Kindling The Moon Page 2

  Caduceus in hand, I abandoned my post behind the bar and strode in the direction of the offenders. But before I could make it there, a low gasp spread through the crowd and everyone in front of me began backing up.

  “Move it.” I pushed people out of my way until I made it to the problem table. Broken glass crunched beneath my low-top sneakers as I approached.

  There were three Earthbounds at the booth: Kara and her boyfriend, both regulars, and some other guy I didn’t know in a red flannel shirt … whom Kara was choking. Well, not choking so much as freezing the skin around his neck. Beneath her hands, a network of blue lines formed on his skin as she screamed, “Motherfucking liar!”

  “Did you sleep with him, Kara?” her boyfriend asked, sitting at her side. His face was stroke-red. For crying out loud, no ambulances tonight, I thought to myself as the choking victim knocked a ceramic coconut-shaped mug off the table with his flailing arm. It shattered into ragged snow as it hit the floor. The crowd behind me jumped back as an errant ceramic shard ricocheted and pegged me on the arm. It stung like hell.

  “Hey!” I yelled, rubbing my injury. “That’s handmade. We’ve only got a few of those mugs left in stock. You’re paying for that.”

  Kara’s victim paid no attention to me as two other mugs, the rice cracker bowl, and all the napkins began rising off the table. I’d heard that her boyfriend was telekinetic, and apparently he had a hard time controlling it when he got upset. Awesome.

  I double-checked that the bar was still savage free. It was.

  “Tell him that I didn’t sleep with you! Tell him!” Kara spoke in a frantic, high-pitched voice as the blue lines erupting on his neck began spreading up into his face.

  Enough. I gripped my caduceus and struck the floor in front of the booth, right on the triangle point that was painted on the hardwood. It was a binding triangle. There was one under every table in the bar. Risk management.

  Eyes closed, I tapped into electrical energy from the bar, reeling it into me with care and precision. Amanda once asked me how magick like this worked. Different spells called for different kinds of magick, but the energy I needed to power a binding like this had to be amplified, or “kindled.” The easiest way to think of magical energy—Heka—was to picture it as a wood log in a fireplace. Just as wood burns when you put a match to it, Heka transforms into a more intense energy when it’s been kindled by an outside source; electricity was just one of several ways to do that.

  As I pulled, the garish tropical-themed lights inside the bar wavered and dimmed. I mumbled a short binding spell and, in one massive push, released the kindled Heka through the caduceus, into the binding triangle.

  My stomach lurched like I was riding a roller coaster. Depending on the spell, the accompanying nausea could last for a couple of seconds, or it could make me so sick and exhausted that I’d have trouble standing. Fortunately, this time, it wasn’t bad.

  When I reopened my eyes, a low moan rose from the crowd behind me. They were impressed, as usual, but I wasn’t; the binding triangle glowed with kindled Heka, but it wasn’t bright like it should be—it was dull and popped with static. It must’ve been because of my mood. Whatever. It was working, and that was what mattered. The objects crashed back down on the table, rice crackers scattering everywhere, as the three drunken demons in the booth finally looked up.

  “Shit.” Kara released the man across the table and dropped her fading blue hands to her side. He fell back into his seat and coughed, reaching for his wounded neck.

  “Seriously, Kara, this is the second time this month. I told you last time that if it happened again, I’d ban you from the bar.”

  A lock of dyed orange hair fell across her cheek. “I didn’t mean to get so out of control. Give me another chance. I promise—”

  “Please unbind us,” her boyfriend pleaded. “It raises my blood pressure and I don’t feel so good right now.”

  Amanda pushed her way through the crowd. “Wait! They started a tab. They owe us, hold on.” She fumbled in her pocket, then flipped through several scraps of wrinkled paper until she found the right one. “Sixty-three dollars and forty cents. Oh, and Kara didn’t tip me last week when she came in.” She clicked her tongue at Kara and winked. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  “There’s also the broken barware,” I noted.

  “Here!” Kara’s boyfriend pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Please, unbind us now.”

  As Amanda snatched up the money, her foot crossed the triangle and inadvertently broke the binding spell. Kara’s boyfriend slumped to the table, heaving, as the other two gasped in relief.

  “Oops, sorry, Cady.” Amanda winced at the dead triangle as she pocketed the money.

  A table busser appeared with a broom. I scanned the crowd for one of our regulars and quickly spotted him. Bob was a short Earthbound in his thirties with dark, slicked-back hair and a lazy eye. He was dressed in his usual attire, a Hawaiian printed shirt with repeating hula girls. Unlike half the people in the bar, Bob’s demonic ability was useful. He was a healer. Not a miraculous one, but good in a pinch. He also had a thing for me and would probably set himself on fire if asked.

  “Hey Bob,” I called out. “Will you take a look at that guy’s neck? Make sure he’s okay.”

  “No problem.” Bob trotted off behind the wounded man, who was making a beeline toward the door along with Kara’s boyfriend.

  “Am I banned?” Kara asked as she scooted out of the booth.

  “You’re banned on Thursday nights for the next month. No Paranormal Patrol.”

  Her face fell, but she nodded in acceptance and made a drunken attempt at a short curtsy as she left, her blue hands now fully reverted to their normal color.

  Low whispers hummed around the bar as the crowd dispersed and people returned to their seats. Someone asked if I could rewind Patrol; we’d missed several minutes during the ruckus.

  After I made my way back behind the bar, I picked up the remote and started to hit rewind when I noticed what was on the screen and froze. A special news report had interrupted the program. I took it off mute and ignored the murmured complaints about another delay in the evening’s festivities. A petite Latina reporter spoke into a microphone beneath a red umbrella.

  “I repeat, local authorities here in Dallas are trying to confirm whether the couple in the parking garage are indeed the notorious serial killers, Enola and Alexander Duval, who made international headlines when they were charged with the deaths of three rival occultists seven years ago, known collectively as the Black Lodge slayings. The footage we’re about to show you was just released to us, taken this morning from a gas station near the airport.”

  A clip from the surveillance video played. Clear as day, there were my parents getting into an SUV. What the hell were they thinking? They weren’t supposed to be in the States; they hadn’t been here in years.

  Right after we faked our deaths and went into hiding, I saw them every few months. Then a few months turned into a year, and a year into three. I didn’t think about them much, unless I heard their names mentioned in some true-crime-exposé rerun on basic cable.

  The reporter continued. “The fact that the killers are still alive and in Texas after all these years is astonishing. There’s speculation that their daughter, also a member of their former occult order, could still be alive too. Now, back to the studio for Tom’s commentary. Tom?”

  I stood stiff as a soldier and stared at the screen. I was dimly aware that my hands were trembling. My vision tunneled, then everything went black.

  2

  When I came to, I lay on the floor inside the Tambuku office looking at two pairs of feet; one was wearing purple sneakers … Amanda. The other feet were bare and belonged to my business partner, Kar Yee. She never wore shoes at work. She would begrudgingly put them on if forced to meander past the bar, but that was her limit. No threat of broken glass and spills or health department requirements would sway her; she even drove her car without
shoes.

  The two women were arguing. Amanda was trying to convince Kar Yee that she could stand in for me at the bar, begging her not to call in a replacement bartender.

  “I won’t screw anything up,” Amanda promised.

  “You’re too slow mixing drinks,” Kar Yee said. “Too. Slow. Do you know why? You talk too much.” A petite Chinese Earthbound, Kar Yee had perfect skin, catlike eyes, and a chin-length bob with severe, straight bangs. Two long, thin locks of hair framed her face, several inches longer than the rest of her bob, and she sculpted these into sharp points that dangled to her shoulders. All of this was surrounded by a stunning aqua-blue halo.

  I cracked my neck and pushed myself up off the floor as the two of them continued to squabble. “Give me a few minutes, then I can finish my shift.”

  “Oh, you’re awake,” Kar Yee noted without emotion.

  Amanda groped my clammy forehead. “Are you okay? What happened? Are you sick?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, pushing her hand away. Then I remembered what caused the blackout. A pang of worry tightened my chest. “I mean, uh, yeah. Probably getting sick, that’s all.”

  “You want me to mix drinks for a few minutes?” Amanda asked me. “Mika can handle my tables.”

  Kar Yee made a perturbed noise and folded her arms across her slender chest. Amanda often played us like a mom and dad. If one said no, she’d corner the other to get the answer that she wanted. Still, running the back office was Kar Yee’s responsibility; managing the bar and our small staff was mine. My call, not hers, and I didn’t feel like wrangling someone else to come in and sub for me on their night off.

  “Who’s watching the bar?” I asked.

  “Mika, and Bob’s helping her guard the cash register. Can I mix drinks? Please? I won’t touch your potions this time, I swear.”

  “They aren’t potions …” Well, technically that’s exactly what they were, but whatever. “Ugh. Fine. Go. Don’t let people talk you into adding extra shots without paying. Buzz if you need help.”

  “Thanks, Cady!”

  Amanda sprang away as Kar Yee handed me a glass of water and leaned against her desk.

  “What’s really wrong?” she asked after Amanda was gone. “You look like shit. Your halo is all … bleh.” She made a sour face and wiggled her fingers. “In trouble, maybe? It better not interfere with business. There are two big concerts down the street at the Cypress Club this weekend that are going to keep us slammed.”

  Kar Yee’s no-nonsense way of thinking made her a great business partner, but not a warm-and-fuzzy friend. Most of the time this worked out well for me because she didn’t pry into my background too much. Sentimental friends were a liability for someone in my situation.

  “It’s probably not a big deal. Just something that I need to sort out. Tomorrow’s my night off, so hopefully I can take care of it before Saturday.”

  “Hmph.”

  Her usual response. It meant, I know you’re lying to me, but I’m not asking.

  I met Kar Yee at college in Seattle, a year after going into hiding, and right after I had assumed my current identity. Before that, I’d been traveling around the country under several other aliases in an attempt to elude our rival magical organization and any stray FBI investigators with nagging suspicions about my parents’ faked deaths.

  Kar Yee’s parents lived in Hong Kong. She came to the States to study international law, but ditched the law program for a degree in business. During her second year in school, she decided that she didn’t want to go back home, so she married an American boy to get her U.S. citizenship, then divorced him after INS lost interest in them. Even though they’d never consummated the sham marriage, her fake husband seemed genuinely upset to see her go.

  After college, it was her idea to move to California. Most Earthbounds prefer a Mediterranean climate near a large body of water, which is why there are so many living in our area. (If you want to avoid demons, try the Midwest—virtually demon free, at least from what I’ve heard.)

  Once we got to California, it was my idea to start up the tiki bar. We traveled up and down the northern coast for almost a month before we settled on the city of Morella. Bordering the Big Sur region, Morella is the fourth largest city in the state, half an hour from the ocean, and a couple hours south of San Francisco, if you drive fast. And there were Earthbounds aplenty here; you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one. The blocks surrounding Tambuku are lined with demon-friendly businesses. So when we found this location for lease—half underground, the entrance at the foot of a short flight of cement steps down from the sidewalk—we knew it was perfect. We’d been in business for almost two years, a success from day one.

  Amanda’s voice came through the speakerphone on Kar Yee’s desk. “Uh, Arcadia? Is there more white rum out here somewhere? I kinda tipped over the bottle you were using and I can’t find—oh wait. Never mind. Crap. A big group of people just came in the door.” A loud chorus from the bar rattled the speaker before she hung up. Paranormal Patrol was still going strong.

  “Can you help her?” I gave Kar Yee a pleading look. “I need a few minutes alone to make a phone call.”

  She shot me a suspicious look, then nodded silently and complied, closing the door behind her. I locked it before pushing up the sleeve of my T-shirt to reveal a raised design on the inside of my arm, between my wrist and elbow.

  Inked in white with a thick needle, the tattoo isn’t noticeable unless you’re looking hard—a long, oval Egyptian cartouche that contains seven hidden sigils, which I can identify like Braille from the scarring. Most of them are protective wards: instant, ACME-style spells for protection and stealth. Having them permanently affixed to my skin allows me to avoid hand-drawing the symbols in a pinch and could mean the difference between life or death … or between staying hidden and being caught.

  One of the symbols, though, contains a homing sigil for my personal guardian, an Æthyric messenger spirit that can be called for information or help. Known as Hermeneus entities, these beings are coveted by magicians. To petition their aid, you have to woo them in a special ritual. If one of them takes a liking to you, it might offer up its services—either a onetime deal or a more permanent situation, in which they form a link to your Heka signature, something as unique to each person as a fingerprint.

  Once linked to you, a guardian will be your loyal eyes and ears on the Æthyric plane, able to glean bits of hidden knowledge, warn about Æthyric disturbances, and monitor spirits who are linked to other magicians. The magician’s equivalent of the witch’s familiar.

  These Hermeneus spirits don’t physically cross over from the Æthyr to our plane. Instead, they use Heka to transmit a kind of noncorporeal hologram of themselves. Because of this, they aren’t much use for earthly tasks. All they can really do here is relay information from one magician to another. Before the phone was invented, this was probably helpful, but now? Not so much.

  Unlike the binding triangle I’d just powered up in the bar, my guardian’s homing sigil didn’t need to be charged with Heka that had been kindled with electrical energy. It required a more passive, personal energy gained from bodily fluids. Might sound a little odd, but magicians have used fluids to charge spells for centuries: blood, saliva, sexual fluids, tears. Inside all of these is raw, unkindled Heka. The amount of raw Heka varies by fluid type—blood has more Heka than saliva, for example—and it also varies person to person. Not that there’s some lab test available to verify this, but I was pretty sure that my blood had a hell of a lot more Heka than the average person’s. And this definitely gave me an advantage, magically speaking. Just as anybody can learn how to draw, anybody can learn to do magick; however, someone who lacks natural artistic talent might take twice as long to master the basics. And let’s face it: that person might eventually learn to pull off a decent landscape, but they’ll probably never be Michelangelo.

  Ready to call my guardian, I stuck my finger in my mouth, extracted a small amount o
f Heka-rich saliva, then wiped it on my guardian’s sigil. “Priya,” I whispered. “Come to me.”

  A familiar wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. The air in front of me shuddered, and a wispy, glowing figure pulsed into view. Like other Hermeneus spirits, Priya has a birdlike head and a unisex body, too rugged to be female, too soft to be male.

  Priya nodded at me, bending at the waist. Command me, it said inside my head.

  “My parents are in trouble. They’ve been spotted by authorities in Texas and are no longer hidden. The Luxe Order will soon know that they’re still alive, if their wards haven’t already alerted them. Contact my parents’ guardians in the Æthyr and relay this message. Wait for a response. I need to know what they want me to do to help. Go.”

  Priya nodded and disappeared.

  My guardian was my solitary link to my parents. Only in an emergency was I supposed to send it out to contact their guardians; I thought this qualified.

  When I sent Priya out on these errands, the return time varied. Sometimes the spirit would come back to me with a report after a few minutes, sometimes several hours later, I could never tell. So I plopped down on Kar Yee’s chair and hoped it would be a short trip.

  Opening one of the desk drawers, I reached toward the back until my fingers skimmed a stash of hand-rolled valrivia cigarettes. Calming like nicotine, but with a mild euphoric kick, valrivia doesn’t trash your lungs the way tobacco does and is about as addictive as caffeine. Half the demon population has a valrivia habit. I picked up mine from Kar Yee in college. I’d already smoked two that day—my self-imposed limit—but under the circumstances, I thought I deserved another. I dug a lighter out of my jeans pocket and lit up.

  It was hard for me to believe that it had been seven years since the so-called Black Lodge slayings had thrust my parents into the public spotlight, making them villains in the lead story of every news organization, half a dozen true crime novels, and God only knows how many television investigative reports. They even got their own trading cards, part of a collectible set of serial killer profile cards that included Charles Manson and John Wayne Gacy. Classy.