Mojo Queen Read online

  “Our neighbors. We were talking to them about all this.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, it’s just that ...”

  Was I going to have to pull it out of him, whatever he was trying to say?

  After a moment he stopped hemming and hawing and got to the point. “It’s happening at their house, too. They’d like you to help them. If you can.”

  All I wanted to do was go home and go to bed. It must have shown on my face, because Mr. Newman decided to get sneaky with me. “I told them you’ll take a check but you prefer cash. He should be back from the ATM any time now.”

  Daniel and I exchanged a look. He raised an eyebrow, as if to say, it’s up to you. My bank account made the decision. I smiled at Mr. Newman. “Let’s go meet the Toomeys.”

  * * * *

  I flipped on the light switch, yawning into my cappuccino. My office was located next door to a metaphysical book and supply store called The Broom Closet. I rented the space from the Wiccan couple who owned the shop--they owned the whole building. The office was two rooms, one for meeting clients and one for private use. The front room was the smaller of the two. It had an arrangement of chairs and an old but clean loveseat grouped around an oval coffee table. The door to the back was kept open when I met with clients, so they could see the desk, computer and filing cabinets. People who came to me wanted a professional, needed to see I took this work seriously. But they also needed things they couldn’t quite quantify, and a human touch helped, so the front room was relaxed. I kept flowers on the table, and dark curtains over the wide commercial windows offered privacy.

  I took a deep breath of the nag champa scent wafting over from next door as I straightened the flowers. Carnations and various other blooms were starting to wilt and they’d need replacing in a day or so. No appointments on the book for me today, but for a change I didn’t mind. We’d cleaned five houses in that little cul-de-sac last night, working until two in the morning and earning a very nice chunk of cash. And I do mean cash. As often as I get paid in cash you’d think I was running some kind of sex business. Better than a bounced check, though.

  Daniel refused to let me pay him, having investments going back at least decades. I didn’t know the details of his finances, but I knew he did not want for money. So I’d stopped at the bank on the way to the office and planned on spending the whole rest of the day not worrying about money for a change.

  A day I didn’t worry about money was rare. I’d been treading water for a while, barely making ends meet. Just regular living expenses seemed to go up all the time but my biggest problem was the medical bills from breaking my arm on a job last year. I couldn’t afford private insurance, so I was still paying astronomical bills for a trip to the emergency room and the follow-up visits at a clinic. Paying them as best I could, whenever I had the extra scratch, which didn’t happen every month. Calls from collectors had already started. I lived in terror of broken glasses. Daniel had no idea the reason I let him buy me dinner so often was because frequently it was the only way I got a decent meal. I didn’t like to think about that.

  Instead of worrying I went to The Broom Closet’s back room to make candles. After getting the double boiler going on the stove I gathered supplies: soy wax, dye chips, molds and wicks. Four-inch altar candles in a few different colors were needed. Usually I only did this once a week, unless there was a major Pagan holiday coming up. It earned me a little extra money. Being busy also gave me a chance to relax and let my mind wander. This time I had plenty of wandering mind while I worked but not a whole lot of relaxation.

  * * * *

  My auric vision started around menarche, which scared the hell out of me at the time but made a certain amount of sense now. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and my parents certainly didn’t either, and I wound up on medication--meds for attention deficit syndrome, meds for depression, meds for anxiety. As an adult I realized I never had attention deficit syndrome, probably not clinical depression, either. But take your pills and shut up is a popular child-rearing technique.

  It took a few years for me to figure out what was happening, to learn how to deal with seeing a world that was invisible to others, how to control the ability and how to train myself to turn it off and on. How to fake swallowing pills and spit them out the first chance I got. How to sneak out at night in search of quiet places to practice control over the impressionist miasma that swam in my vision.

  That’s how I met Rozella, the woman who taught me root work.

  Since I didn’t want to scare anyone, least of all myself, I left some of my abilities alone, packed away in a corner under a sign reading danger. Every once in a while, there were things I could do with nothing but the focused energy of my will. Last night, the unfocused energy of my will had brought a houseful of angry ghosts to heel. It left a bad taste in my mouth--a medicinal taste of fear, of being out of control and alone in a whirlwind. I never wanted to go back to that.

  I placed the new candles on a shelf to cure, trying to find something else to think about. Howlin’ Wolf always made for a good distraction so I hummed Spoonful as I cleaned up my mess.

  * * * *

  After finishing the candles, I spent some time chatting with Maura, the shop’s owner, before returning to my office to mess around for awhile. I locked up and called Daniel. We set up a time and place to meet and I walked out into the approaching twilight, bundled against the cold.

  Daniel took me to his favorite restaurant, an Italian place with a terrific wine list and great espresso. Not that he could eat, but he liked to watch me. He told me once a lot of vampires were foodies. He drank merlot while I tucked into a plate of pasta bigger than my head.

  “How’s the red sauce? Is the sauce good tonight? I can’t remember. Have you had that before?” He looked obscenely eager for information.

  I waved a hand dismissively as I swallowed a bite. “It’s great. I’ve never had this.”

  “Smells like they went a little heavy with the garlic in the sauce this time. Does it taste very different?”

  My fork hung in midair as I tried to figure out how to explain to him he was lucky I could tell the difference between this semi-fancy meal and what came out of a can. “It tastes great. Really.”

  Frowning at my lack of detail, he poured more wine and asked, “Got any more work lined up?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.” I ate in silence for a while, becoming gradually more aware of Daniel watching me.

  “Roxanne, why haven’t you ever asked me for help with this?” His blue eyes had an intensity I recognized and had learned to dislike.

  I didn’t need to ask what he meant. “Because you’re a vampire, Jim, not a wizard.”

  He smiled at my feeble attempt at humor. “I know people, Roxie. I know people who know people.”

  I laughed. “What are you, mobbed up? In deep with the magic mob?”

  “I’ve got a few contacts, people who can help you. Answer your questions. Provide you with some guidance.”

  That did not sit well with me and I let him know with a sharply raised eyebrow. My eyebrow, sharply raised, has been known to make grown men cry. At least, that’s what I liked to tell people. “I’ve been a padawan without a Jedi master for a while now, and I’m doing fine.”

  He seemed not the least bit impressed with my eyebrow. “What happened last night is likely to happen again. You know that, right?”

  Crap. I looked down at the white tablecloth and took my glasses off to clean them on my shirt tail while keeping my eyes focused on my lap. I had no idea how to respond.

  “I just think you would be happier if you understood more about yourself. About what you can do.”

  What I can do, why I can do these things. What else can I do? I did want answers and I believed I would learn them eventually. I put my glasses back on and looked at him. “We’re good friends. Hell, you’re my best friend. I don’t need you to be my daddy.”

  “Believe me, I know that,” he said, a sharpness
in his voice I didn’t hear often.

  “Then let me see if I can work this out myself.” Full all of a sudden, or maybe tired of eating, I set my fork down and pushed the plate away.

  “I’m not trying to boss you around.”

  “Good.” I wanted to drop the whole subject. “I know you’re not that kind of person.”

  He signaled the waiter, ordering two espressos. Then he leaned across the table and kissed my cheek. Smiling, he said, “I’m a vampire, Jim, not a person.”

  I laughed.

  * * * *

  My home was on the northwest outskirts of town, away from the city proper. It was an old farm house, set off by itself, with woods as my nearest neighbors. I liked it that way, my half-hidden single-story clapboard with a wide front porch hosting a glider and several planters, and a heavy front door I always had to lean into to open. The big living room looked overcrowded from all the bookshelves. There was a spacious kitchen and a separate utility room that opened out into a screened-in back porch. A bedroom and bathroom, nothing special there. Mine was the smaller of the two bedrooms. What would be a master bedroom in anyone else’s house was the home office and library in mine. The library and the kitchen were where I spent most of my time, and that was no different tonight. I put the tea kettle on the stove and measured out some loose-leaf chai into a tea ball. While I waited for the water to boil, I changed my clothes and made my way into the library, switching on the floor lamp near the door.

  A desk, cheap shelves sagging with books, several framed album covers on one wall. RL Burnside, Johnny Cash, Gram Parsons and a few others. There was quite a bit of stuff in the back room of my office that I used in my work, but I had more at home;a lot of books and spares of things. I took inventory to see if anything needed cleaning or replacing. Everything was fine. The whistle of the tea kettle broke through the haze that had crept into my brain and I got up to make my chai. I felt disjointed, nervous, the kind of free-floating anxiety I was all too familiar with. A few sips of tea helped a little.

  Back to the library.

  I cleared the desk, leaving just my tea and a three-inch pillar candle with a nice vanilla scent I liked on a metal dish. I turned off the floor lamp, let my eyes adjust, then walked back to the desk, sat and removed my glasses. For several minutes that’s all I did, sit with my eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, grounding myself, almost meditative. No thoughts, just my even, steady breathing and the feeling of energy building in me--a nice, calm, controlled raising of energy. I opened my eyes and stared at the candle. I focused on the wick, black and curled. I focused that slow spiral of energy I felt inside me, imagined the candle lit and burning, the flame dancing. Then the energy seemed to flare out, just a little, right at the candle wick, sending it bursting to life.

  A neat party trick, but not one I performed in front of others. No one knew I could do this.

  A pleasant rushing buzz ate up the anxiety I’d been feeling. I drank the chai and watched the candle burn, memories of my old teacher drifting into my thoughts.

  I met Rozella in a graveyard after midnight. I was fifteen and I’d snuck out of the house to practice. With some surreptitious research I had diagnosed myself as some flavor of psychic rather than crazy. I kept my mouth shut most of the time to make it easier for my parents to pretend I was normal. I’d figured out if I worked at it, I could keep the colors at bay and even use my glasses to help. The best way to practice without interference was to sneak out at night and visit the graveyards.

  For whatever reason, the ghosts and leftover energy signatures didn’t frighten me. Not that I had developed enough vocabulary about these things to call what I saw “energy signatures.” I had a sense of what I was seeing, but not the words to talk about it. That worked out okay, since I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. Wrapped in the dark night and a too-large sweater, I walked through the cemeteries alone without fear. What ghosts I encountered never bothered me in those places. It’s usually homes where they get rowdy, places they spent a lot of time when they were living. Ghosts in a cemetery are much like people milling around a bus station or an airport. They’re just passing through. So I watched them, kept a respectful distance and practiced not being able to see them.

  I was sitting on the ground reading a paperback by flashlight when someone passed through the cemetery gates. I remember it was a romance novel I’d picked up on the sly. Not one of those silly ones about some secretary getting pregnant by the boss then he marries her at the end, and you don’t even get to read the only fun part. No, this was a juicy one and the couple was doing all kinds of things I’d never heard of, and let me tell you I was taking notes. One day I’d find a good-looking boy to do all these things with, and he’d be glad of my attention to detail.

  The squeak of the metal gate tore me out of the book. I switched off the flashlight and hunkered down. Every once in a while I’d come across some distraught person visiting a grave at night, or a drug deal. Once I’d fled a cemetery because a gang of drunk teenagers--all football players, so they probably thought they could get away with anything--vandalized some graves just for the hell of it. I hated that but I didn’t know what to do about it. If I turned them in I was busted myself for sneaking out, and I had no faith in the idea of an anonymous tip in such a small town. If this was something like that, or somebody meeting their dealer, I would leave very quietly.

  A small elderly black woman made her way through the graves. She had something in one hand and seemed to know where she was going. I figured she might be visiting someone and my curiosity was piqued. There was certainly no kind of official segregation anymore but most white people went to white churches and black people went to black churches. Consequently there were only a few integrated cemeteries and the one I’d come to tonight wasn’t one of them. Who might this lady be visiting?

  I stayed hidden but kept an eye on her. She wore an old-fashioned housedress and those boxy shoes nurses and old ladies wear. I slipped my glasses down and took a peek at her colors. There was some dark gold around her and that same shade of indigo blue I saw around myself when I looked in the mirror. That had me really intrigued.

  She found the grave that was her destination and stopped in front of the headstone. Then she flung what she held at it, the sound of breaking crockery splitting the night. She promptly turned on her heel and walked away, not looking back.

  Well, what the hell? I had no idea and I stayed in my hiding spot. I couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d strolled over and talked to me, which is exactly what she did.

  “I’ve seen you around town once or twice.” Her voice was cultured and precise while still having a Southern accent. “You’re a Mathis, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I heard my own voice shake. If my parents found out I was sneaking out like this, and hanging out in cemeteries no less, it would bring on a whole new round of appointments with shrinks and maybe even the preacher. Thinking about that made me shudder. Our preacher gave me the creeps.

  The woman looked at me as if searching for something. What, I couldn’t guess. It felt rude to still be crouched on the ground so I stood, hands clasped behind my back. I had no idea what to say to her, so I waited for her to speak.

  “What’s my aura look like?” A hint of a smile played at her lips.

  My mouth fell open.

  “I can’t see them, you see, and I always did wonder.” The lady had sharp eyes and a kind face, and I felt myself begin to trust her just a little bit. She didn’t seem interested in getting me in trouble, for one thing.

  “Some of it’s like mine, ma’am.”

  She nodded as if this sounded completely normal to her. “My name’s Rozella. You come see me sometime. I think you and I would have a lot to talk about.” She chuckled as she turned to leave. “Oh yes I think we’ll have all kinds of things to talk about.”

  Confused, I said, “I don’t know where you live.”

  She grinned, waving a hand. “You set your mind t
o it, you can find me.” She walked off and once she was to the gate she turned to say, “I’ll be waiting.”

  It took me a few weeks to work up the nerve and to figure out how to do it, but I did. I found her house by using my auric vision to see the traces of magical energy. From the moment I stepped into her home and her world, I never looked back.

  Chapter 2

  The next few days I kept busy with various pursuits, like clearing the tree in the backyard that went down during a nasty thunderstorm.I was glad it hadn’t been big enough to overhang the roof. A few eager buttercups struggled out of the hard ground by the side of the house, but as February turned to March the cold refused to give way. A possible haunting uptown turned out to be faulty wiring making the lights flicker. I gave them the business card of an electrician friend. Late one afternoon I sat in the office, head bobbing in time with the Dead Can Dance coming from next door, slumped at the desk and reading Daniel’s blog. Called Blood Shots--A Blog of Vampire Mixology, he usually wrote about his crazy drink concoctions and overall beverage fetish, but sometimes he mentioned his ghost-hunting adventures with me. He passed it off as fiction but I wondered if there were other vampires out there who read it, and what they thought.

  A knock at the door brought me out into the front room. Two young guys, who looked like college students and as nervous as hell, stood just inside the doorway. Wondering if this was the right time of year for torturing frat pledges, I greeted them politely.

  The taller one, so blond he was almost tow-headed, spoke with reluctance. “Uh, is Mr. Mathis in?” He pointed vaguely at the sign that read Mathis Paranormal Investigations.

  “I’m Mathis.” I offered my hand. “Roxanne. Why don’t y’all sit down? Would you like some coffee?”

  They made grateful noises as they shook my hand then collapsed on the loveseat while I started the coffee. These kids looked rough--rumpled clothes, dark luggage under their eyes. I kept my glasses on, wanting to hear what they had to say before I took a peek.