Jenn Bennett - Bitter Spirits

When the medium finally turned away, he let out a long breath and watched the spellbinding sway of her ass with great interest as she strolled toward Velma’s desk to set down her handbag and the cloche she’d been gripping in her hand. The view only got better when she shucked off her coat: freckles covered every inch of her slender arms.

He might pass out from excitement. His legs were definitely feeling unsteady. Wobbly, even. He felt high as a kite. Feverish. But when the room started to spin, he had the sinking feeling Miss Palmer’s freckles weren’t the cause.

After Aida set her things down, the bootlegger silently stared at her for several beats, an unnerving intimidation that chilled the sweat prickling the back of her neck. And because she was clearly depraved, a thrill shot through her.

God above, he was well built. Like an enormous bull. Just how tall was he, exactly? Her gaze stuttered over the solid bulk of his upper arms, which stretched the wool of his expensive coat, then ran down the rather distracting length of his meaty legs.

This was a body built for conquering. For smiting enemies. Ransacking villages.

Ravaging innocent women.

Maybe even some not-so-innocent women.

He wasn’t pretty or conventionally good-looking. More savagely handsome, she decided. Rough-hewn and dark and intense. A barbarian stuffed inside a rich man’s suit. Not her usual taste in men, but for some reason, she found his big body rousing.

“So tell me,” Aida said, attempting to get her mind refocused on the reason she was called here. “How long was that ghost following you, Mr. Magnusson?” His name sounded Scandinavian. He looked it. Something about the combination of those ridiculously high, flat cheekbones and the long face . . . his reserved, intense nature. No accent, so she assumed he wasn’t fresh off the boat.

“A couple of hours.”

“Any idea why?”

He made an affirmative noise. His mouth didn’t seem to know how to smile—it just stretched into a taut line as he stared at her with those strange, otherworldly eyes. Eyes that fluttered shut momentarily. When they reopened, he looked dazed.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I . . .”

He never finished. One second he appeared cognizant; the next, he was swaying on his feet. Before she had time to react, he was leaning toward her like a felled giant sequoia. Instinct opened her arms—as if she could catch someone his size. But she did . . . rather, he crashed into her, a dead weight that overtook hers.

“H-help!” she cried out as his big body took hers down in a series of awkward, slow motions that had her bending backward, dropping to one knee—“Oh, God . . . dammit, Mr. Magnusson . . .”—then finally crumbling beneath him.

Her mind made great, panicked leaps between the mundane—He smells pleasantly of soap and witch hazel—and the practical: How could another human being weigh so much? Is he filled with rocks?

A thunder of footfalls shook the floorboards, and before she could fully wonder if it was possible to experience death by crushing, the impossibly titanic weight of Giant was lifted from her. Sweet relief! While two club workers lifted Mr. Magnusson, Aida’s boss helped her to her feet.

“You hurt?” Velma Toussaint’s briar rose dress had a softly sweeping neck that revealed sharp collarbones and pale nutmeg skin of indeterminable ancestry. Her shiny brown hair was sculpted into a short Eton crop, with slicked-back finger waves molded close to the head.

“Fine . . . fine,” Aida replied between breaths.

Velma was a former dancer in her mid-thirties who moved to San Francisco from Louisiana a few years back and began running the club after her wayward cheat of a husband—the original owner of Gris-Gris—died of an aneurism. Rumor had it that his untimely death came after Velma used a pair of scissors to cut his photo in half during some midnight ritual. Aida didn’t know if this was true, but if it was, no doubt the man deserved what he got.

“The poison’s settling in,” Velma said.

“You poisoned him?”

Velma made an impatient face. “He came here poisoned. Hexed. Someone sneaked poison in his drink and left a written spell on the table. Appears to be some sort of Chinese magic that acts like a supernatural magnet. Draws ghosts.”

“Like the one that was in here.”

“So you got rid of it? Thank you,” Velma said. “I’ve got a friend in Louisiana who might know an antidote. Called the operator to set up a long-distance call a quarter hour ago. Should be coming through the line any minute now, but he’s getting worse.”

Everyone gathered around the downed bootlegger. With disheveled hair falling across his forehead, Mr. Magnusson lay on the floor with his eyes shut, groaning. Looking down at him, Aida thought he really did look like a giant, and that she wouldn’t be surprised to see an army of tiny men scurry over him to tie him down with ropes.

Hurried footfalls drew Aida’s attention to the doorway as a slender Chinese boy burst into the room. Dressed in a well-tailored cedar green suit and a newsboy cap, he couldn’t have been a day over twenty, twenty-one. His face was pleasant, his body sinewy and strung tighter than a guitar, bouncing with energy.

“Aida, meet Bo Yeung,” Velma said. “Bo, this is Miss Palmer.”

Bo turned a friendly face her way and touched the brim of his cap in greeting, then tilted his head as if he’d just worked out a crossword puzzle answer. “Oh, the spirit medium,” he said, looking her up and down with a quirky smile. “I’m Mr. Magnusson’s assistant.”

“A pleasure.”

“Bo,” Winter mumbled from the floor, attempting to prop himself up on one elbow and failing. “Did you get a chance to have the symbols on the paper deciphered?”

“Yes, boss,” Bo said coolly. “Unfortunately, it seems you’ve been poisoned with Gu.”

AIDA HAD NEVER HEARD OF SUCH A THING. “GOO?”

“Gu. Black magic,” Bo elaborated. “Old Chinese myths say sorcerers can make a magical poison to manipulate a man. Different kinds of Gu for different things.”

Velma waved a small circle of paper filled with green symbols. “This particular magic is drawing ghosts to you, Winter. If we don’t get rid of it, you’ll be the Pied Piper with a herd of ghosts following you around.” She turned to Bo. “You sure you don’t know anyone around town who could do this kind of magic, Bo?”

The bootlegger’s assistant scrunched up his nose in irritation. “Only magic worker I know is you, conjurer. And it seems to me that you’re the one with the reputation for curses that kill. Maybe you want to hex Winter.”

“Why in God’s name would I want to hex my own supplier?”

Winter grunted from the floor. “If you ever want to kill me, Velma, do it to my face—no riddles or hexes. And give me fair warning.”

“Believe me, Winter, if I’m gonna kill you, you’ll be the first to know.”

Merriment danced behind Winter’s dazed eyes as Bo laughed.

Velma frowned. “I don’t specialize in Chinese curses, but if you can think of anyone who might, Bo, you need to tell us now.”

“You think I know every Chinaman in the city?”

She put a hand on her hip. “I think you know a little about everyone. Why else would Winter pay a scrawny, orphaned thief a better salary than my own manager makes?”

“I can’t help it if you’re miserly,” Bo deadpanned. When Velma shot him a murderous look, Bo winked at her. “Look, I really don’t know anyone other than the person who interpreted the Gu symbols. I can ask around. I’ve heard rumors about restaurant owners cursing one another—maybe they learned tricks from someone. But it might take me a few hours to get a name. Maybe longer.”

“My source will be quicker.” She stared down at Winter. “You came to me for advice, so I’m going to give it to you. Best I can piece together, that old woman you claimed accosted you in the street? She was a witch sent to lay a spell on you that opened your eyes to ghosts, and the Gu poison was administered tonight to draw them to you. Sounds to me like someone is trying to frighten you.”

“Who?”

“You’d know better than me. Let’s just hope my source can help me with a cure. In the meantime, I can do something to help ease the jinx. Why don’t we get you upstairs to my apartment. Aida, you might as well stick around and help, just in case he attracts more ghosts.”

Aida briefly wondered if she was going to receive extra pay for all this.

Two bouncers peeled Winter off the floor. Velma led them all down a short passage to a locked stairwell. Up a short flight of stairs, they entered Velma’s private living quarters through a warm yellow hallway. She pointed her men into a room halfway down the hall, swinging the door open wide to reveal a spacious bathroom, where a black-and-white checkerboard pattern covered the floor and an enormous claw-foot tub sat in the back.

“Boys, you manage Winter.” She turned to Bo. “And you, run a bath. Cold water only.”

“A bath?” Bo shot her a bewildered look.

“Not for cleaning. For unhexing. Don’t put him in until I come back. I need to mix something up first.” She crooked a finger at Aida. “Come with me.”

Aida followed her boss’s rapid path through the apartment to a bright sitting area filled with dark wood and buttery chintz silk. Next to a fireplace, Velma unlocked a nondescript narrow door and beckoned her inside.

The scents of spice and wax filled Aida’s nostrils. A single bulb hung from the rafters of a tiny square room with no furniture other than a long table butted up against one wall. The walls were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with books and candles and bottles of every size, shape, and color—a few of them old liquor bottles with the labels torn off. Bundles of dried herbs dangled from long nails that had been hammered into the sides of the shelves.