Love Potion #9 (26 page)

“She raised me since my parents died and we used to talk all the time. But since she's been in the hospital, she seems to be forgetting English. She's stubborn, though, so maybe she just
refuses
to speak it.”

Lilith watched his fingers tap nervously and thought of another stubborn
Rom
grandmother she had known. “What does she speak?” she asked, already fairly certain of the answer.

“
Rom
,” he declared and Lilith's heart skipped. “Gypsy. She's a Gypsy, I guess we all are. But now, I can't even understand her,” he confessed with rising frustration. “No one ever taught me the language. It's like she's pulled away to a place where I can't reach her anymore. I can't help her, or explain what's happening, what the doctors are doing. She has to be scared.”

Lilith's sympathetic heart twisted a little. “But she must have told you something, otherwise you wouldn't be here.”

“Yeah. She taught me that question last weekend, told me to look for dark-haired, dark-eyed fortune-tellers.” He smiled sadly. “She sent me on a search for a Gypsy fortune-teller who could speak
Rom
to her. It's the only English she's spoken in a month and she refused to understand anything after that. The whole thing is nuts, it's never going to work, but I have to try.” He frowned and heaved a sigh in frustration, his gaze flicking back to Lilith. “What else am I going to do?”

Lilith studied him and saw more than he probably wanted her to see. “She's very ill.”

His lips tightened, and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.” He shrugged and straightened, deliberately looking at the torn pages once more. “But like I said, it's not your problem. Thanks for letting me dump a bit. Hey, do you know where Mirvell Street is?”

“It's just west of here. It runs south.”

But he wouldn't find any
Rom
at the occult store there, Lilith knew. Her conviction wavered ever so slightly when she considered the difficulty of the task he had taken on, no less his determination to chase down every lead.

“Why don't you give me your name and a way to reach you?” she suggested, without ever intending to do so. The boy looked up hopefully, but Lilith tried to keep her words light. “You never know how things might come together - the world works in mysterious ways.”

He smiled suddenly, then delved in his backpack for a pen and paper. “Now, you sound like my grandmother,” he commented. He bent to write out an address in a precise hand and probably missed Lilith's quick intake of breath.

Then, he thanked her and was gone, his footsteps turning west when he left Ryan's store.

Unfortunately Lilith couldn't wipe the exchange from her mind as easily as that. And she knew it wasn't her imagination that his sheet of paper seemed to generate an insistent heat of its own from the depths of her pocket.

Obviously, she was just jangled from sharing the story of his earlier demise with Mitch on Saturday night. That must be the only explanation for any uncertainty that had crept into her mind.

Because Lilith
knew
she could not do this. There was no question of it. In her mind's eye, Lilith saw again the condemnation in a dozen pairs of dark eyes, etched in the features of those she thought cared for her. The memory was painfully vivid, now that she had dredged it up, and the ache of rejection burned in her chest as though she had just been knifed. Lilith had been judged, found unacceptable, and cast out by those she loved.

She was
mahrime
, after all.

Time had not erased that. No doubt, this old
Rom
woman would reject her, too. To visit her would be inviting a replay of that painful experience.

Lilith just couldn't do it.

The Hermit card, though, separated itself from the deck as she absently shuffled, and Lilith's fingers hovered over it. The man pictured there was elderly, like a guardian in a fairy tale or a pilgrim seeking penitence.

Or like a wise teacher pointing out the thread of meaning that might otherwise be missed in the great tapestry of life.

Lilith thought of Dritta; she thought of a stubborn
Rom
grandmother dying in the alien world of a
gadje
hospital. The prevalence of white alone would make her crazy, white being considered a fiercely unlucky color by the
Rom
.

Lilith frowned when compassion coursed through her and defiantly shuffled The Hermit back into the deck. She even managed to smile for the next person who stepped up to her table.

 

* * *

 

The whole story fell apart in Mitch's hands. Someone had been busy doing some major intimidation. He didn't much care where the leak was, he just wanted to get to the truth and get it on the front page.

His source had not only clammed up, but disappeared.

The longer it took to confirm his story through other sources, the greater the chance that the competition would catch a whiff of what was going on. Mitch met with the managing editor at close of business and that man made the call.

“We don't have enough to run on, not for our reputation,” he said with a frown. “You've got another day, Davison. But at four tomorrow, I don't want to be disappointed.” He shook a finger at Mitch. “This is good stuff. I want it.”

Mitch nodded and ducked out of his boss's office. He eyed his watch, knew he had to pick up the kids. He stuffed every file he could imagine was remotely pertinent into his briefcase and closed up his laptop.

Isabel looked on enquiringly.

“I've got one more day and it's in here somewhere,” Mitch informed her grimly. “I'll find another way to get this story, if it takes me all goddamned night.”

But when Mitch got into the office the next morning, desperately short of clues and REM sleep, the managing editor was waiting for him.

Not a good sign.

“What was the name of that source who rescinded on you?”

Mitch told him and his boss grimaced. “What's wrong?” Mitch asked.

“He's dead, and not of old age. Maybe it really is a suicide – either way, the story just got bigger.” The managing editor looked Mitch right in the eye, handing him a piece of paper. Mitch scanned the notes. “We picked it up on police frequencies – they're down there right now. Get your ass down there, take another day, but get the
whole
story.”

Isabel was practically bouncing in her chair in anticipation as the managing editor walked away. She looked positively conservative, the funky color rinsed out of her hair, her floral dress decidedly feminine. “Can I come?”

“Nope, there won't be much there,” Mitch said, pulling out his keys again without even making it to his desk. Thank goodness he had driven in today.

There might not be much to see, but either way, he wasn't going to take Isabel to a crime scene. She really didn't need to be exposed to that kind of gritty reality just yet. “Call that accountant again and hit him hard at lunch. Someone's dead and he can save the world, something like that.”

Isabel pouted. “Bill will spout professional standards again.”

Bill? Well, she
had
laid it on. “Then let him be an anonymous source. He liked you, Isabel, go get him.”

Isabel suddenly showed great interest in the papers on her desk, her change of manner catching Mitch's attention. “What?” she demanded when he didn't leave. “Bill's kind of cute.”

“What about your bike courier? The one with the legs?”

Isabel waved dismissively. “He was way too much trouble.”

Mitch shook his head in amazement. “And you're done with him” – he snapped his fingers – “just like that.”

“Well, yeah. It's not a crime to know what you want.”

Mitch marveled that there should be two people in his life who thought members of the opposite sex were disposable accessories. He could have argued whether Isabel really did know what she wanted, but he'd had that argument too many times with Kurt not to know the ending.

“Nice choice of dress, by the way,” he teased instead, guessing the reason for the intern's choice.

Isabel turned scarlet, then wadded up a sheet of computer paper and flung it at Mitch. “So, I was going to call Bill anyway.”

Mitch ducked and ran.

“Davison, you be careful out there!”

Oh, yeah, he was going to be. Mitch had an awful lot to live for these days.

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday afternoon, Lilith was in her yard. The sunlight was golden, the butterflies were flitting, the humidity that had filled the air for all of August was gone. She could smell the tang of autumn in the air, and already see the change in the shade of green in every leaf. The nights had become suddenly cool and sleep was easier.

Everything should have been perfect. But Lilith edged her beds and weeded the garden, oblivious to the peace around her. She hadn't seen Mitch since Sunday and acknowledged that his absence was disappointing. With that stubborn grandmother persistently poking her nose into Lilith's thoughts – and Lilith shoving her out again – the few weeds in the garden didn't have a chance.

Quite suddenly, Lilith heard a scraping. It wasn't a sound that belonged in her yard. When she heard a sniffling, she looked for D'Artagnan, but he was nowhere in sight.

And neither was anything else. The garden suddenly seemed to be very still.

Then came the unmistakable sound of scratching. Something was digging in the dirt.

Something was digging a hole in her garden!

Lilith turned slowly, looking for the rodent responsible and determined to take action. Her survey was half complete when a whole lot of dog wriggled under the fence, bounded into her yard, and shook several buckets worth of topsoil out of his fur.

Cooley froze when he spotted Lilith.

She stared back at him, realizing a little too late the mission she had forgotten.

The wolfhound's nose and paws were encrusted with dirt, his gaze locked on Lilith. She suddenly had a very bad feeling and took a cautious step back. Cooley's lip curled, and Lilith saw just how very big his canine teeth were. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

He snarled.

Oh, her antidote had worked very well. Maybe too well.

At this inopportune moment, Lilith remembered reading somewhere that a wolfhound's jaw was strong enough to snap a man's neck.

The dog growled.

Lilith backed away carefully, trying desperately to hide her fear but not coming anywhere near to doing so.

Cooley took a step forward, and Lilith took one back. The dog hunkered low as though preparing to lunge and Lilith didn't care whether he saw her fear or not.

She turned and ran. Cooley barked and pounced after her, covering the length of the yard more quickly than she would have believed possible. Lilith made the porch, but her muddy boots slipped and she grabbed the door handle. Cooley barked wildly – he sounded like he was going to gobble her right up.

It seemed his breath was hot on her heels.

And Lilith was afraid. That was a lot of dog. She leapt into the house and slammed the inner door just as the dog made the porch with a bound. Lilith leaned her back against the door in relief. Her breath came in hasty puffs and her heart was hammering.

She locked the door, even though she knew it was dumb. D'Artagnan watched her with cool amusement from his perch on the dining room table.

Before Lilith could chide the cat, Cooley landed against the door with a resounding thump. His bark made the wood vibrate, and the impact of his weight against the door was enough to bounce Lilith off it. She backed across the room, half-afraid the dog would come right through the wood. At the proximity of his nemesis, D'Artagnan disappeared with lightning speed.

But the inner door was made of sterner stuff than the storm door had been.

Cooley barked in a frenzy, scratching at the door as if he would dig his way through it, too. He was snarling and growling. It was as though he couldn't stop himself, as though he couldn't get the idea of attacking her out of his doggy mind.

When it became clear that he couldn't force his way through the door, Lilith let out a shaking breath. She pushed up her sleeves, shed her boots, and turned to her cauldron, determined to see this solved.

And the sooner the better.

 

* * *

 

10

The Wheel of Fortune

 

It wasn't the most satisfying chase of Cooley's life.

His prey, after all, had gotten away.

Cooley barked and scratched at the door, but made absolutely no progress in getting inside the house. And eventually, in the notable absence of his quarry, his enthusiasm waned.

But that didn't mean that he couldn't make a point. Cooley stalked away from the house, then gave the garden a thorough sniff just in case the woman was hiding there somewhere. He didn't find her, so he marked everything of any size, staking the yard out as an extension of his own territory.

Nature called after all his activity and Cooley hunkered down to make a deposit in the middle of the garden.

“Cooley!” the woman called sweetly before he could really begin.

Cooley's head shot up. There was a porch directly over the door where she had disappeared and she was leaning over the rail.

The temptation was too much.

Cooley ran for the house, barking so that everyone would know the danger she posed to his family. He couldn't get to the balcony, but he lunged against the house and braced his front paws against the brick. He was so busy barking and snarling that he didn't notice her tipping something over the rail.

Until the chilly contents of the pot doused him from head to tail.

Cooley yelped in shock, he jumped away from the house. The liquid was icy cold, whatever it was, and smelled like nothing any respectable dog could stand to smell like. He shook himself, desperately trying to get rid of that stink, wondering whether he could find a dead fish somewhere to roll in. He shivered as cold trickled through to his flesh.