A Chalice of Wind (6 page)

H
alf an hour late. That seemed about right. If he was still here, he was serious and had staying power; if he was gone, then good riddance.

(Actually, if he was gone, I would track him down like a dog.)

We were supposed to meet at Amadeo’s at nine. It was nine thirty, and the place was starting to fill up. I looked at the bouncer when I went in, and he automatically started to card me.

You don’t want to do that,
I thought, sending him a quick distraction spell. Just then, something at the back of the bar caught his eye, and he turned, striding through the crowd like a bull through a field of wheat.

I slipped inside and smiled as I saw some regulars. I could feel admiring looks from people and hoped Andre appreciated the skintight white jeans and tie-dyed halter. I flipped my hair back, looking unconcerned, and slowly examined the patrons.

I felt him before I saw him. All of a sudden, my skin tingled, as if someone had shocked me with static. The next moment, a warm hand was on my bare back, and when I turned, I was practically in his arms.

“You’re late,” he said, looking into my eyes until I felt breathless.

“I’m here now.”

“Yes. What do you want to drink?” Expertly he wove us through the crowd until we could stand at the bar to order. Nothing too crass or too childish. “A margarita,” I said. “No salt.”

Five minutes later we had made our way into Amadeo’s back room, where a small stage filled one end. Sometimes on weekends they had live bands, but it was a weeknight, and instead people were clustered around small tables and clumped onto the easy chairs and small couches scattered around the room. It was very dark, and the walls were covered with flocked red wallpaper so kitschy it was in again.

Andre led me to a battered purple love seat that was already occupied by a couple of college guys. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, but somehow they suddenly got the urge to get refills on their drafts.

I sank down first, taking Andre’s hand and pulling him down next me. He smiled slightly and didn’t resist; then he was on the love seat and with no hesitation kept coming at me until our mouths were touching, our eyes wide open. I held my right hand still over the back of the love seat so I wouldn’t spill my drink, but the rest of me leaned against Andre, wanting to sink into him, eat him up, melt our bodies together.

Minutes later one of us pulled back—I don’t know who. I took a sip of my drink, feeling stunned and hot and nervous and very, very turned on. I glanced uncertainly at him, and he looked like everything I felt.

“What do you have?” I asked, nodding toward his drink.

“Seven-Up,” he said, fishing the maraschino cherry out with long, graceful fingers. He held it out to me and I went for it, loving the burst of candied over-sweetness in my mouth. When I could talk, I said, “Oh, sure, get the girl drunk while you stay totally in control.” Which, to tell you the truth, did not seem like a good situation for me to be in. I mean, I was practically blind with lust for Andre, but I still had one or possibly two wits about me.

Andre gave me a crooked smile and I silenced an involuntary whimper. “Number one,” he said softly in his accented voice, “I don’t think you would need to be drunk, and number two, I’m not drinking, but somehow I feel I’ve lost control anyway.”

Okay, I was in love. And this is how sappy it was: I was totally, completely, one hundred percent happy and content to be sitting on that lumpy love seat in that crowded bar, drinking my drink and just staring into his dark blue eyes. I wanted for nothing, needed nothing, had to go nowhere. I could sit there and feast my eyes on him till the end of time.

I looked at him thoughtfully, running one finger around the edge of my glass. “No, I wouldn’t have to be drunk,” I agreed shakily. I leaned back against the side of the love seat and stretched my legs across his lap. My bare feet felt the warmth of his hard thigh through his black jeans, and I pressed them down experimentally. He had muscles.

“Tell me about yourself,” I said, pushing my hair back. I played with the straw in my glass and smiled. “Where have you been all my life?”

He smiled too, getting the corny reference. Despite everything, I remembered how Racey had felt about him, and I owed it to her—and to myself—to find out a little bit about him before, say, we got married.

“Andre what?” I prompted, when he didn’t answer. “Are you still in school? Where do you live?”

“Andre Martin,” he said, giving his last name the French pronunciation: Mar-taihn. I blinked. “I’m taking a year off, out of university, to work for my uncle’s law firm here. As a paralegal. I have my own apartment in the Quarter.” His warm hands slid under my jeans and massaged my calves. It made my brain feel like mush, or maybe that was because I had drained my large margarita. “Not far from here,” he volunteered, smiling wickedly. I put the glass down on the little table next to the love seat.

“Andre Martin?” I said, making sure.

“Yes.”

I felt like I’d been looking at his face my whole life. “That’s so weird,” I said, feeling distinctly fuzzy-headed. “That’s my name too. Clio Martin. Isn’t that weird?”

He looked amused, then considered it. “Martin is not so unusual a name,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said. “It just seemed funny—having the same last name.” My head was suddenly very heavy; I dropped it back over the arm of the love seat. Involuntarily I moaned at the strength of Andre’s fingers rubbing my legs.

He laughed, then swung my legs over the side again, which pulled me up next to him. He put his arms around me and kissed me.

Things after that were a little blurry. I know he asked me to go home with him, and, miracle of miracles, I said no. I couldn’t make it
too
easy for him. I know we kissed and made out and held each other so tightly that at one point my top had his shirt’s button impressions on it, which struck us both as really funny.

I know I wanted another margarita and instead received a 7-Up, which made me fall even more in love with him. I could trust him.

And I know that by the time we finally said goodbye, he walked me to my car and made sure I was straight enough to drive, which I truly was—especially since I did a silent dissipation spell as soon as I was behind the wheel. Tonight’s alcohol would dampen my abilities tomorrow, but right now the magick sang through my veins. Losing every bit of the margarita’s effect was sad, but I also knew if I drove impaired and killed myself, my grandmother would pull me back from the dead so she could kill me all over again.

I rolled down my window, the engine of my battered little Camry humming.

“I had a good time tonight,” I said. Major understatement.

He brushed his fingers along my cheek, rubbing his thumb over my birthmark. “So did I,” he said seriously, then leaned in the window and kissed me long and hard. “It’s okay if I call you?” I had given him my cell phone number.

“Yes,” I said, surpassing the first understatement.

“Drive carefully.” His look made me feel like we were already joined, one, forever.

I nodded, put the car in gear, and pulled out. He was in my rearview mirror until I turned the corner.

I knew better than to roll my eyes or act impatient. Nan always said little spells when she planted things, and of course her garden, the whole yard, was the most perfectly balanced, beautiful garden for blocks. Yet there was a part of me that was thinking,
It’s just okra.

She patted the earth down firmly around the okra seed, a little smile on her face. She looked perfectly calm, at ease. I was
dying.
It was a thousand degrees outside, and my T-shirt was already damp with sweat. I felt totally gross. At least no one but Nan would see me like this.

Nan looked up at me in that way that felt like she was seeing right through my eyes into the back of my skull. “Not your cup of tea, is it?” she asked with humor.

I showed her my dirty, broken fingernails and the blister beginning on my thumb. She laughed.

“Thank you for your sympathy,” I muttered.

“How are you going to be a witch without a garden?” she asked.

“I’ll hire someone,” I said.

“Will you hire someone to study for you?” she asked, more seriously. “Or maybe you should hire someone to do your drinking for you.”

I looked up in alarm. “I haven’t been drinking.”

She gave me an “oh, come on” face. “Clio—your magick is very strong.” She brushed my damp hair off my cheek. “It was strong in your mother also. But she died before she could come into her full power.” Her eyes had a faraway, sad look in them. “I want to see
you
come into your full power. Unfortunately, the only way to get there is actually to study, to learn, to practice. The only way to practice meaningfully is to not have dulled your senses. You can be a strong witch or you can be a weak witch. It’s up to you.”

“It’s summertime,” I said, hating how whiny and childish I sounded. “I want to have fun.”

“All right, have fun,” she said. “But you’ll be eighteen in November. And I’m telling you now, you’re nowhere near ready for your rite of ascension.”

Now she had my full and undivided attention. “What? Really? I didn’t know it was that bad.”

She nodded, looking sad and wise and somehow older than usual. “It’s that bad, honey. If you work your butt off, you might be able to pass it. Or you can wait a year, when you turn nineteen.”

“Oh, I’m so sure,” I sputtered, thinking of all the other kids who’d made their rites of ascension when they were eighteen. No one had
ever
failed and had to wait till they were nineteen. I would never live it down. I would embarrass my grandmother, who everyone considered one of the best teachers. I would look like a total loser, when really, I should be impressing the hell out of everyone. Damn it! All I wanted to do was see Andre. I didn’t want to study, didn’t want to practice, didn’t want to stop ingesting fun things like margaritas.

“It’s just that sometimes, studying seems a little, well, boring,” I said delicately. “I always feel like I want lightning and sparks and
big
magick, you know?” I held my arms out to the sides to demonstrate “big magick.”

Nan looked at me sharply. “Big magick is dangerous magick,” she said. “Even if it’s for good. Remember, what has a front has a back, and the bigger the front, the bigger the back.”

I nodded, thinking,
Whatever the hell that means.
“Okay, I’ll try to study more.”

Nan stood and brushed her hands off on her old-fashioned apron. “Like I said, it’s up to—” She stopped, her words trailing away. She stood very still, her hands frozen, while she looked all around us. Up at the sky, where the usual afternoon storm clouds were gathering, down the street, across the street, at our house and side yard.

“What’s the matter?” I stood up also.

Nan looked at me, as if surprised to see me—I mean, really looked at me, like she was actually trying to tell who I was. It was creepy, and I wondered for a second if she’d had a stroke or something.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “Nan, are you all right? Let’s go into the house—I’ll get you some cold lemonade, okay?”

She blinked then and glanced around us once more. “No, I’m all right, honey. It’s just—a storm is coming.”

“It always comes in the afternoon in the summer,” I said, still gently tugging her toward the front steps. “Every day, around three, a storm. But they always blow over fast.”

“No,” she said. “No.” Her voice sounded stronger, more like her. “Not a rainstorm. I mean a bigger storm, one that will . . .” Her words trailed off again, and she looked at the ground, lost in thought.

“A hurricane?” I asked, trying to understand. She was totally creeping me out.

She didn’t answer.

I
looked around and sighed.
Great. One of these dreams. Just what I need.

I’d always had incredibly realistic, Technicolor, all-senses-on dreams my whole life. I’d tried telling Dad about them, but though he was sympathetic, he didn’t really get what I was talking about. It wasn’t every single night, of course. But maybe 65 percent of the time. In my dreams I felt cold and hot, could smell things, taste things, feel the texture of something in my mouth.

Once, after a shop downtown had been held up, I’d dreamed I’d been in that shop and had gotten shot. I’d felt the burning heat of the bullet as it bored through my chest, felt the impact from the blow knock me off my feet. Tasted the warm blood that rose up in my mouth. Felt myself staring at the shop ceiling, old-fashioned tin, while I slowly lost consciousness, bleeding to death. But it had been just a dream.