Honeymoon of the Dead (11 page)

Some honeymoon this was turning out to be.

Still, there didn’t seem to be much I could do about it. At least nothing sitting here . . . I still had a “normal” spell to undo. Though I got the sense that the consul general would be happy to pull out a game of checkers or some other grand-fatherly pastime while we waited.

No offense, but I could find better places to hang out. I knew that Sebastian wanted me to stay on this guy, but he seemed so competent that I really didn’t know what relentlessly harassing him would really get us.

Thus, I stood up with a smile. I thanked the consul general for his help and made sure that I’d left my contact information so as soon as he had news he’d let me know.

In complete opposition to my mood, the sun shone cheerily as I stepped outside. Chickadees twittered argumentatively in the tall white pines that lined the parking lot. The glare from the sun reflecting off the snow made my eyes water.

After waving hello to James Something, who was sitting in his brown Outback reading the
Star Tribune
, I drove aimlessly in the direction of Saint Paul and the hotel.

Somehow I found myself headed for my old neighborhood. Having exited the highway, I tooled along River Road heading from the Saint Paul side toward Franklin Avenue and Minneapolis. There were several open spots on the Mississippi despite the cold, and an enterprising bald eagle swooped in lazy circles above the wooded banks.

I hardly needed the sign to let me know I’d crossed over into Minneapolis proper. All of a sudden there was an almost palatable switch of . . . attitude. Square gave way to hip. Reserved became “artsy.” It wasn’t that the Minneapolis mansions were any more elaborate—no, in fact, if anything, the Saint Paul houses had more dignity and poise with their long stretches of snow-covered lawns and perfectly trimmed box hedges. On the Minneapolis side, in comparison, gardens got more plentiful, more showy, and much, much more whimsical. Boulevard arrangements became the norm. Tall, fluffy spikes of pompous grass stuck up above the snow along with dried seed heads of purple coneflower and withered black-eyed Susans, with pink flamingos or salvaged-metal sculptures thrown into the mix.

I smiled. Ah, home.

Crossing the bridge, I passed an art gallery that featured various, odd, brass Humpty Dumpty-type eggs smiling or grimacing at passersby from their perches atop a small fence.

Despite all the treats I’d been offered at the consulate, I pulled into the parking lot of the Seward Cafe. The parking lot of the Seward was cobblestone, and the tires hissed and sang as they bounced to a stop in front of the garden. Seward Cafe was across the street from a Holiday gas station and was wedged among a brick apartment building, an asphalt parking lot, and the co-op grocery, and yet it managed to provide a wild oasis of greenery in the summer. Even in the winter, I could sense its lingering glory. I got out of the car and wandered among the handmade trellises overflowing with the remains of last season’s beans, tomatoes, and yellow squash. Yet, despite these careful plantings, mullein and scrub mulberries grew freely, poking above a thick carpet of leaf-littered snow. An icy cedar-chip path wound between the bare trees, leading to a weathered wood structure that looked a little bit like a house with the roof blown off.

I ducked under a canopy of Boston ivy and Virginia creeper vines into the roofless bricked patio. I stopped for a moment and let the magic of the place soothe me. The chaotic combination of carefully placed stones, random weeds, and odd bits of pottery gave the impression of something primal. It was intentional and fated, planned and wild, organized yet free.

Magic.

The cafe building itself was not impressive. A single story with a flat roof, and nearly windowless, it looked like an overgrown box in desperate need of fresh paint. The screen door sagged on rusty hinges.

The interior was like a sauna. The smell of coffee was so strong that a person could get a contact buzz from breathing too hard. I inhaled deeply and wished Sebastian was here with me. This was one of the places I really wanted to show him.

The space was divided in two. There was a front area where you ordered, and the other side was devoted to seating. Old-fashioned wooden booths lined a slightly raised platform near the wall, and tables made of thick planks of wood were scattered on the linoleum floor. Over one table hung a wire sculpture of a bird with black feathers; its eyes stared rather menacing out at all the dreadlocks and body piercings that sat at various tables eating dishes with names like Whole Earth and Vegan Fluffy.

Ordering food was a little like taking part in some kind of art installation as well and wasn’t easy for the uninitiated. Luckily, I felt I was among my own kind here. I knew customers were expected to make their selections from a shared menu that had a permanent spot near the front, write down their choices on a slip of paper complete with prices and totals, and hand it to the cashier. The guy behind the counter wore a T-shirt that expressed hopefulness for the eventual release of Leonard Peltier. I smiled at him as I handed over a request for my old favorite, Super Green Earth, and a cup of regular, plain coffee.

With a grunt that I took as flirtation, he handed me a mug, which I filled myself from a big, silver urn. Beside it sat a glass mason jar with a handwritten label announcing that refills were fifty cents. Bills and coins nearly spilled out of the top. The honor system seemed alive and well, but, no surprise, given that this place always seemed to me like a throwback to a more trusting era of idealism, like the sixties or seventies.

While I waited for my name to be announced when my food was ready, I took my graying, chipped porcelain cup and found myself a booth under a slightly less disturbing piece of wire sculpture. This one seemed to be a hand breaking through a canvas. The artist’s description merely said, “Peace on Earth,” which didn’t really illuminate what she’d been going for, in my opinion.

Shrugging out of my coat, I leafed through a copy of the
Phoenix
someone had left at the table. It was a newspaper devoted to the substantial population in the Twin Cities of people recovering from drugs and alcohol or other addictions. As my eyes scanned articles about twelve-stepping, my mind wandered.

Seward Cafe was one of the first places I’d been drawn to when I moved to Minneapolis from the small farming community of Finlayson, Minnesota, where I’d grown up. The people this restaurant attracted shared my values of recycling, renewable resources, and general respect for the earth. I’d mellowed in the intervening years and felt a bit conspicuous in my leather boots.

The younger me would be horrified to know what I sometimes fed my cat, much less myself, some days. Of course, in those days I didn’t harbor a vengeance Goddess and wasn’t married to a vampire.

My life certainly had taken quite a turn for the odd, hadn’t it?

I looked over at a couple seated at a nearby table. She had a nose ring and multicolored hair, and he had dreads that roped nearly to the small of his back. They were laughing about something, and I found myself kind of jealous. Sure, they might be outside of the mainstream with their fashion and, most likely, their politics, but they were probably able to walk home without being accosted by Illuminati Watch thugs or werewolves.

Even without the faerie queens and trolls, my life wasn’t very “average,” was it?

Oh, nuts! That reminded me, I should find someplace to do the “normal” reversal spell.

I had half hauled myself to my feet when I heard a voice call my name.

“Garnet?”

I looked up into a face straight from the past I’d been lamenting. “Larkin?”

Oh, this was awkward. Larkin was the guy I’d had the scandalous fling with. Worse, I sort of forgot to dump him. Instead, I stopped answering his calls.

I remembered Larkin as a sweet guy. In fact, I had a tendency to go for two types of men: alpha males and what used to be referred to somewhat derogatorily among my friends as SNAGs—sensitive New Age guys. Larkin was a SNAG.

And was standing there wearing tie-dye no less.

His short blond hair was stylishly unstyled, and he had a scruffy, oh-despite-myself-I-couldn’t-help-but-find-it-kind-of-cute goatee. It struck me how much he looked like William, my co-worker at Mercury Crossing. That thought made me blush. I had once told William I would have dated him in another life; apparently, I had.

“Wow, you look different. I almost didn’t recognize you,” Larkin was saying. He shouldn’t have recognized me at all. When Lilith had entered me on that fateful night, my blue eyes turned purple. I used to have blond hair—I guess I still did; it was just hidden under black dye.

But bits of the love spell lingered between us. I could feel it stirring my own heart.

“I thought you were dead,” he said. Again, he was supposed to have. After the witch hunters killed my coven, they burned the covenstead to the ground. I let the authorities and everyone else presume I’d died alongside of them. It was part of my clever plan to keep the witch hunters off my scent, which would have worked much better in retrospect if I hadn’t continued to use my real name and Social Security number when I moved to Madison. Master criminal, I was not.

“Yeah, I know,” I said apologetically. “Hey, how’ve you been?”

“You mean after you disappeared on me?”

“Uh,” I said, hiding my guilty face as I took a sip of my coffee. I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

“Liza and I got back together for a while, kind of for show and because everyone sort of expected us to. But we could never rekindle the flame. It didn’t last.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because well, Liza had been a good friend and I totally messed up her life for this guy I thought I wanted so damn much. Turns out, I needed less talking and more alpha in bed. I snuck out on Larkin after only one night. I found it hard to look him in the eye now. The wood grain on the table seemed infinitely more fascinating at the moment.

“Nothing has really worked out in the romance department, honestly.”

I looked up at the quaver in his voice. Was he going to cry?

In an uncharacteristically bold move, he grabbed my hand. My sense of balance shifted, but I didn’t get double vision at least. I resisted the urge to pull away with clenched teeth.

“I’ve only ever loved you, Garnet,” he said. He brought my knuckles to his lips and kissed them.

“Uh . . .” There was so much wrong here, including the strange desire I had to grab his lapels and smash my lips into his. So I blurted out, “I’m married now. Didn’t I mention it?”

His eyes widened and he stared at the ring on my hand, and then let go like it was hot. “Oh. Uh. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling more than a little awkward and cruel. Here I was hurting this guy over and over again.

Larkin sat back in the seat and his shoulders slumped, defeated. My heart did a little thump in my chest. He looked so cute. I just wanted to take him home and take care of him. Of course, it had been that feeling that had gotten us in trouble in the first place.

He let out a long, slow breath, as if coming back to himself. He put on a brave smile that made my heart ache. “You know what’s weird?” Larkin asked. “I swear I had a dream about you a couple of months ago. It was about you getting married, I think.”

“How funny,” I mumbled. That had been yet another magical goof-up of mine. When Sebastian and I were sending out invitations to our wedding, I’d been disappointed that so many of my friends in Minneapolis thought I was dead, so I’d conjured up a spell that sent out a “dream invitation.” Except I kind of forgot to put a friends’ filter on it. Everyone I ever knew got it, even sworn enemies.

I think I’m lucky Larkin never owned a car, or he might have spoiled that whole “any objections” moment at the wedding.

“So . . . what have you been up to, anyway?” he asked tentatively, clearly trying to make nice and be all adult with his see-we-can-be-friends tone. “I thought of you the other day. I saw your old tarot deck on the used shelf at Present Moment.”

“What? You did? How did you know it was mine?”

“It was still in that case you made. Your name was on it. I almost bought it as a memory of you.”

I tugged my ear. “Ah.”

It was weird to think of my stuff out there, but the moony look in Larkin’s eye was even stranger.

Luckily, the cook called my name and order, so I had to excuse myself for a moment to go fetch my food. After grabbing a tray and silverware, I stopped to dig two quarters from my pocket and refill my coffee.

Finally, I couldn’t delay any longer. I returned to Larkin’s expectant face.

“So, you never said what you’ve been up to,” he said the second I sat.

What was I going to tell Larkin? Well, let’s see, after killing the witch hunters with the help of the Queen of Hell, I moved to Madison, fell in love with a vampire, fought off zombies, shape-shifters, and a crazy ex-girlfriend of Sebastian’s who was now dead, sort of. Oh, and I formed a new coven and got married to the vampire, who has a kind-of-teenage-mostly-immortal son.

Maybe I should just lie.

I set my tray down. “Yeah,” I said, stuffing broccoli and eggs into my mouth quickly, “I’ve been okay. Living in Madison now. Sebastian and I have a farm. Well, really, it’s Sebastian’s, but . . .” Larkin looked pretty crushed. Maybe the less talking about the new guy, the better.

“So where is this husband of yours? I mean, are you here alone?”

Okay, so it was stupid, but I started to cry. Maybe it was all the stress of seeing Larkin again, nothing being the way I remembered it. I don’t know, but I found myself blubbering a bit.

“Oh,” he said, helpfully. A little glimmer of something akin to hope flashed in his eye. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

He sounded like he really was sorry for me, but which part would he feel the worst about if he knew—the Frost Giant that ruined our trip or the anti-Illuminati creeps who probably sicced Homeland Security after Sebastian? I wiped my nose on a paper napkin.