Whew.
* * * * *
Later:
Had aromatherapy facial all lavenders and bergamots.
Then had this bizarre and wonderful treatment where they put hot stones down my spine.
Then they took away stones and wrapped me like a mummy in lovely smelling stuff.
Then they rubbed down my body with gigantic loofahs and lubed me up with creamy body moisturizer.
Then they sent me back to my room in a terrycloth robe with a towel wrapped around my head, shuffling on my fluffy white slippers like a zombie.
Found bed, fell face first on it and used magic to record this miraculous instant of pure peace and tranquility in my Book of Shadows.
Mm.
Mm.
Must sleep.
14 September
Am free.
Have had nothing but fruits, vegetables, whole grains and lean proteins since arrival yesterday.
Did yoga early morning in large class of women who I hope did not notice Rory and his little friend making fun of us outside the arched windows that give a fabulous view of the lake.
(Rory’s made friends with some woman’s nine year old daughter who was also hanging about moping. Since then, they’ve been thick as thieves and causing mayhem wherever they go. Good times.)
Am healthy and happy and thinking I may give up caffeine and refined sugars for good as am sure I have found inner peace and enlightenment through clean and wholesome living.
* * * * *
Later:
Have had healthy lunch, a wee trek around the Loch and a two hour massage.
Afterwards, sat in sauna with other women and realized they are not all spies or informants, they are my friends and they love me.
Then sat in my room with Josie.
We drank little bottles of Moet et Chandon through straws and watched Eastenders together.
Jack Branning.
Mm.
* * * * *
Later:
Am alone in bed after having total Mother of All Breakdowns with Josie.
It was the Moet.
I told her everything about Aidan and Ash and the blood vow of secrecy (secrecy? ha!) and going to Denver.
I told her how I was in love with both men and about their competition and my two Big O’s and what Ash said about liking me.
I told her how I was rubbish at lying to them and how it was going to take weeks, maybe months for us to be able to arrange to get out of the country and into a safe place in Colorado and how I didn’t think I could make it.
Ack!
And I cried and cried (and snorted!) and cried and went through nearly half a box of Kleenex.
She just sat next to me and held my hand then when I kept crying she held me and when I’d settled down, she popped the top off another mini-bottle of Moet and put in a fresh straw and handed it to me.
She patted my arm and said, “Don’t worry, love, I trust you. We’ll get through this.”
That’s it.
Simple faith.
Then we snuggled into the couch and watched A Nightmare on Elm Street (Gerard Butler DVDs all checked out (humph) but Johnny Depp was no sloppy seconds, still, although I wanted a Johnny Depp-a-thon, that wasn’t exactly where I wanted to start).
Now almost asleep and feel better than I have in days.
Love Josie.
15 September
Had granola, blueberries and organic Greek yogurt for breakfast.
Had eyebrow, leg and bikini wax and brow and lash dye.
Had French pedicure and manicure with blood red varnish.
Had lunch of blanched asparagus and steamed salmon.
Had highlights retouched and splint ends trimmed.
Did pilates (not sure I get it, yoga much better).
Beginning to wish women around me were plotting and scheming.
Want big, oozing, yeasty cinnamon roll dripping with sugary buttery frosting.
Am bored out of my skull.
Am sick of steamed, blanched, salt-less, personality-less food.
Am not cavewoman or lost on deserted island.
Am missing my cauldron, my magical larder and constant threat of death or possible snogging by cute but treacherous boys.
Ack!
Am psychotic but want old life of danger and mayhem back.
16 September
Had mini-drama as Rory left newfound girlfriend who is off to the wilds of Orkney or somesuch.
Thank goddess (for Rory’s sake) for Facebook and Instant Messenger.
We are going home.
Finally.
19 September
Progress Report:
Cookbook lady has come back to Lucy and me and said not only does she want cookbook, she has been in talks with some British television channel and they may want cookery show called “War of the Wooden Spoons” filmed in Witches Dozen and beamed out to whole British populace with TV license.
Ack!
Me: the New Nigella.
(Or Jamie? Pucka!)
Ack!
Su’s coven has been hard at work.
They’ve found a safe house in Baker’s Historic District in Denver (Yay! Close to Mom’s house!) and started to put protection spells on it (love Baker! close proximity to Mayan Movie Theater – Yay! Independent and foreign films while in hiding. Also close to my old “local” The Hornet. Buffalo chicken salad with bleu cheese dressing. Woo hoo! Oo, how I missed the Mile Hi City!).
As they do not have the power of the Honeycutt Coven, this could take some time but at least they’ve started.
Viv has explained that magic is verboten on flights and in airports and has been for some time (disappointing but understandable).
So, we had a powwow and feel that we need some protection of the muscle-bound type and if she or he were a little magical, well, all the better.
Had to check with Elly and The Prophesies to make certain-sure there was not third A-named man who would vie for my affections, throwing me into confusion and self-hatred when I find he turns on me in bid to control own destiny.
Elly says only two boys so prophesied so not to worry, could find mercenary without concern of future heartbreak.
Ack!
But where to find mercenary?
Where else?
23 September
Met Viv in Paddington Station.
She was (allegedly) at meetings somewhere in London to plan a speaking tour of east England up through Yorkshire.
I was (allegedly) locked up in the Tower Room searching for the Magic-Stealing Spell so I could figure out how to reverse Althea’s condition.
Get this: Viv was wearing a pink, oxford-cloth, button-down shirt, sand-colored chinos, a pink, naval-style belt, pink (Coach, at least) loafers and a pink Alice band in her hair.
How could this be my sister?
I, on the other hand, was taking full advantage of Indian summer and was wearing my four-inch, stiletto-heeled, t-strap sandals with the big chunks of turquoise imbedded in the T. Added to this were my dark, desert-washed, boot-leg, hipster jeans with a wide, stamp-designed tan belt and giganto turquoise and rhinestone belt buckle (trust me, it worked). Topped with my gauzy somewhat see-through, Indian-inspired tunic with the neckline split to there and showing a little curve o’ the breasticle. I’d straightened my hair to within an inch of its life and had on some pretty heavy black eyeliner.
Fab.
Mental Note: Krispie Kreme is taking over London. They have a shop in Paddington (right next to Accessorize which I had to visit even though they have them in Bristol – am addicted to Accessorize – bought two pairs of sunglasses which brings my sunnies collection up to sixteen pairs. Yee ha!).
When we opened the door to The Hobgoblin, it was like the scene out of American Werewolf in London. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at us.
“Way to keep a low profile,” I hissed to Viv as we sauntered in.
“What?” she hissed back.
“You
r 80’s Soccer Mom getup. Hardly blending in.”
“Me? At least I’m not Caucasian Cher looking like, at any moment, I’m going to break into my rendition of ‘Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves’.”
She said that like it was an insult.
Derek met us at the bar. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Me? Trouble?” I replied.
He rolled his eyes, tugged out a pint of lager for each of us (even though we didn’t order lager, quite fancied a cider, but anyway) and walked away.
Scary Faerie was hovering drunkenly at the end of the bar, per usual.
There were far more patrons now than the last time we were here. I scanned the room and saw cute, lean vampire from the Day of Orbs o’ Magic walking toward us.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“What?” Then Viv saw him. “No vampires,” she said in an undertone.
“I heard that,” he said when he arrived, leaning, sanguine, against the bar next to Viv and looking not insulted at all.
Of course.
Vampire hearing is superior to human hearing.
“Where’s your posse?” Vampire Guy asked me.
“Er…” I replied.
He raised his brows. “The two tall, somewhat scary-looking blokes?”
“Er…” I muttered.
“One from GQ, the other from a Marlboro ad?” he prompted.
Mm, interesting (and accurate) description.
“Um… day off.” (Me, being lame)
Ack!
“I see.” He turned to Viv. “You’re looking for help.”
I bugged my eyes out at Viv.
I mean, how easy was this?
Walk in, pick mercenary and Bob’s your uncle.
“Thanks but no thanks… we need someone who can walk around in daylight. Vampires need not apply.” (Viv, kinda being rude and seriously cutting into my London shopping time if she drew this whole gig out.)
He smiled, very cute and seemed not to take offense at Viv’s rudeness.
“Human mother,” he replied.
Enough said.
* * * * *
Quick lesson:
For the uninitiated, there is quite a bit to learn about vampires.
Firstly, they don’t need blood to live.
Well, they do, but only once a month or so and they certainly don’t have to kill someone to get it. A good ol’ drink will keep them going for weeks. But they don’t have to drain someone dry.
In the meantime, they eat and drink like normal folk. Even though undead, their bodies function like a human being’s, heart beating, blood flowing through veins and the like.
Secondly, vampires are stronger and faster than humans. They can hear and see better. On average, at least three or four times better than a human. The fitter vampires could be five or six times better than humans. The Lance Armstrong of vampires could kick Superman’s ass.
No kidding.
Lastly, vampires die naturally. You could go the stake-to-the-heart, decapitation, silver bullet route but after two hundred fifty or three hundred years, they die naturally anyway.
Just one day, turn to dust.
Finito.
In the olden days, such as, when they pulled out folks’ intestines for public enjoyment, and through the centuries where classes were more established (upstairs, downstairs) vampires didn’t worry too much about stopping before the victim died.
They just fed.
They were a superior race so why not?
But with the end of slavery, industrialization, unionization, civil rights, equal rights, etcetera, they felt some pressure so killing has been illegal for years (with brief respites in 1895, 1921 and 1962 but don’t have time to get into that).
Now, vampires had Blood Covenants which was somewhat like weddings and marriage contracts and feeding rights rolled into one.
They’d find a partner (over a vampire lifetime, they could have three or more, usually women but definitely not unheard of for them to be men, or both) who they bound themselves to (both legally and emotionally, the ceremony was supposed to be super-cool in a kind of dark, vampire-y, black velvet, red satin, blood red rose bouquet, big silver goblets filled with pinot noir, rare-to-blue steaks for dinner, Concrete Blond played at reception, type of way) who would let them drink their blood once a month (amongst other things)).
No killing, no siring of new vampires (unless “in season” which was a whole other story) and no straying.
Of course, they broke these rules – the first one rarely, the second one every once in awhile and the last one all the time (depending on the vampire).
There are very few female vampires, in fact, females were quite unusual. The life of the vampire doesn’t often suit a female, or, at least, most females. And since most vampires aren’t the soulless creatures they’re made out to be in books, they didn’t tend to sire females too often, unless the female wanted it, of course.
They had better things to do with females.
Hmm.
In Blood Covenants it wasn’t unusual for the vampire “naturally” to sire a child.
Human/vampire children were very like Blade if they were boys. They could walk around in daylight, needed blood but not often (even less than full-blooded vampires, three or four times a year), lived somewhat shorter lives (a hundred fifty, two hundred years at most) and were always boys.
Girls produced from human/vampire procreation were invariably human but could be stronger or have excellent eyesight but usually just plain ole normal.
Don’t ask me why this all happened. There is a book I started about vampire DNA (reconfigured at siring or inherited at birth) and the sex chromosomes and all sorts of other stuff that had to do with genetics and the like. But that book was boring so I didn’t finish it.
* * * * *
“Oh.” (Viv)
“I’m Gabriel.” (Gabriel)
I bugged my eyes out at Viv again.
Gabriel.
Right.
I took his name as a sign.
We were then at a loss.
How, exactly, did one go about hiring a mercenary?
Gabriel grinned at us. “Let me make this easy for you…” Then he laid out his terms and conditions, as if he were selling us a car, but in a very nice French (ish), English, American (?) accent.
Viv and I looked at each other.
“I don’t know…” Viv was being unusually indecisive, “are you willing to leave the country?”
“You Mathilda?”
I turned to see a young man in a weird outfit (purple velvet shirt, I didn’t even know they made shirts in velvet but, looking at him, I knew they shouldn’t) addressing me and standing about five feet away and lastly, for some reason, staring at me belligerently.
What now?
I was minding my own business.
Why me?
“Don’t respond,” Gabriel said quickly to me.
Seemed like good advice.
I turned away.
“Eh, woman! I said, are you Mathilda?”
“Just ignore him,” Gabriel said again. “He’s just looking to prove himself against The Mathilda. You’ve started to get a bit of a reputation, warlocks and other idiots flooding The Hobgoblin in hopes of getting a shot at you. Don’t give him the chance.”
A reputation?
What reputation?
What was this?
Who was I, Calamity Jane?
Was I now Calamity Mathilda (don’t answer that!) the fastest wand in England and open to any moron with an attitude?
“Listen to me, bitch!” the stranger in the bad shirt demanded.
Uh-oh.
I wasn’t fond of being called “bitch”.
In a flash, Derek was there.
“You said no trouble. Take it outside, as in, the back. We don’t need any questions.”
I took a deep breath.
I would not sink to his level.
I would not be forced into a confrontation I did not want.
<
br /> “Hey, dude,” I was trying to be patient, “I don’t want any…” I started, turning back to the guy but as I did so, he whipped out a wand (a wand!) and sent this pathetic little wisp of sparkler-esque magic my way.
Without thinking, I just flicked my fingers and a shell pink and violet poof of pixie dust came out and opened, like a parachute, deflecting the sparkles so they ricocheted off and hit the man who dealt them, knocking him on his ass.
Oops.
Not a good idea.
Behind every warlock with bits of magic, there was a witch. And this guy’s witch didn’t like him to land on his ass in front of all the other bad boys and girls in The Hobgoblin.
“Hey, bitch… what do ya think you’re doing, eh?” she asked, storming toward us, belligerent too (and wearing a full on velvet dress, which was acceptable in most instances, just not the one she was wearing).
Uh-oh, there was that bitch-word again.
“You said no trouble!” Derek shouted.
Too late.
All hell broke loose.
“Who’re you calling a bitch?” Viv sneered.
Forgot, Viv hated the word “bitch” more than me.
Wands were pulled out, words were thrown, tables were upended and the tense always up for a mêlée atmosphere of The Hobgoblin exploded into a full-on, Wild West brawl where everyone was invited to join even if they weren’t involved in the original beef.
I felt an arm around my waist as I pulled out my wand and then I was flying through the air.
Yes, I said flying through the air.
Gabriel had a hold of both Viv and I. We – I kid you not – flew through the air while Gabriel nonchalantly leaped over the heads of the crowd to land in front of the door.
Once outside, we started to run but the fracas had spilled out the door (not to mention, not too easy to leg it in turquoise-encrusted t-straps).
The angry witch and her warlock came after us and Gabriel grabbed us again.
Up in the air, we landed on top of a taxi about five car lengths away.
Up again, we were at the end of the block.
Up, down, up, down, up, down and before we knew it we were running down the steps of a tube station.
Viv magicked the ticket machine and we were on a train in no time.
Stop, “mind the gap”, change trains.