A cracking sound, followed by a sizzle like oil in a hot pan, injected urgency into the room. Reporters swore and shouted. A chair hit the ground with a clash of metal against metal.
Brian snapped his focus to the source of the noise. Stress hormones zapped his extremities. On the floor, resting against the leg of the chair in which he sat, a frayed cord jerked.
In the throes of spasms, the live wire belched luminous white sparks.
The petroleum reek of electronic smoke and melting plastic gassed him. Brian fanned the space under his nose. How had the team failed to notice such severe equipment damage?
“Sorry, sorry.” Surfer Lad, his hand wrapped in a towel, yanked a plug out of the wall. The offending cable flopped dead.
The incident put a damper on the interview, which wrapped up in short order. Everyone shook hands and exchanged polite thanks.
Christine undid Brian’s mic, silky hair brushing his cheek and feminine touch ghosting his collarbone. “So you’re the sensitive, thoughtful, artistic type, eh? A musician, not a rock star.”
“I suppose.” Still rattled from the sparking incident, Brian attempted without success to steer his thoughts back to writing. Drama and chaos sure snuffed creativity. But as his mind meandered to Helen, and the song she’d inspired, tranquility filled his chest once more.
“I bet there’s a caveman in there, though, begging to come out and play.” Not to be deterred, Christine waited, wrapping the skinny microphone cord around her fingers.
She pushed her full lips out, though her latest attempts did nothing for Brian.
He knew who he wanted. “I met someone I can’t forget. I’d be using you.”
“So use me. Pretend I’m your someone.”
But he didn’t want to pretend with a woman fixated on some illusory fantasy of him. She craved an image, whatever false and shallow idea of him ran through her mind.
With her talk of pretending, Christine sealed the non-deal. “No thank you, sweetheart.”
The journalist pouted. “Someone’s a lucky lady.”
Yet he felt lucky, having met a woman who saw through to the real him. He could at least hear Helen out, allow her more space to explain while he listened with an open mind.
“Thank you. And it appears you have something stuck to the bottom of your skirt. Thought you might want to know.”
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” Christine left in a huff, picking at the gunk in her clothing.
Why waste another second? Brian pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and fished in his trousers for Helen’s business card. Her crystal came loose and fell to the ground, skipping across linoleum in a clacking rhythm. He pushed out of his chair, stooped, and picked up the rock. Touching the stone hadn’t hurt his hand since the knife handle debacle. So he’d imagined the sensation. Or perhaps someone had put the charm in the bus’s toaster as a prank. Who knew?
Brian rose.
“Duck, man,” Jonnie shouted, a hard shove to Brian’s upper back sending him sprawling forward.
Brian swiveled his neck in time to see the vase sail over his head, smack the opposite wall, and shatter into pieces.
Surfer Lad, mouth agape, pointed to the bookcase. “It flew across the room. Fucking flew on its own, nobody touched it.”
Jonnie’s grim expression tendered agreement. “It launched the second you picked up that stone.”
Alternating a withering look between the wreckage and the malevolent trinket, Brian put the Helen issue on the back burner and pulled up Joe’s number instead. The bloke had some major explaining to do, and Brian would pull the truth out of his shifty manager.
Seven
“You have reached Nerissa Ivanhoe, purveyor of strange. I’m indisposed at the moment, but leave a message and I will get back to you. If you have an appointment for a consultation, please come to my home office in Uptown Minneapolis, but do not park in my designated space. Violators will be toad, hehe.” A tone beeped.
Helen adjusted the straps of the messenger and yoga mat bags digging into her shoulder and continued her stride down the sidewalk.
A spreading yolk of sun dipped below the horizon, giving way to the purple bleed of sunset. The first notes of frost perked up end-of-summer warmth, adding an autumnal zing to the air. Perfect atmosphere for getting proactive.
“Hey, it’s me, Helen Schrader, again. I was hoping I could come over today and touch base with you about spells. Or talking on the phone is fine if that’s more convenient. I also text, and I’m on social media. Anyway, I’m finished teaching for the day, and I’ll have my phone on for another thirty minutes. Please call me back.”
With an impatient sigh, she hung up and tucked the phone in the front compartment of her messenger bag. Helen supposed she lacked grounds for irritation. The old witch wasn’t home when Helen called or dropped by at lunch, either, but Nerissa was locally famous. She had to be on the move a lot, booked and busy.
Regardless, Helen didn’t have an eternity to wait around for Nerissa’s schedule to open, not with the clock ticking on L&E and Brian being stalked by a mist monster. Nope, she needed to level up, and pronto.
Helen patted her bag, brushing the bulge made by the crystal pouch. Nerissa’s guidance or no, it was witch o’clock. She breezed though her condo lobby and opened the elevator with her key fob. The silver door closed, reflecting Helen’s flushed face and sweaty ponytail.
“Wait, wait. Sorry.” A young woman pushed the door open and stepped inside, her fingers capped with French-tipped acrylic nails. Platinum-blond hair, dip-dyed black, cascaded down her back, ending at a plaid miniskirt. Shy smile serving as thanks, she poked the button to her floor. “Sorry, sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. It’s fine.” Helen had been there, apologizing for existing. The other woman’s concert T-shirt, jagged-font logo the color of flames, advertised an
