I couldn’t even decipher. This was what witch magic should be, what I wanted it to be.

I worked on the wind spell Savannah had seen mentioned in my practice journal. That was the spell that had shown signs it might eventually work. It was actually a spell to “wind” a person. That is, to deprive someone of oxygen. A lethal spell, yes, but my experience in the compound last year had taught me that I needed at least one lethal spell in my repertoire,
a spell of last resort. Now, with Leah in town, I needed this spell more than ever, but the added determination didn’t help. I still couldn’t cast it.

After thirty minutes, I gave up. Knowing Savannah was alone upstairs, even if she was protected by security spells, played havoc with my concentration.

Savannah was watching television in the living room. I paused in the doorway, wondering what she could have found to watch on a Saturday afternoon. At first, I thought it was a soap opera. The woman filling the screen certainly looked like a soap opera actress—a sultry redhead in her late thirties who’d been outfitted in glasses and an upswept hairdo in a laughable attempt to make her look scholarly.

When the camera pulled back, I saw that she was walking through an audience with a mike clipped to her blouse, and revised my assessment. An infomercial. No one smiled that much unless they were selling something. From the way she was working the crowd, it almost looked like a religious revival. I caught a few sentences and realized she was selling a different kind of spiritual reassurance.

“I’m getting an older male,” the woman said. “Like a father figure, but not your father. An uncle, maybe a family friend.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “How can you watch this crap?”

“It’s not crap,” Savannah said. “This is Jaime Vegas. She’s the best.”

“It’s a con, Savannah. A trick.”

“No, it’s not. She can really talk to the dead. There’s this other guy who does it, but Jaime’s way better.”

A commercial came on. Savannah picked up the remote and fast-forwarded.

“You have it on tape?” I said.

“Sure. Jaime doesn’t have her own TV show. She says she prefers traveling around, meeting people, but
The Keni Bales Show
has her on every month and I tape it.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugged.

“Oh, hon,” I said, walking into the room. “It’s a con job, don’t you see that? Listen to her. She’s making guesses so fast that no one notices when she’s wrong. The questions are so open—did you hear that last one? She said she has a message from someone who had a brother die in the past few years. What’s the chance that nobody in the audience has recently lost a brother?”

“You don’t get it.”

“Only a necromancer can contact the afterworld, Savannah.”

“I bet
we
could do it if we tried.” She turned to look at me. “Haven’t you ever thought of it? Contacting your mother?”

“Necromancy doesn’t work like that. You can’t just dial up the dead.”

I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone. Lucas Cortez’s visit had one positive outcome, in that it reminded me about my Cabal questions, which reminded me that Robert hadn’t returned my call.

It wasn’t like Robert not to call back, so when I made the rounds again—phoning his house, phoning his office, checking my e-mail—and got no response, I began to worry. It was now nearly four, so I phoned Adam’s work again, though I doubted the campus bar would be open in the afternoon. Silly me. Of course it was.

When I spoke to one of the servers, I learned that Adam was away for the week. At some conference, she said. Which sparked a memory flash and a big, mental “duh!” I returned to my computer and checked my recent e-mail, finding one from two weeks ago in which Adam mentioned going with his parents to a conference on the role of glossolalia in the Charismatic movement. Not that Adam gave a damn about Charismatics or glossolalia (A.K.A. “speaking in tongues”), but the conference was being held in Maui, which had more than its share of attractions for a twenty-four-year-old guy. The dates of the conference: June 12 to 18. Today was June 16.

I thought about tracking them down in Maui. Neither Robert nor Adam carried a cell phone—Robert didn’t believe in them and Adam’s service had been disconnected after he’d failed to pay yet another whopping bill. To contact them, I’d need to phone the conference in Hawaii and leave a message. The more I thought about this, the more foolish I felt. Robert would be home in two days. I’d hate to sound like I was panicking. This wasn’t critical information, only background. It could wait.

Lucas Cortez’s visit had, in fact, prompted me to remember two things I needed to do. Besides contacting Robert, I needed to line up a lawyer. Though I hadn’t heard back from the police, and doubted I would, I really should have a lawyer’s name at hand, in case the need arose.

I called the Boston lawyer who handled my business legal matters. Though she did only commercial work, she should be able to provide me with the names of other lawyers who could handle either a custody or criminal case. Since it was Saturday, there was no one in the office,
so I left a detailed message, asking if she could call me Monday with a recommendation.

Then I headed to the kitchen, picked up a cookbook, and looked for something interesting to make for dinner. As I pored over the possibilities, Savannah walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured some milk. The cupboard creaked open. A bag rustled.

“No cookies this late,” I said. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes? I can’t wait—” She stopped. “Uh, Paige?”

“Hmmm?” I glanced up from my book to see her peering out the kitchen door, through to the living room window.