Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(4)

“There’s also the broken barware,” I noted.

“Here!” Kara’s boyfriend pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Please, unbind us now.”

As Amanda snatched up the money, her foot crossed the triangle and inadvertently broke the binding spell. Kara’s boyfriend slumped to the table, heaving, as the other two gasped in relief.

“Oops, sorry, Cady.” Amanda winced at the dead triangle as she pocketed the money.

A table busser appeared with a broom. I scanned the crowd for one of our regulars and quickly spotted him. Bob was a short Earthbound in his thirties with dark, slicked-back hair and a lazy eye. He was dressed in his usual attire, a Hawaiian printed shirt with repeating hula girls. Unlike half the people in the bar, Bob’s demonic ability was useful. He was a healer. Not a miraculous one, but good in a pinch. He also had a thing for me and would probably set himself on fire if asked.

“Hey Bob,” I called out. “Will you take a look at that guy’s neck? Make sure he’s okay.”

“No problem.” Bob trotted off behind the wounded man, who was making a beeline toward the door along with Kara’s boyfriend.

“Am I banned?” Kara asked as she scooted out of the booth.

“You’re banned on Thursday nights for the next month. No Paranormal Patrol.”

Her face fell, but she nodded in acceptance and made a drunken attempt at a short curtsy as she left, her blue hands now fully reverted to their normal color.

Low whispers hummed around the bar as the crowd dispersed and people returned to their seats. Someone asked if I could rewind Patrol; we’d missed several minutes during the ruckus.

After I made my way back behind the bar, I picked up the remote and started to hit rewind when I noticed what was on the screen and froze. A special news report had interrupted the program. I took it off mute and ignored the murmured complaints about another delay in the evening’s festivities. A petite Latina reporter spoke into a microphone beneath a red umbrella.

“I repeat, local authorities here in Dallas are trying to confirm whether the couple in the parking garage are indeed the notorious serial killers, Enola and Alexander Duval, who made international headlines when they were charged with the deaths of three rival occultists seven years ago, known collectively as the Black Lodge slayings. The footage we’re about to show you was just released to us, taken this morning from a gas station near the airport.”

A clip from the surveillance video played. Clear as day, there were my parents getting into an SUV. What the hell were they thinking? They weren’t supposed to be in the States; they hadn’t been here in years.

Right after we faked our deaths and went into hiding, I saw them every few months. Then a few months turned into a year, and a year into three. I didn’t think about them much, unless I heard their names mentioned in some true-crime-exposé rerun on basic cable.

The reporter continued. “The fact that the killers are still alive and in Texas after all these years is astonishing. There’s speculation that their daughter, also a member of their former occult order, could still be alive too. Now, back to the studio for Tom’s commentary. Tom?”

I stood stiff as a soldier and stared at the screen. I was dimly aware that my hands were trembling. My vision tunneled, then everything went black.

2

When I came to, I lay on the floor inside the Tambuku office looking at two pairs of feet; one was wearing purple sneakers … Amanda. The other feet were bare and belonged to my business partner, Kar Yee. She never wore shoes at work. She would begrudgingly put them on if forced to meander past the bar, but that was her limit. No threat of broken glass and spills or health department requirements would sway her; she even drove her car without shoes.

The two women were arguing. Amanda was trying to convince Kar Yee that she could stand in for me at the bar, begging her not to call in a replacement bartender.

“I won’t screw anything up,” Amanda promised.

“You’re too slow mixing drinks,” Kar Yee said. “Too. Slow. Do you know why? You talk too much.” A petite Chinese Earthbound, Kar Yee had perfect skin, catlike eyes, and a chin-length bob with severe, straight bangs. Two long, thin locks of hair framed her face, several inches longer than the rest of her bob, and she sculpted these into sharp points that dangled to her shoulders. All of this was surrounded by a stunning aqua-blue halo.

I cracked my neck and pushed myself up off the floor as the two of them continued to squabble. “Give me a few minutes, then I can finish my shift.”

“Oh, you’re awake,” Kar Yee noted without emotion.

Amanda groped my clammy forehead. “Are you okay? What happened? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing her hand away. Then I remembered what caused the blackout. A pang of worry tightened my chest. “I mean, uh, yeah. Probably getting sick, that’s all.”

“You want me to mix drinks for a few minutes?” Amanda asked me. “Mika can handle my tables.”

Kar Yee made a perturbed noise and folded her arms across her slender chest. Amanda often played us like a mom and dad. If one said no, she’d corner the other to get the answer that she wanted. Still, running the back office was Kar Yee’s responsibility; managing the bar and our small staff was mine. My call, not hers, and I didn’t feel like wrangling someone else to come in and sub for me on their night off.