Kindling the Moon (14 page)

“Oh yes, we were quite sure,” Mrs. Tamlin said. “Everyone in the magical community knew who they were. They had several occult books published in the 1980s and '90s. Let's see,
The New Aeon and You
, that was an early one.
Why Magick Matters
, that was popular.”

“Yes, I'm aware of their publishing career,” I said impatiently, cutting her off before she recited every title they'd written.

“Well, that's how we recognized them—their photo was on the back of all their books.”

That was true. I knew that during that time, my parents were representing our lodge in a series of annual occult meet-ups around the country. Plus, they were on friendly terms with Magus Dempsey. So maybe they really
were
present during the third murder; it still didn't mean that they were guilty.

“So, you walked in and recognized the Duvals, but who was the third person?”

“Wish we knew,” Mrs. Tamlin said wistfully.

“We only saw him for a second or two,” Mr. Tamlin confirmed. “He was turning to run out the door.”

“And probably headed straight to our house to lay down that confusion spell,” Mrs. Tamlin added.

“Did you have any contact with the Duvals after this? Do
you know if they'd been crossed by the same confusion spell?” I wasn't even sure if I believed them, but spells like that did exist, and it would certainly explain why my parents never mentioned being present during the Dempsey murder: Maybe they didn't remember it.

Her husband shrugged. “We never talked to them again. It's not like they're in the phone book.” Hardly. Even when we weren't on the run from the law, my parents kept a low profile. My mom used to be a marketing manager; back then she publicly used her maiden name, Artaud. After my parents were accused of the murders, dozens of her former coworkers came forward to bitch about how they were now scarred for life that they'd been working with a serial killer. Never mind that she'd been one of their favorite colleagues.

Mr. Tamlin continued. “But I wouldn't be surprised if that strange man had cast the same spell on the Duvals. They didn't know who he was either. They were just there to meet with Magus Dempsey and had walked in a few seconds before we did.”

“We were all shocked and trying to figure out what to do,” Mrs. Tamlin said. “There's something called the Code of Silence among magical orders—”

“Yes, I'm aware of that,” I said.

“Well, it applies not only to the work we do in our order, but it also prevents us from talking to outsiders about order business.”

I scratched the edge of my wig; it was starting to get itchy. “But surely that doesn't apply when it comes to murder.”

Mr. Tamlin shook his head. “We discussed it with the Duvals and agreed to share what we'd seen with heads of our orders—let them decide how they wanted to proceed. We called the police anonymously and parted ways.”

Unbelievable. I knew all orders operated outside the law, but this was insane.

“What did the third man look like?” I asked. “Can you describe him?”

“He was a young gentleman with white hair—”

“Blond hair,” Mr. Tamlin corrected. “Was it blond?” his wife replied, poking a finger inside her bun to scratch her head. “Yes, maybe you're right. Anyway, he was much younger than us, dressed in his ritual robes.”

“Oh? Ritual robes? What color?”

“Blue, I think,” Mr. Tamlin replied as he enthusiastically sucked on his candy.

“No, the robes were definitely black,” Mrs. Tamlin said impatiently.

“It was dark,” her husband said. “There were candles lit. The room was prepared for our ghost-cleansing ritual. All the furniture was moved back as it usually was.”

“What were the Duvals wearing?”

He shrugged. “Everyday clothes. Enola was wearing a short skirt, I remember that much. What a looker that gal was. Dark brown hair, long sexy legs—”

“Frank, keep it in your pants, why don't you?” Mrs. Tamlin scolded, much to my satisfaction.
That's my mom you're talking about, you dirty old man.

He muttered to himself and leaned back against the love seat.

At least I knew that my parents weren't in their robes at the time, which only solidified my belief that they didn't summon the demon. Along with many other people their age, they were strictly old-school magicians who always donned robes before any rituals. The kind of impromptu magick that I often performed was frowned upon by the order. If my
parents knew that I bound demons inside my bar, I'd get a long lecture about the difference between public and sacred spaces and the importance of the Code of Silence among magicians. Hell, if I wasn't the stupid “Moonchild,” I'd probably get booted out just like the Tamlins.

“Okay,” I said, “So, one man was fleeing the house while the Duvals stayed, but you also saw the demon, right? What did it look like?”

“It was really dark,” Mrs. Tamlin started.
Oh, for the love of Pete
, I thought. Maybe coming out here was a colossal waste of my time after all. “And the demon was beginning to de-materialize, like I said, but it was white as snow and tall. Big, spiraling horns. Red eyes.”

“More pink than red,” Mr. Tamlin corrected. “Had a weird tongue too.”

“But there
was
one thing we remembered years later.”

“I thought you said the hoodoo priestess uncrossed you and that your memories came back ‘sharp as a tack.' ”

Mr. Tamlin gave me a sheepish look. “Well, almost all of them. A few things didn't come back for years … one being the demon's talons. I'd never seen anything like them in my life.”

“Frank's right,” his wife agreed. “The beast had four arms—two long ones below, and a short set of arms above those. The short ones on top had a single talon on the right arm, but the left arm was missing its mate.”

“Really? That's interesting.” That sure wasn't part of the caliph's description.

“Isn't it? There was a hole in its stumpy hand where a talon once was. It had been extracted like a tooth. But that's not all—the remaining talon on the other arm was about the size of a banana, made of crystal,” Mrs. Tamlin.

“Crystal?” I replied incredulously.

“That's right, crystal. Or maybe glass. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“No, I haven't,” I admitted.

“I think it might have been made of diamond,” Mr. Tamlin amended. “Either way, it was clear and shined like glass in the candlelight before the demon disappeared.”

Then a sudden realization hit me; my heart rate instantly doubled.

One of the unusual aspects of the Black Lodge slayings was the murder weapon: a glass knife. Along with two other pieces of testimonial evidence, the glass knife was the foundation of the police case and led to the warrant being issued for my parents' arrest. Along with my parents' fingerprints— which were planted by Luxe—was another unidentified print. Maybe that print belonged to the real killer, maybe even the Tamlins' robed mystery man?

“Are you saying that the glass knife mentioned in the case file was really a glass talon?”

“Yes,” they confirmed in unison.

Okay, this was crazy, if it was true, but there were still too many strange things that didn't fit. “If your Code of Silence prevented you from going to the police about the Portland murder, then why did you break it for the talk show?” I asked.

Mr. Tamlin snorted in disgust. “After the Duvals were accused, we were shocked. We'd managed to clear most of the confusion spell by this point, you see, enough to know they weren't guilty. Like we said earlier, we talked to the Luxe leader and told him what we'd remembered. He advised us to keep quiet and promised to look into it. Then he was attacked and our temple went into lockdown. No classes, no services, and we weren't allowed communication with any of the upper officers. Then the media went crazy.”

“Since our own leader wasn't talking to us,” Mrs. Tamlin explained, “we tried to contact the E∴E∴ on our own, to help clear their names, but we could never get past their Bodymaster. She thought we were some sort of spies for Luxe. Then the Duvals died in that accident. Our son suggested we tell our story on the talk show, but that didn't work out very well either, as you know.”

“We tried,” Mr. Tamlin said with a sigh, “but no one wanted to hear the truth. The Black Lodge slayings were committed by a demon. And I'd swear on the sacred name of Hecate herself that the person who summoned it was the robed man who ran out the door of Magus Dempsey's house that day.”

Hecate herself, huh? I still wasn't completely convinced that their memories were a hundred percent correct. But it was clear that, wacko or not, they certainly believed what they were saying. And if this mysterious robed man who fled the scene really
was
the person who summoned the albino demon, how was I going to find out who the hell he was?

Then we had the enigmatic glass talon. Let's just say the Tamlins
were
telling the truth, and this really was the murder weapon. And maybe my parents had been crossed by the same confusion spell and never remembered the third murder. They were still present during the fourth attempt and saw the albino demon there; surely they noticed something as strange as talons made of glass. So why hadn't the caliph mentioned it in his description?

I returned from San Francisco to find my driveway occupied by a large, backed-in truck. I parked the rental behind it, my rear bumper nearly sticking out into the street. A dense row of cedar trees created a natural screen along the front of my yard, ending at the driveway, so prying eyes couldn't see the front of my house. Most times, that was exactly what I wanted; it gave me privacy, and privacy was the only reason I owned a home instead of rented an apartment. That day, however, it was a nuisance.

I pushed up my sleeve to activate a sigil that rendered me nearly invisible. Not
literally
. It just encouraged people to disregard my presence by tricking their senses. Like the other sigils on my arm, this magick is temporary. It also requires a lot more Heka than some of others; keeping it charged was physically draining, so I'd have to make it quick.

My servitor hadn't returned to me yet, so I hoped to God Riley Cooper hadn't already found me. Just in case, I prepared myself by retrieving a small ceremonial dagger from my purse. It wasn't all that sharp, but it was better than nothing.

I peeked inside the cab of the unknown vehicle. Nothing. Then I stood on my tiptoes and surveyed the bed of the truck.
The tailgate was down. There were several enormous bags of pebbles and some other red landscaping material. I certainly hadn't scheduled any kind of professional yard work; my idea of lawn maintenance was paying the twelve-year-old kid down the street twenty bucks once a month to mow.

A loud thump came from the backyard. Maintaining the invisibility spell, I strode past my side door until I rounded the corner of my house. Bent over a wheelbarrow was someone in a pair of dirty jeans. I sidestepped the wheelbarrow in a slow circle, then jumped when the person stood up and turned around.

“Dammit, Lon,” I said as I dropped my ward.

Upon seeing me, he let out a low yelp and nearly fell over backward.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you scared the shit out of me!”

“Excuse me for being wary about a stranger in my yard,” I snapped.

“I'm not a stranger, and how the hell did you sneak up on me like that? You appeared out of thin air.”

“It's a spell.”

“That's one hell of a spell,” he remarked.

I nonchalantly motioned toward my white tattoo like it wasn't a big deal, but I was pretty damn proud of the spell. Like my imp portal, it was something unique I created after I got out on my own. The basic sigil was Armenian in origin, and I had to tweak it and experiment before I finally hit on the right results.

“Why haven't you answered my calls?” I asked.

He wiped his hands on his T-shirt. The man was covered with red clay. It was on his shirt, the front of his jeans, and both hands. “You called? When? I got your message about going up to San Francisco. How'd that go?”

“Not that. I called you again several times over the last couple of hours on the ride back.” I stepped forward to wipe a small streak of clay off his chin that was staining one side of his mustache. He flinched; guess I wasn't the only one who didn't like people touching me. “Hold still,” I reprimanded. My motherly attention didn't help the streak, it only transferred some of the clay to my fingers. “What the hell are you doing with all this? Wait, this isn't normal clay—it's red ochre.”

“I must have had the ringer turned off, and yes, it's red ochre. Slightly hydrated hematite powder, if you want to get technical. Don't breathe it in. It'll irritate your lungs.”

“Holy shit! I've never seen it in this kind of quantity. There must be a small fortune here!”

He shrugged. “I get it from a local mineral supplier who mines it in Russia.”

“Lon?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what'? What the hell are you doing with all of this?”

His face relaxed as a grin spread across it. “I'm putting up a moat around your castle.”

I arched a brow and waited for the rest.

“A ward,” he clarified. “The same one I put up around my house last spring. The one motor-mouth spilled the beans about yesterday.”

“Ah, that one.” I tapped the flat of my blade against my thigh. “Jupe is at home, I take it?”

“Yep.” He turned away to continue dumping the damp hematite powder into the wheelbarrow.

“And?”

“And what? You want me to cite the source I got the ward from?”

“Maybe for starters. Then you can tell me how you managed to charge it.”