The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные книги полный формат .TXT) 📗
reflections of myself looking pissed. “Understood?”
“Got it,” I bit out.
It didn’t go a long way to cooling me down when he reached over and gave my hair a
quick, casual ruffle before turning to go.
* * * * *
The shop was called Dragonwyck. As fate would have it, it occupied the building
which had once housed Cafe Noir. The pink stucco walls were painted with ivy and thorns
and magic symbols. In the glass-front box that used to display the menu was a listing of the
classes offered for the winter session: Magickal Tools taught by Rhiannon. Dreams and
Divination taught by Cassandra. Finding and Communicating with Spirit Guides taught by
Ariel.
I stepped inside and was greeted by soft sitar music and the scent of incense. The place
was brightly lit, clean, and well organized, which I didn’t expect. If Claude’s spirit was still
hanging around, I couldn’t tell. Neatly labeled shelves were packed with books, gems,
minerals, crystals, candles, candles, more candles, goblets, chalices, incense, oils, and bumper
stickers.
GODDESS ON THE LOOSE
MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM
WITCHES PARKING (ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOAD)
A plump, middle-aged woman stood at the counter dressed in purple tie-dyed gauze.
She had a kind, freshly-scrubbed face – nothing like the babes on Charmed.
“Blessed be,” she greeted me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Can I help you find something? Herbal tea? A Renaissance Fair costume?” She
twinkled at me. “A love potion?”
Herbal tea is one thing, but did I look like the kind of guy in the market for a
Renaissance Fair costume?
“Information.”
She tipped down her gold-wire specs, peered at me.
I showed her a couple of the photos I had enlarged on my computer and printed out.
She stared for a long time, frowning. Then she said, “This is an inverted pentagram. It
symbolizes the Morning Star – Venus – and Satan. That’s not what we’re about. We’re
Wicca. We have nothing to do with Satan.”
That sounded familiar. I’d done reading on the subject years ago. Nothing attracts
adolescents like the promise of supernatural powers. If ever a kid had felt the need to
overcompensate, it was me.
“In fact, we don’t recognize a supreme evil deity like Lucifer or Satan, whatever you
want to call Him,” she added. “We worship the God and the Goddess, the harmony of male
and female. We honor Mother Earth and hold all of nature sacred. This…” She looked at the
photo. “This is entirely different. This is…evil.”
“It’s annoying, anyway.”
She shook her head, insisting, “It’s evil.”
“What does the symbol in the center of the pentagram represent?”
She hesitated. “Ariel,” she said softly, gazing past me.
For a second, I thought she meant that the symbol represented Ariel. The only Ariel I
knew was the spirit who served Prospero in The Tempest, and I didn’t believe that was even
a real supernatural entity. There was motion behind me. Another Wiccan appeared, this one,
tall, bony, freckled, clad in flowing green tie-dye. Apparently she’d been lurking amongst
the dried lemongrass and sassafras.
They reminded me of the fairies in Sleeping Beauty. I was tempted to ask where
Merryweather was.
Ariel wafted past me. She examined the photograph her soul sister held out. She
blanched.
“The Ars Goetia?” the first one inquired.
Ariel nodded. She looked at me. “This symbol is a seal. A personal signature
representing a demon. A high-ranking demon.”
I certainly didn’t want any low-ranked demons loitering about the place. “So…what
does that mean? I’ve been cursed?”
They both made these quick, almost imperceptible hand gestures. Were they averting
the Evil Eye or giving me a witchy high five?
“This is your home?” Ariel inquired gravely.
What did I have to lose by telling the truth?
“I own the property,” I compromised.
“Not good,” Ariel said to the other one. “Cassandra?”
Cassandra shook her head.
“This is out of our realm,” she told me apologetically. “The Howling Art is not one of
ours.”
“That makes three of us.”
Ariel said tentatively, “We could…refer you to someone.”
“Okay.” A specialist. I knew how that worked.
The Wiccans looked at each other, seemed to exchange info via the Psychic Network.
Cassandra disappeared into the back room, which had formerly served as the kitchen at Cafe
Noir.
She reappeared a moment later and handed me a business card. I glanced at it. There
was a phone number in silver script. That was it.
“An’ it harm none, do what ye will,” said Ariel.
“Words to live by,” I agreed.
* * * * *
I left a message for Professor Snowden with the history department secretary. I didn’t
want to jump to any conclusions. Maybe he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the Wild Bunch
yet. Maybe he had no intention of talking to them. Or maybe I had miscalculated, and
talking to them had made them more aggressive.
In any case, further sleuthing on my part had to wait until I’d solved the case of getting
coverage at the store.
Mrs. T did not seem any happier with the streaky results of my efforts to clean the
front stoop than she had been with the original pentagram. She kept looking at me and
shaking her head sadly as though she could already foresee my unfortunate end. But what
settled the matter was the fact that every time a customer neared the cash register, she came
haring after me, frantically flapping her tiny hands over her tiny head in the universally
recognized gesture for The sky is falling!
We waved good-bye to each other at the end of the day. I called the agency asking for a
replacement. While I microwaved a frozen dinner, I thumbed through the Los Angeles
Times.
MISSING TEENAGER MAY HAVE BEEN VICTIM OF CULT
Investigators digging in Eaton Canyon Park late Saturday night
unearthed what they believe are the remains of a teenager who
disappeared two years ago.
The badly decomposed body of a young white male was
discovered in a shallow grave beneath a tree carved with symbols
