WishCraft Page 16

  Furious now at how he’d been duped, Brandon closed all the windows and turned off the monitor so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. In a rage, he stomped out of his office and locked it up behind him.

  Climbing into his car, Brandon slung his bag in the back and cranked the engine. He desperately wanted to just march over there and wake her ass up. His fists gripped the wheel, taking tight turns while his foot stomped the gas and brake pedals like a case of road rage waiting to explode.

  He was almost there when he turned the car around and headed back.

  No matter how bad he hurt, how angry he was, he couldn’t face her just yet. The wound was too fresh, too new. He wasn’t ready to be logical in a fight. Not against a woman who was clearly not logical and who clearly held the upper hand. Who knew what would happen if he tried to fight her when he had no clue how to?

  His place was the best option. He told himself his best bet was to head home. Cool off. Wait until he could see her without feeling that nearly suffocating desire. Because right now he was a swirl of anger. He’d been played, and it was all he could do to keep his lunch down.

  He was almost home when his brain refused to go any further. He might not be ready to confront her, but he also wasn’t about to just go pop a beer and think it through. No, rationality was definitely beyond him. He turned the wheel again at the last moment, not yet ready to face the memories in his house.

  She’d been in his home. He’d invited her in. With his new knowledge her presence felt like a violation. How many things had he done that weren’t of his own design? Brandon really couldn’t bear to try counting.

  He found himself driving down Fairfax Avenue. His eyes saw the things he passed, the sunset he should have considered beautiful. The people walking by, bikers weaving in and out of the sluggish traffic he really should be watching out for. But his brain didn’t register any of them. He couldn’t process anything beyond his feelings.

  He tried to simmer down.

  When that didn’t work, he turned the wheel again, and again. He found himself back in Hollywood, heading north. Which was a serious mistake. Now he was angry, betrayed, heartsick, and stuck in nearly standstill traffic.

  He banged his fist on the steering wheel. His eyes hurt. He hurt.

  It was more than just a little shock to find out not only was Delilah herself a lie, but his own feelings for her were, too.

  He inched along, bumper to bumper with the other cars, until finally he’d had enough.

  As a truck vacated one of the precious metered parking spaces at the side of the road, Brandon slammed the car in gear and squealed into the open slot. Taking two deep breaths wasn’t enough.

  He got out of the car, and angrily fed enough quarters into the meter to last until nine at night when it was no longer monitored. His feet carried him north on the sidewalk, and it was disturbing to realize he was moving faster than traffic. He tried to keep his head up, look around and pay attention so he didn’t get mugged on top of everything else.

  That’s why he saw it.

  Across the street. It looked like it had been there forever, and he’d driven up this street tons of times before, but he’d never noticed it.

  Blessed Be—for the witch and the hobbyist.

  Brandon crossed against the light, but the cars weren’t moving anyway. His eyes were wide as he entered, taking in the smells and the feeling that he was suddenly pumped. He knew what to do now. And he was so focused on it that he didn’t see the pretty brunette right beside him until she spoke.

  “Are you here for the beginners’ class?”

  This was even better than he’d thought.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Chapter 22

  Delilah saw Brandon in the distance through the fog.

  She had to squint to make out his features, but she knew instinctively and automatically that it was him. He was standing next to another person, icy fingers of white wrapping around the two of them, though they acted as if nothing were wrong. Delilah wondered why they didn’t feel the cold when she certainly did.

  It was a woman he was with. He seemed comfortable with her, but not overly familiar. He didn’t have his arm around her or anything like that. But they spoke, a light-hearted conversation that didn’t include her. They seemed to be finding a lot to agree on.

  Delilah frowned and walked closer.

  She wanted to talk to Brandon. She wanted to know who he was with. There was so much of his life she didn’t know about.

  She knew what he did for a living. Knew that he had a business partner, Dan. While she’d seen Dan at Gin’s a few times, she wasn’t sure she could pick the man out of a crowd. That didn’t sit well—that something that was such a big part of Brandon’s life could go right by her.

  She knew he had a sister, complete with husband and kids. She’d heard about his father and the story of his mother. But she’d never actually met any of these people. Aside from the picture of his niece and nephew he pulled out the night he’d run Mr. Rocket Scientist off, she had absolutely no confirmation that any of these people even existed.

  She walked a good bit of the distance between them. Or she thought she did. They weren’t getting any closer. Still Delilah pushed through the cold. She wanted to get to Brandon. Needed to hear him say everything was all right.

  She was curious about the blonde he was with. Was it his sister? For some reason Delilah didn’t think that it was.

  She was shivering now, the fog was licking at her, stealing little bits of heat as she pushed her way through. She got the distinct feeling that Brandon and whomever he was talking to didn’t want to include her in their conversation. No matter how paranoid she told herself she was being, she couldn’t shake the idea that they were talking about her.

  For hours, she trudged through the cold. The wind picked up. She could see the blonde woman’s hair whipping around, yet the woman didn’t seem affected by it. She would just push the flyaway strands back behind her ear and continue talking. Delilah was frozen through.

  Brandon either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  Still, she put her head down and fought through the wind.

  At last, when she looked up, she caught the blonde’s eye.

  Delilah stumbled back in shock.

  No longer interested in her conversation with Brandon, Juliet looked right at her.

  Turning to Brandon for support, Delilah found none.

  How could he? He knew how she felt about her sister. He knew what Juliet had done. But when he finally paid attention, it was clear he was angry with her.

  Delilah was frowning, bewildered and confused.

  But it was Juliet’s voice that struck her to the bone.

  Her sister didn’t move her mouth, the words came into Delilah’s head, in much the same way they had often communicated when Juliet had been alive. Although Brandon couldn’t hear it, the accusation was plain as day.

  You had everything.

  When Delilah jerked herself from the last in a disturbing series of dreams, it was already two a.m. on Friday. Though she’d sunk deeper into things with him emotionally as they’d made love the other night, she still didn’t tell him the truth. She meant to, but then he looked at her that way. Wanted her that way. There was always something more pressing than handing him the bomb that would blow everything up.

  It had been a nice interlude to the week, but now her alarm was blaring in her ear, as usual, only she didn’t feel well. Since she was never sick, she chewed a Tums and went off to work, figuring it would pass. It seemed that she was right, once she got busy, everything was fine. Until about seven that morning, when she started feeling nauseated again.

  The pastries just didn’t look right—not like anything she’d want to eat anyway. The smell seemed off to her. She had decided to throw the whole batch in the trash and go with her back-up recipe—chocolate mousse. But she couldn’t—the idea of chocolate turned her stomach, too. Though her brain logically recognized that the pastrie
s smelled the same way they always had, she realized she just suddenly didn’t like the smell of cooked fruit.

  That was a terrible dilemma. What was she going to do with her life if she didn’t like the smell of cooked fruit?

  So she didn’t throw out the tarts. If she had, she’d just have to bake something else. And nothing—nothing—seemed appealing. She was feeling worse and worse as the morning wore on. Just barely, she managed to keep going, but before the night was half over she left Maggie a note that she wouldn’t be in for her Saturday shift. There was no way this would simply pass. There was no way she’d be able to cook.

  All through her shift Delilah fought her stomach. It wanted to turn over. To rebel. Suddenly, she hated all food. Particularly the smell. So she tried to limit herself to cooking things that weren’t horribly fragrant, then bailed as soon as she could.

  When she got into her car, her fingers scrambled for the Tums again and she popped two directly into her mouth. Though they tasted like mint flavored chalk, which did nothing to help, she forced herself to chew frantically until her stomach settled just a little. She managed to drive home, although twice she pulled to the side, thinking she would have to climb out and lose what little was in her fragile stomach. Somehow each time she waited it out and the feeling passed.

  She was sweating by the time she arrived in her garage, praying for Tylenol and sleep. Of course, today the elevator had never been slower. The hallway was a long winding challenge before her and Delilah wanted to fall against her apartment door as soon as she got there. But even after she fumbled with the key and got the door closed tightly behind her, it wasn’t the haven she had hoped for. She didn’t feel better just for crossing the threshold.

  Immediately, she stripped down and hopped into the shower, since she could still smell the food on her clothes and in her hair. With frantic strokes she scrubbed it all away hoping that had been the trigger and now that it was gone she would begin to feel better. Even as she washed, she wondered. She usually liked—loved—the smell of food, particularly dessert. Still, she stripped it away as best she could.

  Normally, she ate as soon as she got home. But this morning she skipped that step and practically flung herself at the bed, hugging her pillow tightly. And trying not to moan.

  Delilah stayed there, just praying for the feeling to pass, until she heard the key in the lock. For the briefest of moments she hoped it was Brandon, come to take care of her. That was what you did when someone you cared about was sick. But then she remembered, she’d chickened out of giving him the key. And she hadn’t even come close to confessing what she’d done and what she was.

  No, the person coming through the door was Tristan.

  Li?

  Li?

  She mentally thought in return, I’m coming, complete with sigh and attitude.

  Delilah hauled herself out of bed, mostly for her own preservation. The last time she’d been sick, right after David and Juliet died, Tristan tried to cook for her. He’d only succeeded in making her worse. She wondered if Tristan’s cooking had been a test. If she ever ate it again, he’d know she’d lost it entirely. But she’d have to be practically catatonic to eat anything Tristan made.

  She ran into him in the hallway, where he was beginning his search for her. Which was silly. If she wasn’t right there when he came in, he knew to help himself to the fridge. Then again the tone of his thoughts had been practically frantic.

  Her arms came up to his, desperately trying to stop him from waving some paper around. Just watching the motion was making her feel worse. “What is it?”

  “This!” He held up the small yellow sheet. It was a receipt from Blessed Be. There was no way it could be good. Not with that look on his face. He checked previous night’s receipts every morning, but not once had he ever brought one to show her. His voice was as frantic as his thoughts had been. “It’s Cassandra, the new girl. She let this go out of the store last night.”

  Apparently, Tristan had absolutely no concern for her illness. For a few moments, neither did she. At least this was more interesting than lying around and feeling bad. Anything that took her mind off the nausea was welcome. So she didn’t make any comments about how she felt or about how he failed to realize it.

  He waved the yellow slip in her face as though she should be able to make out the tiny moving script. It was all Delilah could do to form a word. “What!”

  Instead he read the list to her. “A Jasper ball. Tapers, two black, two green. Tansy. Salt. Athame. The Almanac of Spells.”

  He looked at her as she digested the information.

  “Oh, no, Tristan. All for one person?” That was like handing a novice an instruction manual for how to light a thousand pounds of fertilizer. “I told you to stop selling that almanac. It’s like The Anarchists Cookbook, it could be dangerous.”

  “We’re very careful about who we sell it to.” He paced back and forth in her hallway, blocking her in.

  Not that he didn’t already know it, but she said it anyway. “Clearly you aren’t.”

  He just shook his head in frustration, at his wits end. “It’s Cassandra, she didn’t know.”

  Delilah caught his attention for a moment, her stomach finally taking a back seat to Tristan’s trouble. “Why didn’t Yasmin catch it?”

  “She wasn’t paying any attention. She was running that damned beginners class.” As much as he hated that beginners class, his logical side acknowledged all the business it brought in to the store and wouldn’t let him shut it down.

  Delilah was about to pace, too. They had to find out who bought that list of ingredients, before somebody got the whammy. But her mouth didn’t take the same direction. “Why was Cassandra running the checkout all by herself?”

  He shook his head. “Because she’s good. She learned everything really quickly, and she’s actually quite intuitive. So I figured if anyone was up to no good, she’d sense it and alert one of us.”

  “So if you haven’t already, call her.” Delilah pushed past him, into the living room where she could finally pace a decent distance and think. “Ask her about the sales last night.”

  She waited, watching while he dialed the number from his cell list. “Hi, Cassandra? It’s Tristan.”

  Delilah didn’t need to hear it, and now that her focus was off Tristan, her stomach rolled again. Another Tums would only make things worse, so she scrambled through her kitchen for a peppermint. Finally finding one shoved in the pen drawer, she unwrapped it and gratefully popped it in her mouth. The mint was sinking into her tongue and starting to work just as Tristan was coming around the corner.

  “She doesn’t remember much. Just that she thinks she sold that stuff to a guy, and that she didn’t get any bad vibes off him.” He hung his head. “So that’s no help, and now she feels guilty.”

  “She won’t feel guilty for long, Tristan. You’re good at putting people at ease. The fact that the buyer was male is helpful. There are a lot fewer male buyers at Blessed Be than female. We just have to figure out which guy he is.” Delilah smiled.

  Tristan didn’t. “She said she’d never seen him before.”

  As though that ended the whole discussion. Were they witches or not?

  His hands made wild flights, gesturing complete nonsense and he spoke. He started in again before she could speak. “You know how you can’t buy certain cough medications without showing your ID, because you could use it to make crystal meth? Well, I just sold the equivalent of the parts for a pipe bomb. Only Cassandra didn’t know enough to ID the guy and my only saving grace is that the government doesn’t know enough to arrest me.”

  “Tristan, it’s done. There’s nothing else we can do about it right now. Maybe we can scry for the buyer later.”

  He turned to her, his face showing that her words made him suspicious. “Why can’t we look now?”

  “I just don’t feel that well.” And Tristan had never been any good at it. Juliet had been the best at finding things, she just had
the gift—she wished something found or known and, within a few hours, the knowledge or the item would present itself. But, like every time she had that thought, Delilah pushed it back down. It didn’t matter that Juliet had been the best, because she couldn’t help them now.

  Tristan gave up and gave in—she could read it in his shoulders. “All right, why don’t we eat some breakfast then?”

  Just the mention of food brought all her nausea back.

  Delilah awoke at one a.m. on Saturday morning for no apparent reason. Two o’clock she would have understood. But one a.m. made no sense at all.

  By one thirty she was wide awake and bored. So she noticed when her stomach started rolling again. Which made it impossible to use the time to cast spells again. She hugged her pillow against her stomach and thought that, the next chance she got, she needed to bulk up her immune spells. Then she tried to fall back to sleep.

  By three o’clock she’d sat in front of her TV for an hour and had eaten two Tums and drunk a glass of water. In very small sips. By five she was exhausted, as well as the proud owner of a pressure cooker that cooked with water instead of oil and claimed to keep all food juicy and flavorful and would arrive on her doorstep sometime next week. Not that she would be eating that food. For some reason, food next week sounded like a good idea. Good enough to spend her money on it.

  She’d bought that from her savings, too, and began wondering if maybe Tristan wasn’t right. If maybe she ought to blow the whole wad on infomercial products. But there was no way her kitchen would hold all the crap she could buy with David’s life insurance policy and the half of Juliet’s that had come to her.

  Delilah rubbed her hands over her face. Thinking about this wasn’t making her feel any better. But she’d spent over a year avoiding thinking about it, and look where it had gotten her: nowhere. Top that off with the fact that she had a great guy that she was almost completely incapable of dealing with, and it started to seem like a better idea to dust off the old memories and dive in.