Voodoo Dues

CHAPTER 2

There were times that I regretted my decision to hire an employee. I smiled, watching Figg in my peripheral vision, clomping across the old pine floor in her ridiculous shoes. There were other times that I felt like I was paying her to force her company on me. Whatever it was, whether it was her influence or not, I'd begun to feel myself returning from the abyss. She certainly brought life and color to the place, even if that color did come from garish plaid, polyester pants and her bright red hair.

There was no researching anything when she was nearby either. My bartender was not a fan of silence, nor of personal space.

“Hey, Lian?” she shouted, proving my point. “What do you think about a juke box? Ooh! Or a live band?” Figg shuffled into my office and sat down on the edge of my desk and the hundred year old text I'd been studying. “I know a guy who has a really great rockabilly band. They'd bring in some customers.”

I studied her, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Customers were the last thing I wanted. Silence and to be alone were the things I craved most. I thought opening a bar would be good for me at the time. Nostalgia was the only possible explanation, hoping to recreate the peace and happiness that I’d found in my uncle's pub when I was a boy. Now I just regretted it.

“I'll consider it,” I told her.

She seemed defeated for about a second, then her eyes widened and locked with mine. “Karaoke?”

I groaned.

“Hmm... I'll take that as a no.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Poetry readings?”

Dear God! Anything but a bunch of unwashed beatniks performing their mating ritual. “You can go on home early tonight,” I said, changing the subject, hoping to gently squash her train of thought. The hour was closing in on midnight and I had business to handle that had nothing to do with Figg or the bar.

She hopped down. “Think about the band.”

“I'll give it some thought.”

That seemed to make her happy. It did interesting things to her face; eyes crinkled a little, the smile showing off a dazzling set of teeth. “See you tomorrow.” Figg retrieved her purse from behind the bar and was gone.

Locking the door behind her, I watched her climb into her gargantuan American car. Rene Champtillion's grandson was sitting in the same place he'd been all afternoon.

As soon as she was out of sight, I dropped into one of the plush chairs near the door and took out my phone. There was no more avoiding returning the call I'd gotten the night before, though with all my heart I wanted to. I dialed the all too familiar number and held my breath.

“Hello Lian. Thank you for getting back to me.” Her tone was icy. The tight, controlled anger in her voice made me grateful that she was on another continent.

“Hello Mother.”

“I called the rehabilitation center yesterday. They said you'd been released by your physician months ago.”

“Yes.”

“Where are you? Better still, why are you not home?”

I had to bite my tongue. Getting into the old argument about needing my independence wouldn't help anything. We'd been having the same fight since I'd gone off to college some twenty years past.

“I won't be coming home.”

She paused for so long that I thought she might have disconnected. “You will come home.” Her voice stern, playing the matriarch. My injuries had brought the old debate back to life. She was relentless.

There was an or else dangling in the air and I knew exactly what the threat would be. The only one she could convincingly make. “Yank the purse strings closed all you want Mother. It's been a long time since I needed family money.” I snapped the phone shut having reached my limit. Seven thousand kilometers was still too close. On the way to my office, I removed the phone's battery and dropped all of it into the waste basket. Losing myself in research and solitude for a while seemed like heaven.

A noise from the front of the bar brought me out of the sixteenth century. It was faint, but I'd been waiting for it. A glance up at the clock on the far wall told me that I’d been at my desk for a few hours. I crept to the front door, walking on the floorboards that I knew wouldn't squeak under my weight.

The witch was crouched down in front of the door. Her lips were moving, reciting the spell that would make the ward that she was drawing in white chalk more than a pretty picture. From what I could see, she was a small woman. Her black hair curled in underneath her chin. A swoop of bangs obscured most of her face. I rapped lightly on the glass door. She looked up at me with big green cat eyes behind frameless glasses.

Unlocking the door, I swung it open. She quickly gathered her supplies into a canvas bag, seeming to consider her course of action. Her thoughts were transparent, playing across her face like a film. She could run or she could take her chances with me.

“Please come inside.” I said, making my tone as welcoming as I could.

She nodded and entered the building, dropping her bag just over the threshold. In the light, she looked about seventeen, maybe eighteen.

“May I ask why you're warding my building?”

“I was given the task by my coven,” she said, hiding her face behind her hair.

Inviting her to sit at the bar, I moved behind it and poured her a coke. “Do you know who I am?”

She shook her head. “They told me you're important and you need to be kept safe.” She guzzled her soda, then belched into the side of her closed fist. “Those are the strongest wards I know. Without indoor access, the sidewalk is the best I can do.”

“Go back and tell your sisters that I don't need or want their protection.” Her pretty face crumpled. I felt the pull of conscience. A character flaw I suppose, but I could never be intentionally rude without the guilt overwhelming me. “Can you draw them so that they can't be seen?”

“Absolutely!” her face lit up.

I nodded, a sigh of defeat escaping me. “You have my permission then.”

She made an excited sound, almost a squeak that reminded me of Figg in her happy, bouncy mode. “You won't regret this. I do the best warding in the coven.”

She began at the front door, drawing the invisible symbols, all the time whispering magical words of protection. I couldn't see the energy, but through research and interviews, I knew what it looked like. She would see a thin line appear as her finger traced. It would most likely be gold in color, her finger becoming a magical writing instrument.

I prepared to wait her out, reclining in one of the club chairs near the front door, my feet up on the coffee table. It wasn't long before I was drifting in that hazy area between consciousness and full sleep.

“It's done, Sir.” Her voice, and her hand on my shoulder brought me out of a deep, dreamless sleep. She returned to the door, gathering her things. “Thank you for letting me do it.”

“You're welcome,” I said, rubbing the sandy feeling from my eyes. “And thank you,” I said to her back. She was already on her way out.