The Flower Bowl Spell (30 page)

I follow the shadows on the ground to their
termination, and that’s when I notice the animals. They stand on
the edges of the light, still and unnoticed by my captors. I don’t
know how many there are, but I see coyotes, squirrels, gophers,
garter snakes, and frogs peeking out from between blades of grass.
Perched in trees, owls watch us. They sit or stand at attention,
still and unreadable.

I try to reach out to Gru, to find out where
she could be, not just physically, but her place in this scheme.
She is a powerful witch, and she’s blocking me I’m sure. Blocking
seems to be an issue for me. I wiggle my hands, but they are bound
tight. If I get out of this jam, I promise myself, I’ll work on
counterspells for blocking.

I manage to shift a little and see Cooper
lying a few feet away. The ground seems especially dewy where his
head lies, and I tell myself it’s not blood. I love him, I do, but
I am seriously considering releasing him from our bond. If we get
out of this.

A soft fluttering sensation against my
shackled wrists draws my attention away from Cooper. It tickles and
I stretch my head around for a better look. Xien is hovering over
the handcuffs, working his sword into the keyhole like a
locksmith’s pick. I put my head down, just in case they can see
him. Shit. What if they can see him? Cheradon and her crew are too
busy to pay much attention to me right this second. Apparently,
there’s some disagreement afoot.

Cheradon is saying, “I know we cut off her
toes and half her feet. But what’s the other part? It’s the spleen,
right? What else would it be?”

“Cher, that doesn’t make any sense.” D.B.’s
voice is coaxing. “Not everyone has their spleen. Why would it call
for slaying if your sacrifice could live without it? It’s got to be
something with more importance—at least, you know, emotional
importance.”

“No, you’re wrong. Not everyone has their
appendix but we’re all emotionally attached to our spleens. Isn’t
that right, Ty? And you only have to slay because it’s part of the
energy burst.”

“People don’t need their appendix either,
dummy.” D.B. is growing impatient. Mean even. “Ah ha, here’s the
part. It’s the uterus that’s called for. That’s what it says in the
spell.” There’s a slapping sound, like a hand on paper, which I’m
guessing is the Flower Bowl Spell all written out.

“Let me see.”

Silence for a while.

“No,” Cheradon says. “We’re both wrong. It
says the womb.”

“The womb is the uterus,” Tyson says, his
voice deadpan. “Womb is a polite word for uterus. It’s poetic.”

“You think you’re so superior, just because
you write your own damn songs,” Cheradon says, almost spitting.
“You should be on your knees thanking me every single goddamn
minute of your life. If we hadn’t picked you to be my boyfriend,
you’d still be a useless nobody.”

“Thank you, Cheradon.” Tyson’s lifeless tone
sends a chill through me that tightens my skin. At the same time,
something drops inside my chest—a sadness that makes me want to
shake him until his head wobbles on his neck.

“Better,” Cheradon says, and I can see by
their shadows what they are doing. Her hand is patting his head
like a dog’s.

Now that they’ve settled that it’s my feet
and female parts they need, I wait to see what they’ll do next. I
have to admit, I am rather attached—in more ways than the
obvious—to my uterus. In fact, I hope to put it to its proper good
use someday. I want to be a mother. And I am not ready to die.

Someone walks by me and nudges me carelessly
with his or her foot, and while I know that the steel-toed boot is
going to leave a bruise on my upper arm, I take the opportunity to
check on Xien—still working that lock—and then turn back for
another look at my captors’ progress.

There’s a lot of prep work going on. Tyson,
Babs, and the twin (I decide it’s Horatio; he was slightly beefier)
are setting out their magickal instruments like line cooks putting
out their
mise en place.
The elephant tusk is lying on the
ground nearby. It must be the one that was stolen from the Emperor
of Ceylon in Chinatown. Front and center I see two tiny,
intricately embroidered silken shoes that look like they would fit
a baby. These are the bound-feet shoes. According to what I’ve read
in Tucker’s notebook, it’s not the shoes themselves that are
important but the essence of what has gone missing because of the
shoes—the true length of a woman’s feet. Hideously reduced yet
rendered delicate, like a flower. So a paradoxical symbol of both
her real disempowerment over her own fate, and her sexual
empowerment over a man. No wonder they want my feet and womb.

There are several bowls and vials, and a
black velvet altar cloth—variations of my own magickal gadgets.
It’s the surgical scalpel with a forked tip like a snake’s tongue
that catches my breath.

“I thought you needed a fetus to complete the
spell,” I say, keeping it conversational.

“We’ve been told a powerful witch would be
the better choice,” D.B. mumbles. I’m surprised that he’s so
forthcoming. Then again, in his eyes, I’m a talking piece of
meat.

“Who told you that?”

“My grandmother,” Cheradon volunteers. “Who
else?”

“Gru.”

“Yeah, Gru.”

“God
damn
it!” Isaac, who has been
arranging this and that in the center of the circle, turns with
ferocity on her. “I told you not to say her name out loud.”

“Sorry.” Cheradon hunches up her shoulders.
“She said it first.”

“She is not you. Is she?”

“No.”

“Just keep it buttoned. Got it?”

There’s a soft release against my wrists and
my arms almost spring apart as Xien succeeds at his task, but I
hold them together, feigning bondage. He flies away, disappearing.
I try not to get too excited about this. I still have to figure a
way out.

“And Gru suggested me?” I ask.

“If it makes you feel
special
,” D.B.
says, his shirt shimmering in the firelight.

Actually, it does. But I can’t believe it.
Maybe Gru told them I could help them somehow. But to make me an
ingredient in a spell? This must be a mistake.

“Of course, with your little entourage we
haven’t been able to get close enough to nab you,” Cheradon says,
forgetting Isaac’s directive to keep it buttoned.

My entourage? I glance around for Xien, but
all I find are the glow of animal eyes and Cooper’s slumped figure.
D.B. notices the direction of my gaze and looks around too.

“Who’s there? Who have you got hidden?”

Before I can answer, Xien is at his face,
sword drawn. He attacks D.B. straight on, stabbing him in the inner
corner of one eye. D.B. cups his hand over it, but not before blood
spurts out in a slender arc.

I scramble up from my stomach. The closest
person to me is Cheradon, and I put my shoulder down like a
linebacker into her stomach. There’s a shock in my thoughts as I
touch her, much like when I touched her in Santa Barbara. This one
is accompanied by a vision:
A younger Cheryl, maybe seventeen or
eighteen, is crying. Her clothes and hair are disheveled, her
cheeks plumped up by youth. Shadowy figures retreat from her, and I
have to wonder if they are the ones who have made her cry
. This
is a life-defining moment for her, the day her father found
her.

I snap back to the present. Cheradon, taken
by surprise by my attack, stumbles back but doesn’t fall, and I
sort of bounce off her body. We look at each other for a moment,
almost like old friends about to hug before a long separation. And
then she’s on me. I meet her head on, whispering a jinx that’s
immediately crammed down my throat. I look around, and Isaac is
staring at me, his teeth clenched ferociously.

In general, magick is awesome for the long
job, if you have the luxury of, you know, time and quiet,
meditation, and no enemies breathing immediately down your neck. On
those other occasions, things like sharp nails, a good attitude
about biting wounds, and an armed fairy go a long way.

“Xien!” I can’t invoke but I can converse.
Apparently, there are limits to Isaac’s hold over me. “Xien!” The
fairy is still on the attack. D.B.’s forehead and ears are stained
in thin rivulets of blood. Xien stops to look at me. “That dude.” I
point to Isaac. “Please.” He sheathes his sword and flies toward
his mark, drawing out two quivers and his bow. With one shot, they
fly into Isaac’s eyes. He grabs at his face and screams while Xien
reloads.

Cheradon turns at the sound of her father’s
cries. “Papa!”

As Xien lets fly more arrows, Isaac falls to
the ground, clearly in a bind of agony.

Oblivious to all this violence, Babs,
Horatio, and Tyson continue with their preparations as if the
mayhem around them isn’t happening. I only have a second to marvel
at this because Cheradon has decided to take hold of my hair and
pull. I find this disappointing. Hair-pulling? Really? She’s not
having much luck—my locks are short and I added a little gel this
morning—but I’m able to do some damage to hers, grabbing at a thick
peacock-hued hunk and yanking with all my might. It comes off in my
hand, and I feel sorry for her, but not enough to spare her from a
headlock and neck squeeze (thanks again, college self-defense
class).

She passes out, and I drop her to the
ground.

Xien flies to her face and points at her
nose. Actually, it’s her nose ring, that tiny diamond you almost
can’t see. In an instant, I understand—it’s controlling the
glamour. I pinch it out. A sigh escapes, not from Cheradon, but all
around her. She seems to sink deeper into the ground. Her hair and
skin grow duller, but they also look healthier, if that’s possible.
I slip the diamond in my pocket and start to stand just as Xien is
plucked from my side. I look up into Tyson’s shaded eyes and then
at his hand, which holds my fairy by his delicate wings.

“You can see him?” I ask.

“What does it look like?”

“But how?”

He taps the side of his sunglasses.
“Upgrade.”

“Tyson.” I stand up just a couple of feet
away from him and hold out my hands. “Please don’t make me hurt
you.” I don’t ask him not to hurt Xien. It always seems stupid to
me when victims beg for something like that in books and movies,
because then the tormentors know exactly how best to torment.

“You can’t hurt me anymore, Memphis,” Tyson
says, and I see images of Alice swirling all around him.

Cooper is still lying on the ground,
forgotten by all for the moment. I have to keep it that way, to
make sure they focus on the task at hand—the spell and me. Behind
him, Babs arranges the tiny embroidered shoes. The random thought
that Cleo would love to play with them enters my mind, and I’m glad
she is not here, that she and Romola are safe.

And it hits me that these guys never wanted
the girls. It was always me. If only Viveka hadn’t left them with
me, her girls wouldn’t have been in danger at all.

Still, the sudden need to make sure the girls
truly are safe overwhelms me. I have to distract Tyson. I look at
Xien, whose eyes register his fear even as he slyly reaches for his
sword.

“So you do blame me,” I say to Tyson.

“You? For what?”

“For Alice.”

“My sister?” He shakes the fairy in his
hands. Xien cringes, and I try to keep my face blank, my breathing
even. “Yeah, I do. You were supposed to protect her.”

“No. I wasn’t, Tyson. It’s true that I
tried
to protect her. But it wasn’t my
fault
.” As I
say it I realize the truth of this: Alice did not die because my
magick backfired. “Whatever happened to her was out of my hands. I
don’t know why it happened, or why anything awful happens to
anyone. I don’t know why you and these idiots are doing what you’re
doing. Why
are
you doing this?”

He shrugs. “I love Cheradon.”

Just as he utters these stilted words, Xien
tosses me his tiny sword the size of a toothpick, which sails
quickly over the two feet separating us. I know my puckish pal
favors the eyes as raptors do, but Tyson is Alice’s brother and a
damn fine kisser, and I simply can’t do it. And even if I were so
inclined, he’s still wearing those friggin’ glasses. I raise my
hand and stab the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist. The
small blade sinks in like a hot knife in butter until I hit
resistance—a tendon? Bone? Tyson’s hand opens, releasing Xien, who
flies away. Tyson clutches at his forearm and I take the
opportunity to reach over and snatch the glasses from his face and
twist them into a ball.

I enter the circle where Horatio and Babs,
having completed their preparation, stand like zombies. With one
kick I clear their altar, and then throw the glasses on it and
stomp on them several times until they break into pieces. The giant
elephant tusk sits on the ground, curved like an ivory rainbow. I
tuck the foot-binding shoes into my waistband before scooping up
the altar cloth and all that lies on it and tossing the whole thing
into the fire.

Tyson sinks to the ground. His head sags, and
I wonder if he’s passed out.

Cooper groans and I go to him. It
is
blood on the ground. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, and start to
probe his head for wounds. I find two classic bloodletting points,
one below each ear. There’s also a giant welt at the back of his
head, probably from when they took him out. His wrists also have
wounds.

I look for my bag—maybe there are some herbs
for a good old-fashioned poultice. It’s heaped on the ground at the
edge of the magickal circle. Around us, Isaac, Cheradon, and D.B.
lie like passed-out ravers. Although I suppose they’re more like
fallen soldiers, fighting a stupid war. I stand up to get the bag
and hear someone moaning. It’s Tyson. I put my hands on his head
and for the moment the urgent need to retrieve my bag and help
Cooper slips away. Instead, I whisper words of reversal and
healing. “
Bring him light, surround him in light, protect him in
light, sheath him in light. Lift the darkness, banish the darkness,
release the darkness, bind the darkness. Peace. Peace.
Peace
.”