The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

The feeling was so dark, so full of conviction, that it poisoned him. He hurried with the packing. And when at last he was finished, he cleaned up, threw the trash down the steps, took the box of ornaments with him, and closed up the attic for the last time.

The rain had slacked by the time he reached the Eighteenth Street post office. He'd forgotten what it meant to crawl through this dense traffic, to move perpetually among crowds on grim, narrow, treeless streets. Even the Castro, which he had always loved, seemed dismal to him in the late afternoon rush.

He stood in line too long to mail the box, bristled at the routine indifference of the clerk--an abruptness he had not once encountered in the South since his return--and then hurried off in the icy wind, towards his shop up on Castro.

She wouldn't lie to him. She wouldn't. The thing was playing its old game. Yet why that visitation on that long-ago Christmas? Why that face, beaming at him over the crib? Hell, maybe it meant nothing.

After all, he had seen the man that unforgettable night when he first heard the music of Isaac Stern. He had seen the man a hundred times when he walked on First Street.

But he couldn't stand this panic. As soon as he reached the shop and had locked the door behind him, he picked up the phone and dialed Rowan.

No answer. It was midafternoon in New Orleans, and it was cold there, too. Maybe she'd taken a nap. He let it ring fifteen times before he gave up.

He looked around. So much work still to be done. The entire collection of brass bath fixtures had to be disposed of, and what about the various stained-glass windows stacked against the back wall? Why the hell didn't the thief who broke in steal this stuff!

At last he decided to box up the papers in the desk, trash and all. No time to sort things. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and began to shove the manila folders into the cardboard cartons. But no matter how quickly he worked, he knew he wouldn't get out of San Francisco for another week at best.

It was eight o'clock when he finally quit, and the streets were wet still from the rain, and crowded with the inevitable Friday night foot traffic. The lighted shopfronts looked cheerful to him, and he even liked the music thundering out of the gay bars. Yeah, he did now and then miss this bustle of the big city, that he had to admit. He missed the gay community of Castro Street and the tolerance of which its presence was proof.

But he was too tired to think much about it, and with his head bowed against the wind, he pushed his way uphill to where he'd left his car. For a moment he couldn't believe what he saw--both front tires were gone off the old sedan, and the trunk was popped, and that was his goddamned jack under the front bumper.

"Rotten bastards," he whispered, stepping out of the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk. "This couldn't be worse if somebody had planned it."

Planned it.

Someone brushed his shoulder. "Eh bien, Monsieur, another little disaster."

"Yeah, you're telling me," he muttered under his breath, not even bothering to look up, and barely noticing the French accent.

"Very bad luck, Monsieur, you're right. Maybe somebody did plan it."

"Yeah, that's just what I was thinking myself," he said with a little start.

"Go home, Monsieur. That's where you're needed."

"Hey!"

He turned, but the figure was already traveling on. Glimpse of white hair. In fact, the crowd had almost swallowed him. All Michael saw was the back of his head moving swiftly away and what looked like a dark suit coat.

He rushed after the man.

"Hey!" he shouted again. But as he reached the corner of Eighteenth and Castro, he couldn't see the guy anywhere. People streamed across the intersection. And the rain had started up again. The bus, just pulling away from the curb, gave a belch of black diesel smoke.

Despairing, Michael's eyes passed indifferently over the bus, as he turned to retrace his steps, and only by chance did he see in a flash through the back window a familiar face staring back at him. Black eyes, white hair.

... with the simplest and the oldest tools at your command, for through these you can win, even when it seems the odds are impossible ...

"Julien!"

... unable to believe your senses, but trust what you know to be the truth and what you know to be right, and that you have the power, the simple human power ...

"Yes, I will, I understand ... "

With a sudden violent motion he was jerked off his feet; he felt an arm around his waist, and a person of great strength dragging him backwards. Before he could reason or begin to resist, the bright red fender of a car bumped over the curb, smashing with a deafening crunch into the light pole. Someone screamed. The windshield of the car appeared to explode, silver nuggets of glass flying in all directions.

"Goddamn!" He couldn't regain his balance. He tumbled back on top of the very guy who'd pulled him out of the way. People were running toward the car. Somebody was moving inside. The glass was still falling out all over the pavement.

"You OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm OK. There's somebody trapped in there."

The flashing light of a police car dazzled him suddenly. Someone shouted to the policeman to call an ambulance.

"Boy, she nearly got you," said the one who'd pulled him away--big powerfully built black man in a leather coat, shaking his grizzled head. "Didn't you see that car coming straight at you?"

"No. You saved my life, you know it?"

"Hell, I just pulled you out of the way. It was nothing. Didn't even think about it." Dismissive wave of his hand as he went on, eyes lingering for a moment on the red car, and on the two men trying to free the woman inside, who was screaming. The crowd was growing, and a policewoman was shouting for everyone to get back.

A bus was now blocking the intersection, and another police car had pulled up. Newspapers were lying all over the sidewalk from the overturned box, and the glass was sparkling in the rain like so many scattered diamonds.

"Look, I don't know how to thank you." Michael called out.

But the black man was already far away, loping up Castro, with just a glance over his shoulder and a last casual wave of his hand.

Michael stood shivering against the wall of the bar. People pushed past those who had stopped to stare. There was that squeezing in his chest, not quite a pain but a tightening, and the pounding pulse, and a numbness creeping through the fingers of his left hand.

Christ, what actually happened? He couldn't get sick here, had to get back to the hotel.

He moved clumsily out into the street, and past the policewoman who asked him suddenly if he'd seen the car hit the light pole. No, he had to confess, he sure hadn't. Cab over there. Get the cab.

The driver could get him out of here if he backed up on Eighteenth and made a sharp right onto Castro.

"Gotta get to the St. Francis, Union Square," he said.

"You OK?"

"Yeah. Just barely."

It had been Julien who had spoken to him, no doubt about it, Julien whom he'd seen through the bus window! But what about that damned car?

Ryan could not have been more obliging. "Of course, we could have helped you with all this before, Michael. That's what we're here for. I'll have someone there tomorrow morning to inventory and crate the entire stock. I'll find a qualified real estate agent and we can discuss the listing price when you get here."

"I hate to bother you, but I can't reach Rowan and I have this feeling that I have to get back."

"Nonsense, we're here to take care of things for you, large and small. Now, do you have your plane reservation? Why don't you let me handle that? Stay right where you are and wait for my call."

He lay on the bed afterwards, smoking his last Camel cigarette, staring at the ceiling. The numbness in his left hand was gone, and he felt all right now. No nausea or dizziness or anything major, as far as he was concerned. And he didn't care. That part wasn't real.

What was real was the face of Julien in the bus window. And then that fr

agment of the visions catching hold of him, as powerfully as ever.

But had it all been planned, just to get him to that dangerous corner? Just to dazzle him and plant him motionless in the path of that careening car? The way he'd been planted in the path of Rowan's boat?

Oh, so engulfing that fragment of memory. He closed his eyes, saw their faces again, Deborah and Julien, heard their voices.

... that you have the power, the simple human power ...

I do, I have it. I believe in you! It's a war between you and him, and once again, you reached down and you touched me at the very moment of his contrivance, as his carefully orchestrated calamity was taking place.

I have to believe that. Because if I don't I'll go out of my mind. Go home, Monsieur. That's where you're needed.

He was lying there, his eyes closed, dozing, when the phone rang.

"Michael?" It was Ryan.

"Yeah."

"Listen; I've arranged for you to come back by private plane. It's much simpler that way. It's the Markham Harris Hotels plane, and they're more than delighted to assist us. I have someone coming to pick you up. If you need help with your bags ... "

"No, just tell me the time, I'll be ready." What was that smell? Had he put his cigarette out?

"How about an hour from now? They'll call you from the lobby. And Michael, please, from now on, don't hesitate to ask us for anything, anything at all."

"Yeah, thanks, Ryan, yeah, I really appreciate it." He was staring at the smoldering hole in the bedspread where he'd dropped the cigarette when he fell asleep. God, the first time in his life he'd ever done anything like this! And the room was already full of smoke. "Thanks, Ryan, thanks for everything!"

He hung up, went into the bathroom, and filled the empty ice bucket with water, splashing it quickly onto the bed. Then he pulled the burnt spread away, and the sheet, and poured more water into the dark, smelly hole in the mattress. His heart was tripping again. He went to the window, struggled with it, realized it wasn't going to open, and then sat down heavily in a chair and watched the smoke gradually drift away.

When he was all packed, he tried Rowan again. Still no answer. Fifteen rings, no answer. He was just about to give up when he heard her groggy voice.

"Michael? Oh, I was asleep, I'm sorry, Michael."

"Listen to me, honey. I'm Irish, and I'm a very superstitious guy, as we both know."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm having a string of bad luck, very bad luck. Do a little Mayfair witchcraft for me, will you, Rowan? Throw a white light around me. Ever hear of that?"

"No. Michael, what's happening?"

"I'm on my way home, Rowan. Now just imagine it, honey, a white light around me protecting me from everything bad in this world until I get there. You see what I'm saying? Ryan's arranged a plane for me. I'll be leaving within the hour."