A rather intense-sounding woman called in to agree with me. “Because really, I think we need
both
points of view to understand how the world works. Like this—I’ve always wondered, what if it’s not the four-leaf clover that brings good luck, but belief in the four-leaf clover that causes some kind of mental, psychic effect that causes good luck?”
“Hey, I like that idea,” I said. “The problem that science always has with this sort of thing is how do you prove it? How do you measure luck? How do you prove the mental effect? So far, no one’s come up with a good experimental model to record and verify these events.”
Sometimes my show actually sounded
smart,
rather than outrageous and sensationalist. I was hoping, with Professor Olafson onboard, that we’d be leaning more toward NPR than Jerry Springer. So far, so good. But it couldn’t possibly last, and it didn’t.
“Next caller, hello. What have you got?”
“I want to talk about what’s going on with Speedy Mart.”
The caller was male. He talked a little too fast, a little too hushed, like he kept looking over his shoulder. One of the paranoid ones.
“Excuse me?” I said. “What does a convenience-store chain have to do with magic?”
“There’s a pattern. If you mark them all on a map, then cross-reference with violent crimes, like armed robbery, there’s an overlap.”
“It’s a twenty-four-hour convenience store. Places like that get robbed all the time. Of course there’s a correspondence.”
“No—there’s more. You overlay all that on a map of ley lines, and bingo.”
“Bingo?”
“
They match,
” the caller said, and I wondered what I was missing. “Every Speedy Mart franchise is built on the intersection of ley lines.”
“Okay. That’s spooky. If anyone could agree on whether ley lines exist, or what they are.”
“What do you mean, whether they exist!” He sounded offended and put out.
“I mean there’s no quantitative data about ley lines that anyone can agree on.”
“How can you be such a skeptic? I thought this was supposed to be a show about how magic is
real.
”
“This is supposed to be a show about how to tell the real thing from the fakes. I’m going to say ‘prove it’ every time someone lays one on me.”
“Yeah, well, check out my website, and you’ll find everything you need to know. It’s w-w-w dot—” I totally cut him off.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, long overdue for a rant. “People are always saying that to me, how can I be a skeptic? How can I possibly be a skeptic given what I am? Given how much I know about what’s really out there, how can I turn my nose up at every half-baked belief that crosses my desk? Really, it’s easy, because so many of them are half-baked. They’re formulated by people who don’t know what they’re talking about, or by people trying to con other people and make a few bucks. The fact that some of this
is
real makes it even more important to be on our guard, to be that much more skeptical, so we can separate truth and fiction. Blind faith is still blind, and I try not to be.”
“Houdini,” Professor Olafson said. I’d almost forgotten about him, despite his occasional commentary.
“Houdini?”
“Harry Houdini. He’s a good example of what you’re talking about,” he said. “He was famous for debunking spiritualists, for proving that a lot of the old table-rapping routine and séances were simple sleight-of-hand magic tricks. What many people forget is that he really wanted to believe. He was searching for someone who could help him communicate with his dead mother. Lots of spiritualists tried to convince him that they’d contacted his mother, but he debunked every one of them. The fakery didn’t infuriate him so much as the way the fakers preyed on people’s faith, their willingness to believe.”
“Then he may be one of my heroes. Thanks for that tidbit.”
“Another tidbit you might like: He vowed that after he died, he would try to send a message back to the living, if such a thing was possible.”
I
loved
that little chill I got when I heard a story like this. “Has he? Has anyone gotten a message?”
“No—and lots of people have tried.”
“Okay, let’s file that one away for future projects. Once again, thank you for joining us this evening, Professor Olafson.”
“It was definitely interesting.”
So was his tone of voice. I couldn’t tell if he loved it or hated it. Another question to file away.
Matt and I wrapped up the show. I sat back, listened to the credits ramble on, with my recorded wolf howl in the background. Soon I’d have to go back outside, back to the real world, and back to my own little curse, which I didn’t have any trouble believing in.
N
ew Moon stayed open late on Friday nights, just for me.
Restaurant reviews describe New Moon as a funky downtown watering hole that features live music on occasion, plays host to an interesting mix of people, and has a menu with more meat items than one might expect in this health-conscious day and age. All in all, thumbs up. What the reviews don’t say is that it’s a haven, a neutral territory for denizens of the supernatural underworld, mostly lycanthropes. As the place’s co-owner, that’s what I set it up to be. I figured if we could spend more time relating to each other as people, we’d spend less time duking it out in our animal guises. So far, it seemed to be working.
The bartender turned the radio on and piped in the show Friday nights. When I walked through the door, everyone—the few late-night barflies, the bartender, the wait staff—cheered. I blushed. Part of me would never get used to this.
I waved at the compliments and well-wishes and went to the table where Ben sat, folding away his laptop and smiling at my approach. Ben: my mate, the alpha male of my pack. My husband. I was still getting used to the ring on my finger.
Though Ben could pull off clean-cut and intimidatingly stylish when the situation required it, most of the time he personified a guy version of shabby chic. He was slim, fit, on the rough side of handsome. His light brown hair was always in need of a trim. He could usually be found in a button-up shirt sans tie, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of comfortably worn khakis. If you went back in time to a year ago and told me I’d be married to this guy, I’d have laughed in your face. He’d been my lawyer. I only ever saw him when I had problems, and he scowled a lot when I did.
Then he landed on my front door with werewolf bites on his shoulder and arm. I took care of him, nursed him through his first full moon when he shifted for the first time and became a full-fledged werewolf. I’d comforted him. That was a euphemism. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to fall into bed with him. Or so my Wolf side thought.
Over the months, my human side had come to depend on having him in my life. Love had sneaked up on us rather than bursting upon us like cannons and fireworks. And that was okay.
Sliding into the seat next to him, I continued the motion until I was leaning against him, falling into his arms, then almost pushing him out of the seat. Our lips met. This kiss was long, warm, tension-melting. This was the way to end a day.
When we drew apart—just enough to see each other, our hands still touching—I asked, “So, how was it?” The show, I meant. Everyone knew what I meant when I asked that.
He smirked. “I love how you work out your personal issues on the air. It must be like getting paid to go through therapy.”
I sat back and wrinkled my brow. “Is that what it sounds like? Really?”
“Maybe only to me,” he said. “So, are you okay? Everything’s all right?”
“I’m fine. Nothing’s happened. I still haven’t learned anything new.”
“What’s Rick doing?”
“Sitting on rooftops being gargoyle-y. He says he can see ‘patterns.’” I gave the word quotes with my fingers.
“He’s just saying that to make himself look cool,” Ben said. I kind of agreed with him.
“Is there anything else we ought to be doing?” I asked.
“The restraining order against our friend Nick and the Band is filed. There’s not much more we can do until something happens. Maybe this—this emotional harassment—is all there is.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Nick was the leader of the Band of Tiamat. He also led an animal and magic act in Las Vegas, only the animals were all feline lycanthropes. Nick was a were-tiger. The whole act was a front for the Tiamat cult, and when they weren’t using the Babylonian-themed stage and sets in their show, they were using them to conduct sacrifices. Their preferred victims? Werewolves. Dogs and cats, at it again. Nick himself was certainly hot and sexy enough to front a Vegas show. He was also an evil son of a bitch. Gave me chills just thinking about him.
Ben moved his arm over my shoulder, and I snuggled into his embrace. “I wish I could just go back there and . . . beat them up,” I said.
“We’ve been over that. They didn’t manage to kill you last time, so it’s best if we don’t give them a next time.”
Especially since I wouldn’t have quite the backup I did last time I faced the Band of Tiamat. Evan and Brenda, the rather uncomfortably amoral bounty hunters who’d saved my ass, had had to leave Vegas in a hurry to avoid awkward questions from the police. There’d be no help from that corner.
And the one supernatural bounty hunter in the world I actually sort of trusted was still in jail.
“Grant’s keeping an eye on things for us,” Ben continued. “If they do anything funny, we’ll know it.”
Odysseus Grant was a stage magician in Las Vegas, a niche act who’d made his reputation with a retro show featuring old vaudeville props and reviving classic tricks that had gone out of fashion in the age of pyrotechnics and special effects. That was the public face, at least. I still didn’t entirely understand the persona underneath. He was a guardian of sorts, protecting humanity from the forces of chaos. It sounded so overwrought I hesitated to even think it. But, having encountered some of those forces firsthand, I was grateful for his presence.
I had allies. I should have felt strong. I had a whole pack behind me, and a vampire, and a magician. The Band of Tiamat didn’t have a chance against all that.
It had to be enough for whatever they threw at us. It just had to be.