Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (17 page)

Jonathan did remember seeing a statue. He assumed it was the same one Wendell referred to. However, he hadn’t got any vibes off it when he’d been in the store. Regrettably, he could say with reasonable certainty that it could be ruled out as a clue or cause, yet, desperate for a lead, he made a note of it just the same.

“Anything else?” Jonathan prodded hopefully.

“Um, I might have brushed against the canes by the door.”

“I need you to be more certain than ‘might have’ here, Wendell,” Jonathan said and shoved another forkful of noodles into his mouth.

Wendell poked at his food while he thought. Then he nodded his head. “Yeah, I did. I remember hearing the metallic click of one hitting the other.”

Jonathan had examined the canes when he had gone in the shop. All too often, magical wands got mistaken for walking sticks or canes.

Nothing had caught his attention.

However, one cane, which had leaned out more than the rest, had a brass head in the shape of a retriever. Although highly unlikely as being the beginning of it all, Jonathan scribbled a quick note on the legal pad just the same.

“Anything else?”

“I don’t believe so. It was then that I came around a shelf and saw the fortune machine. Once I saw it, well, I went straight to it, see?”

“All right,” Jonathan nodded. “Did you accidentally knock into anyone when walking from your car to the store?”

“No.”

“You sound pretty sure there, Wendell.”

“I am.” He looked Jonathan square in the face. “I know I didn’t because I was the only one on the street.”

“Yeah, it was pretty dea—empty, when I got there, too. Okay, how about the street? You said you parked on the same side as the shop, right?”

Wendell looked impressed that Jonathan had remembered such a trivial bit of detail and nodded.

“When you got out, did you maybe step out in front of a car heading up the street?”

Wendell shook his head and took the opportunity to place a piece of his dumplings into his mouth.

“When you parked, did you possibly take someone else’s parking spot?”

Wendell finished chewing before answering. “I don’t recall seeing another car trying to park and there was another open spot one car ahead, which was still empty when I came out of the store. I know because I ran through that spot, and around the car parked in front of mine, to get to my own car.”

“Okay.” Jonathan crammed another pile of noodles in his mouth and then washed them down with bourbon. The liquor went well with the heat of the spicy noodles.

“When you drove to your appointment, did you cut anyone off, annoy another driver by going too slow, fast, or hell, anything that might make the most sensitive of people get pissed off? I’m talking mild to extreme road rage here.”

Wendell sighed but he didn’t complain about the questions. Instead of railing against this nitpick probing, Wendell took a drink from his mug of bourbon.

Jonathan could see, by the way Wendell’s eyes slowly moved back and forth, though he seemed to be looking at nothing, and by his pursed lips, he was attempting to relive each and every block of the trip.

They went on like this for hours.

Jonathan made Wendell regress seven days from the moment he had entered the antique store, in case the problem had only begun to manifest there instead of being the cause.

Seven days went beyond what Jonathan actually thought necessary, but since he had not gained a toehold on this mountain of confusion, he just kept pushing and hoping.

With each minute and every futile question, the process became more tedious for both of them. Jonathan pushed the timeline of his questions farther and farther back. Wendell, naturally, found it harder and harder to recollect the details of his day-to-day life.

He stopped when he realized he had been asking questions for the sake of asking, simply stabbing with a dull stick into the dark, hoping to hit a phantom.

By the time Jonathan admitted defeat and called it a night, they had finished their meal, half a bottle of bourbon, and a pack of cigarettes.

Mentally worn out and so frustrated he wanted to tear up the few notes he had, Jonathan suppressed the urge and reassured Wendell that he’d done well.

Jonathan looked with dismay at the extremely short list of possibilities scribbled down. Not one single point stood out as a solid lead. Every single note, to him, read as an obvious grasp at straws.

Jonathan reread one prospective lead he’d written. The only thing that stayed his hand from crossing it out was the desire to not discourage his client.

The real problem lay in the fact of Wendell being a kind, conscientious, and polite individual.

If someone had taken offense at something he’d done over the last week, they were so thin-skinned they would have hemorrhaged and died already.

Jonathan tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that it would have been more time-consuming if his client behaved like a right royal bastard.

It takes more time to whittle down a list of prospective leads if everyone hates your client than if they like him.

The legal pad, only half covered with his scrawled handwriting, Jonathan slid aside. He stood up to stretch and, after popping a few vertebrae back into place, Jonathan opened the closet door.

He began going through his collection of amulets, medicine bags, and crystal pendants. He had a decent collection, ranging from those he had made for previous cases, to ones he had bought from reliable sources. He even had some he’d relieved others of.

It would be foolish and unrealistic not to use what existing artifacts he had to keep his client safe.

Jonathan planned to grab whatever just might protect Wendell from arcane interference. Then he would augment the protection with a few spells and enchantments of his own.

Most important, Jonathan wanted to perform a ritual in an attempt to hide Wendell’s energy signature.

Hopefully, that would mean whoever had targeted his client would lose the ability to affect him from afar.

Jonathan couldn’t conceal Wendell’s energy completely, but he should be able to obscure it, maybe even alter the energy’s outward appearance enough to stop whatever harassed the man.

Jonathan stored most of his active amulets in a rowan wood box inscribed with sigils to boost both magical and positive energy.

He began pulling out the necklaces and bracelets one by one. He set those that had no connection to Wendell’s current predicament into the top of the box and looped the others over his free hand.

He found a silver Solomonic pentacle of protection which, on the reverse side, had the symbol of the 6th Pentacle of Mars, said to protect the wearer from their attackers.

A few more moments of digging unearthed an amulet based on the symbol for the ancient Indian mantra of Om Mani Padme Hum, worn so that protection and peace might be attracted to the bearer.

Jonathan debated its use in this situation. Realizing he didn’t know what the damn situation was, he added it to the other pendant.

After pawing through strength sigils, love charms, and symbols of luck, Jonathan had gathered another two medallions, a Saturn’s Seal of Protection, and a Seal of Mephistopheles used specifically for the protection of the individual from the plots of others against them.

He felt that one applied to Wendell’s case like a closed coffin ceremony applied to death by combine.

When he’d been through all of its contents, Jonathan replaced the amulets he wouldn’t need in the box.

From off a nail driven halfway into the edge of the shelf, he took a tiny cylinder cast in silver. Concise rings inscribed into the sides contained Kabalic writings.

Jonathan worked the top off of the tiny tube to make sure it didn’t still contain a spell. He tried to be responsible and remove them after they had served their function, but sometimes things got overlooked.

He would need to write a new spell to be enclosed within the tiny container, one directly designed for his client.

Wendell had pilfered a smoke in Jonathan’s absence and sat waiting with his drink resting on his knee.

Placing the Kabalic amulet on his desk, Jonathan dumped the remaining few necklaces into Wendell’s hand.

“Here, put these on. They aren’t going to hurt, and if they can help at all, it’s worth trying.”

Jonathan got a smoke for himself, but only took a few drags before he began to rummage around in the top drawer.

He knew a small charcoal pencil lived in there somewhere. He would need it for the tiny writing necessary for the new spell to be placed in the little silver canister.

Finally he laid his hands on it, along with a small slip of paper so thin it could be mistaken for onionskin.

Jonathan took a moment to draw from the dusty recess of his mind the correct way to inscribe a spell in the Kabalic tradition.

After a few test runs on the legal pad, he switched to the proper paper and meticulously wrote out the spell.

When finished, he gently rolled up the paper and delicately slid it into the cylindrical interior of the small amulet. He tightened the lid back on and tossed it to Wendell.

Staring at his client, Jonathan couldn’t help but think Wendell looked like he was emulating a rap artist’s jewelry with Cracker Jack prizes.

W
hy don’t you tuck those under your shirt?” Jonathan suggested, pointing at Wendell’s amulets.

“Are they more effective that way?”

“No. But you’ll look less ridiculous.”

With a chuckle, Wendell began struggling to get all the necklaces and amulets under his shirt.

Jonathan felt slightly humbled by his client. Although intense worry clearly weighed on him, the man still managed to laugh and be civil.

Jonathan remembered how Wendell had treated Mary, even after she had given him a horrid card reading.

“All right,” Jonathan said, picking up the half a smoke and tapping the long ash from it. “I’m going to enjoy this smoke and finish my drink; then I’m going to want to perform some spells over you. I’m hoping that, at the very least, I will be able to hide you, as it were, from who—”

“Or what,” Wendell added.

“Exactly. Hide you in an esoteric manner. After that, I know of a few other protection spells I can lay on you. When we manage all that, you can call it a night and go home.

“I recommend not drinking down a bottle of wine like water again, however. A glass, or even two if you need it, then get some sleep. For tomorrow, I don’t want you trying to cope with a hangover.”

“What about you?” Wendell asked.

“Me? Oh, don’t worry; I’m a functioning alcoholic. I thrive on bourbon.”

“No, I meant sleep,” Wendell said. “You made it sound like you weren’t going to get any, see?”

It impressed Jonathan that Wendell had caught the fact.

“I’ll be burning the midnight oil tonight, but I’ve worked on far less sleep before and I’ll snag a nap later.”

Jonathan tossed back the last of his drink.

“Well, guess we should get started.”

“So, what do you need me to do?”

“I’m going to need some of your blood, Wendell, but only a pinprick’s worth.” He smashed the butt of his smoke into the full ashtray as he stood up. “For now, just sit tight.”

Jonathan went over to the row of filing cabinets jammed between his closet door and the outside wall. From the top drawer, he took out a fresh bottle of bourbon which he placed on the desktop next to the nearly empty one.

“Do me a favor and top up at least my glass, would you?” Jonathan asked.

Closing that drawer, he then bent down to reach the bottom one and tried to stifle the groan that desperately sought to escape.

For a moment, Jonathan had almost managed to forget his abused abdomen. Only all too quickly did he remember that, in the scope of things, the morning’s activities had not been all that long ago after all.

When the wave of pain had subsided and he had stopped having to suck his breath through clenched teeth, Jonathan opened the lowest drawer of the cabinet.

From its metal depths, he took out a white cloth, a chalice made of bone and wood, and a small brazier of copper and bronze.

With the chalice and cloth in one hand and the brazier in the other, he struggled to his feet once more. He could not contain the hiss of pain from escaping past his clenched teeth this time, but he did manage to get to his feet.

Jonathan ignored Wendell’s look of concern and put down the trappings of the ritual on the desk. He took a large gulp of the freshly poured bourbon and focused past the pain.

As he turned away to get the necessary ingredients from the closet, Jonathan caught the fact that Wendell had already grabbed the bourbon to top up his glass again.

It took a couple minutes for Jonathan to collect all the things he would need. Even though he would end up using less than a pinch from most of ingredients called for, without it the whole exercise would be useless—or worse, dangerously unstable.

The silver serving tray on which he put the required items was three quarters full by the time he’d gathered everything. He took the tray and placed it next to the chalice on his desk.