Hex Appeal (5 page)

“Then do you mind if I smoke while you go in there and do your ritual?” Irma was getting downright snarky by now. “You wouldn't let me bring my baby along and you know he gets lonely. I guess I should have stayed home and watched
Judge Judy.
”

“Your ‘baby' turned the backyard into holes a gopher would envy and terrorized the neighbor's cat. Mrs. Sanderson swears the cat is so traumatized she probably won't leave the house for weeks.”

“It's a known fact dogs and cats don't get along,” Irma pointed out. “It wasn't his fault. It was his nature.”

“He needs to change his nature. And he needs a name. Since he doesn't seem to want to move on, you'd better come up with one. And please don't play the radio while I'm gone. Or smoke.”

“How can I play the radio when you have the keys?” Irma's smirk didn't fool Jazz one bit and she noticed there was no promise given on keeping the car a No Smoking zone.

“Maybe because you found a way to do it, as I discovered that morning I left Nick's and you'd played the radio all night.”

“I was listening to a very good all night station.”

“It still killed the battery!”

“Which you brought back to life.”

Jazz shook her head as she got out of the car and closed the door behind her. A burst of chilly wind coming down the hills wrapped around her, making her grateful she had zipped the warm liner into the waist-length black leather jacket that topped her dark purple silk blouse and black jeans. She had her hair pulled back in a tight French braid revealing silver hoops with four moonstones embedded in the metal along with her favorite moonstone pendant and ring. Since she wasn't sure what kind of curse she was going to be dealing with, she wanted to look her witchy best.

Considering the expensive real estate, she was surprised when the lady of the house answered the door instead of a maid.

“Ms. Tremaine. I've been expecting you.” Patrice Sanibel smiled and offered her hand. She was the picture of the ideal trophy wife wearing a peachy-pink silk T-shirt and matching fitted slacks. Her high-heeled slides matched the outfit perfectly. Her golden brown hair was streaked with highlights and tucked behind her ears. Jazz had no doubt the diamonds winking from her ears were real and flawless. “Thank you for coming. Would you care for some coffee or something cold to drink?” Her smile turned a bit uncertain. It was then that Jazz upped her age a good ten years. She guessed Patrice had seen an excellent plastic surgeon.

Jazz was surprised by the warm welcome, since most of her clients were either so freaked out they were ready to offer their firstborn to get rid of the curse or acted superior as if it was a major inconvenience for her to be there. Instead, Patrice was acting as if Jazz was a friend who just happened to stop by for a visit.

“Uh, iced tea would be nice,” she replied, figuring the woman needed this chat time first. And it might even help her relax.

Patrice led her outside to an umbrella-shaded table on a patio overlooking a swimming pool that could have easily handled the entire U.S. Olympic team with room left over. A fountain in the center of the pool sprayed a watery rainbow into the air. The spa looked as if it was part of a fairy tale grotto. Since the day was a bit chilly, patio heaters were on, adding necessary warmth. For once, it was a minimum smog day, so Jazz kicked back and enjoyed the view of the city. She loved the funky three-story Victorian house near the beach that she and Krebs shared, but she wouldn't mind being up here at night when the lights burst forth in their colorful glory. Maybe they'd let her come up and hang out. She'd even bring a nice bottle of wine. Provide some munchies. Maybe even bring Nick up. She wondered how they'd feel about a vampire in their house.

She slipped on her sunglasses and allowed herself to slide into the zone.

Oh yeah, she so could do this.

“Here we are.” Patrice walked out carrying a tray bearing two glasses filled with iced tea, a small glass bowl bearing wedges of lemons and limes, and a china plate filled with treats that had Jazz's mouth watering.

“I rarely indulge since it means extra time with my trainer,” Patrice explained, transferring a small raspberry tart to her plate.

“Mrs. Sanibel,” Jazz began, after squeezing a lime wedge in her tea and taking a sip.

“Patrice, please.”

Jazz nodded. “Patrice. You have a lovely home.”

Her face lit up. “Thank you. It was built in 1926 for a popular silent film star. We moved in about fifteen years ago. I had discovered a box of old photographs showing how the house looked back then and I wanted to re-create that ambiance. I was lucky enough to track down and find many of the original furnishings.” She looked over the area with the air of a woman who enjoyed her surroundings for what they gave her and not for its value. Jazz silently bet that Patrice's husband only saw the dollar value in every blade of grass.

“Patrice, I realize this may be difficult for you.” Jazz knew she would have to force the issue or sit here and make nice for longer than necessary.

The other woman's coral-glossed smile slipped just enough to let her know she held on to her control by a thread.

“My husband can never know you were here,” she said softly, as if fearing she would be overheard.

Which explained why no household help hovered around.

Jazz took her time debating between a fudgy pecan tart and something that looked rich and decadent. In the end, she chose both. She didn't have a trainer ruling her weight.

“Patrice, why do you feel you have been cursed?”

Patrice's smile remained fixed on her lips, but tears now glistened in her eyes. She kept just enough control to keep them from falling and smudging her makeup. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Please, bring your tea and plate.” She gestured toward a set of sliding glass doors that led into a master suite. The suite was larger than Jazz's entire floor at home.

Jazz couldn't help herself. She envied the tiny spotlights set above the bed, equally small twinkling lights embedded in the walls, and a bed large enough to house a Third World nation. Shades of amber, taupe, and turquoise gave the room the feel of a restful oasis. Jazz could easily have curled up on the bed and taken a nap. But as she walked further into the room she felt a shift in the air. It was subtle, but there, teasing the edge of her perception.

She circled the room, seeking the spot where she sensed the magick was the strongest. She found it the moment she reached the doors shielding the walk-in closet. She glanced at Patrice who stood with her arms wrapped around her body as if she was cold. She looked downright miserable as she nodded.

Taking that as an invitation, Jazz opened the double-doors and stared at racks of clothing that rivaled most department stores. The minute she crossed the threshold she felt the sensation of something wrong smack her in the face.

Oh yeah, someone had done a magickal number on the lady.

For a moment she studied the small monitor set in the wall that appeared to hold an inventory of every item in the closet. Shelves held shoes of every color, heel height, and for every occasion. Another held handbags. Dresses, evening gowns, and casual clothing were categorized according to need and color. She even found the “hidden” safe that she was sure held some of Patrice's less expensive jewelry—meaning anything that cost under a million. Everything a Hollywood trophy wife would need for her lifestyle.

Except something tainted the interior. It grew stronger as she moved deeper into the closet until it was strong enough she fancied she could smell it.

“Some kind of illusion spell,” she murmured after a moment of allowing it to sink in.

“There's something in here, isn't there?” Patrice stood in the doorway, her arms still wrapped around her body.

Jazz nodded. Her fingers itched to pluck a teal fine wool dress from the rack that looked as if it would feel like silk against her skin and see how it would look on her. “What made you suspect your closet had been cursed?”

“It was nothing in particular. I came back from a week at a spa getaway with a couple of friends. When I walked in here I felt a sense of something wrong. I thought our daughter had raided my closet again and put it down to that.”

“But there was more,” Jazz prompted, having a pretty good idea where this was going.

“It wasn't long after my return that I noticed that people started treating me differently. They acted as if I wasn't there. Not even a subtle snub, but I didn't feel as if it was the usual snub I've seen among the people I know. Yet, all of a sudden I didn't receive as many lunch invitations as I used to and friends didn't call as often to suggest a shopping trip. Even my hairdresser wasn't readily available as before.” Patrice sat down in a chair near the closet. “I—ah—I thought that my husband's position was in jeopardy. If you are on the way out, you suddenly don't exist among your circle. Then I thought he might be having an affair.” She looked away, uncomfortable with divulging private fears to a stranger. Her discomfort turned to embarrassment. “At first, I thought of hiring a private investigator to find out the truth. I felt foolish doing so, so instead I saw...a psychic.” She grimaced.

Jazz continued prowling the area, looking for the hot spot, so to speak. Clothing and shoes—she noticed they were in her size—made it a bit difficult.

“Who did you see?”

“Marlena. She's in Venice.”

Jazz nodded. “I know of her. She's very good. What did she say?”

Patrice took a deep breath. “The minute I walked in, she said that my clothes had been hexed by my husband and if I wanted to have my life back again, I would need to have the hex removed. I remembered my husband mentioning how you had eliminated a curse from something in Martin Reynolds' house.” Amusement lit up her eyes. “And what you did to him when he tried to cheat you. I never liked Martin, so I knew you were the right person to contact.”

Jazz grinned. “I hope it took him all night to bury every tiny piece from that smashed cookie jar.” She paused by a rack of handbags. She pushed a button that caused the rack to roll back and another rack to roll forward. She rose up on her tiptoes and peered into the top rack that was empty.

Yep, right there. Small, unnoticeable, and powerful enough to render a woman socially invisible to any who knew her.

Jazz was excellent at curse elimination and she knew she could take care of the charm with little effort. At the same time, she had a few revenge spells up her sleeve and it sounded like Patrice's bastard of a husband would need a few, or ten, to bring him in line for doing something like this to an obviously nice woman who didn't deserve this treatment.

Jazz shook out her arms and hands as she thought about the best way to handle the charm. “Patrice, could you bring me a piece of your husband's clothing? Say, a handkerchief or T-shirt?”

When Patrice returned holding a snowy white T-shirt, Jazz stopped her at the threshold. “Until I get this taken care of, I don't think you should come in,” she suggested, taking the shirt out of her hands. She returned to the racks and reached up, using the shirt to pick up the small charm. Even through the silky cotton Jazz could feel the magick humming through her body. She didn't like what she held one bit. She would have liked nothing better than to place it on the floor and smash it to smithereens, but she knew some charms had a failsafe built in that would allow the charm to backfire on the destroyer. The last time she faced one of them her car was blown up. The T-Bird, and Irma, survived, but the few minutes Jazz thought they were gone were the longest of her life. It wasn't something she cared to repeat.

“What is it?” Patrice remained just outside the threshold and craned her neck for a closer look.

“A charm holding an illusion spell,” Jazz explained.

“Illusion? Do you mean he put some kind of
spell
on me?” Horror coated her words like ice.

“Not on you. The spell was created to basically infiltrate your clothing. It was hidden up high where it couldn't be seen, but had the power to cover your closet. The illusion was that you didn't exist.” She carefully wrapped the fabric around the charm and set it on a small table in the middle of the closet.

“Invisible? But you see me? Others have.” Patrice shook her head, having difficulty in understanding.

“It's not that kind of invisible. Essentially, you become someone beneath their notice.” She searched for an easy example. “The way many people view cleaning staff and waiters in a restaurant. They don't exist in their world.”

Patrice covered her mouth with her hands. “Who would make such a disgusting thing?”

“Not all leave a signature. This is one of those. I don't think this was crafted in the States.” Jazz sifted through her brain, looking for the right counter-spell. She knew she had to be careful to ensure it didn't backfire on her. While there were times she didn't mind flying under the radar, she didn't want to be invisible to her friends. Although that kind of invisibility could come in handy around any enemies she encountered.

“Cole was in Brazil the month before my spa vacation,” Patrice said. Realization hit her hard. “And here I thought he changed toward me because so many others had also. But it wasn't the same. His was deliberate. Why would he do this to me? I can't believe he hates me that much! I've done so much for him. Sat on committees, planned social functions, attended every premiere he thought was important, made friends with women who don't have a thought within their heads other than their next Botox treatment.” Patrice paced back and forth, her face taut with fury. “Perhaps he's not having an affair now, but if he did something this horrible that means he's planning something. He's planning to get rid of me, and what better way than for me to be snubbed by everyone. He knew I'd end up feeling so rejected by everyone important in the business that I'd leave him instead of him leaving me because I wouldn't want his career to suffer. That
bastard!
It was my family's money that gave him his start! My father gave him the needed financing for his production company! By the time I finish with him I'll own that company!”

Jazz smiled. She always believed that determination and sometimes anger were definitely better than self-pity. And there was nothing better than a Hollywood wife on the warpath. She was positive Patrice could come out of this situation much better than if the charm hadn't been found and she'd martyred herself on her husband's behalf. She also guessed the woman knew where a lot of figurative bodies were buried. As her eyes fell on the cloth bundle, an idea started to form.

“Patrice, where is your husband's closet?”

“Why...?” The woman's gaze followed Jazz's. Comprehension hit fast. She nodded, a hard decisive jerk of the head. She led Jazz to the other side of the room on the other side of a bathroom Jazz knew she could also easily move into. She gestured for Patrice to stay out of the room as she walked inside and searched for just the right place. After ten minutes, she found what she was looking for. She turned and looked at Patrice.

“It's your choice.”

Patrice's chin quivered, but she took a deep breath and looked stronger than she had since Jazz first arrived. “Do it.”

Jazz set the bundle down and carefully unwrapped the charm.

“Charm that hides. Charm that bides. Hold the one who wished this spell. Set her free. Leave her be. She will rise and he will fell.” She winced at the bad grammar even if it did rhyme. “Let him who wished it have the darkness that covered her. Because I say so, damn it!” When she touched the charm, she felt the immediate shift in the magick move from feminine to masculine. Once it was placed in the corner of a high empty shelf, she felt the power fan out and engulf the room. In no time, it had literally become a part of the closet and every piece of clothing.

“Is it done?” Patrice asked when Jazz stepped out of the room.

She nodded. “From now on anything he wears will in the same sense render him invisible to anyone in his surroundings. Just as what happened to you, it won't be in the literal sense, but he'll find himself without lunch invitations, golf dates, movie premieres.” She grinned.

Patrice squared her shoulders and walked over to her closet, stepping inside. Clothing, shoes, and handbags started flying out. Within minutes, the floor was filled with designer wear and accessories. When she re-appeared she was breathing hard but looked happier than when Jazz first arrived.

“It seems only right I do a little shopping this afternoon,” she announced. “In fact, if there's anything here you'd like, you're more than welcome to it. I'd say we wear the same size.”

***

“I thought you went in there to banish a curse. How did you manage to go shopping too?” Irma stared at Jazz exiting the house loaded down with clothing on hangers and shopping bags dangling from each arm. In no time, Jazz had the trunk filled so she dumped several bags piled high with shoe boxes in Irma's lap. They promptly fell to the seat.

“The woman owned never-worn Jimmy Choos and Manolos to die for and now they're all mine,” Jazz announced starting up the car. “Along with some choice Prada and Kate Spade bags,” she said with a reverential sigh, glancing at the bags in the passenger seat. “And the clothes,” she sighed, “she's my size.”

“Why would she give you all of these?” Irma peered inside the bags that rested through her ample bosom.

“She's redoing her closet. Among other things.” Jazz thought of the woman who wasted no time taking charge of her life. She guessed that ole “King” Cole would be in for quite a few surprises when he got home to his castle that night. Especially since when she left the house Patrice was already on the phone with the home security agency requesting someone change all the security codes and locks. She also had put a call in to her attorney. Jazz doubted Cole would be staying at any five-star hotels anytime soon.

“She gave you all this used clothing instead of paying you?” Irma wrinkled her nose.

Jazz thought of the very nice check tucked in her jacket pocket that she'd be depositing in the bank before she headed home with her loot. “Oh, I got that too. The woman is a saint.” She started up the engine and took off with the radio blaring Wayne Newton. “Not the station I had it set to,” she said with a scowl.

“I had to have something to do while you were in there being given new clothes and...” she leaned over and sniffed, “eating chocolate when you know very well I sat out here with nothing to do.”

“Then don't come with me next time.” She briefly toyed with the idea of coaxing Irma to ride along with Krebs in his hot Porsche. Since she could finally leave the T-Bird there was no reason why Irma couldn't go to any car she chose.

“Even if I can leave, I'm so used to this seat that it's not easy to always exit the car. There's times I feel as if I'm still cursed to stay in the car,” Irma argued.

“Don't say that! It makes it sound like I'm still cursed with you and I thought we'd taken care of that.” Jazz zipped down the road, eager to sort through her new wardrobe. She wondered what Nick would think of a little black strapless number that was perfect for the dance floor.

Then there were all those La Perla scraps of silk and lace. She had never owned lingerie that exquisite and she knew Nick would appreciate them even more than she did.

She would just have to make sure he didn't try to rip them off her. Lusty vampires were so hard on clothing.

***

Wearing cocoa brown yoga pants and a gold-colored crop-top that revealed more than it covered, Jazz sat barefoot and cross-legged on the carpet, gazing at everything she had laid out on a purple silk cloth. She had arisen that morning with the intention of doing anything it took to stop whatever troubled her sleep.

“No more bad dreams,” she murmured, picking up a purple bag and adding a mixture of mugwort, lemonbalm, lavender, chamomile, and valerian. Before she pulled the drawstring tight she added a milky blue moonstone. “Sweet dreams each night. Sleep well and tight.” She thought of the unsettling nights she'd been having. “Because I say so, damn it!”

Not about to stop there, she flattened her body to the floor and carefully nudged a broom under the bed, the bristles pointing to the foot. It was her own method of a dreamcatcher. “No more bad dreams.”

She moved around the bedroom and sitting room lighting cleansing incense. She knew it would take more than enchanting the bed. She needed to treat all the rooms in the house. Once she finished, she felt a calming air float around her, infusing her with serenity. Surroundings guaranteed to give her a good night's sleep.

“It's all magick,” she whispered with a smile.

***

It was a simple task. Run in, get her money from Dweezil, and run out. She figured it wouldn't take more than thirty seconds, tops.

Except she was dealing with Dweezil.

The minute Jazz stepped inside the customer area of All Creatures Limo Service she knew Dweezil had finally done it.

He had lost his ever-lovin' mind.

After Dweezil fired Mindy and she left to start up a car service fully backed by her family's money, he had gone through office staff like a cold sufferer went through tissues. Every time Jazz came in, someone new manned the counter. A few were pretty decent. Most of them weren't. But this new one...

“May I help you?” This receptionist's voice was low and deliberate as if she had to carefully think through each word.

Hmm, this one could last longer than most.
Jazz stared at the tall, rail-thin woman with unhealthy grayish skin. Her hair could only be described as dusty white and was pulled back in a severe bun. Without even a smidge of makeup for color, the woman looked like a living, so to speak, black-and-white photograph. As she spoke, tiny flakes of skin drifted down to the counter. She was falling apart. Literally.

“I'm Jazz. I'm one of the drivers.”

“Oh yes.” She tapped a pencil against the counter causing the little fingernail on her left hand to fall off and bounce on the surface. She ignored the nail lying by her hand as she picked up the phone. “I'll announce you to Master Dweezil.”

“No need.” Jazz breezed past, wrinkling her nose at the faintly musty smell of long dead flesh.

“But he insists all visitors be announced!” As she spun around, a few patches of loose skin drifted through the air.

“He insists on a lot. That doesn't mean he gets it.” Jazz opened the inner office door and slipped inside, closing it behind her. “Honestly, D, with so many creatures looking for work, you have to hire a zombie?” She dropped into the chair in front of his desk. “And insisting she call you Master Dweezil? A bit much, isn't it?”

Dweezil looked up from the paperwork he had been reading and groaned. For a moment it looked as if the incredibly hairy bits above his eyebrows were wriggling on their own. She always swore those things were real caterpillars. “Whaddya want?”

“It's payday.” She smiled brightly. “So don't worry, I won't be here long.”

He opened his desk drawer, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it across the desk. “As if my fuckin' life isn't bad enough.”

“Proof of that is standing out front behind your counter. Someone whose nails and skin fall off isn't exactly good for customer relations. I won't even go into office hygiene requirements.”

“Grevia's a good worker,” he mumbled, his skin turning a darker olive shade while a burnt almond smell emanated from his skin. Proof he was feeling pretty agitated. But then Dweezil usually was disconcerted. “So don't give her any shit.”

“Yeah, like my complaints trump your tantrums.” Jazz narrowed her gaze in thought when Dweezil didn't snap back at her. Snitty moods were his natural state. A downcast Dweezil was unusual. “Okay, what's wrong now?”

For a moment she thought he was going to cry and she didn't think she could handle that. Not that Dweezil had anything to recommend him in the looks department, but a morose Dweezil was downright scary.

“What has me going?” he repeated. “Just the worst thing in the world. I've lost some of my best clients. It was bad enough that you lodged a complaint against Tyge Foulshadow and he was banished to the Realm of the Undesirables.” His voice ended up on a high note. For a moment the windows shimmered as if they'd shatter from the sound. His normal raspy ground glass voice could cause a person's head to pound. When he was upset, well, ears had been known to bleed.