Dirty Magic (4 page)

He grimaced and sat back in his chair. “If it makes you feel better, she didn’t seem scandalized that you’re related to half the coven members in the Cauldron.”

I let out a relieved breath.

“But,” he continued, “I also told her you’re a pain in the ass.”

I tilted my head but didn’t take the bait. “I doubt that scandalized her, either.”

“True enough.” Eldritch chuckled, but then he blew out a deep breath. “You want my advice?”

I didn’t but nodded anyway.

“Go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

T
inny music and rapid beeping greeted me the next morning when I stumbled into the kitchen. The morning news droned from the small countertop TV near the fridge. Danny didn’t look up from his battle against zombies or mutant ninjas or whatever foe the kids were killing these days. A snack cake hung from his lips and an open soda on the table revealed his idea of a nutritious breakfast.

“We’re out of milk,” he murmured around the mouthful of refined sugar.

“Good morning to you, too, Sunshine.” Opening the fridge, I removed the carton of milk I’d grabbed on my way home from the precinct the night before. My hand slammed it on the table next to his soda, and my hip shoved his dirty gym shoes to the floor. “And how many times have I told you shoes don’t belong on the table?”

He looked up then. “Hey! What happened to your eye?”

I cringed. After sleeping like the undead, I’d totally forgotten about the shiner. I chuckled and shrugged it off. “It’s nothing.”

“Right,” he snorted. “If I came home with a black eye like that you’d call out the National Guard.”

I paused because he was right. A lot of my overprotectiveness was a hangover from the violence I’d seen as a kid, but Danny’s fears for me were justified given that my job required me to wear weaponry. He deserved some sort of explanation.

“No biggie. Got it from a perp who didn’t want to be arrested.”

He eyed me suspiciously and I was suddenly thankful the long sleeves of my ratty, green chenille robe hid the bandage. “Well, did you get to use the salt-cannon on him?” Danny was always fascinated by the salt charms I used in the line of duty.

“I did,” I said, leaving out the bullet I’d also used. I rummaged in the fridge for breakfast but came up uninspired. Eyeing the box of snack cakes, I decided they weren’t so bad. Cake had eggs and milk, right? Plus they went really well with coffee.

Luckily, the perky news anchor’s voice covered the damning crinkle of cellophane.

“Last night Mayor Owens hosted a fund-raiser for his reelection campaign.” The TV flashed a shot of the mayor’s five-hundred-watt politician smile and polished suit. His eyes were too bright and his skin had the too-smooth texture that could be achieved only through expensive, clean magic elixirs. “Babylon real estate developer and major contributor to the mayor’s campaign, John Volos was also in attendance at the event.” The image jump-cut to one of the mayor glad-handing a disgustingly handsome man in a tux that cost more than most people made in a month.

I tried not to choke on the suddenly dry mouthful of cake.

Unlike Mayor Owens’s elector-granted influence and potion-bought looks, the charisma and power radiating from John Volos existed on a chromosomal level. Even when we’d been kids, he’d been a force of nature.

The screen switched to tape of Volos smoldering into the camera, a perky redhead on his arm. “I’m proud to put my support behind Mayor Owens. He’s done so much to encourage the redevelopment of the Cauldron, which is an issue close to my heart.”

“What heart?” I snorted.

“Huh?” Danny murmured.

“Nothing.”

He looked up and saw the TV screen. “Hey! It’s John.”

I slapped the off button with more power than I’d intended. The TV jumped and the screen went black.

“Jeez, what crawled up your butt today?”

“Finish your breakfast.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled the earphones down. I glared at the screen for a few seconds behind Danny’s back, but a honk from the curb outside tore me away from my foul mood.

I nudged Danny. “Move it, kid.”

He grimaced and looked up like I’d just interrupted him performing important surgery.

“Pen’s out front,” I added.

Penelope Griffin was my best friend. When we’d met we’d both been waitresses at a crappy chain restaurant while we worked our ways through college. I’d been earning my night-school degree in criminal justice while she worked toward her master’s in school counseling. Now she was a counselor at Meadowlake, the exclusive prep school Danny attended. Without her recommendation to the school board, I never would have gotten him away from Babylon’s public prison-yard schools. Luckily, Pen also had worked a favor from the finance office for a small discount on the astronomical tuition.

Danny nodded and jumped out of his chair. While I went to the back door and waved at Pen, he scrambled to shove his books into his knapsack.

“What’s up with the eye?” she called, leaning across the passenger seat.

“Long story.”

“I’ll come over tonight for a beer and you can fill me in, okay?”

I nodded just as Danny brushed by me. “Have a good day!” I called in my best impersonation of June Cleaver.

This earned me a grunt. After Danny was in the car with his face buried in the game again, Pen pulled away.

I was turning to go back inside when a “Yoo-hoo” caught my attention. Glancing toward the house next door, I saw Baba limping across her front yard. Her long, gray hair flowed around her angular face and all the way down to her rear end, which was covered in the world’s ugliest housecoat. Her last name was Nowiki, but her real first name was kind of a neighborhood mystery since she insisted we all call her “Baba.” Depending on whom you asked, the Polish word meant either “grandmother” or “witch.” I’d never seen any kids running around her house, but I had seen Baba dancing around her backyard under a full moon. Naked.

Witches are members of the Mundane pagan religions who use the rituals of magic to worship deities. Their magic could be strong—especially in groups—but not nearly as powerful or useful as the magic used by well-trained Adepts, who are able to harness energies that Mundanes can’t access. It’s kind of how a housewife uses ingredients in her kitchen to create a decent meal. The same items in the hands of a trained chef become culinary art.

I crossed the yard to meet Baba halfway.

“What the hell have you done to yourself? Look at ya!” she said by way of greeting. “Is that a black eye? And what’s with the bandage?” She reached for the edge of my sleeve to see more, but I shied away.

“Just had a little run-in with a reluctant criminal.” I shrugged. “No biggie.”

She crossed her arms over her flat chest. “Did ya throw the book at the bastard?”

I bit my lip to hide the smile. “Something like that.”

Cops shows were Baba’s favorite things in the world. That’s why it was always so easy to convince her to babysit Danny when I had the late shift. Her meager retirement income meant luxuries like cable television weren’t an option. So she hung out at my place most nights watching TV cops strut around saying things like, “This time it’s personal,” and “I’ll have your badge for that!”

“Thanks for keeping an eye on Danny last night until I got home.” When I’d arrived the night before, she had been snoring on the couch. I’d gently woken her up and helped her home, but we hadn’t talked much since she was only half-awake. “Happy to.” She waved a gnarled hand. “The crime channel was having a marathon of
Blue Devils
anyway.”

Blue Devils
was her favorite show. It was about a ragtag team of vice cops who alternately killed and fucked their way through every investigation while narrowly dodging Internal Affairs. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’d watched a late-night episode or twelve and it was pretty good in a totally inaccurate and trashy way.

“Still,” I said, “I appreciate it.”

“Look, Kate, I am happy to help out and all—you know that.” She lowered her beer and squinted at me. “Hanging out with the kid is nice and I enjoying being able to watch my stories.”

I nodded, bracing myself for the
but
.

“But don’t you think it’s about time you let Danny stay here alone?”

My stomach clenched. “No.”

“Kate,” she began in a patient tone, “he’s old enough not to need a sitter. He’s what? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen on Thursday,” I corrected.

“Old enough not to need an old biddy like me hanging around. Hell, if something happened he’d be taking care of me!”

That was a lie and we both knew it. Baba might be old, but she could be meaner than a polecat when crossed. I’d seen her wield that cane at everyone from the mailman for running over her petunias to a Jehovah’s Witness who tried to save her soul. “Regardless, I feel better knowing he’s not alone here at night.”

She pursed her lips, which made the wrinkles around her mouth accordion like an air filter. Baba’s second favorite thing in the world was smoking, and the habit had left its marks on her face and in her raspy voice. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But don’t be surprised if he comes to you saying the same thing.”

I sighed. “Did he say something to you?”

She shook her head. “He’s too polite to, you know that. But I can see it in his eyes every time I show up.”

“Annoyance?”

“Disappointment. Like he’s waiting for you to trust him.”

Well, if that wasn’t a sucker punch. I knew Baba meant well, but after the night I’d had this was the last discussion I wanted to have. “I’ll think about it,” I lied.

“All right,” she said softly. The woman hadn’t lived to the ripe age of seventy-two without picking up a thing or two about dealing with people. She knew I was lying, but she also knew pressing me about it wouldn’t convince me to see her side. “Anyways, I brought ya something.” She dug a gnarled, arthritic hand into the large pocket of her housecoat. From it she lifted a glass jar—the kind used to pickle vegetables—and shook it. The liquid inside was disconcertingly red, like fruit punch, and kind of oozed inside the glass instead of sloshing.

“What is it?”

“It’s that tea I was telling you about.”

I shook my head. Baba talked about a lot of stuff and I found sometimes it was best to zone out a little. “Which one?”

She sighed. “Remember? The other day you complained that you hadn’t had a date since that horrible one with the mortician.”

I nodded. Barry Finkleman had been nice-enough-looking, but his idea of a fun time was taking a girl to the funeral trade show to check out the latest in embalming equipment. Not exactly the recipe for romance. “What about it?”

“I said you were attracting the wrong kind of men because you had lost touch with your feminine side.”

That brought me up short. If Baba had ever said that to me, I would have remembered it. “Baba, are you sure we had this conversation, or did you just make that snarky comment to yourself?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She waved an impatient hand as if I’d mentioned an insignificant detail. “Anyway, when I was a young girl, my mama made me this special tea on my wedding night. I think I’d told you that Mr. Nowiki was a little light in his loafers?”

Mr. Nowiki was Baba’s deceased husband, whom she loved more than cop shows and smoking combined. I spoke carefully to make sure I understood her correctly. “Baba, are you saying Mr. Nowiki was gay?”

She reared back. “Bite your tongue, girl!”

“But you just said—” At her horrified look, I raised a conciliatory hand. “Forgive me, I misunderstood.”

She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Mr. Nowiki was very shy when we got married. When we started dating it took him two months just to hold my hand. I swear I tried to rip the man’s pants off more than once, but he said we had to wait until our wedding night.”

The image of Baba trying to seduce Mr. Nowiki made my skin break out in hives, so I decided to hurry her along. “Where does the tea come in to all this?”

“Oh, so I told my mama I was worried my loving husband might be too nervous to do the deed. She said sometimes men are intimidated by strong women so they need a little help.” Baba lifted the mason jar. “So she made up a batch of this tea for me to drink before the ceremony.”

I decided not to mention that the stuff didn’t look like any tea I’d ever seen. Instead it looked more like red slime. “Did it work?” I asked instead.

“Did it ever!” She threw back her head and laughed. “Right after the ceremony, he threw up my skirts and took me in the rectory!”

“Um.” I blinked at her. Cleared my throat. “What’s in it?”

“A little rosemary, coriander, rose petals, some cinnamon for spice.” She waggled her snow-white brows at me. “The rest is a family secret, but I brewed it with water collected from a full-moon rain shower for extra potency.” She held the jar up to the light as if she could see her past inside it. “Mama called it her ‘Love Brew,’ but I prefer to call it ‘Sexy Juice.’”

“Baba—”

“Hmm?”

She was always trying to press this stuff on me. She came from a long line of kitchen witches who brewed home remedies from things in their gardens and passed their folksy wisdom down through the generations. I’d tried a million times to explain to her that I didn’t use any sort of magic—folk or otherwise. She always blustered and explained that her teas and tinctures weren’t the same as “the devil’s handiwork” I chased down in the Cauldron.