Cursed Moon (Prospero's War) (15 page)

“Frame him?” Harry laughed. “Ha!”

“Evidence against Abe would be a get-out-of-jail-free card,” I said. “If he had it to use, Ramses would already be out of jail.”

I chanced a glance at Morales. He looked less intense, but not exactly convinced, either. Harry just shook his head like we were both naive, and I was content to let him go on thinking that. “Look,” I said, “you see Dionysus around or hear
anything about his plans, just call me, okay?” I handed him a business card.

“Detective, huh?” He glanced down at it. His lips made a mocking sound. “They let just any bitch be one of those these days, I guess.”

“A pleasure talking to you as always, Harry.”

“Fuck off.” With that he tossed the card in the dirt and walked back toward the trailer.

“Well,” Morales said, “that guy’s about as useful as a knuckle on a dick.”

I shrugged. “Better than dealing with Volos.”

We started walking back toward the car. Morales’s head was down, a bad sign since it meant he was probably thinking. “You think Abe’s getting away with murder on the Gray Wolf case?”

I kept my stride even and my reaction cool so he wouldn’t see how much this topic affected me. “I think Abe’s gotten away with a lot of murder, both metaphorical and literal. But I know the last thing we need is to chase down hearsay from a blood wizard when we’ve got a different psycho threatening the city.”

He paused, thinking it over. I tried not to look like I was praying he’d let it drop. Finally, he shrugged. “Maybe Harry’s right. If Ramses has proof Abe was behind Gray Wolf he would use it to plea-bargain.”

I let out a breath. “You’re probably right.”

He smiled that Morales smile. “ ’Course I am, Cupcake.”

I smiled back. Not because I thought he was right, but because I was happy to let him go on believing I was wrong.

T
hat night Danny and I went to visit Pen. She’d been discharged from the hospital the day before. Baba had been hanging with her during the day, and her neighbor Lavern took night duty. I’d been so busy chasing down foul-mouthed homunculi and douchebag albinos that I’d not spent any quality time with her since the accident. To make up for that, I’d picked up a couple of containers of soup from Pen’s favorite Vietnamese place in downtown Babylon.

“Do we have to stay long?” Danny asked on our way to the building.

After spending part of my day interviewing the brat prince of the blood coven and then ten minutes hunting down a parking spot outside Pen’s building, I was in no mood for teenager drama. “We’ll stay as long as we need to stay. Your video games can wait.”

His eyes rolled so hard I worried he might pull something. “I have some posters to make for tomorrow’s DUDE meeting.”

“Oh,” I said, “we’re just staying for supper. Should have plenty of time after.”

Baba answered the door. That night she wore a black housecoat with purple cats embroidered along the hem. She even had a broom in her hand to complete the domestic witch look. “Come in, come in,” she said, waving us inside. “What took you so long? I’d punch a priest for a pizza right now.”

I raised the bag. “How about some pho instead?”

She sniffed at the brown paper and scowled. “What she needs is a bowl of my mama’s
homemade
chicken soup.”

“This will have to do until you can kill a chicken on the full moon, Baba.” I was too damned tired to bother trying to disguise the sarcasm from my tone.

She took the bag by the corner and started for the kitchen. “Pen’s in the living room.”

I shed my coat and turned left to the tiny den. The instant I walked into the room, I got a noseful of lavender’s soft purple scent and vetiver’s earthy green musk. I looked around until I spotted a small ceramic container of the oils sitting over a tea light on the coffee table. Definitely Baba’s handiwork. She was always spouting the virtues of aromatherapy for everything from anxiety to headaches to PMS.

Dismissing the oil diffuser, I focused on the mound of yellow blankets huddled on the denim-covered couch. “Pen?” I whispered, not wanting to disturb her if she was asleep.

The blankets moved and a groan emerged. When her face popped out, I saw that her complexion was gray and dark shadows weighed down her lower lids. “Kate?”

I lowered myself onto the foot of the couch, careful not to jostle her too much. “Hi,” I whispered. “How you doing?”

Behind me, Danny was telling Baba about a test he’d had that day. Why hadn’t he told me about it on our way over?
Maybe because I was so busy seething about the traffic and the frustrating meeting with Harry Bane. Tuning them out, I leaned forward to help Pen sit up. When she moved, her hand went protectively to the right side of her rib cage. A thick brace cupped her neck, and a bandage wrapped around her sprained wrist. Her right eye wasn’t as swollen as it had been the last time I saw her, but the bruises had mellowed into a sickly green-yellow color.

“Owowow,” she panted through clenched teeth.

I grimaced in sympathy. “Sorry, honey. Do you need anything?”

She opened her mouth, but behind me Baba rushed in bearing a tray. “Time for her arnica pellets!” The old woman used her hip to nudge me out of the way. Arnica was a common homeopathic pain remedy and a cheaper alternative to aspirin now that big pharmaceutical companies had all focused on magical therapies. “Poor dove,” she said to the patient. Pen’s eyes were glazed over with pain. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

I backed up and joined Danny by the coffee table. Together we watched Baba hand the arnica to Pen, who placed the tablets under her tongue to dissolve. While that happened, Baba turned back to ready the tea. A small brown bottle with a dropper lid sat next to the teacup. The old woman carefully measured out three drops of orange liquid into the tea she’d already poured.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Baba’s eyes shot to me and then away. She turned to hand the tea to Pen and watched to make sure she downed it before answering. “Bergamot and birch bark tea.” Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine.

“And the stuff you added to it?”

Baba sighed deep, like she’d been expecting the question but hoped I’d forget to ask it. “It’s tea, Detective, not poison.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and dish out supper.”

Rather than take the bait, I retreated into the kitchen.

“ ‘It’s tea, Detective,’ ” I echoed mockingly to the stovetop. “My ass.” I’d bet my Glock the witch put some sort of Spagyric compound or philtre in that tea.

“Kate?” Danny called from the den.

“What?” I snapped.

“When are we gonna eat?”

When I’d arrived I couldn’t wait to eat the delicious beef soup from the Vietnamese restaurant, but now I would have traded my left ovary for four fingers of bourbon.

I blew out a deep breath. I knew I was being overly touchy, but I was having a harder time than usual lately tamping down my annoyance. Opening the cabinet above Pen’s sink, I sorted through the bottles until I found what I wanted. Shoved behind the coconut rum and peach liqueur and vanilla vodka for the fruity cocktails Pen preferred was a fifth of Bulleit rye whiskey I’d given her for Christmas the year before in the hopes her taste in hooch would improve.

I broke the seal on the lip and tipped the bottle back to my mouth. The wood smoke and sweet fire flavor hit my tongue. The sliding burn was a baptism of sorts, cleansing stress and fear and guilt from my throat.

Rufus would have called this behavior self-medicating. But shit, if Pen could use suspicious tinctures to deal with her pain, then why couldn’t I experience the delicious sorcery of rye whiskey?

“Kate?” Danny called. I heard Baba say in a low tone that she’d check on me.

I shoved the cap on the bottle and stowed it in the oven. By the time the old woman made it into the cramped kitchen, I was unloading soup.

She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side, as if she was measuring up my mood. “It wasn’t any of your dirty magic.”

I raised a brow. “Then what was it?”

“Before I tell you, I need you to understand how hard the last few days have been on her.”

“What did you do?” I lowered my voice instead of raising it, despite the panic welling in my chest.

“It’s the broken ribs,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Terrible pain. And the whiplash is causing migraines.”

I closed my eyes. “What. Did. You. Give. Her?”

Baba’s chin lowered and she looked up at me through her graying lashes. “It’s kind of like sun tea.” She wouldn’t meet my narrowed gaze.

“Sun tea?”

“Calendula, Saint-John’s-wort, chamomile, and a few juniper berries.”

“And what did you use to brew this sun tea? A chalice? Or a cauldron?”

She made an offended face. “One of my mama’s crystal pitchers.”

“So you’re telling me it wasn’t a philtre?”

Her eyes shot to mine. “Maybe? But even if it was a philtre, that’s not really magic.”

I crossed my arms. “Did you chant over the herbs? Did you let it steep in the sun’s rays from dawn to dusk?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Then it’s magic.” Mundane magical energy was weak compared with the kind wielded by a trained Adept, sure. Baba’s
kind of kitchen witchery was powered by intention and wishes. But it was still magic. And to an addict like Pen, it could be a gateway back to the personal hell of dependency.

Anger was a hot fist in my gut. “I can’t believe you gave her a fucking potion,” I hissed.

“You’re always telling me I’m not capable of real magic.” Her arms crossed, and that chin came up. “If so, then it wasn’t a potion but a simple home remedy.”

My eyes narrowed. “You can play word games all you want, but you know damned well that part of what gives magic its power is intention. The sun energy contains incredibly potent magic whether it’s gathered by an Adept or a Mundane. You know that.”

“That girl’s been in real pain. Pain so bad she’s not sleeping at night and spends most of her days in tears.” Baba’s face jutted forward, her eyes glassy with anger.

I sighed. “Regardless, giving a recovering potion addict a philtre is irresponsible.”

“I gave a friend relief from her suffering,” she corrected. “It’s not even addictive magic.”

“It’s a slippery slope, Baba. One you seem far too eager to slide down.”

She reared back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please,” I said. “You’re always trying to give me your special teas and brews even though I’ve repeatedly told you I don’t want to ingest anything that even smacks of magic.”

Her expression morphed into one of offended pride. “So I’m only allowed to help on your terms.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice rising. I flinched and cast a guilty glance toward the den. “Yes,” I repeated in a less shrill tone. “That’s the whole point of help, right? If you’re going against the person’s wishes then it’s just interfering.”

The instant the words left my mouth, I wanted to snatch them from the air and gobble them back down. But it was too late. Because those hateful words had already crawled inside Baba’s ears and planted inside her brain like some of Aphrodite’s poisonous plants. Her eyes narrowed and her arthritic hands curled into shaking fists.

I raised my chin as she leaned forward. “You think I don’t see what’s happening? You think I don’t know?”

“I—” I began, but stopped when I realized I had no idea how to answer. How could I when fear was tightening my ribs in a cold grip?

“You’re jealous that your boy and your best friend lean on me instead of you.”

I gritted my teeth. We were getting off track and I needed to rein it in before we went totally off the rails. My own guilt over falling off the wagon was making me act unreasonably. If I wasn’t careful, the old woman would have me spilling my guts out about my own sins.

“It’s not that,” I said, looking her in the eye to show I was sincere. “And I’m sorry I gave you grief. I know you were trying to help.”

She sighed, as if willing to give a couple of inches in this battle of will. “But what if she asks for it? She’s in real pain, Kate.”

“She’ll be in worse pain if she gets hooked on magic again. We have to be strong for her.” It was too late for me to take back my own mistakes, but I could make sure Pen never had to deal with the guilt of a relapse.

Her lips pursed as she thought it over. “All right, I’ll stick to Mundane pain relief.”

“Thanks, Baba. Believe it or not, I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”

She pulled me in for an uncharacteristic hug. “I know you
do, girlie. Just take care of yourself, too.” She pulled back with her hands on her shoulders. “I can smell the devil water on you.”

I jerked away. “Don’t act like you don’t have a flask in your bosom, old woman.”

Her mouth broke into a wide smile. With one hand, she reached between her pendulous breasts and withdrew a metal flask. “Guilty.” She cackled. “You know what I always say, though, right?”

I shook my head. With Baba there was no telling.

“The skeletons in our closet are proof of a well-lived life.”