Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(22)

“Jupiter.”

“Jupiter?” I teased. “Talk about a weird name.”

He grinned and leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest with a geeky sort of grace. “I know. Stupid, right? I was named after some poet—not the god. I hate poetry.” He rolled his eyes and made a fake vomiting noise. “You can just call me Jupe. That’s what my friends call me.”

“And you can call me Cady if you want.”

“Cady,” he repeated, as if he were trying it out on his tongue. He was barefoot and dressed in jeans and a loose white T-shirt that fell at a crisp angle from his bony shoulders.

“Whoa, is that a charm?” He reached out to grab my necklace. I instinctually jerked back—I don’t like people invading my private space, and I’m not a hugger—but he didn’t seem to notice. He leaned closer and inspected the small metal pendant, holding it in his flattened palm.

After my worrisome visit from Priya, I realized I needed more continuous protection than my tattooed sigils offered. They were convenient, quick fixes, but because they wouldn’t hold a permanent charge—allowing me the flexibility to turn them off and on at will—they required a constant influx of Heka to power; the longest I’d ever powered one was about an hour, and I passed out afterward. Seeking something more substantial, I dug out an oldie-but-goodie charm I’d created a few years back, at a point in my life when paranoia was getting the best of me. It was a basic deflector, which should keep me safe from hostile magical attack, and, with any luck, hidden from anything malicious originating from the Æthyr.

“Did you make this? Is it magick?” Jupe asked.

“Uh, what? Magick?” I said, as if he were crazy, pulling the pendant away from him and tucking it under the neck of my shirt.

“Yeah, magick. Dad told me you’re a real magician. That’s so cool!”

“He did, did he?” Shit, what the hell was I supposed to say? How much did he tell his son about me, anyway?

“I’ve read tons of books about famous magicians like Aleister Crowley. I have some questions for you—”

Lon’s hands appeared on his son’s shoulders and pulled him backward. “Don’t talk her ear off yet. You’ll scare her away before she even gets in the damn door.”

“Hi,” I said, smiling. He smiled back and an unexpected feeling of relief flooded through me. Call it instinct—or fool-ishness—but I was instantaneously confident that I could trust him; all my worries about his discretion over my true identity vanished on the spot.

“Come on Jupe,” he said, “where are your manners?”

“Huh? Oh, come inside. You’re letting flies in.”

“Jupe,” Lon chastised.

“What? That’s what you always say.” As his father wearily shook his head, Jupe grabbed my arm and pulled me inside; I guessed my no-touching rule was out the window too.

Their house was much larger than mine, but still comfortable. The foyer opened up into an expansive great room with a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace at the far end and a wide, curving metal staircase to the right with gray, slab-stone steps. The decor was minimalist and modern, lots of blond wood and stainless steel—like something out of an IKEA catalog, but higher-end. Very tidy and clean.

“Nice,” I remarked.

“You want a tour?” Jupe suggested with great enthusiasm.

“She doesn’t want a tour,” Lon said. “This isn’t the Louvre.” Jupe frowned, then his face brightened again. His pale green eyes were not as intensely colored as his father’s, but they were bigger and enfolded by thick, downy lashes. Quite arresting. “We’re having mashed potatoes for dinner. Do you like mashed potatoes?”

“Uh, yeah …”

“Then you’ll like these. My dad’s a real good cook.”

“You’re supposed to ask her if she’s had dinner first, then ask if she’d like to eat with us.”

Jupe rolled his eyes. “Blah, blah. What he said.”

“Jupe.”

“Sorry. Would you like to eat dinner with us, madam, please?” Jupe said with a terrible attempt at something close to a prim-and-proper accent, which apparently in his mind was a broad mix of British and Australian.

“There’s more than mashed potatoes,” Lon added.

“I haven’t had dinner yet, so sure. Yeah.”

“Sweet! I’m starved, let’s eat, Dad.” Jupe paused, then shouted at the top of his lungs—quite impressive, I can tell you—“Foxglove! Come here, girl!” He whistled with his hands cupped around his mouth, and headed off into the next room, leaving Lon and me standing alone.

“Sorry he’s such a motormouth,” he said. “He doesn’t get it from me.”

“Really? Color me shocked,” I said dryly. He gave me a single grunt in return, which made me laugh. “He seems sweet. Cute, too. The girls are going to be all over him in a couple of years.”

“You think?” He looked over his shoulder at Jupe, who was well out of earshot and continuing to whistle and call.

“God yes—he looks just like you.” I realized, too late, what I’d just implied when one of Lon’s eyebrows slowly raised and the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.