The Witches Of Denmark (13 page)

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Grandpa?”

“Yes,” he told me, stepping out of the passenger’s side of the Mustang. We had just arrived at Harrison Crawford’s banjo repair shop and music store, cleverly named
Needful Strings
. “It’s important to do what we can to make the ‘unusual’ and ‘strange’ blend in with what is commonly accepted in society.”

In other words, camouflage the artifacts of magic
, I thought to myself. Seriously, that was the phrase I had often heard in the past, when we lived in suburban Chicago. It was especially true whenever the neighbors began to regard us suspiciously.

I stepped out of the driver side, pressing the alarm button on the key ring to make sure the car was locked tight and secure. Harrison’s swanky little banjo shop might be located across the street from the biggest Christian landmark in the city, the First Southern Baptist Church of Denmark (which literally took up two full city blocks when including the parking lots), but that hadn’t deterred the nefarious element of the city from breaking into cars parked along Rufus Street—even in broad daylight. Even Grandpa pulled the violin case he brought with him closer to his chest, protectively.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise!” said Harrison, from behind the counter, where he worked on his latest banjo restoration project. He hadn’t looked up until we were standing directly in front of him, despite the bell above the entrance jingling as we stepped inside his place. “I thought you might never get around to accepting my invitation last month to pay me a visit, Georghe. So, you brought me a violin to take a look at?”

He laughed playfully, and the look in his light green eyes betrayed prior knowledge about what lay inside the old, beat-up case. He brushed aside his dark brown bangs that defied the fact he had recently celebrated his sixtieth birthday.

“I brought one of the conductor batons I told you about,” said Grandpa, casually looking over his shoulder both ways before setting the case on an open space on the counter. “After seeing pictures of the most recent banjo you added the mother of pearl inlays to, along with your signature art style, I decided it was time to pay you a visit.”

“From the pictures my oldest boy Samuel showed you the other night?” asked Harrison. “At the barbeque at Julien and Meredith’s place?”

“Yes,” Grandpa confirmed.

“You want pointillism or standard, as far as the painting is concerned?”

Harrison opened the case, revealing the wand. Nearly eighteen inches in length, the wand’s actual measurement was a cubit. An appraiser in 1940 mistakenly thought the rosewood wand, which came from an ancient Romanian spruce in a forest that no longer existed, was a mere five hundred years old. I can assure anyone that the wand is more than twelve hundred years old… but it has rarely seen the light of day.

He gently lifted it out of the case and brought it near to his eyes for a closer examination. I held my breath, despite Grandpa’s earlier assurances at breakfast that he had cast a spell after midnight to ensure the wand remained dormant until after the artwork was added and he had reclaimed it. That was how Tuesday, day thirty-five, began in our household. Needless to say, we were all curious as to why Grandpa picked that particular moment to do this—especially since it meant disarming one of the most powerful wands in our family with the Matei crisis threatening to get worse.

But at least we didn’t have to coax him down from a rooftop that morning.

“I prefer the pointillism, since it is what sets your artistic approach apart from anyone else I’ve ever seen,” Grandpa advised. “But I realize it could run you into some extra time doing it. Money is no object, as I value the workmanship you are known for…. How long would it take to place the inlays in this fashion, and paint the symbols I mentioned before?”

Grandpa pulled out a piece of folded notebook paper bearing symbols he had carefully drawn. My pulse quickened as I recognized them, shaking my head subtly. Grandpa must’ve recently decided to go against what he promised my father, since the notion of camouflaging magical aspects of this powerful wand was a load of bull. It would soon be something along the lines of the classic magician’s wardrobe and instruments featured in
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
.

“You mentioned at the time you were planning to have it ready for Halloween this year,” said Harrison, still studying the wand. “That would give me enough time to make sure it was perfect for you.”

Grandpa took out his wallet and removed a wad of one hundred dollar bills, counting out ten and placing them on the counter.

“How much would sooner be if I include an ‘appreciation bonus’ like this?”

An awkward tension suddenly filled the air around us, and I believe it was mostly due in part to Harrison’s surprise and my horror. Seriously, the feeling intensified noticeably, to where a low electric current was palpable to all of us—even Harrison, if he had known instinctively how to define it, as we did.

“Well… I suppose I could have it ready for you by August,” said Harrison, smiling nervously. “I’m not used to being enticed like that, I’ll admit. Good work can only be rushed so much.”

Grandpa eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled and nodded. A deal had been struck.

“That will be fine. And, this is on top of what you normally charge,” Grandpa told him. “I don’t want you to make any exceptions based on our friendship. I pay honestly and fully, always.”

“Well, I don’t mind doing a discount,” said Harrison, and an impish glint appeared in his eyes. “And, you wouldn’t have to go gangster on me to get it.” He laughed.

Grandpa and I laughed, too, while the tenseness that was beginning to relax quickened around us again, like an anaconda squeezing its prey. To distract myself, and hopefully pull the uncomfortable energy back down, I gazed at the shop walls around me, more impressed by the pointillism art pieces that would go for tens of thousands in New York and other art meccas, but were merely part of the decor and charm of
Needful Strings
. Haunting profiles and melting clocks spoke to Harrison’s preference of themes dealing with time and aloofness—at least that’s my interpretation. Though admired in the music biz as a meticulous luthier, I felt Harrison had missed his calling as a world-class painter, locked in the obscurity of this southern rural town. I’d bet my sorcerer future that the man could be a millionaire tomorrow, if he packed up the paintings in the shop alone and carted them to the Big Apple….

“I would never go gangster on a friend,” teased Grandpa.

“Oh no? Then what’s with the violin case—it looks like the ones the Chicago crime bosses once toted their Tommy guns in.” Harrison gently set the wand back inside the case, closed it and carefully set the latches before placing it inside a secured cabinet next to his workbench.

“I guess it does,” said Grandpa, coyly, acting as if he had never considered that observation before. “This case did belong to Al Capone once…. I suppose the world is safer with a baton in it instead.”

More laughter shared between the two of them, while I looked on, still wondering why my grandfather wanted to alter a cherished family relic in the first place. The only good thing was Harrison had no idea the wand had been a warlock’s sacred and cherished tool for more than a millennium, instead of the orchestra director’s version Grandpa purported it to be.

When we returned to the car, and on our way to take care of some other errands before meeting the rest of the family for dinner at the most tolerable restaurant in town, I asked him if he was sure this was the right decision.

“Yes… it is, Sebastian,” he said. “It’s always good to have an insurance policy in case things don’t go as planned.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we need something stronger than what our enemies expect in our back pocket, so to speak. Just in case the Mateis have brought more firepower than they had the last time we faced them. Showing that we have the upper hand might buy us years of freedom. Now, we just need to find a way to hold them off until August.”

That’s what I was afraid of. It’s also the only thing I could think about while gathering several new azaleas for the gardens to replace the ones the deer had eaten, and a second purchase of Roundup for the pesky weeds coming up through cracks in the brick walkways around the house. Oh, and birdseed for the songbirds that Mom and Grandma had grown fond of during the past few weeks.

Every bit of it easily taken care of by magic… but not for this wand ‘teetotaling’ family.

It was nearing six o’clock when we finished loading everything in the trunk and backseat, and by the time we arrived at the Southern Comfort Inn restaurant, my parents, sister, and Grandma were waiting for us in the parking lot. I parked next to the Escalade and was about to get out, when I noticed a foursome from the Matei clan approaching us on foot. Serghi and Simion led the way, along with two other Mateis I had not seen in nearly eighty years: Simion’s younger brothers, Serafim and Cristian, better known as the ‘blue-eyed demon brothers’ from Prohibition lore in Chicago.

Last I heard, they had been banished to Europe for mischief and violence that was even too much for Valerian Matei’s stomach.

The warlocks were dressed in full Gothic wardrobes—summer style—like a quartet of bikers. Vests, chaps, and heavy black boots… along with chains jingling from their belts and footwear. I smiled at the thought that Serafim and Cristian could pass for twin blonde rockers, though instead of switchblades and guns, they carried gold handled wands with intricate artwork engraved along the shafts—similar to what Grandpa had commissioned for his wand just two hours earlier. The wands were at the ready, and no doubt, they intended to use them on us… or maybe kill a few innocent bystanders. After all, the Mateis had grown increasingly malevolent the past few years, and certainly could give a rat’s ass about riling up the locals with a few casualties. Arresting these guys would be futile, since they’re not easily subdued, and nearly impossible to kill by normal means before their lifetime naturally expires. Ambushed with the right spells to disarm would be the only way to defeat this brand of witch or warlock; and as far as I knew, Grandma had left all of our other cherished wands locked up at the house in what used to be a gun safe we bought from the Clarkes. For the moment, none of us were armed.

The final revenge for the death of Toma Matei could happen in the next few minutes, and I could sense the growing tension inside the Escalade.

Grandpa urged me to stay inside the Mustang, but I got out anyway.

“So, only the youngest rodent from the Chicago line of Radus is brave enough to meet his fate?” taunted Simion, as the quartet separated to form an arc around us while they stealthily closed in.

Simion and Serghei pulled out their wands as well. Though standard mahogany versions that lacked the ornamentation of Simion’s siblings’ wands, they were deadly enough. Meanwhile, curious patrons in the parking lot paused to watch the confrontation unfold. Surely they felt the dangerous presence of the warlocks, but lacked the sense to flee…. Like deer aware of a hunter’s pointed rifle from a hidden perch in the woods, but then remain frozen where they stand until bullets have found their mark.

“Sebastian is braver than any of you!” replied my father, who had slipped out of the SUV with my mother and grandmother behind him. Grandpa had also managed to exit the car with only a pair of light clicks to announce the passenger door had opened and closed. “There is no need for violence… and the Elders assured us this morning that they would bring severe justice to you all if bloodshed came to the streets of Denmark.”

“Ha! Like that means anything!” chided Serafim. His voice had taken on a noticeable eastern European accent since the last time I had been in his presence, just before Elvis Presley became king of America’s pop culture. “Bloodshed is owed to us, and being that it has been unpaid for one hundred and thirty-seven years, we believe the debt now requires two Radu lives, instead of the one for Toma.”

“Then take mine,” said Grandpa, deftly sliding over the hood of the Mustang to join me. I glanced around to see if the small crowd of onlookers gathered a hundred feet away had witnessed his graceful, but unnatural, movements. “As patriarch, my life is worth two lives.”

He stepped in front of me and then approached them. He would be face to face with Simion within a minute.

“If only an old man dying would be worth half as much as a young life snuffed out unjustly,” said Cristian, picking up from where his brother left off. “Toma’s soul clamors revenge, and it needs to be someone younger…. How about the young chick in the Caddy? She might provide a little fun for us all first, and then we can watch her age and die as a withering old hag!”

“How about you go screw one another instead!” I shouted in anger, incensed by the insult to my sister and disrespect shown to my grandfather. Meanwhile, Grandpa stepped in front of me and silently invoked a shield that prevented me from slipping around him to go after these assholes.

“Don’t, Sebastian!”
Mom cried, when I figured out a way to elude the shield, while my grandfather sought to tackle me in panic. I could hear Dad and Grandma join her in running toward us, and the sound of the Escalade’s passenger door opening and slamming announced the fact Alisia would soon be on her way, too.

You damned fool! Did you intend to get everyone killed?!