Hex Appeal (7 page)

“I've been to Milan and I don't remember any boutique selling shoes that are alive.” Krebs remained at a safe distance. “Those aren't shoes! They're living, breathing crocodiles!”

“This kind of boutique doesn't cater to mortal trade and yes, they are crocodiles and shoes all in one. All the clothing and accessories sold there are magickal. You can pick up some incredible bargains there when they have their annual sale.” She picked up the shoes and set them on the floor. She barely had her half boots off before the stilettos were on her feet. Their color had switched from gray to cocoa. She had to admit they fitted her like a glove—a glove that automatically changed color to coordinate with her dark brown jeans. She noticed even their makeup changed to go with the sepia-toned shade.

“Is that where the slippers came from?”

Jazz shook her head. “They came from somewhere else a lot darker and nastier. A place you don't even want to contemplate.” She looked down, turning her feet this way and that to admire the stilettos that kept blowing kisses at her.

“Big surprise there.” He also stared at the shoes. “They're awfully girly, aren't they? Not girly in shoe style, but in the way they act. Uh, Jazz?” He looked a little green around the gills. “Can you make them stop doing that?” That being the stilettos making their way closer to him and rubbing up against his legs.

“Okay, you slut shoes. Back in the box before Krebs runs screaming out of the room. Something tells me I'll have to put powerful wards around my makeup or you'll be in it.” She slipped off the shoes and placed them in the box, ignoring their soft sounds of sorrow as they continued to gaze at Krebs with adoring eyes. Once off her feet they instantly returned to their original gray shade.

“Just as long as they don't try to eat my stuff.” Krebs returned to his boxes. He barely masked the shudder that passed over his body.

“I'll do what I can to protect your virtue.” Jazz didn't miss the lovesick expressions the shoes displayed toward her roommate. She made a mental note to sneak some wards around Krebs too. She doubted he'd appreciate waking up some night to find a pair of lovesick stilettos snuggled up next to him.

“It looks like you need some help carrying up your loot.” Krebs headed straight for the box holding her scented spa goodies and left her to carry up the shoebox. “Although who knows where you'll put all this.” He released a loud groan as he hefted the heavy box in his arms.

“All over my luscious body,” she sang out, following him up the stairs.

“Okay, not an image I need because it will revisit me when Nick's around and he'll know what I'm thinking and probably try to eat me.”

“Nah, he'll just settle for a nibble,” she teased amid giggles from her new shoes. She hoped the shoes would back off on some of the girly stuff. She was positive the slippers would
not
be happy to meet her new footwear.

***

Fog rolled all around her, obscuring her view to where she could barely see her hands in front of her face.

She could think of only two cities that had fog this thick—San Francisco and London. So which was it? Even more important, when?

She didn't hear the sound of motorcars, but she could hear the faint clip-clop of horses walking across cobblestones.

It wasn't until she looked down that she noticed the Victorian-style evening gown she wore and knew she wasn't in her present century or even the last one. Gold silk with a low neckline that almost revealed her nipples, tiny sleeves and white gloves that reached up past her elbows. A jeweled bracelet winked at her wrist. The cold damp air seemed to make a path all the way through to her bones. She lifted her hand and found her hair pinned up in loose curls.

The stench of rotting garbage and offal caused her eyes to water. She pressed the back of her hand against her nose and inhaled the scent of lavender.
But I don't like lavender,
drifted through her mind before she returned to more pressing matters. She grimaced as her shoe stepped in something damp and slippery. She fought for her balance and managed to remain on her feet. For once, she didn't mind that she couldn't see clearly, because she dreaded to think what might be around her.

She stumbled along, looking for a hint of light, anything to show her she was going in the right direction where she might find assistance. She had no idea why she felt the need for protection, but the sense of self-preservation was strong within her. Along with the sense that she was being followed by something evil.

A sob traveled up her throat as she tripped and fell against a rough-surfaced wall that tore at her gown and her skin. She could feel blood dripping down her arm and the burn from bad scrapes.

Whatever was following her was growing closer. She could feel it! And she had no way to protect herself. She gathered up her skirts and quickened her pace, still taking care where she stepped not knowing what lay before her.

She moved swiftly along the lane, searching for the faintest hint of light that meant a street was there and hopefully a constable nearby. Except something black and forbidding swooped down around her and pulled her back into the inky fog with its sinister tendrils.

She opened her mouth to scream for help even as she feared no one would hear her. The heavy fog damped the sound, trapping her in a cocoon of terror. She knew even if her cries for help were heard, few would bother to intervene until after it was too late. Then they would converge on her body so that they could scavenge for whatever might be left.

Panic tasted sour in her throat as she whipped her body from side to side in a vain attempt to escape whatever trapped her against the damp stones of the building.

She whimpered. She felt like a small animal stalked by the larger predator who enjoyed playing with its prey. The reek of death was all around her.

All she could see was a larger-than-life figure of blackness with red glowing eyes and white fangs ready to attack

“Please, sir, no,” she begged, hearing the accent of British upper crust in her speech. “Please, sir, I beg of you.”

She had no chance to react as the pain streaked white-hot across her throat. A splash of red blinded her and then, she knew no more.

***

“No!” Jazz shot up in bed. She looked wildly from right to left, but the darkness prevented her from seeing the monster who'd visited her sleep and was probably standing in front of her. Fear laced her voice as she cried out, “Lights full!” She squinted as the lamps flared to life, the glare strong enough to chase away any shadows lingering in the corners. But they couldn't chase away the terror that left her body cold and shaking.

She was alone.

She pushed damp hair away from her face and scooted back against her pillows, her knees drawn up to her chin. She couldn't hold back the whimpers that escaped her throat and the panic that chilled her blood. The sweat that coated her skin felt like ice and her throat hurt as if someone had gripped it tightly. She was terrified to look in a mirror for fear she'd see bruises there.

She was positive what she experienced was too real to be a nightmare.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her chin on them. It took her a few moments to register the soft crooning sounds beside her. She looked down to find Croc and Delilah on each side of her pushing their noses against her hip. From across the room she saw the area around the cage glow and Fluff and Puff pressing their faces against the bars.

“It's all right,” she assured everyone as she picked the stilettos up and hugged them to her chest. They nuzzled her under her chin and cooed comforting sounds. “It's all right,” she repeated, looking at the slippers who didn't look very reassured. The words echoed inside her head even as she thought of the enchanted broom resting under the bed and knew if the magick infused in the broom didn't stop the bad dreams, things weren't as good as she pretended they were.

Judging from the soothing clicks and whistles Fluff and Puff uttered back, they felt the same.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” Krebs winced as Jazz entered his work area. “Sorry, that didn't sound too complimentary, did it? But you really don't look good. Are you sick?” He immediately gazed at his computer equipment for fear they'd start flying around the room as had happened in the past when Jazz was ill.

As Jazz had already looked in the mirror before venturing downstairs, she had a pretty good idea what Krebs saw and it wasn't a pretty sight. Since she'd barely slept after her nightmare she felt as worn and drawn as she looked. She'd even been too tired to bother with a glamour spell. The faded mint-green plaid cotton pants and solid green tank top she wore wasn't something she'd wear in public. After the night she had she didn't intend to leave the house in hopes of curling up for a nice peaceful nap later that day. Say, in an hour or so.

She headed for the coffeemaker Krebs kept nearby and poured a cup for herself.

“I didn't sleep very well.” She winced at the understatement as she inhaled the rich aroma of Jamaican Blue Mountain before swallowing the hot liquid as fast as her throat would allow. She had a sad feeling caffeine wouldn't help her today. Memories of the nightmare still persisted in her brain. Strong enough that she'd taken the shortest shower in history because the shower scene from
Psycho
kept replaying in her mind. She knew if the shower door had opened she would have released the scream of the century.

Krebs saved his work and turned in his chair. He smiled his thanks as Jazz topped off his coffee mug.

“You haven't been sleeping too good for a while,” he ventured. “Is there a chance that something witchy is going on?”

Jazz shrugged. “Maybe, but I don't know why.” After refilling her mug, she moved over to an empty chair and flopped down like a rag doll with her legs stretched out in front of her. She stared at her bare feet, feeling a sense of loss. The amethyst studded broom on her ankle bracelet winked back at her. She really missed her slippers, but they'd have to stay in the magickal cage until she could find out what really happened at the boardwalk.

Krebs followed the direction of her gaze. “You know, I really miss those little monsters.”

She smiled. “I do too, but I have no choice but to keep them locked up until I can prove their innocence.”

“Do you think you can do it?”

Jazz frowned in thought. None of her usual self-confidence was visible. “I'm going to do my best. It's not easy when they're not popular over there.” She rubbed her forehead. The headache she'd woken up with hadn't gone away and she feared it wasn't going to go easily.

Once she'd gotten up she'd pulled the broom out from under her bed and cleansed it and her charms. She hadn't sensed anything in her rooms that could have caused the terror that woke her. But that didn't mean they hadn't sensed something.

“How have you been sleeping?” she asked.

“You know me. When I'm busy with a project I don't sleep too much.” He turned back to his computer but didn't bring up anything on the flat-panel monitor that dominated the worktable. A soft beep and low hum announced an incoming fax just before pages spit out into the tray.

Jazz settled back in her chair, her elbow braced on the chair arm as she absently nibbled on a nail. She felt she knew her roommate better than most. And right now, she was positive usually wide-open Krebs was hiding something.

“All work and no sleep make Krebsie a cranky boy.”

“It's more no sleep without the right reason that makes Krebsie a cranky boy.” He grinned at her. “Not to mention waking up to find those shoes of yours in bed with me under the covers.” His cheeks turned a bright red.

She snorted a laugh. “It could be worse. And you know what to do to take care of what makes you cranky.” She waved a hand. “What happened to Miss Twit...uh, Laurette.” She rolled her eyes.

“And
that
is why there is no more Laurette!” He pointed at her. “You called her a twit, you said she didn't have a brain, and worse.”

Jazz felt a niggling sense of guilt since she knew he truly liked the airhead brunette even if she wasn't all that fond of someone who giggled non-stop. And here she thought that trait belonged to blondes. She shifted uneasily in her chair. “But I never said it to her face. I'm sorry if what I said about her caused you to break up with her. But think about it, Krebs. The woman thought that Voltaire was a French fashion designer and was convinced there's calories in water if you add ice to it.” She held up her hands in an “I've made my point” gesture.

“Coming from someone who probably personally knew Voltaire.”

Jazz ignored Krebs's twenty-millionth attempt to find out her true age. She was determined to have a few secrets, thank you very much!

“You deserve better.” She softened her tone. “You deserve someone with brains, who has the intelligence to converse with you on all levels, is kind, and generous and...”

“And is drop-dead gorgeous,” he added. “So I'm shallow? I'm a guy. It's allowed.”

“The right woman for you is out there,” Jazz said confidently. “Hey, if I didn't think of you as a wonderfully goofy brother I'd do you.”

“Gee, such an offer.” He brought up a computer file. His fingers flew over the keyboard. “Do me a favor and get out of here. I've got work to do.”

Jazz pushed herself out of her chair and scuffed her way across the floor to the worktable. She ruffled his hair in the affectionate way of a sibling and dropped a kiss on top of his head.

“I mean it. Out,” he said without any heat. His voice held more exasperation that she wasn't allowing him to work.

She carried her mug downstairs and headed for the kitchen in search of food. Normally, she loved the old-fashioned look of the ground floor with its antique furniture and stained glass windows. Today, she felt as if there was an unfriendly specter standing in the shadows observing her. After last night's nightmare it was easy to give in to the urge to probe those shadows. Jazz was brave, but she wasn't stupid. And right now, she considered all shadows her enemy.

As she scrambled herself a couple of eggs and warmed up a lemon-cream muffin in the microwave, she wished she had Fluff and Puff for company.

“Jazz! Get up here now!”

The panic in Krebs's voice had Jazz out of her chair and racing up the stairs to the second floor.

“What? What?” She looked around, fearing the worst.

“What are
they
doing in here?” He stared at the floor as if a venomous snake faced him.

Jazz followed the direction of his gaze and found the stilettos huddled by his feet. If she wasn't mistaken, Delilah was running her face all over Jazz's roomie's bare toes.

“Ick.” She winced at his glare. “I set up wards to keep them out of here. I really did.”

He shifted his feet, almost lifting them off the floor. “Get them out of here.
Please!
”

“What did I tell you?” She faced the shoes that didn't have one ounce of remorse on their faces. “No cuddling up to Krebs. You head back to the room, right now.” She stamped one foot for emphasis.

Croc and Delilah lowered their lashes, sighed deeply, and left the room as slowly as possible, pausing every now and then to turn around and gaze lovingly at Krebs.

“The slippers are a pain in the ass, but I can handle them a hell of a lot better,” Krebs muttered.

“At least Croc and Delilah won't expect expensive dinners,” Jazz joked.

“Just please make sure they can't ambush me again.”

“Let me get a few things.” She headed upstairs to her rooms and picked up what she needed to strengthen the wards around Krebs's work and sleeping area. She didn't tell him that she had a hunch the sexy stilettos could get through anything to get what they wanted: Krebs.

After she finished she nuked another lemon cream muffin and refilled her coffee cup. The idea of going upstairs and dressing seemed like a chore beyond her capability.

She stared at the phone silently ordering it not to ring for her. She wasn't about to jinx herself now. She needed today to herself for some meditation, maybe a nice long nap and do some reading in her spell books to see if there was anything that would help her figure out why she was having these nightmares. For now, she was content to eat her muffin and infuse her body with more caffeine. By the time she finished eating, she felt better and the world around her even seemed a bit brighter.

“I know you're in there!”

Jazz dry-scrubbed her head, tangling her fingers in her hair as she buried her face in her arms on the table.

“I could have gone all day without hearing that voice,” she muttered into her arms. “Even better, all year.”

“Would it hurt you to come out here and check on me?” The voice grew even more strident.

Jazz took her time rinsing off her dishes and setting them in the dishwasher before she ventured outside. She paused on the edge of the yard, watching the dog snuffling along the edge of the fence. “Don't antagonize the neighbor's cat again,” she warned. “And no digging holes, eating the flowers, or using the gazing ball for a toy.” She recalled the last time she came out and discovered the dog had managed to bump the rainbow colored gazing ball off the man in the moon pedestal and was rolling it around the yard. She was only grateful that the neighbors on either side hadn't seen it. The dog offered her a goofy canine grin and returned to prowling the yard.

She lifted her face to feel the late morning sun on her skin. Since it was Saturday she could hear the faint tinny sounds of the carousel's calliope playing at the boardwalk and screams of children and adults on the roller coaster that partially rode over the ocean. The idea of walking over there for her favorite junk food and a ride on the roller coaster flirted in her mind. Even if she hadn't planned on leaving the house that day, thoughts of escaping still tempted her. She felt restless. She needed to find out what was going on, to bring out the bad dreams and whatever might be going on inside her head.

“Hello!”

“Oh, for Fates' sake,” Jazz muttered, picking up her pace. She hit the keypad on the carriage house's exterior to activate the old-fashioned doors that slid open. “What are you yelling about now?” she asked, stepping into the dim interior.

“It's about time you got here,” Irma muttered from the passenger seat of Jazz's T-Bird. “I want that.” She pointed to the television/DVD combo set up for Irma's viewing pleasure.

Jazz stared at the screen that displayed a rerun of
Everybody Loves Raymond.
“Want what?”

Irma huffed. “Look at the mother's clothing. They're nothing like mine.” She swept her hand over her navy blue print dress, beige nylon stockings attached to a plain garter belt, neat oxfords, and navy straw hat perched on her head. She looked like the 1950s woman she was the day she died. “I want to be dressed like her.” She pointed at the screen.

“I want a day without you, but it looks like neither of us will get our wish, does it?”

Irma's slight growl told Jazz she hit her mark.

“You can go around looking as slinky as you like, but I have to be stuck in a long-gone era.” Irma turned back to the TV. “Why can't you do one of those things?”

“Things?” Jazz wished she had brought her coffee with her. There were some days it wasn't easy to keep up with the ghostly woman.

“Yes, those witchy things.”

“Define witchy things,” Jazz said.

“Those things you witches do where you make something, or someone, look different.” Irma crossed her arms in front of her plump breast. “Why can't you do that for me? After all, you went into that woman's house with your charms and spells and came out with a designer wardrobe.”

“That was more her giving me her wardrobe. What you're talking about is an illusion spell.” Jazz was impressed with Irma's idea. Not that she'd tell her, of course. The woman was impossible enough as it was. “So you want to dress like Raymond's mother.”

Irma nodded. “Yes, I'd like to wear trousers because I'm sure they're more comfortable than a dress and a girdle.” She shifted around in the seat.

“I don't think morticians bother stuffing the deceased into a girdle,” Jazz pointed out, positive she'd be pouring bleach on her brain if she couldn't rid herself of an image of Irma wiggling her plump body into a girdle.

“I want to be dressed like someone in this century. Harold didn't approve of women wearing trousers, but there's no reason why I can't wear them now.” She raised her chin. “But no denims. They're much too trashy looking and I don't want whatever you're wearing. Nothing skintight.” Her gaze roamed over Jazz with cranky ghostly disdain.

“Just remember you're talking to the witch who could have you wearing a billowy blue and yellow suit and a red nose that squeaks.” Jazz didn't believe in idle threats. To prove her point she sent an image of a clown, the stuff of horror movies, superimposed on the far wall.

Irma's white-gloved fingers tightened on her navy patent-leather handbag. “Now that's just mean. I thought once you were receiving regular sex from Nicky that you'd turn into a nicer person. Obviously, that isn't possible because I can't imagine he's doing something wrong.”

“Take it to Judge Judy.” Jazz felt the beginnings of a twitch behind her right eye. “Look, I didn't sleep well last night and I'm still not with it. I'll see if I can find an illusion spell that will work on you.” She knew if she didn't at least make the attempt to placate Irma, the ghost would be in a royal snit for days and Jazz didn't have the patience to deal with her just now.

“Why shouldn't it?”

Oh yeah, arguing with Irma was just what she wanted to do...not!

“You're a ghost, Irma. You're caught between this world and the next. Regular magick doesn't work the same way on you. More's the pity,” she muttered under her breath.