The Flower Bowl Spell (21 page)

He pulls away first, and I hate that he does.
“You
need
to come with me,” he whispers. “Baby, I’ll show
you magic you never imagined.”

“Memphis!”

A small, childish voice breaks us apart.
Romola and Cleo stand by the car. I didn’t even hear them get
out.

“We have to go,” Cleo says.

I take a step towards the car, but Ty reaches
out and grabs my hand. I turn back to him. “Run away with me,
Memphis.”

I stand there facing him for a moment—no more
than a second. In that moment, I know great confusion. I could go
in one direction, putting my faith in what I want to believe; or I
could go in the other direction, trusting what I see before me.

I run. Away.

From Ty.

“Girls. Get in the car.
Now
.”

I throw myself into the driver’s seat and hit
the door-lock button before driving away about a hundred yards, all
the while keeping my eyes on Tyson’s face in the rearview mirror.
He’s grinning.

“Where’s Ty?” Romola asks, worry in her
voice, as she helps her sister buckle up.

“He had to pee,” I say distractedly. “He
needs privacy because he’s a guy.”

Romola looks back, craning her neck. “I think
he’s all done.”

I stop the car and grab his duffel bag, which
he’s left on the floor. I rummage through it, not sure what I’m
looking for until I feel cool metal against my hand and the hairs
on the back of my neck prick up. It’s my butterfly locket.

I look back out the rear window. Tyson is
running towards us, an all-out sprint, the expression on his face
hard and dangerous. I toss his bag out my window onto the road, the
locket in my lap, and drive away, watching him stop and scoop up
the clothes and things that have burst from his luggage all over
the asphalt.

Bright Vixen’s cat slinks out from under my
seat and climbs into Tyson’s vacated place.

I’ve just left a rock star, a
most-likely-possessed rock star, by the wayside.

I told Tyson he had to trust me. But what I
failed to comprehend, in spite of his jinxed sunglasses, is that I
should not have trusted him.

PART FOUR: THE ELDER

Chapter Eighteen

Romola stares at me through the rearview
mirror with wide, panicked eyes, her seatbelt cutting into the
tender skin under her neck as she strains forward. “What about
Ty?”

“He’ll be okay,” I say. “Won’t he, Cleo?”

“Sort of,” she says.

“STOP IT!” Romola screams, an
eardrum-piercing screech.

“Sweetie—” I start to say, but Romola screams
some more.

“No! Stop doing that! Stop acting like you
have a secret!”

“Like I have a secret?”

“No—like
both
of you have a secret
together
—and I don’t.” Romola starts to cry.

I wish I could slow down, pull over, and hug
her. This outburst calls for a hug. But I don’t know how far gone
Tyson is or what he wants. Why did he take the locket? He knows
we’re going to somewhere near Pasadena, but he doesn’t know where
exactly. Just that the girls’ grandfather is there, and possibly
their parents.

If he figures out where we are, will he do
anything about it? He has a gig in San Diego tomorrow night, but I
have to assume the worst—that he’s off the deep end and involved in
some heavy magick he probably doesn’t understand or maybe even know
about.

The lockets, Viveka’s and mine—I’m beginning
to wonder if all of this might have something to do with the girls.
But what? Why did Tyson want us to leave them behind?

I reach back awkwardly and find Romola’s
knee. She doesn’t pull away, and I can feel her sobs shaking her
entire body. “Romola, I’m sorry. You’re right—I’ve been acting like
a jerk. I’ve been insensitive towards you. I’m really sorry.”

She doesn’t answer. I find Cleo’s eyes in the
mirror and after a moment, she reaches for her older sister,
stroking her hair and patting her shoulder. We hang on to Romola
like this for a while until her crying subsides. Her face emerges
from behind puffs of hair—hair that needs a good brushing. I’ll
braid it when we stop, I vow. Romola wipes her wet cheeks and runny
nose on her sleeves. I’ll do their laundry too.

“I miss my mom,” she says and starts to cry
again.

“I know you do, sweetie.”

“She talks to me the way you talk to
Cleo.”

I’m sure she does. And how does Viveka treat
Cleo? Does she know that her youngest is special, or gifted or
whatever? I wonder what Jesus Christ must think. If he knows, does
he see his daughter’s nascent ability as God-given, or the mark of
Satan?

****

We exit into downtown Santa Cecilia. There is
something nonchalantly charming about this commercial area, a
combination of nineteenth-century ranchero California and the
twentieth- and twenty-first-century architecture that tries to
replicate it with chicken-wire and foam-core foundations. I park in
front of a quaint diner with picnic tables outside. We stretch our
legs and I order some food. Bright Vixen’s cat doesn’t move, even
though we’ve cracked the car windows.

While the girls pick at their chicken tenders
and fries, I try to get the image of Ty running after us out of my
head by sifting through Viveka’s documents. Still, his cold
determination comes back to me.
Leave the girls by the side of
the road
, he said, all the while trying to seduce me. Over and
over I see him running, and I finally give up trying to stop it,
feeling like I’m about to fall. The image changes, and he is
running, but it’s a different moment. He’s on a soccer field, going
after the ball, his determination focused but not on some dark
deed. His teammates run with him, shout encouragement. Like a
salve, the memory of Tyson erases the small bursts of panic that
have taken up residence in my heart.

I turn with more attention to Viveka’s notes.
I know I’ve seen Tucker’s name somewhere in here, but it takes me a
while to remember where. And no wonder—his name is the return
address on the envelope holding all that cash she gave me. I hold
it for a while (most of the cash is safely squirreled away in the
car’s trunk). It was a letter or a check—maybe both? I see Viveka
at a bank handing it over, getting cash in return. Tucker sent her
the money, thousands of dollars.

He knows something, I’m certain of it. Maybe
he can illuminate for us the sticky wicket we’re in. I use some of
the money to pay for our meal and ask the kid at the register how
to get to 1405 Oak Leaf Lane.

I’m jotting down the last of his directions
when my cell phone bleats. It tells me I have three missed calls
and three voicemails, one from early in the morning around the time
Gladys’s house disintegrated, the others while we were driving
through Nowhereland and I was impressing Tyson with my magickal
gymnastics. There’s also a text message from Tess. It reads:
U’ll never believe wh.

I tap a reply:
Never believe what???
Who???

The first voicemail is from Cooper, just
checking in. The next is from Viveka.

“Memphis, I hope everything is going all
right with the girls. I’m fine, by the way, despite whatever Jesus
told you.” She sighs. “I know you saw him. We’ve talked and he’s on
his way home. Back to his
flock
.” Long pause. “Please tell
the girls I love them and miss them.” She sighs again. “It looks
like this is going to take a little more time than I thought it
would. Okay. Oh, I hope your business trip went all right. Or is
going all right. I don’t know.” There’s another long pause and some
strange noises in the background, like she’s talking to someone and
muffling the phone with her hand. “Thank you, Memphis. God bless. I
mean, blessed be. Oh,
you
know.” Click.

I want to smash the phone on the table, but I
settle for stabbing a packet of sugar with a plastic fork tine
instead. I try not to think it but I can’t help myself: Viveka is
not
being a good mommy. What the hell is she doing? Isn’t
she the least bit concerned about her children? I have a thing
about neglectful mothers.

There’s one more voicemail, from Chad Beane.
Tyson’s manager.

“Hi, Memphis. We’re looking forward to seeing
you tonight in San Diego. Sorry about the—ah—incident with your
hotel room. Really odd. Listen, I was wondering if you’ve seen Ty?
No worries, but Cheradon is a getting a little antsy to find him
and she thought maybe he rode down with you. Just ring me up when
you have a sec, will you? M’bye.”

This message does not exactly adjust my mood.
I close my eyes for a little on-the-fly meditation. Watching
imaginary rainbow flowers open and close with my mind’s eye works
wonders.

****

We drive through the twin pillars of a gated
community, although the gate is open and the guard post is empty.
The houses all look the same—unassuming moss-colored mini-mansions
with prominent three-car garages, in what I believe is marketed as
a “contemporary” style. I’m not sure how I’m going to distinguish
Tucker’s house from the others since the address numbers are often
hidden behind shrubbery, but it doesn’t take me long to figure out
that there’s no way anyone could ever miss it.

Tucker Murray’s house is completely covered
in Christmas ornaments and lights. And not just subtle white fairy
lights and year-round-friendly ethnic baubles, but full-on Santa
Claus and North Pole out of some wacky,
uber-Hollywood/Disney/Macy’s One-Zillion-Watt Parade of Gaud.
Life-size Santa, nine reindeer (Rudolph and his red nose take the
lead), a sleigh, and an impressive sack of gifts are cozily
ensconced on the roof, looking a little careworn if I’m being
completely honest. Elves look on from the lower roof of the garage,
some with their arms raised in a sort of “Touchdown, Saint Nick!”
salute. Mrs. Claus stands at the front door with a basket of candy
canes, as if she got Christmas confused with Halloween and is
expecting trick-or-treaters. Maybe with the eve of All Saints’ Day
just around the corner, that’s exactly what she’s doing. A small
colony of emperor penguins dressed exclusively in knit hats and
scarves, if they’re dressed in anything at all, stand in the middle
of the lawn, frozen in a Styrofoam snowball fight.

Either this is all a decoy for Tucker’s pagan
ways or he’s making a very determined ironic statement. I’m already
convinced he’s more than a little off his rocker.

“Does it always look like this?” I ask the
girls.

“Uh huh,” says Cleo.

“One Christmas, my dad said the decorations
were okay except there wasn’t any crèche, and then Grandy just left
it all up,” Romola says. “That was, like, when I was four.”

The penguins have spotted us, and they begin
to waddle in figure eights and make small clucks and meeps. This
gets the attention of the elves, who do a double take at us. They
lower their arms and give us a thumbs-up, jigging in place. The
near life-size Mrs. Claus calls up to the rooftop, “Look who’s
here, Nicky!” and Santa coughs and gives a raspy “Ho, ho, ho!” He
also cracks his whip, which startles the reindeer, and they rear up
and down, their hooves clattering on the roof as they try to get up
into the sky. They can’t, however, because they’re bolted in place
by at least one leg, and after a moment they settle down.

Tucker’s house also has energy pulsations
coming off it. It has what Cleo would call wiggly air. A definite
portal hot spot. As if the Yule reception weren’t clue enough.

We make our way up the front steps and pass
Mrs. Claus, who turns to look at us. Cleo smiles at her and
waves.

Romola gives her sister a look and shakes her
head. “Stop being weird,” she says. It’s got to be hard having a
magickal sister.

At the door, I take a deep breath and exhale.
I do a little reading of the place, searching for signs of
life—Viv, Jesus Christ, Tucker.
Come in
, says a voice inside
my head that is not my own, nor is it a memory. The door opens and
a sexagenarian man stands there with a trim, gingery beard and long
nose.

“You could have just knocked,” he says, his
voice a pleasant, smiling growl. The energy vibrating from Tucker
Murray is powerful but not draining. Instead, I feel slightly
renewed. He is a witch as strong as Gru, if not stronger.

“No,” I say. “I couldn’t.”

He laughs. “You’re probably right. It’s good
to assess a new place. You’re smart to do it. But I couldn’t miss
your arrival even if I were asleep. Those reindeer make quite a
fuss.”

“You should put in some soundproofing or
insulation.”

“I did!”

Romola laughs. “Grandy, you’re so funny.”

Tucker mockingly smacks his forehead. “So I
am! But never mind. As I said, come in, come in. It’s not everyday
I get to see my granddaughters.”

He closes the door behind us before getting
down on his knees and giving each of the girls a hug and kiss. They
cling to him, big, gleeful smiles on their faces. When the hugs are
done, they pull away from their grandfather, their eyes wide with
questioning, and he holds up his hands like the victim of a couple
of gun-toting delinquents. The girls merrily ransack his vest
pockets, which look pretty empty to me, and come up with miniature
wooden yoyos, chocolate peppermints, and hand-sewn books with
fabric covers. With a “Thank you, Grandy!” they run up one side of
a double staircase and disappear down a hallway. I wonder if Tucker
always has treats in his pockets or if he’s just that good a
witch.

“Oh, I am that good,” he says to my unspoken
musings. “I only see them once or twice a year, but I keep a room
for the girls. They have clothes, nightgowns, dolls. Everything
little princesses could desire.” He presses his lips together in a
smile, hands in his pockets. “I thought you all might show up. I
hoped you wouldn’t, but I thought you might.” He points at me.
“You’ve been sending out smoke signals, young lady.”