Hexed (35 page)

“You said you didn't take his emotions.”

“You asked if I had taken
all
of his emotions. I did not,” the Harlot said, brushing hair away from Lucifer's tear-stained cheeks. “He wished to know the way to Witchdown, thinking he could spare you the trauma of going yourself. When I told him the price, he hesitated. Truth be told, he didn't believe I had the power to take away his love for you, especially as strong as it was. Eventually he agreed, saying that if he truly loved you, he'd do anything to keep you safe.”

The Harlot cupped Lucifer's chin. “He indeed loved you. His ambivalence toward you now is the proof of that love.”

Lucifer clutched at the Harlot's dress, spitting through her sobs. “I hate you, Harlot.”

“I know, darling.” The Harlot continued to lovingly stroke Lucifer's hair. “I know.”

Once Lucifer had cried herself out, the Harlot stood and waved her hand over Lucifer's cold tea. Steam started rising from the stained porcelain. “You can't spend your days wallowing in self-pity. Finish your tea and be on your way.” The Harlot smoothed her dress with the back of her hands. “My time as a single parent is about to come to an end. So, if you wouldn't mind leaving,” the Harlot said, reclining in her throne, “you have a phone call to make.”

Lucifer sat up and rubbed her eyes. She drank her tea in one swallow. “Thanks for the tea,” she said. Lucifer put the cup on the table and pointed to the mark on her shoulder. “But I'm tired of being your pawn. Don't for a second think this means I'm going to stop trying to get this hex removed.”

“I am the Keeper of Secrets, darling,” the Harlot cooed. “That, I
know
.”

The café was crowded for a weekday afternoon. Lucifer sipped her coffee as she sat outside at one of the wrought-iron tables that lined the sidewalk. It had taken a week, but she finally got around to calling the number Buck had given her. The woman who answered sounded familiar, but Lucifer couldn't place her. She wouldn't give Lucifer her name either, only that she was willing to meet somewhere public.

Normally, Lucifer would have waited nearby to see who this woman was before making further contact, but ever since her dunk in the ice tub, she had trouble staying warm and needed some coffee to fight off the ever-present chill. But she chose to sit outside in case she needed to exit quickly.

Lucifer was letting the heat of her coffee seep into her fingers when the chair next to her slid away and a woman she recognized sat down beside her.

“Hello, Lucifer.”

“Ms. Brisendine.”

“Val, please.” Val grinned at the barista who set down a small cappuccino in front of her. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

Lucifer quickly scanned the area, looking for police, undercover or otherwise. “So Buck sold me out? And after what I did to help Gina.”

Val took a small sip then said, “Don't be ridiculous. Bucky wants to build a shrine to you.”

“You call him Bucky?”

In answer, Val's eyebrows arched in a rather mischievous way. Then the woman said, “As for
Night
on
47th
, you don't worry about that. Insurance more than covered it. Trust me, I made out like a bandit on the deal. And I still had plenty left over after paying your medical bills.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for that.” Lucifer turned her coffee cup in her hands. “So why am I here?”

“I want you to come work for me.”

Lucifer nodded. “I see.”

“You don't sound very happy about it.”

She was still heartbroken over David. Lucifer didn't think she could sound happy about anything. “Let me guess,” she said. “Since I stole your painting and you paid for my hospital stay, you feel I owe you now, is that it?”

“Lucifer,” Val said, gently putting her hand on her arm. “I am not that kind of person. You don't owe me anything.” The woman slid her cappuccino to the side and said, “You have no family, no friends. You work alone. I know you're lost. But I can help you.”

“Help how?”

“I can give you a home. A place to belong so you aren't wandering from job to job, hiding out from cops and truant officers.”

Lucifer took a long sip of her coffee. “This isn't some kind of come-on, is it?”

“I'm old enough to be your grandmother. Don't be gross. I'm offering you a job.”

“I do all right by myself,” Lucifer said.

“Yes, you do,” Val responded. “And I am honestly impressed by that. When I was your age I was too busy collecting nail polishes and hanging posters of boy bands on my wall.”

Lucifer eyed Val from head to toe and back again. “Yeah, I don't believe that for a second.”

“Okay, that was a bit of a stretch. But my point still stands. You're an incredibly smart, incredibly resourceful young woman who is doing all right. I can give you the resources to help you do a whole lot better.”

“See, that's what I don't get. I'm a thief. I steal things.”

Val leveled her gaze and locked eyes with Lucifer. “Yes, you do. You steal because you and I want the same things. To keep dangerous things out of the hands of dangerous people. And there are some very dangerous people out there, Lucifer. You were in Graeae Towers. You know what I'm talking about.”

The idea of an entire office being run by people with their hands in the mystical was chilling. “The guy running the show up there, Isaac Haldis, is some bad news.”

“That's the thing,” Val said. “Isaac isn't the one running the show. His boss is.”

“Who's his boss?”

Val moved to speak but waited until a couple walking past moved out of earshot. When they were gone, she whispered, “Madame Cymbaline.”

Lucifer could feel her own eyes growing in surprise. “Madame Cymbaline is a myth.”

Val shook her head. “She's real and she's CEO of Graeae Industries. Could you imagine what someone like that would do if she got her hands on a W'ektet Totem? Or the Carasinth? That's why I try to keep as many of those dangerous items locked away. But I have to get them first. You can steal those things. Unfortunately, I have to buy them. And bad people don't always want to sell.”

Lucifer gave Val a sidelong glance. “What kind of dangerous things do you have?”

Val sat back with a proud grin. “I have D'valin's Spear, the Yellow Corset, three binding frames—empty, of course—a full set of Ember's
Encyclopedia
Demonica
, and a various assortment of other terrible and wonderful things.”

“No one has a full set of Ember's
Demonica
.” Lucifer was angry with herself for letting her excitement seep into her voice. As far as Lucifer knew, she had the collection with the most volumes. But if Val had a full set, then she was a serious player.

“I do,” Val said. “Complete with the Forbidden Index. It cost me a Monet
and
a Rembrandt to get it.” The woman leaned close with a conspiratorial smile and said, “Take the job and I'll show it to you. You want to see it?”

Lucifer carefully placed her hands in front of her and said, “I do. But on one condition.”

Val waved her hand and said, “Name it.”

“You tell me how you know about me.”

Val used her napkin to dab a drop of cappuccino from the edge of her cup. “When you were still in Brazil, a man named Walter found you. He took you off the streets. Walter was a colleague of mine.” Val reached into her tweed coat and pulled out a faded envelope. She placed it in front of Lucifer. “He didn't trust e-mail, so he would write me letters. He talked of you often.”

Lucifer pulled the folded letter from the envelope and read. It was true. Walter wrote of a little girl he had caught trying to pick his pocket.
Lucifer
the
little
thief
, he had written. But rather than turn her in to the police, he had her translate mystical texts for him in exchange for food and shelter. That was how Lucifer learned of the world of magic.

Lucifer handed the letter back to Val. “So you've been keeping tabs on me?”

Val slipped the letter back into her pocket. “When Bucky came to me about his unique problem, I thought you could help him. Turns out I was right.” She raised her tiny cup to her lips. “As I often am.”

Val stood and said, “I'm finished. Let's go. I want to show you my collection.”

Lucifer followed but responded, “I'm not passing up a chance to see a full set of Ember's
Demonica
, but that doesn't mean I'm taking the job.”

“Yes, it does,” Val smirked. “Hey, whatever happened to that boy you brought to the gallery? Are you two still a thing?” Val turned when she saw Lucifer had stopped following.

“No,” Lucifer said, her voice cracking. “That . . . didn't end well.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Oh, he was cute, but Lucifer, you can do so much better than that boy. And you know what they say about there being plenty of fish in the sea.” Val sauntered up to Lucifer and slid her arm through hers. “Lucky for you, I just happen to be a master fisherwoman in need of a protégé.” Val pulled her along and continued, “But if you want, I suppose we could commiserate about the boys in our lives.”

“Like, what,” Lucifer said with a hint of skepticism, “over ice cream or something?”

“Ugh, god no,” Val said. “I have a friend who owns a lumberyard. Whenever I'm feeling down, he gives me thirty minutes and a chainsaw to do whatever I want. It's surprisingly therapeutic.”

Lucifer couldn't help but admire Val's confidence and the way she held herself. She might look every bit the part of an art gallery owner, but Lucifer could easily imagine her buzzing her way through logs with a sawdust-flecked smile on her face. It was as if there was nothing in the world this woman couldn't do, and she
knew
it. Lucifer liked her.

“Val,” Lucifer said. “I'll take the job, but on one condition.”

“Doesn't that make two conditions now?”

“Hey, cut me some slack. I've never applied for a job before.”

Val chuckled. “Fair enough,” she said. “What's your condition?”

“You have to answer this next question honestly.”

Val stared at Lucifer, intently focused. “Of course, Lucifer. What's your question?”

Lucifer took a breath and asked, “Do you really think my name is pretty?”

A broad, genuine smile spread across Val's face. “Yes, Lucifer,” she said. “I really, really do.”

EPILOGUE

The Harlot patiently admired the collection of odds and ends displayed on her mantelpiece while her client relaxed on her couch, debating his next move.

“I think I can have you in three,” he said.

“No, darling, I don't believe that you can.”

The Harlot ran an elongated finger along the mantelpiece, pushing a furrow through the dust with her finger until one of the items caught her attention. She took the amber jar from its perch and held it in the firelight. Inside, two shriveled orbs glistened in the thick liquid. The Harlot couldn't help but smile at the memory of how those two spheres were once so black and beautiful.

“Your turn,” her client said.

The Harlot placed the jar back on the mantelpiece and returned to her throne. Her client, an older gentleman named Daniel Westinghouse, casually cleaned his glasses with a handkerchief, completely unperturbed by the sad state of the Harlot's sitting room. Even in his fine navy suit, Mr. Westinghouse looked comfortable among the unkempt decor.

The Harlot took a sip of tea and then brought her focus to the chessboard on the table. Mr. Westinghouse's pieces were arrayed haphazardly. Though he was a keen player, he was well aware of the Harlot's innate ability to divine future events and was moving his pieces about randomly in a foolish attempt to confuse her. For some reason, she found it charming.

The Harlot slipped one of her pawns forward on the board. “Your move, darling.”

“Miss Harlot—”

“Just Harlot, darling.”

“Harlot,” Daniel said as he began studying the board anew. “The person I represent requires anonymity. Should someone come to you inquiring about him—”

“I will be obliged to produce that information, if my price is met. There are rules, Mr. Westinghouse.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, sliding his bishop to take one of her two remaining pawns. “Two moves, I'm afraid.”

“Oh my, but this is a conundrum.” The Harlot smiled to herself and made a show of contemplating her next move.

“As for the missing effects,” Mr. Westinghouse continued, “the person whom I represent is most eager to have them returned. I have come on his behalf to acquire their location so that I may retrieve them.”

“
You
will retrieve them? Darling, that way lies only sorrow. If you attempt to retrieve them, you will die. And I must confess, I have grown rather fond of you in our short time together. It would sadden me greatly if you perished in such pursuits.” The Harlot moved her pawn diagonally, taking one of Mr. Westinghouse's own.