Garden of Darkness (16 page)

She had a point.

“You also seemed laid back. I thought you’d be able to shift gears pretty easily and not get bent out of shape if things didn’t go as planned. I was really wrong about that.”

I didn’t want to go back to Minneapolis, that was for sure.

Normally I would argue and tell her I was better than those other videographers. And it would probably be the truth in most cases. Maybe all cases. “Sorry. You’re right.” It was her project, not mine. I was working for her. If she wanted funny, I could do funny. I could be a stand-up comic if she wanted.

And I knew what she was talking about. I did do some funny stuff in the past, but I grew out of it, thank God. I did the light stuff because I didn’t want it to look like I was taking film too seriously. Nothing worse than some serious, black-turtlenecked asshole who made films. I never wanted to be one of those people. So I went the other way.
Ha-ha. Don’t get too serious about this. I’m only kidding. If you don’t like it, I won’t be hurt.

Art hurt.

That was the truth of it.

Nothing hurt so much as failing at your dream, which was why I’d given up before I could fail. Was there a psychological term for that? If not, I should make one up. Self sabotage? Fear-of-failure Syndrome?

We spotted Ian and Stewart at the same time. They were cutting across the parking lot, both clutching a paper bag.

Those two could smell a liquor store a mile away. Oh, and Ian appeared to have a huge crush on Claire. Poor guy.

“This is gonna be so cool!” Ian said. “I haven’t slept outside since that time I passed out in the front yard.” Pause for effect. “And I don’t think that counts.”

Stewart joined in the nonsense. “The
only
way to sleep outside is to get so drunk you pass out.”

“Hmmm. I’m wondering what that merit badge looks like.” I knew I was suddenly coming across as some sour old lady, but I couldn’t help it. Becoming a crazy old lady with twenty cats wasn’t a bad goal and had always been a secret although sarcastic dream of mine. But very often sarcasm is just a thin veil for the truth.

And yet I knew when they broke out the booze, I’d be first in line.

“Is this called making camp?” Ian asked.

“You’re talking about breaking camp.” Stewart opened another beer. Was that his fourth? Fifth? I’d lost count. I was on my fourth, but we’d started out with vodka. “You do that when you pack up and move on. Breaking camp.”

“What about ‘pitching a tent’?” Ian asked.

Both guys burst out laughing at that.
Ha-ha.
I knew I should be annoyed, but instead I found myself warming to them the way I always warmed to people once I got a few drinks in me.

And they’d impressed me with their wood-gathering skills and their ability to tend to the basics. With no knowledge of camping, they’d managed to get a fire going in the pit using several wadded-up newspapers and kindling.

We were in a designated camping area. We’d passed some vehicles on the way in, but they couldn’t be seen from our location because the terrain was hilly and woody and twisted, with little knolls and valleys and tight clusters of dark trees.

At the pay booth we’d been handed a flyer that explained about the dangers of coyotes. It also explained that none had been spotted in the area, and the campground was patrolled and considered safe.

I’m not a big fan of uniforms, but I liked the idea of rangers keeping an eye on the place. We were probably safer here than at the inn—what with pissing off half the people in Tuonela. I kind of liked the idea that nobody knew where we were staying.

The van doors were open, the CD player was on, the music cranked up. The human noise brought civilization to the woods; it made our little circle bigger, created a buffer behind our backs as we perched on logs arranged around the fire.

Claire was drunk too.

Just last night I swore I wouldn’t drink for at least a week. Now here I was again. And there was no denying it felt good. To hell with everything else. What difference did it make? I needed to quit freaking out about things.

“I’m cold.” Claire stood by the fire, hugging herself and bouncing.

“My coat’s right there.” I pointed. Like she’d wear my coat.

But she did. She put it on and checked the length of the sleeves. “I can’t believe I’ve been making fun of this. It’s so comfortable.” She modeled it for us in front of the fire. We laughed our asses off. The more we laughed, the more she did the hilarious and awkward model walk. The stop, the turn, the bored and blank expression. She sucked in her cheeks and the guys almost wet their pants they laughed so hard.

Ian and Stewart jumped to their feet and began to prance around. Ian suddenly seemed extremely feminine—and also curiously attractive. I laughed at my own thoughts.

I could tell Ian liked that he was entertaining us.

He paced again, and we laughed some more. I got out my camera and turned it on. I was laughing so hard I could hardly focus.

“Dude, that’s just too convincing!” Stewart was almost crying now.

Ian put his hands on his bent knees, then blew him a kiss. He crooked his finger at Claire.

Poor Ian. She was the rich socialite and he was the son of the poor gardener. Or something like that. People liked to pretend that kind of thing didn’t matter in the twenty-first century, but that was bullshit. There was just as much class-consciousness going on now as there had been a hundred years ago. People were just better at hiding it.

Ian shifted gears and pretended to be a vampire, pulling out an imaginary cape, then hiding the lower half of his face.

Claire was still laughing, and the sound of it must have been an invitation to Ian. He swooped down, grabbed her, swung her around, and dipped her.

My breath caught.

Oh, he was going to be in so much trouble. And he was going to be so embarrassed tomorrow.

I felt even sorrier for him.

For a moment I thought he would kiss her, but he came to his senses. Maybe it was the sudden death of laughter. The music also stopped, calling attention to the awkwardness of the moment.

Ian let her go and stepped back into the darkness. For his sake, I was glad we couldn’t see his face.

“I have to pee,” Claire announced. “Where’s a flashlight?”

Stewart produced one.

“I’ll come with you,” he volunteered.

There was a real restroom just over the knoll. I could even make out a faint glow from its light.

“Maybe we should all go,” I suggested.

“I can pee by myself,” Claire said.

She was mad at Ian, but also mad at herself for getting drunk and whooping it up with the help. Let her go by herself if she wanted to. I’d never been one of those girls who believed in peeing together.

I thought of the image I’d seen on my film that day . . . the day we’d arrived in town; then I abruptly pushed it from my mind.

Claire was already tromping off in the direction of the restroom.

“She’ll be okay,” Ian said. He got up and rummaged around in the van until he found another CD. He popped it in the player, and suddenly the night was once again filled with music.

Chapter Twenty-two

They were a little tipsy.

Last year Gabriella had joined a wine club before she realized she didn’t even like wine. By the time she canceled her membership, she’d accumulated quite a few bottles of the nasty crap.

They’d dumped their guide off at his truck, then went back to Gabriella’s place, where they’d opened a bottle.

“Here it is!” Gabriella waved the piece of paper in the air and wended her way through the piles of clutter in her living room. The lamps were turned down, candles were lit, and Shirley and Millie were sitting on pillows in front of the coffee table, the empty bottle of wine between them. At first the idea of continuing with their plan of a reanimation spell had given Gabriella a mild sense of unease, but now that they were safely home she could rationalize what had happened.What
had
happened?

Nothing.

Evan Stroud had found them digging on his property and he’d chased them off. Pretty straightforward. She felt kind of silly about her reaction now. Participating in the reanimation spell might be a good way to redeem herself in the eyes of her fellow witches. And the wine didn’t hurt.

“He was extremely good-looking.” Shirley was staring at an antique photo of Richard Manchester. She’d been staring at it for ten minutes. “I mean, he was
gorgeous.
”

Gabriella dropped the bag of graveyard dirt on the table and lowered herself to her pillow, legs crossed as much as they could be crossed for someone of her age and physical shape. “It makes it easier to understand how so many people followed him and did what he said, especially women.”

“And a few men, I’ll bet.” Gabriella tried to take the photo, but Shirley wasn’t finished with it. Gabriella shot her a look of annoyance. “A charismatic leader.”

She’d found the photo on eBay. It hadn’t been cheap either.

“His eyes kind of follow you.” Shirley moved the heavy card left and right, let out a shudder, then passed the photo to Gabriella.

Yes, he was a beautiful, beautiful man, with pale, perfect skin and a sensuous mouth. Dark brows above pale eyes that had probably been a brilliant blue.

He stood posed with both hands on the hilt of a long sword, the tip resting on the ground near his feet. He wore a frock coat made of wool. It had a row of buttons down the front, with matching buttons on the sleeves, a bit of white cuff showing. Around his neck was a scarf with an embroidered crest.

It was hard to equate the mummy in the museum to this man. The mummy, while interesting, didn’t seem to generate anything. It was just a shriveled crust of skin that had once held a man’s soul.

“I would have followed him,” Gabriella admitted.

She found herself fantasizing about his touch. Long, tapered fingers moved down her spine, pulling her close. . . .

She closed her eyes, and for a second she could have sworn she felt a soft flutter on her lips and even a little tingle—down there.

Millie reached for the green wine bottle and tipped it upside down over her glass, shaking out a few last drops. “Do you have the rest of the stuff?”

“And I have more wine. A lot more wine.”

They opened another bottle and filled all three glasses—almost to the top, even though Gabriella had been told that wasn’t the thing to do. She picked up the curled photo of the Pale Immortal and gave it a kiss. “I hate to see this go.” The other two women mumbled their agreement. Gabriella placed the photo in the bottom of the bowl.

“Here’s what Matthew gave me.”

Her nephew was the night janitor at the Tuonela Museum. He’d been able to get them everything they needed.

Gabriella opened the lid of a metal cigarette tin. “Hair of the Pale Immortal.” She placed the long, dark strands in a special spell bowl. “Button from his coat.” She added that.

“Look!” Millie pointed to the photo. “It matches the buttons in the picture!”

Shirley nodded. “The real deal. No phony vampire buttons for us.”

“Skin.” Gabriella dropped the dried flakes with the rest of the items. “Matthew says the mummy sheds. He has to clean inside the case all the time.” She dumped and tapped the rest of the contents into the bowl. Then she unzipped the plastic bag. “Goofer dust.” About two spoonfuls.

She mixed it with the straight end of a crochet hook.

“Blood is the final ingredient,” Millie said.

Gabriella was tempted to pretend with some of the red wine, but Shirley was already digging around in her purse and came up with three finger lancets. “Aren’t you glad you have a diabetic in the bunch?” She passed out the lancets.

All three women pricked their fingers and squeezed blood into the bowl; then Gabriella stirred the contents once again.

“The powder,” Shirley reminded her.

Many spells required a catalyst that was really no more than incense powder. Gabriella sprinkled the black powder over the top.

“Do you have the words? Who has the words?”

They’d gotten the words from a book of spells they’d found online, ordered from a place in Europe. A village with an exotic name that Gabriella had never heard before and couldn’t remember. The spell was in another language. Someone thought perhaps it was ancient Finnish, but no one knew for sure.

“How do we know if we’re even saying it right?” Millie asked.

“We don’t.”

It was short.

Gabriella sounded it out as best she could, ignoring the accent marks. The other women repeated the sounds. They were ready. Gabriella struck a match and tossed it into the bowl. The contents sparked and flashed, then began to slowly smolder. The women joined hands and spoke the words of the spell.

A good spell was based on repetition. They repeated the words, speaking in unison.

The incense powder couldn’t cover the stench of burning hair and the melting shell button that had probably come from a clam found on the bottom of the Tuonela River. The ancient pressed-photo paper caught with a sudden flare that jumped from the bowl, then settled into a steady flame. The photo burned completely until the only thing left was a small pile of black ashes. The women released hands and blinked into the semidarkness.

“Well?” Shirley asked.

“I thought I felt something,” Millie said. “But it might just be because I’m drunk.”

They laughed.

“I wish we knew what we just said.”

“Did you try Babel Fish? Enter it in Babel Fish and see what it says.”

Gabriella grabbed her laptop, found the site, and typed the phrase into the box. “Finnish?” she asked.

“Try it.”

“Nothing.”

“How about an ancient language?”

She closed the Babel Fish page and did a search. “Here’s something called Nostratic. Some believe it’s the root language to many language families.”

“Ooh, try that one.”

There was a translation box. She entered the text and it gave her an answer.

“ ‘He who dies will live again. He who lives will die again.’ “