Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(22)

“Winter was hexed with magical poison,” Velma said. “You aren’t hexed. This sounds accidental to me. And it doesn’t look bad or evil. It just looks different, is all.”

“Can you get rid of it?” Bo asked. “One of the unhexing baths you gave Winter?”

The conjurer’s brow furrowed. “Like I said, Astrid’s not hexed. I can give her some herbs to drink for purification, and I can pray over her. But unless we know what kind of ritual they did on that boat—and, more specifically, what this symbol on the idol means—I can’t offer counter magic. And maybe she doesn’t need it. Like anything else, magic fades over time. Maybe this will, too. Might be a bigger risk to stick your nose into these people’s business. If you stumbled upon whatever it was they were doing, you might want to stumble your way on out of it. Cut your losses. Return the idol to the survivors and wash your hands of it.”

Bo threw a hand up in the air. “And what? Just go about our merry way and hope that Astrid hasn’t taken on permanent spiritual damage?”

“Don’t get snitty with me, Bo Yeung,” Velma warned.

“You’re telling me there’s a group of people in town practicing some sort of big, dark ritual and despite all the mediums, clairvoyants, and oddball spiritual healers you book at this club, no one’s heard a thing about it?”

She settled a hand on her hip. “I’ll see if any of my contacts around town have heard rumors about these idols. But you play with fire, you’re liable to get burned. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Bo snorted. “If I listened to all your warnings, I’d never leave the damn house.”

“Ungrateful miscreant.”

“Mean old witch.”

“Old?” Velma huffed.

He squinted at her. “Not too old to appreciate an extra case of ten-year-old single-malt Scotch, on the house?”

Velma smiled slowly. “That’s more like it.”

“Now, about those herbs you mentioned . . .” Astrid said.

Velma smoothed a hand over Astrid’s back. “Come on upstairs and I’ll mix you something up.”

Snappy footfalls made them all swing around. Stopping near a shelf of liquor was Sylvia, escorted by the club’s master of ceremonies, Hezekiah.

“There you are, Ah-Sing,” she said sweetly, using a familiar form of Bo’s given name—an intimacy that wouldn’t be lost on Astrid. “I was beginning to think you had abandoned me in the middle of our date. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Bo squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Long enough for his “date” to take matters into her own hands.

“I’m Sylvia Fong,” she said brightly.

Bo winced.

Blond eyebrows shot up sharply. “Sylvia?” Astrid said in disbelief. “Sylvia?”

The already-stifling air in the small room seemed to congeal like gelatin and wobble with tension. Well, he’d wanted to make Astrid jealous, hadn’t he?

Wish granted.

NINE

Astrid was the very picture of restraint and good manners. She’d ignored the beautiful Miss Fong while Velma mixed up a batch of herbs. She’d smiled pleasantly while Bo helped both women into their coats and led them outside Gris-Gris just before midnight. He informed Astrid that he’d not driven “Sylvia” (the Buick) tonight but had instead ironically brought Sylvia (the Glamorous Woman) here by taxi—which meant now they’d all three be sharing a cab home, what marvelous fun! Astrid had refrained from demanding which of the two women would be dropped off first. Because that would sound jealous and petty, and Astrid was neither.

She merely wanted to club him to death with her umbrella.

Bo sat in front with the taxi driver, leaving her to cozy up to Miss Fong in the back. He rattled off an address that sounded an awful lot like his Chinatown apartment building. Was he taking Sylvia there with him? Surely not. And if so, he would die where he stood when Astrid got her hands on him. But she didn’t say this, of course. She only sat stiffly, pretending to stare out the window through the rain.

“I like your shoes,” she told Sylvia in a calm voice after they’d ridden in silence for a time.

Sylvia turned one shapely ankle and peered down at her pump. “Thank you,” she said politely, and then, “Your gown is beautiful.”

“Thank you. I think I lost a few beads on the dance floor,” Astrid responded lightly, toying with the fringe of her beaded hem.

They continued this too-polite small talk on a too-long ride, which was, in reality, only eight blocks. The conversation went like this: How long have you known Bo? Oh, you live in the same building, do you? Switchboard operator, eh? No, I’m not really sure what field I want to study at college. Yes, Los Angeles is certainly sunny this time of year.

And so forth.

Once they got to Chinatown, Bo escorted Sylvia beneath their shared apartment building’s entrance, speaking to her briefly while Astrid waited in the idling taxi. Astrid was in turns relieved (Bo was coming back to Pacific Heights, not staying here) and filled with hurt (he was hugging Sylvia good-bye?), but she waited silently. Remained silent, in fact, when Bo got back in the front seat of the taxi.

Remained silent the rest of the way home.

Bo paid the driver. They entered the Queen Anne together. It was quiet inside, mostly dark. He locked the door behind them as she removed her coat and hat.