Honeymoon of the Dead (17 page)

“What, are these guys the Martha Stewarts of kidnappers?”

At the cat’s continued insistence, I dragged myself jealously past a shining, dish- free porcelain sink with a silver gooseneck faucet.

Was this Larkin’s house? What had that guy said: “Your mom’s sink”? Did my old lover still live with his mom?

Sadly, I couldn’t remember very much about our sexual rendezvous. Had I taken him back to my place? Or . . . good Goddess, tell me we hadn’t done it in his mother’s house, had we?

Hero nudged my leg, reminding me I needed to get a move on. It was just as well, the thought that I’d somehow messed around with Larkin with his mom in another room made me feel barfy all over again.

An archway led into a huge dining room with a beautiful built-in buffet. A Persian rug covered more polished hardwood. As I made my way into an equally large living room full of comfy- looking couches, my fingers traced the dust-free surfaces, admiring the Victorian-era spindle work.

“I think I would have remembered this,” I told Hero, though he cocked his head at me like he didn’t believe a word. Instead, he stood waiting by a coat-tree full of parkas, and, to my great delight, a pair of snow pants that almost fit me—they were a little long in the legs. Boots were a little more difficult to fit since my feet are so tiny, but I figured a couple of blisters would be a small price to pay if I actually managed to get out of here and not freeze to death.

The worst part was that I got the distinct impression I was running off with things that belonged to the lady of the house, Larkin’s mom? I felt bad about that.

“Here I thought you were living in a dump,” I told the cat, kneeling down to give my Hero a scratch behind the ear. He bumped happily against my fingers. “I was hoping to return the favor and rescue you. But, you’re probably doing all right, eh?”

He sat back and regarded me in that enigmatic way cats have. I couldn’t tell if he agreed or not.

“Well, if you’re ever in Madison, I’ll introduce you to Barney. You’ll like her. She’s a mouser, and very fluffy and fat. Not like you. You big, handsome man.” I gave him a final pat and stood up with a lot of help from the arm of a bench. My head thudded at the effort, reminding me I needed to get a move on.

Boy, how much did Larkin slip me, anyway?

After grabbing a scarf and a purple stocking hat with the Vikings’ logo on it from a basket by the coat- tree, I fumbled my way out the front door. The second the door was open, Hero darted out.

“Are you supposed to be an outdoor cat?” I asked him.

The cat didn’t seem at all bothered by the packed snow on the unshoveled walk, so I figured he must be. Before Barney became a barn cat at Sebastian’s, she used to try to run outside now and again. Whenever her paws felt snow, she’d desperately try to shake off the cold, like it was some goo stuck on her pads.

“So, you’re coming with me?”

He sauntered down the sidewalk with his tail held high, so I followed.

 

 

The sky was pitch black. Despite the city lights, a bright star—or maybe a planet—twinkled just below the moon. An airplane’s lights streaked across the sky. Nearby, the loud razzing thump of a car stereo’s bass line reverberated down the street.

I thought I might be in Central neighborhood in Minneapolis because the house I’d left was a three-story Victorian, much like its neighbor. Both were grand old Painted Ladies in need of a bit of care. Remains of bright paint peeled on dormers and missing shingles dotted sloped roofs. The snow-covered yards were small and close together. I ran my hand along the top of an industrial-strength chain-link fence that surrounded another Victorian in slightly better condition. A rainbow flag glowed in the soft yellow of a porch light.

Hero scampered quickly ahead on four feet; my lurching pace couldn’t match his and I fell behind. Every time I thought I’d lost track of him, I’d see him flopped down on someone’s walkway, his thin, black stomach stretched out as though he were a prince waiting for someone to tend to his every need. He seemed to expect me to stop and pat his tummy, so I took a breather to do as he wished.

I listened for the sound of the guys out looking for me, but everything was quiet. Well, “city quiet,” that is. Not far away, I thought I could hear the hum of vehicles on a highway. A car with a failing muffler sputtered noisily.

Tall trees lined the boulevard, their branches casting crisscross, skeletal shadows on the pavement. Parked cars lined the street. A few of the houses had open curtains and I could see inside to big- screen TVs and bookshelves and pictures on the walls.

The cold numbed my head a bit. It didn’t seem quite as heavy as it had, but movement made the world pitch and sway in a way that made me think I must look drunk as I tried to stay upright and moving forward. “I don’t know,” I told Hero as I crouched there unsteadily. “I don’t think I can make it much farther. I hope you’re taking me to a hospital.”

He licked his paw and looked past me to the street.

I turned in time to see the corner streetlight illuminate the white and black of a police patrol car slowing down to inspect me. I waved him over. Her, actually, I realized when the window powered down. “Are you okay, ma’am?” she asked.

I shook my head no, which sent my world tumbling again. “I think I’m going to pass out,” I managed to explain before I did exactly that.

 

 

The sad truth is that there have been a lot of moments
of unconsciousness in my life.

Whenever Lilith takes over, I’m out like a light. But when that happens I experience nothing. It’s a big, old blank. From my perspective, it’s like no time has elapsed from conscious moment to conscious moment.

It was unsettling to find myself dreaming. At least, I assumed that’s what was happening, given the unreality of the setting.

A Greek temple surrounded me. In fact, where I stood reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the Parthenon in Athens, except not so crumbly. This place could pass for new. Gleaming white marble columns surrounded a cool, flag-stone floor. Orange blossoms and sea salt scented a warm breeze that rustled my hair and tugged at the edges of my simple, wrapped toga. Somehow I’d lost my bra, underwear, and shoes. Whoa. The last time I was dressed like this, it was at some pagan-festival ritual.

When I turned around, I discovered a huge statue of Athena. She looked majestic holding Her ever-present shield and a wicked-looking spear. Ringlets of hair fell out of Her crested helmet, and Her face was smooth and polished marble that had been painted an olive flesh color. Athena’s eyes gazed unseeingly over everything with pupils colored a perfect stormy gray. It looked odd, but then I recalled my history professor in college explaining that most of the marble in Greek and Roman times had actually been painted quite garishly.

A voice in my head said, “The Old Ones demand sacrifices.”

I had no idea what that meant. Was She the Goddess who had answered my hurried, hopeful prayers in the basement? Was I to assume it was Athena who had sent Hero? The police officer to my rescue? I mean, someone’s magic had clearly been at work, and Lilith had never been exactly subtle.

“Uh. Thanks?” I said.

Athena’s eyes flashed unkindly. I shrank back a bit. After all, the last time I had any kind of direct communication with Athena, She’d implied that what She wanted from me was devotion, worship. I
had
been neglecting that aspect of my craft, and in all the post-wedding excitement, I never really made good on that promise. So I knelt down before the terrible beauty of Athena, perhaps my new patroness, and asked, “What can I do for my Goddess?”

The smile She flashed was cold. “Sever all ties to that Other.”

She didn’t need to tell me who She meant. It was clear She wanted me to jettison Lilith.

But we were bonded, Lilith and I. Was that even possible? I looked and saw a vision of myself standing beside Athena. Only, the me that stood there was strong and confident. I wasn’t hiding behind my Goth gear anymore either. My hair was blond again but really cute—kind of still in a pixie but more spiky. I was wearing my skinny jeans and a white T-shirt and looked like I had a seriously healthy glow about me that was kind of sexy in an I-could-see-myself-on-the-cover-of-
Women’s-Health
-magazine kind of way.

Wow. Was that the person I could be if Athena were my patron?

It looked like all I stood to lose was a few pounds and the Queen of Hell, so I said simply, “Thy will be done.”

 

 

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew I was in a hos
pital because I could smell the antiseptic. Then someone shone a light in my eye. “Oh, you’re awake. Do you know your name?” the man with a trim salt-and-pepper beard asked.

“Garnet Lacey,” I said somewhat uncertainly.

“What year is it?”

I had no idea. I took a stab at it, “Twenty ten?”

“I want you to count backward from one hundred by seven.”

“Buddy,” I explained groggily. “I couldn’t do that on a good day.”

“Try,” he insisted, still blinding me with his penlight.

“One hundred. Ninety-three. Okay, wait . . . subtract ten and add three. Uh, eighty-six? Is that how it works? Seventy-nine? Is that right? Do I pass?”

“Close enough,” Salt-and-Pepper Beard said kindly. Then, to a nurse with a mask over her face and one of those paper shower things covering her hair, bearded guy explained that I’d need X-rays and some other stuff I didn’t really understand but that sounded quite official. He used words like
stat
that made me nervous, but he confirmed what I’d already suspected. Larkin had slipped me the date-rape drug, Rohypnol.

“We’ll need to do a rape kit,” the doctor said.

My eyes were wide. “But . . . but . . . wouldn’t I know?”

He shook his head sadly and I felt my heart seize.

“They wouldn’t have,” I insisted, though I hated the idea that I couldn’t know for sure and my pulse pounded in my ears as tears came to my eyes. Worse, they had taken my clothes off, though I still had my swimsuit on, didn’t I? Lilith slithered along my belly protectively.

“We need to be sure,” the doctor informed me.

I didn’t want to think about it. “Where’s Hero?” I asked suddenly. Trying to sit up, I realized I was quite strapped down. Panic seeped into my voice, “Where’s the cat?”

The nurse patted my shoulder. Her touch sent a wave of dizziness through me, and I briefly saw the face of the hawk-headed Horus. “We’ll find your kitty for you, honey,” she said in that way that made me certain I’d never see Hero again. I tried to relax and not miss my brave feline companion as they rolled me down the hall.

 

 

I cried through the rape kit and the HIV blood test
and the entire time the admissions nurse asked me all sorts of questions about my insurance. She handed me a Kleenex and gave me one of those annoying plastic hospital bracelets that she fit loosely around the bandages on my wrists that made me look like I’d attempted suicide. At least the bandages kept her fingers from touching my skin. I made her promise six times that she would call Sebastian for me. I wrote down his cell and explained we were staying at the Saint Paul Hotel.

Then I was wheeled to a white-walled room that I shared with a middle-aged black woman who had a horrible cough. She had the radio tuned to some soft rock station. “Does the music bother you?”

I’d learned not to shake my head too much, so I simply smiled and told her that it didn’t. My tears had worn wet tracks on my face, and I could see she wanted to ask questions but thought better of it. We settled into our own silences.

The room was small and brightly dingy in the way of hospitals. Brackets high up on the wall held a huge box TV—one for each of us. We both had nightstands. My roommate’s was filled with Styrofoam cups half full of ice water and a tissue box that hung off the back edge.

I stared out the window. I couldn’t really see much between the dusty, plastic venetian blinds and the frost that thickly sheeted the glass. It was a lonely, ugly place.

I hoped Sebastian got my message.

The doctor with the trim beard poked his head in the door and, seeing me awake, came in purposefully. I sat up straighter when he pulled the curtain around the bed. “The test came back negative,” he informed me.

I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

“The toxicology lab had a lot to say, however.” He rattled off a list of chemicals with crazy-long names, and I waited patiently for something in English. Finally, he said, “With all that in your system, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive. Thank God you got to the hospital when you did and we were able to initiate a detox regime.”

Thank Goddess, you mean.

Closing my eyes, I sent a silent “thank you” to the Goddess Bast, the Egyptian patron of cats, and to my dear Hero, who I prayed found a nice, fat, juicy mouse somewhere to fill that skinny stomach of his.

“Try to rest,” the doctor said. “But, you understand, in cases like this I have to inform the police.”

As if waiting for that introduction before making her entrance, a Hmong woman in police uniform strolled into the room. The doctor patted my blanket-covered leg and told me everything was going to be okay. I thanked him. My roommate shot me a nervous look and suddenly found a book to read.

“Garnet Lacey?”

Why was it that most of my conversations lately started this way? Just once I’d like a “Good afternoon” or “Hey, how’s it going?” With a sigh, I grudgingly agreed to my identity. “I wish I wasn’t.”

Police officers rarely find my sense of humor to their taste. She just scrunched her thin lips into a deeper frown and nodded like that would have to do. “Do you want to tell me about what happened today?”