To Kill a Sorcerer (28 page)

She watched from the doorway. “Thank you.”

“Now for the room where it all happened.”

She turned and led the way back into the living room. I walked to the sliding doors, Aliena at my side.

“Is this the holly plant that saved you?” she asked, stroking the top of the bush.

“That’s the one.”

I eyed the dark deck warily through the glass, pressed the button. When the doors slid open, I darted outside, placed a bone on either side of the entrance, stepped back in, closed up.

“The charms are enough, Sebastian,” Aliena teased. “The doors don’t matter, not to a spirit.”

“I know. It’s cold tonight.”

“Oh.”

There were six juju guardian dolls left in the bag. One of the hideous talismans went above the lintel of the front door and another over the double doors leading to the patio. I placed bones on all the other windowsills, including the ones in the kitchen.

“That covers every portal in this house.”

“Then we’re safe from spirits for the night.”

“As long as we stay inside,” I said, walking to her.

She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. “As long as we’re safe from Kanga’s spirits, I think we can handle anything else.”

I pulled her close and kissed her long and hard, hoping she was right.

We built a huge fire with a combination of artificial logs from the store and dry tinder purchased locally, and now it blazed with heat and light, filling the room. Aliena stood in front of the flames, facing me, with her hands behind her back.

The patio doors were open, proving I trusted in Bey’s charms, and I stood near them now, chugging from a bottle of vodka.

“You said my clothes needed washing. How long would that take?”

“A little over an hour.”

“There’s enough time then.” She took off her jacket and tossed it over the back of the club chair. “I want to take a shower. Do you have the same soap in my bathroom as in yours?”

“No. Yours is a girl’s scent, more flowery than mine.”

“That will be nice.” She shucked off her boots, pulled her thick belt through the loops and tossed it on her jacket. She unsnapped her jeans, yanked the zipper down, wiggled her hips as she tugged, and slid them off, kicking them in front of her.

I took a swig as I drank in her long legs.

She tucked the amulet under her T-shirt, then pulled the shirt over her head, exposing her creamy white stomach and the sharp contrast between her waist and hips. She looked at me as she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. It slid off her shoulders and down her arms, and she let it fall on the pile. She slipped off her panties.

I have been alive for more than seven centuries, but I have never seen a body like Aliena’s. She’s a tall girl, but not thin, with heavy, upturned breasts and wide hips generously proportioned around a perfectly sculpted stomach. Her shoulders and arms are softly rounded and deceptively girly. Wide thighs extend from that wicked set of hips, giving way to dimpled knees and succulent calves. Long, beautiful fingers.

She tried to beguile me with her nudity, and she was doing a good job, but I wasn’t going to let her know that. It excited me that she was so casual about her nakedness, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It was, but she had not been born during a time when that was the common belief. That made her an exceptional personality.

She also knew the effect her body had on men.

“Don’t forget we have a drought in Southern California,” I said, deliberately looking her in the eyes to prove I could do it. “Don’t take too long in there. We need to conserve water.”

“Sebastian!” She put her hands on her hips and leaned on one leg, causing her breasts to sway with a heavy, hypnotic movement. “First you tell me no seals, and now no water!”

“My, I am a pain, aren’t I?”

“That is not the word I was going to use.”

“Take as long as you like in the shower.”

“I intend to,” she said, stepping over her clothes. I set my bottle of vodka on the table. I held out my arms as she approached, but she shook her head.

“Oh, no, Mr. Restrictions, I don’t
think
so.”

She blew me a kiss and sashayed past, her bulging, divinely shaped buttocks almost indecent in their raw sexuality as she cruised down the hallway and into her room. The spray of the shower began. I heard the glass door slide open and shut. The patter of the water grew softer as Aliena stepped under the stream, and I couldn’t help but picture the droplets coursing her gleaming body as she tilted her head back and ran wet hands through her golden mane.

I cursed in Thai, Burmese, Persian, and Swahili, my pent-up desire consuming me.

I gathered her clothes, walked to the garage, and popped them in the washer.

When I returned to the living room, I opened the “Hamilton III” file, added the attack of Kanga’s spirits, my visit to Bey’s place (I used an anonymous name for him), and the search Marcus, Aliena, and I had made of Kanga’s residence.

Aliena’s thick belt lay next to me on the couch. There was a picture etched into the buckle. A man atop a high-kicking bronco held on for dear life. Underneath that was the legend “Can you finish the ride?” That sounded like a challenge. I tossed the strap on top of her jacket.

The DVD recording Kanga had left for me was the last thing to save to my computer. Then I powered the machine down and shredded the disk.

I finished the bottle of vodka, took the empty into the kitchen, tossed it in the recycle can, and grabbed a bottle of orange juice. Tequila sounded good, but I knew if I wanted a good-night kiss, I’d better not have Cazadores Blanco on my tongue.

With that in mind, I stepped into the guest bathroom, washed my face and hands, and brushed my teeth.

The bell on the washer dinged. After putting her clothes and a fabric softener sheet in the dryer, I set the machine to the hottest setting. Watching her squirm back into her jeans after I had shrunk them as much as possible would be an entertaining show.

After I was back in front of the fireplace, poking the logs around to keep the flames high, Aliena emerged from the hallway. She wore a long white robe and thick white slippers, and she had a white towel around the top of her head.

She stood next to me, holding her hands out toward the fire. Her skin shone rosy from the heat, and she smelled of vanilla soap and minty shampoo. She pulled the towel off and began drying her hair, her head tilted to one side. At this angle, I noticed her features as if for the first time. Widely spaced brown eyes, huge and lustrous. Small nose. Full, pouty lips. The luscious mole. And that thick mane of golden honey hair.

“You smell as wonderful as you look,” I said.

“Did I really stink?”

“Of course not. You hardly smell like anything at all. I just wanted to see you strip.”

“Do I really look that good?”

“You know you do.”

“Then why didn’t you look at my body?” She straightened up, dropped her towel on the floor, and ran her hands through her hair one last time.

I pulled her over by her belt, untied it, and spread the robe open wide. She stood straight, her breasts thrust forward, the amulet dangling in the valley between them. I took a long look.

“The way you look at me excites me, now,” she said.

“Now? It didn’t before?”

“No.” She took my hands away and closed her robe again. “The first time, it reminded me of the way men looked at me when I was mortal and some of the disgusting things they said.”

“You are overwhelmingly feminine,” I told her. “You exude sexuality.”

“I have a brain, too.”

“A good one.”

“And I saw your face when I said we had nothing to worry about as long as Kanga’s spirits couldn’t get in here.”

A minute passed. Her mole distracted me. I looked back into her brown eyes. Her gaze was steady.

Never try to outstare a vampire.

The dryer beeped.

“Your clothes are ready,” I said.

I brought her stuff in, shaking out the jeans and the T-shirt and tossing them on the couch. The bra and panties I kept, pressing them to my lips.

She dropped the robe on the ground, took her underwear from me. I watched as she twisted and turned and pulled to get into her jeans—Venus performing a snake dance. She finally zipped them up. Fortunately, she didn’t need to breathe.

“You think he is already too powerful for us to defeat, even if Marcus helps?” Her voice was incredulous.

“I don’t know.”

She slid into her too-small T-shirt, threaded her belt through the loops on her pants. “What about the third murder? He hasn’t even completed that yet. And we still haven’t confirmed he has the Key of Akasha.” She stepped into her boots.

“He has it.”

“You do not know that.”

“I feel it. So does Marcus.”

“Well, I don’t. And until the third murder, he cannot have enough power to withstand an assault from all three of us at the same time. How could he stop us?”

“I don’t know.”

She picked up her jacket and handed it to me. She turned around, and I helped her on with it, taking the opportunity to kiss the nape of her neck. Leaning her head back so I could kiss her cheek, she said, “Do you really think he will kill again today?”

“Yes.”

She faced me. I could see she was uneasy. I took her hands in mine.

“Hamilton and I may be able to track him down by tonight. Either way, it’s Christmas Eve, so I want to be with you.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said.

I pulled her close and kissed her, and her body pressed against mine from knee to shoulder, the crackling of the wood logs and the smell of strawberry shampoo in her hair like sensory spices as we explored with tongues and lips. I wanted to stay like that for hours.

She pulled back and breathed in my ear, “I have to go.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to stay, but I said nothing. She knew. She would sleep here when she was ready.

We walked onto the patio, holding hands. The stars were beginning to fade on the eastern horizon.

“Be careful, my darling, and sleep well,” I told her, kissing her hands.

“Thank you.” She rose into the air. “See you tonight.”

Friday, December 24, 6:53 a.m.

I stood on the deck, watching the sky lighten over the Pacific. Friday morning traffic crawled along Pacific Coast Highway, the sun’s rays sparkling off windshields like the births of tiny new stars. Or the deaths of old ones.

So much to do today. Preston needed to find Kanga’s real hiding place by nightfall. Before then, I had to come up with a plan for attacking him when we knew where he was.

It would be necessary to stay close to Hamilton to protect him from any shenanigans Kanga might be planning with his spooks. Asking the detective to wear the onyx amulet was a waste of time. He would refuse on general principles.

The sun crested the hills, spilling its glow across the water as I finished my third cigarette.

Back in the house, the only sound I could hear was the popping of burning wood. The couch sighed as I lay down and arranged my arms over my chest.

Closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I slipped into a state of relaxation, drifting . . .

When my father and I arrived home the afternoon I drank mulled wine with Guthbert and promised the intoxicating Agnes I would return on Tuesday, my mother and sister were relieved to see us. Assured of our safety, they shooed us out of the house while they prepared dinner from the ingredients they had purchased at the fair.

“I will take that wine, Mr. Montero,” my mother said. “You look like you have had enough before dinner.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said, handing her the pitcher we had brought from the alehouse.

“Is that alcohol I smell on your breath, Sebastian?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well, that’s all right. You’re fifteen.” She turned back into the house. “You two can have some more later.”

“What about me?” James asked.

My mother and Marguerite answered together. “No!”

Half an hour later, James and I were playing noughts and crosses in the dirt. My father dozed under the cool canopy of our apple tree.

The smell of the fire-cooked meat wafted through the shutters. We were in the middle of a game when James rose and rushed to the door. He stood on the threshold, his hands clasped behind his back, and shouted inside. “Can I have a taste?”

“No!”

James fell back on his heels. He ambled to where I was and plopped opposite me. He smacked his stick on the ground. “I don’t see why I can’t have a taste,” he said. “I know Marguerite is eating while she helps.” He looked up at me. “Right?”

“Yes, she probably is.” I reached over and ruffled his hair. “I’ll let you have some of mine when no one’s looking, okay?”

“Like the last time?”

“Yes. That stinky Margie, she always gets extras.”

Another draft brought the scent of the cooking meat to us. It was a deliciously unique smell, but it clearly connected with a more urgent desire in my family than in me.

A few minutes later, my mother called us in to eat.

It was the most wonderful dinner we had as a family. The meat was tender, the gravy thick and spicy, the vegetables crisp and fresh. We finished with two sliced apples for dessert.

My father shared out the wine, giving James a small glass mixed with water. My mother had a big glass. Halfway through it, she turned giggly like a little girl, her face flushed. She and Marguerite sat next to each other, still in their best tunics. The fading daylight lent their faces a rosy cast, as if they were figures in a Da Vinci painting.

James and I surreptitiously switched bowls when no one was looking. When everyone had finished eating, we all pitched in to clear the table. My mother walked unsteadily, so we teased her.

“Oh, shush,” she said. She wound her arms around my father’s neck and kissed him on the lips. I knew what came next.

“Okay, you three,” he said. “Say your prayers and then it’s off to bed with you.”

They kissed us good night.

We left reluctantly for our side of the room. After prayers, we all lay down on the straw together, James in the middle as always.