Kindling the Moon (7 page)

But not so differently that I was indestructible.

At this point, all I could do was release the Heka, but it wouldn't be pretty. I gathered all my willpower, flung myself up and over toward the imp, and muttered the entrapment spell as my hand came down on the canvas and released the energy.

My teeth clattered as the kindled charge left my body, hit the canvas, and exploded into a small fire.

“Shit!”

A muffled howl came from underneath the burning canvas as Tiddlywinks shot out and sped off toward the front yard. Before the entrapment portal could burn away, I said one more spell and banished the imp back into the Æthyr.

“Tiddlywinks!” Mrs. Marsh yelled as she ran after her cat.

I leapt over to the canvas, removed one flip-flop, and used it to beat the fire down. It took several slaps to extinguish. Putrid-smelling smoke trailed up into the air from the blackened hole in the middle of the cloth. Smoked pig's blood. Disgusting.

As I slid back on my soot-smeared shoe, Mrs. Marsh appeared with Tiddlywinks in tow.

“Guess you'll have to make another circle, sweetie,” she said as we both looked down at the smoking cloth. “But at least I'll be able to sleep tonight.”

And at least I wasn't wasting my magical talent on supernatural pest control. Oh, wait—I was. I found my caduceus in the grass and stalked off toward my house, one charred corner of the barbecued canvas dangling between the tips of my fingers.

Exhaustion set in as I locked my side door. On the way upstairs to my bedroom, I gathered up my pet, Mr. Piggy, a rescued hedgehog. Not much bigger than my hand, Mr. Piggy is a cute thing with a petite pink nose and dark, beady eyes. I scratched him on the underside of his little pointy chin and he yawned. At times he can be downright grumpy, but as far as roommates go, he's a pretty good one.

Sleep. That was what I needed. Once I got to my bedroom, I maneuvered my bra from underneath my shirt, dropped it on the floor, and ditched my jeans before crawling under the bedcovers. The small, sagging mattress felt like heaven. Mr. Piggy huffed and puffed as he climbed the set of pet stairs that I kept at the foot of the bed; he waddled across the covers and stopped when he found an acceptable spot to settle near my feet. Then he turned three slow circles before finally plopping down.

My hair stunk of smoky pig's blood, but I didn't have the strength to care. At that moment I just needed rest; I figured I'd wash off the funk when I woke up.

I drowsily made plans for the next day. First I'd contact Father Carrow and ask him to put some pressure on Lon for
me. Then maybe I'd call Kar Yee to arrange for a part-time bartender to take a couple of my shifts. My thoughts roamed and faded. Just when I was at the cusp of succumbing to the heavy pull of sleep, a loud knock sounded from downstairs.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” No way on God's green earth was I getting out of bed to run after another damned imp for that woman. All my charity and goodwill were gone. If I didn't answer the door, maybe she'd go away. I waited and heard nothing, then settled back into my pillow while Mr. Piggy grumbled his own protests.

Not for long.

Another knock came, this one louder and more insistent. Furious, I threw back the covers and stomped downstairs. I really didn't think I could be nice this time. I made my way down the side hall, turned the lock, and flung the door open with nothing short of malice.

“Mrs. Marsh—” I hissed.

It was not Mrs. Marsh standing in my doorway. It was Lon Butler.

“Expecting someone else?” he asked with an amused look on his face.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you—”

“I've just been over at Father Carrow's house down the block and …” He hesitated as his eyes skimmed over me. I followed his gaze and peered down at myself. Nothing but my T-shirt and panties. A blowtorch warmth spread up my neck, over my cheeks. “Father Carrow,” he repeated, still not looking at my face, “pointed out which house was yours, so I drove over.”

I stealthily attempted to tug down the hem of my T-shirt, but it barely covered my waist.

“Looks like you've stuck your finger in a light socket,” he
observed, tearing his eyes away from my hips to stare at my hair. Damn Mrs. Marsh and that imp. And damn myself for kindling raw electricity without a caduceus.

“Well?” I prompted.

“You gonna invite me in, or you wanna talk out here?”

I moved from the doorway and gestured for him to come inside. Ten o'clock on a Friday night, and I was letting strange men into my house while I was half dressed. I reminded myself that he had, at one time, been studying to become a priest. That meant he took a vow of chastity, didn't it? I idly wondered if he stuck to it after he got kicked out, then decided that he didn't look all that chaste to me.

“Have a seat,” I said, pointing toward the sofa in front of the television. At least the downstairs wasn't too messy. My bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off in it, and the master bath was disgusting. “I'll be right back. I need to … put something on,” I murmured as he sat down.

The trek up the stairs was excruciating.
Why a thong— why today?
I guess it could have been worse. I mean, yes, the lower half of my rear was hanging out, but at least I wasn't wearing cheap multipack cotton panties, full of holes with the elastic worn out, like half of my others. When I got the nagging feeling that his eyes were on my backside, I wondered if it would look cowardly if I took two stairs at a time.

“Nice ass.”

My bent leg hesitated on the step. I turned my head to glare, but found him staring intently at the screen of his cell phone—as if he'd never said a word. For a second, I wondered if I'd imagined it, but I hadn't. Thoroughly uncomfortable now, I continued my climb in silence without responding.

After I'd finished dressing, I started running a brush
through my frazzled hair, then stopped myself.
What the hell are you doing, primping?

Mildly irritated at myself, I walked back downstairs and found Lon right where I'd left him. He was leaning down, face-to-face with Mr. Piggy. My curious hedgehog was standing on his hind legs and sniffing the air, trying to flirt his way into the man's lap.

“Mr. Piggy, get down,” I scolded, reaching to pull him away.

“What
is
that?”

“It's a hedgehog.”

“Is he your familiar?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

Funny. My “other car” was
not
a “broomstick,” and if I saw that sticker on one more bumper in my neighborhood, I was going to ram somebody. I had nothing against Witches, Wiccans, Pagans, or anyone else on their own spiritual path, but my mother always taught me that “witch” was a slur; serious magicians were not witches. I didn't spend Beltane dancing around in the woods naked or calling up friends to hold a fucking drum circle: I do real magick with real results.

I glowered at Lon without answering the taunt. His eyes narrowed to slits in what I suspected was silent humor. Was he laughing at me? It was hard to tell. After a moment, he cleared his throat and glanced at the hedgehog.

“I didn't know they were so small,” he admitted as I scooped up Mr. Piggy by his belly.

“He's a pygmy.”

I shuffled over to a small gated pen set up in the corner of the adjoining dining room and placed him inside. He had a small bed, a couple of toys, a miniature litter box, and a water dish there. If I let him roam free all the time, he'd tear the place apart.

“Are you going to help me find my demon?” I asked. “Because if you are, I'll offer you something to drink. If you aren't, I'm not gonna bother.”

He chuckled once and leaned back into the sofa. “Straight to the point, I like that.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I'll take coffee,” he said.

Was that a yes? I wrinkled up my nose. “I'm out.”

“What do you have, then?”

“Water or Coke.”

“No liquor? And you're a bartender?”

“I don't drink liquor. I might have a beer, but—”

“I'll take it.”

I stared him down for a few seconds, then retreated to the kitchen. I returned with two cans of PBR that were abandoned in my fridge by one of my hipster friends; the look of disdain on Lon's face was priceless. He set his beer on the coffee table like it might explode.

I stepped over his legs and alighted at the far end of the sofa, sitting with my back against the arm and my feet tucked under my legs. “So, you're going to help me.”

“I talked to Father Carrow.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“He seems to trust you, but he doesn't know exactly why you want the albino demon.”

No, he sure didn't. I reached for my beer, cracked it open, and swigged. It tasted like dirty water and sweat.

“I decided that I would help you—”

“Great,” I said with a fake smile, setting my beer back down.

“—if you are honest and tell me the real reason you want it.”

“I can't do that.”

“Then I can't help you.”

Tired and angry, I began speaking louder. “You mean to tell me that you're some ex-priest, and you're not only refusing to be helpful, you're holding information hostage unless I give in to your demands?”

“I was never a priest.”

“Oh, that's right. You were kicked out, weren't you? What could you have possibly done that was so bad, they sealed your records? That's like a dishonorable discharge, right?”

His eyebrows lowered as he scowled at me. After a short pause, he answered, “One of my teachers suspected I was a demon.”

Oh.

“Are you?” I squinted at his strangely colored halo.

“Are
you
?” he countered, looking up at mine.

“Of course not.”

“Well I
am
,” he said. “So how come you can see my halo if you aren't?”

“I was … born different. That's all.” You know, just your average magical breeding experiment.

“I asked around,” he said after a long pause. “Lots of stories about bindings in your bar, but most Earthbounds seem to respect you.”

Yeah, that was about right. “I'm a magician, and damn good at controlling demons—Earthbounds or Æthyric. Historically, our kinds have never been best buddies,” I said, pointing back and forth between the two of us. “Once demons realize that I'm not a power-crazed mage forcing them to give up some divinatory vision or alchemical secret, they're usually cool with me. As long as they don't break shit in my bar, I'm cool with them.”

He looked at me thoughtfully, then pulled out the same silver cigarette case he'd had earlier in the day. “Can we smoke inside?”

“Sure.” Maybe it would get rid of the burnt-pig stench in my hair. I reached to open a nearby window, accepted his offer, and lit up with my own lighter before sliding it toward him.

“Your valrivia tastes fresh,” I said after taking a couple of drags in silence.

“It is. I grow it.”

Another long moment stretched as we both smoked and he looked around the room in curiosity.

“You've got magical wards over the doors and windows,” he noted.

“Yep.”

“What are you afraid of? Surely not demons.”

“Hardly.”

“Do you belong to an order? A magical organization?”

“No,” I lied.

“But you were trained somewhere.”

“I learned on my own.”

He laughed. “Bullshit. No one learns summoning and binding demons on their own. That's an advanced skill and the goetias in publication are bogus.”

“Most of them are. If you've got natural talent, you can teach yourself anything.”

“Let's say that's true. How many Æthyric demons have you summoned?”

I shrugged, enjoying the euphoric effect of the cigarette. “More than ten, less than a hundred.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “For what purpose?”

“Mostly for practice in the beginning. Curiosity. Now I only do it if I need to trade information.” Or skills. Just like
Earthbounds, most of the Æthyric demons have abilities. Only, theirs are
much
greater. Need to heal someone with stomach cancer? Find your grandmother's hidden stash of war bonds? If you know the right Æthyric with the right skill— and are willing to negotiate a trade—you might be able to get what you've wished for. Might. It is a tricky game. “I've had a few run-ins with some Æthyrics who weren't exactly thrilled to be summoned,” I added. “Not all of them play nice.”

“They're no different than humans in that respect,” he agreed.

True.

“So, enough about me,” I said. “Were you upset when you got kicked out of the seminary? How long ago was that, by the way?”

His face twisted up in mock surprise. “Are you trying to find out my age?”

“What? No.” I glanced out the window. “But now that you mention it, how old are you?”

“Forty-two. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five? Jesus, I was older than that when my son was born.”

“You have a son? I guess that chastity vow didn't take, huh?”

He laughed, and for the first time, it was pleasant. All the meanness was gone. “I didn't take a chastity vow. I never really intended to become a priest,” he explained. “And yes, I have a son. He's thirteen. Closer to your age than I am.”

Thirteen? Christ.

“Is your wife an Earthbound?”

“I'm divorced, and yes.”

“Oh … I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” He looked at me intently, and I found my hand nervously moving up to cover the side of my neck, as if it were exposed. It took some effort to force my arm back down to my side.

“Do you see your son often?” I asked.

“He lives with me. I have full custody.”