Chapter Ten

Melodie should have gone straight home to bed when her shift ended, but even though she wouldn’t admit it to Cal, she wasn’t sure she’d feel safe at home alone. Even during the day.

Calypso offered her spare key. “Mi casa and all that, sweetie. I’ve got places to go, but I’ll be back by sundown. Don’t worry. By then, I’ll know how to handle this.”

“Can’t I go with you?” Mel hated to sound vulnerable, but spending the day alone worrying about demons stalking her didn’t sound all that appealing.

“I’m sorry, Mel. I’m going to contact some members of the Witches’ Council and ask about the curse. You can’t come along unless they invite you. Maybe next time.”

Mel wasn’t sure if she should hope for a next time or not. She waved as Cal drove off and decided her next objective was putting a demon hunter back on the case. Blake DeWitt couldn’t protect her from sunup to sundown, but maybe Palmer could—if he could remember why she needed protection in the first place.

His apartment wasn’t far from Taylor Tools, and fortunately, at half past seven, he was still at home. At least his Wrangler was parked out in front of the building. She wondered if he had a day job and if he wore his crossbow when he went to work.

She knocked on his door, and a muffled voice responded, “Jus’ a min—”

The door flung open a minute later, and Palmer stood there, wearing his trademark jeans, a damp towel draped around his neck and nothing in between. He held a Pop-Tart in one hand.

His dazzling grin made Mel’s knees just a little weak. “Hey! Good morning. You’re Rosa from eleven B, aren’t you?”

“Uh, no. I’m Melodie from Gleason’s Bakery.”

Confusion creased his golden brows. “Oh. Well, I think you have the wrong apartment, then. I didn’t order anything.”

“I know.” She sighed. The damn pixie dust really did work. “I’m here about…the Gogmar.”

Palmer was the king of the blank stare. This one, though, seemed calculated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss. I’m late for work, so if you’ll excuse me…” He tried to close the door, but she took a chance and slipped one foot over the threshold. “Please, Palmer. You gave me this the other night, and you told me to call you if I needed help.” She handed him his own card, and he squinted at it as if it might be a fake.

“I gave you this?”

“The other night at Gleason’s, after you killed a Gogmar.” She whispered the last part. “Blake DeWitt, the witch hunter, blasted you with pixie dust last night and made you forget me.”

“Yeah. No. Sorry that doesn’t ring any bells. I haven’t seen a Gogmar in a couple of months.”

“Oh, Palmer, come on. There has to be a way to reverse the effects of the dust.” Mel wondered if a conk on the head would help. She was willing to try anything.

“If it could be reversed, it wouldn’t be much good, would it?” Now he stepped forward, easing Mel out of the doorway.

Up close he smelled really good, like fresh shampoo and warm toaster pastry. “Palmer, what would I have to do to convince you that we’ve met before? The night before last, you took me to your lair behind Taylor Tools. Your uncle owns the place, remember?”

That caught his attention. “Of course I remember my uncle owns the place. You know about my lair?”

She nodded and gave him a hopeful smile. “You have sketches of demons up all over the place.”

Palmer glanced around and dipped his head low to whisper to Mel. “I’m sure if I had told you about my lair, I would have told you not to broadcast it all over the place and not to mention demons during daylight hours. You almost had me convinced, except for one thing—I would never let myself get pixie dusted. I’ve got to go, have a nice day, miss.”

Palmer made a quick retreat behind the door, not slamming it, technically, but closing it with a definite finality that left Mel bereft.

She really liked Palmer, especially without a shirt on, which was beside the point at the moment. Without him and Calypso, she was completely alone. There was no else she could talk to about curses, cabochons and demon queens. She’d go insane before nightfall if she had to spend the day acting like everything was normal.

Unable to even think about sleeping, she went back to Gleason’s. At least Arnie was always happy to see her.

 

 

At half past noon, Melodie was still wide awake. She hadn’t even yawned.

Maybe it was the double-shot of espresso Arnie had bought for her, or maybe it was fear of the day-walking demons Palmer had warned her about back when he knew who she was.

She had to admit, it felt good to run on pure adrenaline for a while. She hadn’t been this jazzed in a long time. In fact, she’d come to accept the fact that working nights in a bakery would be the pinnacle of excitement in her life. A sleepy, comfortable life was good, right? No surprises, no major problems. That had been why she’d come back to Amberville after two years in Boston with Larry. Now she wondered if she’d made a mistake, not about divorcing her ex-husband, but about leaving the busier lifestyle they’d had in the city.

Maybe a day job wouldn’t be so bad… She was contemplating finding something to do in her off-hours when Palmer slipped through Gleason’s front door.

She eyed him through the beveled glass of the display case she’d been cleaning. He looked confused but determined.

She straightened and met his curious gaze over the top of the case. “Can I help you?”

A sheepish grin flickered across his face. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

“Normally you wouldn’t have. I work nights.”

“I guess I should have remembered that. I’m sorry I was rude before. I realize now that you had to be telling the truth.”

“Oh?” Twenty-seven years of scrupulous honesty and suddenly no one believed a word she said. “What clued you in?”

Palmer jammed a hand into his front pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, folded in four. He spread the page on the counter in front of Melodie, and her jaw dropped.

The pencil sketch of her face was as detailed as a photograph and far more flattering. He’d given her sharper cheek bones, longer lashes and a fuller mouth, but nevertheless the resemblance was uncanny. “Did you draw this?”

“I must have. It was tacked up on the wall in my…lair.”

“Wow.” The idea that Palmer had taken the time to sketch her in such exquisite detail was sweet and a little spooky too. It must have been a shock for him to find the portrait and realize he had no recollection of the person he’d drawn. “You’re really talented.”

“With a pencil, maybe, but not much else if someone was able to wipe my memory. I was hoping when you’re done working, we could go somewhere and talk. Maybe you could fill in my missing time for me.”

Mel glanced into the back where Arnie and Selma, the daytime counter girl, were arguing over how many chocolate chips to put in today’s batch of cannoli. Technically Mel wasn’t on duty; she was only helping out because she didn’t want to go home. “Give me a minute and we can go, if you’re free now.”

“Perfect.”

Mel ducked into the back, broke up the heated chip debate and told Arnie she’d see him at ten. A moment later, she was strolling down Chelsea Street with Palmer, recounting their shared Gogmar encounter of two nights ago.

He seemed impressed with his own prowess in dispatching the scaly green demon, but his enthusiasm for the story waned when she got to the part about the pixie dusting.

“It sounds like I blundered my way into that one,” he said, shuffling his Reeboks on the sidewalk.

“Don’t feel too bad. DeWitt is like a ninja. He’s really sneaky when he isn’t roaring around on his Harley.”

“I do vaguely remember DeWitt. I’ve run into him before.”

“How much memory does the pixie dust erase?” Mel asked as they cut over to Willow Street and headed toward the park.

“It’s not necessarily time. It’s things like demons, witches, vampires, ghosts and the events surrounding an encounter with them.”

“Gargoyles too?”

Palmer shrugged. “Other than DeWitt, I don’t know any. Well, maybe I do and I just don’t remember.” The sullen edge to his voice might have invited sympathy, but something didn’t sit right with his explanation.

“Palmer, what do demons, witches, vampires, ghosts and gargoyles have in common?” she asked.

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Well…they’re not all immortal. They’re not all undead. They’re all somewhat magical, I guess.”

“And humans aren’t magical.”

“Witches are human…most of them. I’ve heard some demons can be witches, and I guess a witch could be turned into a vampire or a gargoyle or a ghost.”

“But pixie dust doesn’t erase someone’s memories of other humans, does it? You still remember your mom and dad, your uncle. You remembered Rosa from eleven B, right?”

“Right… What are you getting at?”

Mel slowed her pace. “How come you can remember DeWitt the gargoyle, but you can’t remember me?”

Palmer thought about it. “Because he wasn’t a gargoyle when he dusted me, right? He was in human form.”

“And so was I. Not that I have any other form.”

Palmer stared at her. Mel didn’t like what she was getting at, not at all. “I’m not a witch or a ghost or a vampire or a gargoyle, but you can’t remember me.”

Palmer’s serious expression broke, and he laughed. “Oh come on. You’re not a demon. Obviously I forgot the Gogmar, and since that’s when I met you, I forgot you too. You’re part of that encounter.”

“But then wouldn’t you remember me from last night when you were at my apartment?”

“I was at your apartment last night?” One of his eyebrows shot up, and his tanned complexion paled by a shade.

Mel gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t worry. You were a perfect gentleman, and there were no Gogmars there. What if I have the Cabochon in me? Maybe that makes me a demon.”

“No. Humans don’t turn into demons.”

They stopped at the entrance to the park. Mel’s stomach was in knots. “Why not? They can turn into witches, gargoyles, vampires and ghosts.”

“And werewolves. You forgot werewolves.”

“You never mentioned werewolves before.”

“I forgot about them. There aren’t really that many of them around.”

“Great. So maybe I’m a werewolf?”

“Well, that’s more likely than a demon. Demons are usually hatched, not made.”

“But anything is possible, isn’t it?”

Palmer let out a slow breath as they hit the cool green lawn of the park. “You’d be surprised at what’s possible.”

“Honestly, I don’t think I would be anymore.”

 

 

Sometimes the silence of the stone was worse than reliving Percival Blake’s waking life. Darkness within darkness might have been a comfort to some, but to Blake it was worse than death.

Having his existence halted between one inhalation and the next left him on the verge of madness at times. But that’s how he came to understand his long family history of sudden deaths, acrimonious divorces and descent into isolation by men whose lives had previously seemed so promising.

He didn’t want to end up that way, alone and angry at the rest of the world for abandoning him to a prison they didn’t even know existed.

What choice did he have, though, except to hold on through the darkness and pray someone like Melodie McConnell held the key to his granite tomb?

When he awoke again, the call of the Cabochon returned stronger than ever. Still within his grasp, it would not stop taunting him until he lost his soul to darkness.

Tonight Blake had only one objective. Stay close to Melodie McConnell until she gave up her secrets to him.

 

 

“Good, you’re finally here.” Calypso Smith greeted Blake with familiar disdain when he arrived at Melodie’s apartment. The witch, dressed tonight in formal, flowing black with dangling pentacle earrings and a matching ring on her right index finger, swirled away from him as soon as she opened the door.

Blake stepped inside, adding the scent of the takeout cheeseburgers he’d picked up on the way over to the cloying aroma of lavender and clove incense that danced through the apartment on the faint autumn breeze. Melodie stood in the living room, a virginal antithesis to Calypso in a lacy white summer dress. Barefoot and wearing no jewelry, she resembled some type of sacrifice.

“Mind if I ask what’s going on?” He set the sack of burgers on the coffee table next to a billowing incense burner.

Melodie’s gaze dropped immediately to the food. “That smells fantastic. What is it?”

“It’s from Hanover’s Hearth. I got half a dozen Big Burgers with the works. I usually wake up…really hungry.” For some reason the admission embarrassed him. Right now, looking at the brunette vision before him, a different kind of hunger took over and left him wishing for a way to get the witch to disappear.

Clearly irritated, Calypso grabbed the bag and shoved it onto the cluttered desk. “Food later, I’m cleansing right now. Step back.”

Melodie shrugged, and Blake obeyed, forcing himself to move out of the growing circle of incense smoke. Calypso took his place opposite Melodie with the coffee table between them. She clasped the other woman’s hands in hers and began to chant formless words under her breath.

Had it not been for the curse, Blake wouldn’t have put much stock in witchcraft. He’d never been a believer in the paranormal, but he’d seen a lot in ten years—or five, if one considered he’d spent half that time unaware of the world around him. The surge of power that swirled around the two women, linked like yin and yang across the table, didn’t startle him, but it did make the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

When Calypso finished her spell, Melodie swayed a bit. Blake moved to steady her, but a fast-moving blur got to her before he did. Palmer Van Houten appeared out of nowhere, looking like a blond Clark Kent. He guided Melodie to the couch and glared up at Blake.

“Nice to see you again, DeWitt.”

Blake surveyed the apartment. “Did you let yourself in, demon hunter? Because I didn’t hear the bell ring.”

“I was in the other room checking the locks on the windows.” There was a definite challenge in his words. In this small place, there was no doubt the “other room” meant Melodie’s bedroom. So the demon hunter was laying some sort of claim. Blake would have been amused, except the stakes were too high right now for him to get into a pissing contest with Palmer.

“Blake, you should apologize to Palmer for dusting him. It really wasn’t necessary,” Melodie said. She waved incense smoke away from her face and took a deep breath.

He couldn’t help but rise to the bait. “You’re right. I’m sorry Palmer isn’t really necessary. If I’d known, I never would have dusted you…so easily.”

Palmer glared. He might have conjured up a scathing comeback eventually but the witch cut in, literally. She handed Blake a white-handled knife, thin-bladed and razor-tipped. “Is this for the burgers?” he asked.

Calypso ignored him. “Palmer, can you spread the towel out on the table? Mel, hold your hand out, palm up. Don’t be nervous, hon. It’ll all be over in a minute.”

Blake stepped back. “Whoa. What’s going on? This isn’t some kind of blood rite, is it? Or an exorcism? Because that won’t work with the curse. Believe me, I’ve tried that.”

Calypso’s dark eyes assessed him. “Wish I’d been there for that. No, this isn’t an exorcism. It’s a test. Take Mel’s hand and cut her palm, not deep. Just a scratch will do.”

He met Mel’s resigned glance over the table. “Is she kidding?”

Melodie shook her head. Her hair, loose from the ponytail she’d worn it in the day before, cascaded around her shoulders. “If I have the Cabochon, you can’t hurt me.”

A cold knot of dread settled in his stomach in the spot he’d been saving for a cheeseburger. Did the witch really believe Melodie had the gem?

“I can’t…cut you, lass.”

“There’s no other way to be sure.” Calypso folded his fingers around the cold bone handle of the knife. “It’s very sharp, and it’s been sterilized by flame. One quick cut, shallow and straight. It’ll heal in a day.”

Melodie held her hand out. Clean pink nails tipped her delicate fingers. Her skin was translucent and unblemished, inviting a gentle touch, not the harsh slice of a blade.

Blake had often thought, in his darkest moments of despair that he might kill to end his curse, but now, faced with this relatively simple task, his heart protested. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Do it. It’s okay. I need to know.” Her conviction galvanized him. Did he need to know? What he would do with the knowledge, he couldn’t say.

He held his own palm out, and she placed her hand on top of his. Her skin was warm, and the contact made his nerves tingle all the way up to his shoulder. She had power. She had something, and for once, he prayed it wasn’t the Cabochon.

She closed her eyes, and the muscles in her arm tensed.

“DeWitt, we don’t have all night.” The witch nudged him, and the demon hunter stared him down.

Quick, clean and straight.

He drew a steadying breath and ran the tip of the boline over her skin.

She winced but didn’t open her eyes. Blake stared, dumbstruck at the bright line of blood that welled in her palm, and his heart fluttered aimlessly, unsure whether to sink or soar.