Dime Store Magic
Page 36
Why hadn't Leah killed me already? I don't know. Maybe the Cabal was holding her back. Cortez said they preferred using legal methods to resolve disputes, thereby minimizing the risk of exposure. So they probably hoped to win Savannah in a court battle, though that didn't mean they wouldn't let Leah off her leash if that failed.
As disturbing as Robert's report was, it was little more than I'd already expected, based on my dealings with Leah to date. Yet he did uncover two tidbits that bolstered my optimism. Two possible methods of thwarting Leah. No, not crosses and holy water. Such things belong in fairy tales.
First, Robert's research indicated that, unlike Exustio half-demons such as Adam, Volos' powers plummeted as their tempers flared. Piss them off enough and they'd become too flustered to concentrate. Simple psychology, really.
Second, all Volos had a tell, a physical mannerism that preceded an attack. It could be as discreet as an eye blink or as obvious as a bloody nose, but they all did something before lashing out. Of course, that meant you had to provoke them a bunch of times before you'd discover their tell.
Upon waking, I forced myself to peek through the drawn front curtains. The street was empty. Whew. I showered and dressed, then roused Savannah for breakfast. After we ate, I called her school and left a message saying she wouldn't be in again today, but we'd stop by later for her assignments.
Then I made another call. On the third ring, he answered.
"Lucas Cortez."
"It's me, Paige. I think" I swallowed and tried again. "I'd like to give this a shot. I want to hire you."
"I'm glad to hear that." His cell phone buzzed, as if he was moving. "May I suggest we meet this morning? I'd like to formulate a concrete plan of action as soon as possible."
"Sure. Do you want to come here?"
"If you're comfortable with that, it would doubtless afford the most privacy."
"That's fine."
"Shall we say ten-thirty?"
I agreed and rang off. As I hung up, relief washed over me. It was going to be okay. I'd done the right thing. I was sure of it.
By nine-thirty Savannah and I were both at work, me in my office and Savannah at the kitchen table. At nine forty-five I gave up any hope of getting something done and turned my attention to my E-mail.
My in-basket had filled up over the weekend, and ninety-five percent of it was from addresses I didn't recognize. That's what I got for running a business and having my E-mail address, home phone, and fax number listed in the yellow pages.
I created a folder entitled: "Hell: Week One," then scanned the list of senders and, if I didn't recognize the name, dumped the E-mail into the folder unread. I'd have preferred to delete them, but common sense toldme I shouldn't. If some maniac broke into my house and knifed this "Satan-worshipping bitch" in her sleep, maybe the police would find my killer's name buried in this heap of electronic trash.
I did the same with my faxes. A quick scan of the first page and if it contained the words "interview" or "burn in hell" I dumped it into a file folder, then stuck the whole thing under "H." By the time I finished sorting, I was quite proud of myself for handling things so calmly and efficiently. Over two dozen faxes and E-mails condemning me to eternal damnation and my hands barely shook at all.
Next I made the incredibly stupid mistake of searching the Internet for references to my story. I told myself that I needed to know what was out there, what was being said. After reading the first headline, "Satanic Witch Cult Surfaces near Salem," I really should have quit. But I had to keep going. Of the three articles I scanned, two mentioned the "missing Boston baby" rumor, one said I'd been seen skulking around at the local humane society, two accused me of being a member of some Boston "Hellfire Club," and all three said I'd been found at the site of Cary's murder "covered in blood." After that, I decided ignorance really was bliss, and turned off my computer.
It was now ten-fifteen. Time to put on a pot of coffee for Cortez. As I was measuring coffee into the filter, the phone rang. I checked the display. Unknown caller. To answer or not to answer? I chose the latter, but poised my hand over the "talk" button in case a friendly voice came on.
"Ms. Winterbourne, this is Julie calling from Bay Insurance"
Insurance? Did I have insurance with a place called-oh, wait, no, Bay Insurance was a new client. As the voice continued, I hit the talk button, but the machine kept running.
"cancel our order. Given the, uh, publicity, we've decided that's for the best. Please bill us for any work you've done to date."
"Hello?" I said. "Hello?"
Too late. She'd hung up. I'd lost a contract. I closed my eyes, inhaled, felt the sting. Why hadn't I imagined this, that my business could be hurt by the publicity? But I couldn't worry about it. If they didn't want my services, screw 'em. It wasn't like I had trouble finding customers. Once or twice a week I had to turn someone down because my schedule was full. Besides, sure, I might lose a few contracts, but I might also gain some.
While I waited for the coffee to brew, I decided to slog through the rest of my phone messages. As if to prove me right, three calls later, I hit this message:
"Hi, it's Brock Summers from Boston. I'm with the New England Perception Group and we'd love to have you do something for our Web site"
As disturbing as Robert's report was, it was little more than I'd already expected, based on my dealings with Leah to date. Yet he did uncover two tidbits that bolstered my optimism. Two possible methods of thwarting Leah. No, not crosses and holy water. Such things belong in fairy tales.
First, Robert's research indicated that, unlike Exustio half-demons such as Adam, Volos' powers plummeted as their tempers flared. Piss them off enough and they'd become too flustered to concentrate. Simple psychology, really.
Second, all Volos had a tell, a physical mannerism that preceded an attack. It could be as discreet as an eye blink or as obvious as a bloody nose, but they all did something before lashing out. Of course, that meant you had to provoke them a bunch of times before you'd discover their tell.
Upon waking, I forced myself to peek through the drawn front curtains. The street was empty. Whew. I showered and dressed, then roused Savannah for breakfast. After we ate, I called her school and left a message saying she wouldn't be in again today, but we'd stop by later for her assignments.
Then I made another call. On the third ring, he answered.
"Lucas Cortez."
"It's me, Paige. I think" I swallowed and tried again. "I'd like to give this a shot. I want to hire you."
"I'm glad to hear that." His cell phone buzzed, as if he was moving. "May I suggest we meet this morning? I'd like to formulate a concrete plan of action as soon as possible."
"Sure. Do you want to come here?"
"If you're comfortable with that, it would doubtless afford the most privacy."
"That's fine."
"Shall we say ten-thirty?"
I agreed and rang off. As I hung up, relief washed over me. It was going to be okay. I'd done the right thing. I was sure of it.
By nine-thirty Savannah and I were both at work, me in my office and Savannah at the kitchen table. At nine forty-five I gave up any hope of getting something done and turned my attention to my E-mail.
My in-basket had filled up over the weekend, and ninety-five percent of it was from addresses I didn't recognize. That's what I got for running a business and having my E-mail address, home phone, and fax number listed in the yellow pages.
I created a folder entitled: "Hell: Week One," then scanned the list of senders and, if I didn't recognize the name, dumped the E-mail into the folder unread. I'd have preferred to delete them, but common sense toldme I shouldn't. If some maniac broke into my house and knifed this "Satan-worshipping bitch" in her sleep, maybe the police would find my killer's name buried in this heap of electronic trash.
I did the same with my faxes. A quick scan of the first page and if it contained the words "interview" or "burn in hell" I dumped it into a file folder, then stuck the whole thing under "H." By the time I finished sorting, I was quite proud of myself for handling things so calmly and efficiently. Over two dozen faxes and E-mails condemning me to eternal damnation and my hands barely shook at all.
Next I made the incredibly stupid mistake of searching the Internet for references to my story. I told myself that I needed to know what was out there, what was being said. After reading the first headline, "Satanic Witch Cult Surfaces near Salem," I really should have quit. But I had to keep going. Of the three articles I scanned, two mentioned the "missing Boston baby" rumor, one said I'd been seen skulking around at the local humane society, two accused me of being a member of some Boston "Hellfire Club," and all three said I'd been found at the site of Cary's murder "covered in blood." After that, I decided ignorance really was bliss, and turned off my computer.
It was now ten-fifteen. Time to put on a pot of coffee for Cortez. As I was measuring coffee into the filter, the phone rang. I checked the display. Unknown caller. To answer or not to answer? I chose the latter, but poised my hand over the "talk" button in case a friendly voice came on.
"Ms. Winterbourne, this is Julie calling from Bay Insurance"
Insurance? Did I have insurance with a place called-oh, wait, no, Bay Insurance was a new client. As the voice continued, I hit the talk button, but the machine kept running.
"cancel our order. Given the, uh, publicity, we've decided that's for the best. Please bill us for any work you've done to date."
"Hello?" I said. "Hello?"
Too late. She'd hung up. I'd lost a contract. I closed my eyes, inhaled, felt the sting. Why hadn't I imagined this, that my business could be hurt by the publicity? But I couldn't worry about it. If they didn't want my services, screw 'em. It wasn't like I had trouble finding customers. Once or twice a week I had to turn someone down because my schedule was full. Besides, sure, I might lose a few contracts, but I might also gain some.
While I waited for the coffee to brew, I decided to slog through the rest of my phone messages. As if to prove me right, three calls later, I hit this message:
"Hi, it's Brock Summers from Boston. I'm with the New England Perception Group and we'd love to have you do something for our Web site"
