The Flower Bowl Spell (16 page)

Next, the band moves on to some raucous,
ear-challenging anger rock. Anger. That word is in my thoughts a
lot tonight. I soften it in my notes: exasperation. With what, I’m
not sure. With selfishness. With disrespect. With love gone bad.
The usual rock/pop things. And then there’s grief.

During their biggest single, “Cry, Gatsby,” I
feel a whisper of air breeze the back of my neck. Chad Beane and
his touchy-feeliness, I think, and wonder how I will handle him
tactfully without giving in to my desire to magickally trigger a
luxurious growth of hair out his ears and nostrils. But it’s not
him. It’s Cheradon Badler.

She winks at me, and I feel a thrill up my
back. I have to remind myself that her attention’s not really real,
that it’s not because of
me
. I glance up into the rafters.
The fairies are gone.

“Aren’t they awesome?” she shout-whispers
into my plugged-up ear. She’s also wearing earplugs.

“The kids seem to be lapping it up,” I shout
back.

“It’s Ty,” she says. “He’s so lappable.” Her
tongue, fattened and pink appears clamped between her teeth in a
girlfriends-only grin, the same one on the concert T-shirt. I
wonder what she knows about Tyson and me.

“Would you like to go on the record about
something?” I ask. “About what’s going to happen in Anderson
Valley?”

She bats her eyelashes like an innocent deb
and touches her nose, the infamous pink diamond ring now sparkling
on her left hand.

A shout goes up from the crowd as Arsenic
Playground moves into the chorus of their song. Usually Ty and Babs
duet on this, but Tyson points the mic at the audience and they
swirl up to the task at hand:

Cry, Gatsby, cry

Your little fool don’t love you

Your little fool don’t need you

One more soul to die

Cry, Gatsby, cry.

Tyson’s shoulder are hunched, the microphone
in his hand like a surrendered sword as the audience sings the
lyrics that have been recently played in a couple of romantic movie
previews and one slick car commercial. After they’ve gone through
it three times, Tyson looks up and Babs strokes the guitar strings,
launching into the squealing, heart-wrenching riff that leads to
Ty’s climatic angst-ridden, howling finish.

****

The house lights go up.

“Listen,” Cheradon says. “D.B. really wants
to meet you. Wait here, okay? I’m gonna go get him.”

With a little peck on my cheek, Cheradon
Badler slips away. There’s a twenty-minute intermission as the
roadies break down Arsenic Playground’s equipment and set up Yeah
Right’s. I stay in my place in the wings, scrawling down notes
about the performance. I’m trying to find the perfect word to
describe the way Babs strums her guitar when I feel the vibration
of my cell phone in my bag. I answer it without glancing at the
caller ID.

“Ms. Zhang?” It’s an unfamiliar voice. “This
is Kevin from the LeRoy Hotel. I’m afraid I have some alarming
news.”

Then I’m running, taking the stairs two at a
time, thundering down the hall, my legs, my feet, my steps so
heavy, too heavy, so very heavy and slow that I wish for fairy
wings. If only a thousand pixies would lift me up—they could dig
their nails into my skin if they had to—and get me to the nursery
faster.

I throw open the door and it bangs against
the wall, bouncing back into me, and Saville screams, waking her
brothers but not Viveka’s girls, who are safe and sound, still
sleeping under their covers. Zanna in her corner comes lumbering
out of the shadows with a what-gives expression, and all I can do
is sit down in the doorway and catch my breath. Of course they’re
okay. They’re here, not at the hotel. I’m confused by my leap of
illogic. It’s only natural, I tell myself. It makes sense to lose a
little bit of yourself when it comes to children, even if they
aren’t your own.

The cell phone, small and hot in my hand, is
buzzing with noise and I lift it to my ear.

“Ms. Zhang? Ms. Zhang, did we lose the
connection?”

I swallow. “No, I’m here. I’m sorry, I didn’t
catch what happened.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. There was a
break-in into your guestroom tonight. We suspect someone of casing
the hotel. He wasn’t very subtle about it. This almost never
happens.”

I tune Kevin out. Across the room, Cleo lifts
her head and looks sleepily around. She sees me and puts her head
back down, closing her eyes again.

“Did he take anything?” I ask.

“Not that we’ve found.”

“Did you catch him?”

“The police are investigating.”

“So, that would be a no.”

Kevin is kerfuffled. He gives me the contact
information for the police. I hang up and rouse the girls. Romola
is quiet in her exhaustion—I see now that she’s bone tired. Cleo,
in contrast to her big sister, wakes up with no trouble, sipping
some water and watching me with wide, bright eyes, looking as if
she got a full night’s sleep.

“Are we going home now?” she asks.

What does she means by home—the hotel? My
apartment? Or her real home with Viveka and Jesus Christ?

“I’m not sure,” I say. And I’m not. Maybe
it’s stupid to go back to the hotel. What if the person who broke
in is still there? Perhaps it’s not a random burglar. It could be
we are the targets. I reach out with my mind for the intruder, but
without a start, not even a name, I get nothing.

We’ve almost reached the doors leading to the
parking lot as a tall, slender man approaches us. He’s bald with a
snub nose and light-colored eyes, impeccably dressed in a dark
shirt and elegant green tie. He pauses, taking in the girls and me.
His eyes linger on Cleo before he looks directly at me.

“Leaving so soon?” He extends a hand. “Dexter
Berdin. Yeah Right’s manager. Call me D.B.” His grip is cool,
almost clammy, but I don’t get anything from him except an
unexplainable and excited self-satisfaction. I suppose I’d feel the
same if I were in charge of an extremely successful rock band.

“Right.” I flip up my press badge and
introduce myself. “I hear you had something to do with me being
here.”

He almost closes his eyes and smiles. “You’re
a good writer.”

“Thanks. Sorry, but we have an emergency back
at the hotel.” I herd the girls towards the doors.

He steps aside and waves us along. “By all
means.”

My disappointment in missing Yeah Right’s
performance—and our recent victimization has not extinguished that
disappointment—is slightly lessened by being able to avoid talking
further with this chilly man, the perfect complement to Cheradon’s
ardent exuberance.

****

Kevin the concierge assures me over and over
that our new guestroom is safe. He gives us coupons for free hotel
stays at any of the LeRoy’s sister hotels—nationwide! Clearly,
staving off a lawsuit is on his agenda. I do a mental check of the
premises. Everything I see, everything I sense, tells me something
is out there but we are safe. And the girls look ready to curl up
and sleep next to the check-in counter. The idea of repacking,
getting them in the car, finding a new hotel, checking in,
unpacking, seems more dangerously unpleasant than any unpleasant
dangers we might face staying here.

As we trudge off to our new room—apparently,
the sliding glass doors leading to our room’s balcony have been
shattered—I recognize the witching hour. Most nonbelievers and
fairy-tale readers think that it’s midnight, but the true hour is
ever-shifting. It’s the hour when deep, powerful magick happens.
It’s that time of utter darkness when those who live for night have
gone quiet and are about to rise and take advantage of their
doggedness; and those who live for day are in the vulnerable yet
rejuvenating thrall of deepest slumber.

Right now, it’s that time of quiet in which
most of the things stirring are those that are lost or up to no
good.

Romola and Cleo collapse into their bed. I
check the locks as well as my luggage—that bellhop is still on my
mind—but everything seems to be in place. I close the curtains onto
our window. We’re actually in a bigger room but this one doesn’t
have the ocean view, or a balcony. I turn off all the lights and
peek out the window, searching for him. Or her.

I’m just debating what to do first—sleep is
off my agenda, and there’s either the tarot cards or calling on
Smarter Memphis—when I hear that snicking sound.

The fairy is hovering in the center of the
room. He beckons to me. When I go to him he darts away towards the
door, where he pops open the peephole glass and shimmies through,
popping it back in behind him.

Crap.

I look back at the sleeping girls. It’s my
only hesitation before I open the door and slip out. The fairy
waits on the other side.

“Hang on,” I whisper. I turn to the door and
murmur a charm that ends with the words, “locked and loaded.” As an
only child, I never really used this spell, but it’s supposed to
make doorknobs send electric shocks through trespassers and is a
favorite of kids craving privacy.

I follow the fairy to the elevator. He pushes
the button for the garage level and we descend. The elevator stops
and I hold my breath during the long pause before the doors open.
The fairy slips through the crack and I have to look around for him
when I step out. He’s near an open door. There’s machinery churning
away—a distinct parking garage sound. I take my time, trying to
keep my footsteps quiet. I peer around the doorjamb.

A man sits on the floor next to a shelf of
folded white hotel linens. He’s dressed in khaki slacks, a white
button-down shirt, no tie. He sports an Afro, which looks like it
was recently liberated from braids—fluffy, soft, any movement or
breeze stirring it lightly. He’s slender and handsome, and his dark
skin, scarred on the cheeks by adolescent acne, is tight around his
angular cheekbones and long, broad nose. I’ve seen him before. But
the photo of Jesus Christ on the Holy Revival Redeemer website
doesn’t do him justice.

Chapter Fifteen

He’s older than he first appears to be. Lines
deepen around his mouth and nose, his eyes. His hands are neither
big nor small, but the tendons are prominent, his knuckles covered
in gauze, speckled rusty red with blood. The pattern continues up
his arms, blending into the dark skin of his wrists and streaking
his shirtsleeves in uneven lines and splatters. His hair is black
shot through with a bit of white and gray.

Our eyes meet, and I can feel a magnetic pull
even as I want to turn and run. The desire to be closer to him, to
simply stand by his side, nearly tows me into the room. His aura is
gray, gray, and gray.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he says, his
voice accented. “I’m going to leave.”
Right. I look to the fairy,
who is sitting on a high shelf of towels. He shrugs and nods.

The elevator grinds into motion and I back
away from Jesus Christ. A bell rings, signaling the car’s arrival.
I turn to see who it is as the bellhop steps out of the sliding
doors. He’s carrying an ice bucket and some antiseptic. He sees me
and the color drains from his blotchy face.

“That’s her!” His voice cracks.

“You are mistaken,” says J.C. “That is not my
wife.”

“That’s the woman in room 408. She has two
little black girls with her.”

I turn back to J.C. His eyes widen. “You have
my daughters?”

“They’re fine,” I say. “They’re safe.”

His look turns wary, a coil of anger and
confusion. He covers, not very well, with a dignified mien,
straightening his back even as he sits on the floor. He’s afraid of
what I’m going to do, of what I might have already done to his
children. He loves them—that’s clear—but isn’t afraid to use them
to get what he wants. And right now, he wants to know what I’m
going to do to him.

What am
I
going to do to
him
?
He has Bellhop on his side. There’s no reason for me to escape back
to the room. The bellhop probably knows where our new room is, or
can find out. Something is welling inside me, a
mama-bear-protecting-her-cubs instinct. I feel the need to beat
them to the punch, literally.

Without another thought, I hit the boy in the
throat with the side of my hand. He drops what he’s holding and
grabs his neck with a choking sound. It’s a little move from my
college self-defense class. But in this case, it’s
self-
offense
.

“What are you doing with this guy?” I throw
the question at both of them.

Bellhop starts to cough.

“Miss,” Jesus Christ says as he stands up. He
is very tall, taller than the average man, and again I feel his
pull. “How can I believe my girls are all right when you do
violence to Bill?”

“They’re fine. You still haven’t answered my
question.”


J.C. leans against a shelf and the fairy
flitters off his perch before settling down again. “I got a message
from my wife that she was staying here. This young man helped me
find your room. I paid him a very generous tip.”

I let this sink in. A message from
Viveka?

“She’s not here. You were given false
information.”

He glares at me with a sudden ferocity, but I
don’t step back. “Tell me, woman, what have you done to her?”

“I assure you I’ve done nothing. She came to
me. She asked me to watch them, and then she left. How did you even
find us?”

“She called me while I was driving. She told
me she was here with our daughters.”

“Viveka told you this.”

He nods. I go over in my head all the people
who know I’m here. There’s Ned, of course, and Cooper. The band
members and their crew, who are also staying here. That’s it.
Viveka is not one of them. Did she call my home after I left? No,
Cooper would have mentioned it.

“Someone tricked you,” I say.