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"He's not bad at all," Adam said. "He's an expert in his field."
"Ha-ha."
Holly cut in. "They call Walter the anti-Robert. Everything Robert Vasic stands for--understanding demons, treating them with cautious respect--Walter disagrees with. A typical student rebelling against his mentor's teachings. If you want to make a deal with a high-ranking demon, he's your man. He'll summon it and negotiate a bargain . . . for a price. A very high price."
My heart sped. An expert in the art of summoning powerful demons? The kind of demon who could take away--and return--my powers?
Adam glanced over. I tried for a poker face of my own, but knew I hadn't managed it.
"So you think Walter is connected to this new movement?" Adam said. "From everything I've heard, he doesn't sound the type."
"He's not. Apparently, two people came to him a week ago, wanting him to contact a lord demon. He named his price. They started preaching at him, going on about how supernaturals shouldn't have to hide their powers, how the time is right, the stars are aligned, the omens are in place." She fluttered her hands. "New Age crap. I can't believe people fall for it."
I looked around the room, at the tarot cards and astrology charts and scrying bowls. "No, I'm pretty sure you can believe it."
She smiled. "Which makes me an expert in recognizing it. Walter, too. We're old. We have no interest in such nonsense. We know how dangerous exposure could be. He wasn't buying what they were selling, but if they wanted to buy what he was selling, they could do business. Apparently, though, they hoped he'd summon the demon as a donation to the cause. He sent them packing."
"What demon did they want to contact?" Adam asked.
"I have no idea. That's Walter for you. He's a stickler about client confidentiality. Has to be, in his business. Though that doesn't stop him from calling up his old friend, Holly, and bitching about it for an hour. No names. No details. Just general old geezer whining."
Adam looked at me again, then said, "Can we talk to him? See if he'll tell us any details?"
"I doubt he will. But I'll give you his address. I'm sure he'd love a visit from his archenemy's son. It'd give him something else to bitch about."
eight
Holly took us into her apartment for coffee. I was eager to pump her for leads on the witch-hunter, but one glance from
Adam warned me to cool it. He was right. No one likes it when friends pop by for a visit, only to get what they came for and leave. That goes double for old people.
So we had the coffee. Gingerbread spice. I'm not much for flavored brews, but it was a damned sight better than the candy cane one she poured the last time.
"Do you remember Wanda Mayo?" I asked. "A witch friend of my mom's?"
"Witch acquaintance," Holly said. "Your mother didn't have friends."
"You were her friend."
"Perhaps." Her cheeks flushed faintly, like she hoped that was true, but hadn't dared presume. But Holly had been as close to a "friend" as my mom got. As a child I'd met very few of my mother's associates. She kept that part of her life private to protect me. Every time we passed through Vegas, though, we'd stop in to visit Holly. When she'd reached out a couple of years ago, I'd been genuinely happy to hear from her.
"And Wanda was your friend," I said. "When she died, you sent a message to the council, saying you thought she'd been killed by a witch-hunter."
Holly's blue eyes snapped at the memory. The council had been polite, but they'd refused to investigate. That's when Paige's mother had been in charge.
The council record of Wanda's death was barely a paragraph long, noting the date, the complainant, the nature of the complaint, and the grounds for refusal, namely that witch-hunters didn't exist.
Now I got the full story.
Wanda had been living in Tucson. She was a dark witch who'd dabbled in the black market. The kind of supernatural that the council wouldn't harass, but wouldn't be particularly sorry to hear had passed.
In the week before she died, Wanda complained to Holly that she was being followed. No proof. Just a feeling. Then Holly came home to a message on her answering machine from Wanda, who said she'd finally caught a glimpse of her stalker. It was a girl, barely out of her teens. Wanda snapped a picture and faxed it to Holly, to pass around her network, see if anyone recognized the girl.
Holly called back to discuss it with Wanda. No reply. When Wanda didn't return messages for two days, Holly sent her ayumi to Tucson, where he discovered Wanda dead in her bathtub, the victim of an apparent slip and fall.
"Which was ridiculous," Holly said. "She had osteoarthritis. Bending her knees for a bath was torture. She'd had a fancy separate shower installed."
"I don't suppose you still have the photo she faxed you?" Adam said.
