Books by Maggie Shayne (57 page)

The director was rubbing his hands together, the wheels behind his eyes turning. "This is good stuff. We can use this. We're talking about true moral conflicts here. Real soul-searching." He scribbled a note, then glanced her way. "What else have you got?"

"Oh, please," Kinney said, clearly exasperated. "Are we producing a prime-time drama here, or is this going to be a Wicca One-oh-one class?"

"Kinney, you're the head writer, not the creator," Alex said. His tone, normally firm, had gone softer, and somehow that was more intimidating. "Karl and I came up with the idea; this is our baby. Our vision. If you want to stay on as head writer, I suggest you pay attention." Then, turning to Melissa, he smiled. "Please, go on."

She went on. The meeting stretched into two hours as she did her best to give the team a crash course on magic and Witchcraft. By the time she finished, she was energized, bubbling over with enthusiasm. They were actually listening to her!

Kinney alone remained hostile, though he kept it to himself throughout the rest of the meeting. Alex seemed interested, attentive, intense--but he still exuded a sense of frustration she couldn't quite understand.

When the meeting ended, a secretary came in with a list of messages for Alex even before everyone had filed out. Melissa had hoped for a private word with him, but he was clearly too busy just now. So she headed to her Bug with a new spring in her step. She was going to keep her job and her promise. They were taking her suggestions seriously.

Maybe the dream wouldn't come back again now that she'd gained a little confidence that she could actually do this job. Maybe it was only nerves after all. If she could just keep her feelings for Alex under control, she might actually get through this.

She was unlocking the car door, trying not to dance for joy, when Alex's voice came from behind her.

"You really do know your stuff, Melissa. You blew everyone away in there."

His voice sent shivers of awareness up her spine. He moved closer, standing right behind her, invading her aura. His warmth on her back made her close her eyes briefly. Then she straightened and turned to face him, resting her back against the car door. "Thank you." Her gaze lowered to the pentacle on his neck. "I wanted to ask you... about the pent'."

"You like it?"

"Yeah, but why are you wearing it inverted?"

He lifted a hand to finger the five-pointed star, enclosed within a circle, with its topmost point aimed downward. "It came that way. Besides, as I told you, I need to get inside the heads of the villains this season. Isn't this the way a dark magician would wear it?"

She shrugged. "Actually, in the Craft it's the symbol of the Second Degree--the descent into the shadow-self. But it's rarely used that way in the States anymore, because of its negative connotations. I think the Satanists have adopted it as their symbol, but I didn't see any Satanists cast as villains in the breakdowns."

"Wouldn't a dark magician be the same thing as a Satanist?"

"Not at all. A dark magician would be anyone who practiced magic designed to cause harm to others, or to manipulate the free will of other people for his own interests or gain. Some Satanists might be dark magicians, but I'd bet most of them aren't."

He nodded. "I think I like the symbol, even if it's not wholly accurate. In fact, I was thinking of using it as a prop on the show. It will certainly give the viewers the right cue at the right time. They see this, and they think, 'Evil.' "

"And that's a lie you intend to perpetrate even further?" She shrugged, disappointed in him, then stared at the pent', battling a shiver. "It's really a magnificent piece," she whispered. "Where did you find it?"

"It was my father's."

She lifted her head, a frown knitting itself between her brows.

"So where would one go to find an authentic dark magician?" he asked. "I have some books, but--"

Her hand shot out to clasp his upper arm. "Who
are
you, Alex? What are you playing with here?"

His eyes seemed to darken, to intensify, and her hand tingled where she touched him. "That's what I'm trying to find out," he told her. He shook her arm off and turned to walk away.

She went after him, grabbing his arm and turning him around again. "Don't dabble in the dark side, Alex. It will pull you in like quicksand. It will destroy you."

"You think so?" He shook his head. "Look over there, you see that car?"

She did. The sleek Mercedes SL 500 convertible was silver and gleaming in the sunlight.

"And there's my house. A mansion. And money. So much money I can have anything I want."

"And you got all you have through black magic?"

He seemed to go still, confusion etching his face for just a moment. "I didn't used to think so. Now... I'm not so sure."

She had no idea what he was talking about. Impulsively she touched his shoulder. "You can have anything you want anyway. You don't need black magic to get it. The universe is surging with abundance; all we need to do is claim it."

He smiled slowly. "Is that why you're driving a VW Bug?"

She tilted her head, studying him. "I
love
my car. Besides, it's good on gas, and better for the environment. I try to live in harmony with nature, Alex, and nature provides everything I need."

"But not everything you want."

"You don't understand. You have to get past the mentality of a child in a toy store. When you grow spiritually, Alex, your wants and desires start to meld with the will of spirit. And when that happens, things just fall into place. I adore that little car. I smile every time I look at it. I love my little beach house. And I'm starting to love this job--or I was."

"Well, I love my mansion, and I love my Mercedes, and I love the idea that I can have anything I want." He looked at her, her eyes, her lips. "
Anyone
I want."

She lifted her brows. "You think so, do you?"

"I think so." He moved closer still, closing the tiny gap between them, and his arms slid around her waist. He bent over her and covered her mouth with his. God, he knew how to kiss. His lips and tongue were talented, and he tasted good, and she was female enough to enjoy every second of it. She didn't fight him, didn't struggle. She didn't want to. Instead, she returned the kiss, but gentler, slowing the movement of her mouth beneath his, soothing him with her hands as they moved on his back and shoulders, visualizing cool blue water melding with the red-hot fire she sensed burning through him.

He responded, as she had known he would. His arms around her relaxed a little, so he held her close, but not crushingly. His mouth explored, now, rather than invading. His kiss warmed, gentled, and she felt a shudder rise up as if from somewhere deep within him, and an answering one rose within her.

When he lifted his head away, he blinked twice, and his eyes searched hers. He took a step backward, away from her, licked his lips, and then lowered his gaze. "That was... I was being an ass."

"Yeah, I noticed," she said.

"It's been a rough month. I'm going through some things." He turned away slowly, raking his hair with one hand.

"We all go through things, Alex. But just for the record, that kiss just now didn't happen because of any magic, black or otherwise. Or because of your money or your car. It happened because I wanted it to happen. So don't beat yourself up too much over it, okay?"

She turned back to her car while he was still standing there, in a state of--she didn't know what. Confusion, remorse? She got behind the wheel, started up the Bug. He spun around as if he hadn't realized she'd even moved, even took a few steps toward her as she drove away. Then he stood there watching her go, still looking slightly dazed.

Melissa held her hand out over the passenger seat, opened her fist, and let the gold pentacle drop onto the upholstery. Her palm still pulsed with the energy the piece held. Powerful energy, but dark. She could not wait to get home and wash her hands. She would just do a little cleansing work on Alex's jewelry tonight. He could have it back tomorrow.

It was completely against her principles to do this sort of thing--messing around with his pent' without his permission. Much less stealing from her brand-new boss. But something deep inside was telling her to do it, that she had to do it. That he needed her help. And she never ignored her intuitions.

She left, and he watched her go, cussing himself for acting like an idiot and wondering what homy little demon had possessed him, just now. But no, he couldn't blame his actions on anyone but himself. He was getting cocky. Starting to buy into the bullshit his father's diaries were trying so hard to sell. No matter how ridiculous Alex told himself it was, he was falling into it. He felt himself falling into it.

Maybe he just wanted it to be true. Maybe he'd just wanted an identity so badly for so long that he was embracing his newfound heritage with a little more zeal than common sense. And maybe he ought to have listened to his first instinct and stayed the hell away from the secluded old mansion where his father had lived and died.

The thought of parting with the place, though, sent a pang through his chest. It and its musty contents were all he had of his father. All he would ever have.

Besides the genes. The blood. The power.

Part of him rolled his eyes at the latter notion. Another part of him considered hurling a lightning bolt at something, just to see.

Until recently the practical part, the skeptic, had been stronger. Lately the two seemed evenly matched, and he felt constantly torn by the struggle.

He sighed and went to his car. Everyone had gone their separate ways, but they were due to meet at the studios the next day to refilm today's scene. Karl and Merl were supposed to brainstorm changes to the script, though the actual implementation would be done by Merl's writing team, who would fax the new scripts to the actors tonight. Later Karl would head to the studio to talk special effects. Alex would have to approve all of it before they shot tomorrow, but none of it would be ready for hours yet. He had the afternoon free.

So did Melissa.

He could go out there, he thought with a stirring of hunger. But another thought, one that didn't feel like one of his own, overpowered the impulse.
Don't chase her. Let her come to you. She will, you know. If all the things you father wrote in those diaries are true, she will--simply because you want her to. Wait and see.

He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous notion even as he wondered what a good shrink would make of the voices in his head that never sounded quite like his own inner monologue. Then he got in the Mercedes and drove to the house he couldn't quite think of as home.

*
 
*
 
*
 
*
 
*

Melissa used the afternoon to bury Alex's pentacle in the sand, in a spot too high for the tide to reach it, though well outside her sacred space. She called on the energies of Earth and Sea to cleanse it of its negative vibes, sprinkled rosemary, angelica, rue, and sage into the hole with it, and sank a tall stick into the sand beside it to mark the spot.

Then she washed her hands repeatedly, first in the sea, then with soap and water in her bathroom sink, and finally with Moon Water that had been blessed and charged with lunar energy.

After that, she got on the phone with Alex's secretary and got his address from the woman. He was famous enough that Melissa expected his secretary would be extremely careful about letting the information out. It surprised her when the secretary gave her the address without even a token protest. Strange.

So it was done. She'd buried the pilfered pent' to cleanse it, and she'd gotten the address without effort. Now all she had to do was work up the nerve to go over there and tell him what she'd done... and maybe why she'd felt compelled to do it.

But what was she supposed to say? Was she going to lecture him about what he'd been reading, who he'd been talking to? Grill him about who the hell this father of his was that he'd gone around with a half-pound of diamond-studded gold hanging from his neck? It was none of her business. She barely knew Alex, and she was certainly in no position to preach to him. He was wealthy, powerful, successful, and respected. How dare she presume to know what was good for him?

Even if she
did
.

She wasn't certain whether she should go over there or not, and she wasn't going to be able to come to a reasonable decision in this state. She needed to get centered.

A long hot soak in a scented bath helped. She added sandalwood and myrrh oils to the water. Very grounding. She dressed in her comfort clothes--a gray fleece warm-up suit and thickly cushioned white socks. She tied her hair in a loose ponytail and then phoned her favorite take-out place and ordered a bowl of seafood chowder. Thick and creamy. Rich and piping hot.

After she'd eaten, she went to the quietest room in the house. It had been intended as a second bedroom, but since she only needed one, it had become her temple room. Beaded curtains hung in the doorway. Goddess statues stood on pedestals, and there were shelves lined with books upon books. A small table, her working altar, stood in the center of the room.

She lit her candles, fired up her censer, then went to the west, sat on the floor on a soft cushion, and let her body relax. She focused on her breaths, rushing in and out, like waves on the sea, and she felt her mind slow and quiet. Absence of thought, stillness of the mind, that was true meditation, and it was that peace she sought.

When one didn't consciously search for an answer, that was when the answer was free to come on its own. At least that theory had proven true for her, time and time again. So she emptied her mind and sat in silence, floating in a peaceful void, without expectations or demands.

The darkness beyond her eyes began to fill with shapes and colors. The silence came alive, very slowly, with whispers and sounds.

Gradually, the shapes and colors took on more solid form.

Alex was there. No. The man from her dream, the one who looked like Alex, only dressed in dark robes and wearing that pent'. He had blood on his hands. He stood, facing toward her but not looking at her.

Melissa, where are you? I need you.

She frowned, certain that voice was
not
Alex's. And yet the face, the eyes, of the apparition were so like his--

She shivered and realized the entire room had gone icy cold. She opened her eyes to end the vision and saw her own breath cloud in front of her face.

Melissa's alpha state faded so fast she felt as if she had literally fallen from the sky, landing solidly in her body with a jarring thud. She was still sitting on the floor, in her temple room. She rubbed her arms against the chill.

"He's in trouble," a woman's voice whispered. "Help him, my sister."

Melissa jerked her head around, searching for the owner of that soft voice. But there was nothing, no one. Rising slowly, she inspected everything in the room for some clue. The spiral of incense smoke wasn't doing anything unusual. The candles' flames were steady and strong.

Except for the one in the west. It was flickering rapidly. And now that she was looking that way, she noticed the incense smoke was sort of flowing inward from that direction as well.

"I should have cast a goddamn circle," she muttered, because it was clear
something
had come in. She hadn't imagined the woman's voice or the man in the vision. She'd been a Witch too long to doubt her own senses, even the ones most people didn't believe in. She walked to the cabinet, took out a bundle of sage, changed her mind, and reached instead for the tightly sealed jar of asafetida, devil's dung. Removing a piece, keeping her face averted, she touched it to the candle's flame. The herb blazed up, and she blew it out, then walked counterclockwise around the room, smudging it with the rancid-smelling smoke.

"Spirits, depart!" She didn't whisper or chant or intone. This was a time for a clear, firm tone, one of command. "Depart through the gate you entered. This is my home and you have not been invited here. Depart, and go your way. Go, I say!"

The only sign that anything had happened was that the incense smoke swirled in a funny little eddy for a moment and then flowed steadily in the opposite direction, outward, toward the west. Melissa went to the western quarter and used the smoldering weed to draw a banishing pentagram in the air with its foul smoke. Then she doused the devil's dung, and using her hands she mimicked closing the veil, pulling it tight. She sealed the gateway with an equal-armed cross.

"So mote it be," she muttered. Then was still for a moment, waiting, sensing. But the chill was gone, as was that sense of someone else in the room.

Sighing, she extinguished her candles and her censer. Then she opened the window, to let the disgusting smell out. She left the ritual room through the tinkling beaded curtain and wondered what sort of visitation she'd just had.

She'd seen Alex. Or a man who looked like Alex--a man with blood on his hands. But what did it mean? Whether actual or symbolic, it would mean the same thing. Alex--or whoever the apparition was--was somehow responsible for causing harm, perhaps even death. She remembered the dream she'd had the night before--the woman she'd seen pushed from a bridge. Had that other voice been hers? Or was she some version of Melissa herself?

She shouldn't meddle in Alex's life any more than she already had--especially without his consent or knowledge.

There were forces moving in his life that were beyond her depth. Things she knew she would be better off not touching.

Yet her instincts were telling her to go to him.

And she never ignored her instincts.

She took her car keys from the hook and picked up the slip of paper with Alex's address on it before she headed out the front door.