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  "It is now," she said, somewhat testily.

  Peez sipped her tea and looked demure. Inside she was gloating and doing a victory dance, even if it was just to honor a small victory. That wasn't so hard, she thought. That was even ... fun! Fiorella already sees that I'm smart, that I can think on my feet—or on her settee—and that I've got to be the only worthy successor to my mother's empire. Besides, I'm a woman. That's got to count for something with this country's number one wiccan! It's a Goddess thing.

  She set down her teacup and said, "Fiorella, under normal circumstances I would enjoy a long chat with you, but since we're both businesswomen, we know that sometimes one must sacrifice nicety to necessity. I hope you won't mind my cutting to the chase, but you do understand that I'm—that I'm working under a terrible deadline."

  "Of course." Fiorella removed a cobwebby lace handkerchief from one long, black sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "Your poor mother, my dear friend Edwina. So sad. So sudden. So—so strange. When I first heard about her condition I rather wondered why— It just wasn't like her to—to—" Fiorella's voice trailed off and a distracted look came into her face that had nothing to do with sorrow.

  Peez didn't know why or whither the witch-queen's attention had wandered, but she determined to recapture it forthwith. There were other places for her to be, other people to meet. She was doing all right so far, mastering her innate awe of beautiful people, handling a face-to-face meeting, but she didn't know if she could keep it up indefinitely.

  "I don't think any of us would be our usual selves if our doctors had just handed us that sort of news," she said. "We owe it to Mother to help her get all of her affairs in order while we can, if only to unburden her spirit."

  "Is there really no hope?"

  Peez shook her head. "Mother would have told me if there were. You know what an optimist she is. A visionary, really. Your organization was one of our first clients." Peez was pleased with herself for that our. "You saw how she built up E. Godz bit by bit, channeling the power, giving back far more than she ever got, making it all run smoothly for everyone involved. E. Godz meant—means everything to her. She gave her life for the dream. She worked too long, too hard for it to all go to pieces. If the company is to continue to succeed, we've got to make a commitment to excellence, dedicate ourselves to the future, to fresh leadership that's devoted to maintaining the same high standards that—"

  "How do you do that?" Fiorella asked.

  "Do what?" Peez was brought up short by the interruption.

  "Talk for so long without stopping for a breath and without saying much of anything. It's half empty sentiment, half corporate claptrap, and all pure piffle." She helped herself to more tea. "Look, Peez, I know why you're here. As you said yourself, we're both businesswomen who know how to cut to the chase. You want to take over as the head of E. Godz, Inc. after Edwina's gone, right?"

  "And why shouldn't I?" It was Peez's turn to sound testy.

  "No, the proper question is why should you? Your mother always gave my people value for money—"

  "I'll do that, too," Peez cut in.

  "Easy enough for you to say. But how do you propose to do it? I don't know you, Peez; not the way I know your mother. I can't tell what your management style is or if it's what I want for my organization or even if you have a style worthy of the name. Are you going to let things coast, playing the 'If It Ain't Broke, Don't Fix It' card, or are you going to be so hands-on that you don't leave one corporate brick standing on top of another? And why should I assume that whatever your style, I won't like your brother's better?"

  Peez's face hardened at the mention of Dov. "When did you talk to him?" she demanded coldly.

  Fiorella shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "Does it matter? We both know he's out there. And since I was the one who had to mention him in the first place, I don't think that the two of you have any plans for a joint directorship."

  "Do you seriously believe that Dov could steer this company by himself?" Peez snapped. "That mama's boy? He never had to take an independent step in his life! He's only a figurehead in the Miami office. How can he do something for the American wiccan population when he's got absolutely no experience doing anything for himself?"

  "You seem to think that you know what American wiccans need," Fiorella remarked calmly. "But do you? Do you really?"

  "I know that you represent more than talk-show fodder," Peez shot back. "I've followed your career, Fiorella. Every Halloween, just like clockwork, there you are on TV, in the newspapers, sometimes in those slick-and-sleazy gossip magazines: Fiorella, a so-called 'real' witch, fashions by Morticia Addams, props straight out of Stereotypes-R- Us, something for the rubes to gawk at and imagine they've glimpsed the Dark Side. And it doesn't hurt that the Dark Side shows a lot of cleavage. Am I wrong?"

  Fiorella smiled and shook her head.

  "But the reality is that you're just about as 'real' as this whole town. Salem, Massachusetts, home of the infamous witchcraft trials! There's a joke."

  Fiorella stood up, no longer smiling. "Have a care what you say, woman," she intoned, her voice going deep and menacing. "Have a care, lest you summon up the shadows of vengeance! This ground is sanctified with the blood of our venerable ancestors, those women who gave their all, America's first wiccan martyrs who—"

  "Oh, please." Peez dismissed Fiorella's outburst with an airy wave of her hand. "In the first place, this ground wasn't sanctified by any bloodshed: They hanged all the accused witches, except for that man who died under the peine forte et dure, crushed under a load of rocks when he wouldn't confess. You know, Giles Corey, Mr. 'More Weight'?" Teddy Tumtum's impromptu history lesson was coming in handy after all. "Second, none of those poor souls was a witch, and they'd probably look at you funny if you so much as mentioned the word 'wiccan' to them. And finally, Salem isn't even where most of the madness happened. Salem Village, now that's more like it! Only there isn't any Salem Village any more. They changed the name to Danvers because they had the good grace to be ashamed of the whole nasty business. Bad publicity and a load of embarrassment are very strong charms. They have the power to transform a place or a person or even a financial empire."

  She leaned towards the still-bristling witch-queen and concluded: "Don't make me use them on you."

  "Threats?" Fiorella raised one eyebrow. "Didn't take you long to reach that point, did it? Well, and how would your bad PR bugaboo touch me?"

  "How hard would it be for me to set up someone else as a rival witch-queen, Fiorella? Some out-of-work model who's at least as pretty as you are, only younger and maybe with some connections to the music industry? I can help her tap into the earth magic just enough to give her that air of authenticity—my equivalent of start-up funds—then get her all of your old Halloween spots in the media. You may be the founder of several dozen covens, but can you hold onto your constituents in the face of some real heavy-duty competition?"

  Peez held her hands up in front of her face, palms outward, thumbs touching, in the classic director-framing-a-shot pose. In the voice of TV hype artists everywhere she declared: "She's beautiful, she's a witch, and she's slept with rock stars! You, too, can share the glamour, the power, the six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon celebrity! It's not just witchcraft, it's cool!" She lowered her hands and gave Fiorella a hard stare. "And it's the same principle behind every cosmetics ad ever run. Rationally, women know that they're not going to look like Cindy or Naomi or Husker-du or whoever's the supermodel du jour just because they buy that brand of lipstick. Ah, but somehow, when they look at those ads, reason flies out the window. They're like your precious tourists: They believe because they want to believe. I'll just give them something to believe in that's a whole lot trendier than you. They'll flock to her in droves! Or drive to her in flocks! Who cares? Either put your power in my camp or kiss it good-bye."

  By this time the fire in Fiorella's green eyes had escalated to the white-hot heat of fresh lava. "If you're trying to woo my support over to your side,
you're going about it in quite the wrong way," she hissed.

  "I don't woo," Peez said. "I win. And when I win, so do you. Or you can give your support to my baby brother, if you like. It's a free country. Then see where it gets you."

  "Because you're packing a stealth witch-queen?" Fiorella pursed her lips. "Maybe I ought to be afraid. Maybe I ought to pledge my support to you right now ... but I won't. I like to review all of my options. I want to hear what Dov's got to say."

  "Think he can protect you?" Peez laughed. It sounded a lot like Teddy Tumtum at his nastiest.

  "You know, Peez, I'm still going to wait for Dov, but I think you just might have the right mix of gall and backbone to be a decent corporate harpy after all," Fiorella mused. "I don't like you, but I respect you."

  "I'll settle for that," Peez said, grinning. But in her heart a lonely little girl hung her head and thought: I always have.

  Chapter Five

  It was a well-documented fact, attested to by all the highest authorities among gourmets, gourmands, trenchermen, foodies, and just plain greedy-guts, that the only way to get a really bad meal in New Orleans was to search for it with all the fervor of a knight of old upon a holy quest.

  But who would want to be fool enough to do that? Certainly not Dov Godz. He had a fondness for all of the best things in life, which included food. New Orleans would always have a special place in his heart, but his stomach infallibly came along for the ride. It was a pleasure undimmed by repetition to visit that storied city at the mouth of the Mississippi on a whim, but when he had the opportunity to justify his self-indulgence by coming to New Orleans on business— Ah, that was a thrill divine.

  Now, ensconced behind a plate of sugary beignets, his third cup of chicory coffee readily to hand, Dov sat under the awnings at the famous Cafe du Monde and reviewed his game plan. He'd arrived the previous evening and enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, but apart from that, he hadn't accomplished a thing. There was something about New Orleans that told a body not to fret or fluster, because there was time for everything, and everything in its own good time.

  First thing I have to do is go back to the hotel and change my clothes, he thought, casting a rueful glance at the front of his formerly dapper suit. He had forgotten the first rule of dining in New Orleans, namely: Never eat beignets while wearing black. Those small, pillowy, feather-light, unbelievably delicious squares of fried dough were traditionally served buried beneath avalanches of powdered sugar. During the height of the tourist season, a sweet, white fog hovered immobile over the open-air tables at Cafe du Monde. It was said that the emergency rooms and walk-in clinics of the Queen City were frequently jammed by periodic influxes of out-of-towners who had unwisely attempted to eat beignets and talk at the same time, almost choking to death in the process.

  Rule Two: If you're going to eat beignets, don't inhale.

  Dov sipped his coffee and signaled the waiter for his check. When it arrived, he put down a stack of crisp tenners, slapped on his most charming smile, and said, "I beg your pardon, but do you think you could help me out with a small matter of—?"

  The waiter gave him the gimlet eye. "Look, friend, I don't know what you've been told about N'Awlins, but even if it were Mardi Gras, which it's not, I wouldn't—"

  "Oh, no! Nononononono," Dov said hastily, blushing to the eyebrows. "All I want is a little help finding someone. An old friend of mine. You see, he lives in the French Quarter, and he doesn't—"

  "—have a telephone?" the waiter finished the thought for him. "What about an address? Do you have that much?" Dov shook his head. "Not very friendly for an 'old friend,' then, is he?"

  Dov's smile wobbled just a bit. "I misspoke. He's a business acquaintance."

  "Ah. I see." The waiter eyed the stack of bills wistfully. "I'd love to help you, sir, really I would, but you don't know how it is down here. When a man lives in the Quarter and doesn't have a phone and a stranger comes nosing around, asking about him, it's a sure thing that ain't no one going to be giving that stranger any information. You might accidentally tread on a man's toes, doing that. Folks don't appreciate having their toes trod on. Now you say this man's a ... business acquaintance?"

  Dov nodded and said, "I suppose you want to know what sort of business."

  "Oh no, sir, no, not at all." The waiter raised one hand, fending off any unwanted information. "Matter of fact, I'm happier not knowing."

  "Why? Afraid I'll lie to you for my own nefarious purposes?" Dov kicked his boyish smile up a notch. "I'm flattered."

  "I'm not afraid of nothing like that; I just kinda expect it as a matter of course." The waiter had a pretty high-intensity grin of his own. He placed two fingers on the stack of bills and gave them a short push back in Dov's direction. "A word of advice, friend, and it's free: If you're bound and determined to find a man in the Quarter and you don't have a clue about where to start, wait until dark. Then go there, be there, look around. You'll find him if you're meant to. Otherwise, be smart: Go home."

  "You're kidding. You want me to blunder through the French Quarter all night long, trying to find one man?" Dov peeled two bills off the top of the stack and shoved them onto the waiter. "Think again."

  The waiter took a step back, away from Dov and his persistent attempts at bribery. His upper lip curled. "You want to know what I think, sir?" His hand swooped in and scooped up the pile of tens still on the tabletop. "I think a man like you will only find what he's looking for in St. Louis 1, that's what." He turned on his heel and was gone.

  "St. Louis 1? What the hell does that mean?" Dov cursed the waiter under his breath, but his snit was interrupted by the sound of muffled laughter coming from inside his shirt. He grabbed the silver chain around his neck and fished Ammi out into the sunlight. The little amulet was giggling.

  "Oh, he told you, all right!" Ammi said. "You big idiot."

  "What did he tell me, if you're so smart?" Dov countered. He had no fear that his fellow breakfasters would think him insane for talking to jewelry: He'd wrapped Ammi in an A.R.S. even before getting into the car that took them to the Miami airport. Any person within range of their conversations would unconsciously come up with self- convincing reasons to account for everything seen and overheard. Thus, instead of the panicky realization That lunatic is talking to his necklace. And it's talking back! the innocent bystander would instead calmly reflect Gee, I wish I had a cell phone as small as the one that guy's got. And it's silver. Classy. Cool.

  "Weren't you listening?" The amulet enjoyed taunting Dov. "He told you to go to St. Louis 1, which is the same thing as saying— Well, I'd rather not lower myself to using that kind of language, if you don't mind."

  "I don't get get it. What's St. Louis 1?"

  "A cemetery. Very historic, very quaint, very famous, and very likely a good place to get the snot kicked out of you during a mugging. Not the place a person sends someone he likes."

  Dov glared in the direction the waiter had gone. "He sends me to get mugged and he's got the nerve to take my money. Bastard."

  "Oh, please, you did everything but stuff that bankroll in his pocket! You're going to have to learn how to take 'No' for an answer, Dov."

  "I don't think so. That's more my sister's style." Dov stood up from the table. He left no payment and no tip. The waiter had more than enough in the stack of tens he'd taken to cover both.

  "Where are we going now?" Ammi asked.

  "Back to the hotel. I need a change of clothes and a nap."

  "Kind of early for that, isn't it?"

  "Not for what I've got to do. I paid for information and all I got was advice, but I paid plenty and I'm going to take it!" He popped Ammi back down inside his shirt and declared: "I'll find Mr. Bones tonight, or know the reason why."

  * * *

  "You'd think that someone with a name like Mr. Bones would be easy to find," Ammi said as he and Dov walked around Jackson Square for the third time that night. "But noooo."

  "Quit your bitching," Dov snapped. They
had spent the better part of the night crisscrossing the streets of the Vieux Carre, with Dov making only the most discreet enquiries of the natives as to the whereabouts of his prey. He had not repeated his attempts at buying information, figuring that a flash of cash was more likely to buy him trouble. Still, despite a powerful combination of diplomacy, tact, and charm, his queries turned up nothing but blank stares at best, hostile looks and muttered curses at worst. "I'm the one who's been doing all the legwork. You're just along for the ride."

  "And a damn bumpy one," the amulet's voice arose from the depth's of Dov's shirt. "And dark, damp, and scratchy. You know, many men have discovered that they feel a lot more liberated when they shave their chests."

  "I am not going to shave my chest to accommodate you."

  "You don't love me any more!" Ammi whined.

  "What are you, nuts? I never loved you to start with! You're not a person, you're not a dog, you're not even a pet gecko: You're freakin' jewelry! What's there to love?"

  "Isn't that just like a man? The sort who kisses World Series tickets and pledges his heart to a DVD player, but can't for the life of him see how someone could love a beautiful piece of art like me."

  "Oh, shut up," Dov told the amulet. "You're not convincing anyone."

  "And you're not finding anyone," Ammi countered. "I'll bet your sister's made three business calls by now! In fact, I'll bet that she gets here and finds this Mr. Bones bozo before you ever—"

  A gaunt, dark hand seemed to thrust itself out of thin air and thudded against Dov's chest with the force of a crossbow bolt, smothering the amulet's words.

  "Little silver one, I would not be calling me a bozo. It is not polite, hein? Also it is not prudent."

  Dov found himself gazing into the aged, ebony face of one of the most extraordinary individuals he had ever seen. "Mr. Bones, I presume?" he inquired. There was no need to waste the question: How did you know it was the amulet talking? Mr. Bones' various "talents" were a matter of record in the E. Godz, Inc. databanks.