Neon Blue E Frost (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📖

name to the maître d’. Of course, she’s made a reservation.

The pinstripe-suited maître d’ leads us to a table where we shoe-horn ourselves in between terrifyingly well-dressed people on either side. White linen and fresh flowers in bright colors on the table. Lively chatter in the air. The sharp smell of vinaigrette. It should be cheerful, but it feels oppressive. Give me pizza and beer any day.

“So what happened to politics?” I ask Ro, picking up the thread of her monologue. “I thought you’d be running for mayor by now.” Despite her leanings towards the demonic, Ro was president of our college class three years running. She’s still the secretary of our alumni association. Ever since we graduated I’ve gotten the annual hit for money signed with her scrolling ‘Rowena.’

She gives me a cheerful laugh. “Oh, I still dream of world domination. But for now I’m content being the chairwoman of my condo association.”

I grit my teeth. It’s probably a Back Bay condo. A world away from my duplex across the river in Slummerville.

“And how’s the fertility business?” she asks.

I glance up from the menu in surprise. “How did you—?”

She waves her hand airily. “I like to keep track of my old friends.”

I follow her hand with my eyes. There’s something about it . . .

When her other hand moves in my peripheral vision, I catch the faint shimmer. I look hard at her hands. Besides the perfect pale-pink manicure, they look lovely. White skin. Long, tapered fingers.

Ro always bemoaned her thick, stubby hands.

I lean towards her, a short distance across the tiny table. “You’re not using glamour, are you?” I whisper.

She lifts a dark eyebrow. “You never used to be able to see glamour.”

“I’ve learned a few tricks over the years. What’s the deal, Ro?”

She waves her hand again. A gesture designed to draw attention to how beautiful it is. “Oh, you know. Just giving Mother Nature a helping hand. Everyone does it. I just don’t need a plastic surgeon.”

No, she wouldn’t. Faerie dust would work just fine.

I bend my head over my menu, like I’m engrossed in the lunch options. Really, I want to check Rowena out in my peripheral vision.

The waiter’s arrival interrupts my survey, but not before I see that Rowena’s glittering in quite a few spots. Hair, eyes, eyebrows, cheeks, hands, boobs, waist.

She orders a Greek salad and Perrier. Figures. I order mushroom ravioli in cream sauce, which costs more than my monthly electric bill, just to see her wince.

“Zee-Zee, how do you stay so skinny, eating like that?” she asks as the waiter leaves.

“Good genetics,” I say, which is the truth. Unlike Ro, I don’t use magic on myself. Except for healing, the only magic which gives more than it takes.

She sighs. “I envy you.”

She shouldn’t. Not only because envy is a negative emotion. Skinny doesn’t necessarily equal sexy, no matter what Calvin Klein would have us believe. I’d gladly trade my ability to fit into a department store size small for a few more curves. Like the ones Rowena’s sporting. Although now I have to wonder whether they’re really hers.

I wait until our lunches arrive before I reach into my bag, pull out a small green gem that’s been carved into the rough shape of a flower, and place it on the table between us. Anyone eavesdropping on our conversation will just hear an unintelligible murmur as the moldavite absorbs our conversation.

Rowena sighs when she sees it. “And I was hoping this was a social call.”

“Yeah, it’s good to see you. Nice to catch up. But I could use your help.”

“Of course. What’s up?” She wipes her mouth. Her glossy lipstick stays note-perfect, although I can’t tell if that’s glamour or just one of those eighteen-hour lipsticks that you have to remove with a sand-blaster.

“Remember King Solomon?”

“Not the bad movie with Sharon Stone before she became famous?”

“No.” I don’t smile.

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Lighten up, Zee-Zee. Yes, of course I remember King Solomon.”

“Did he use an inferiarcus to control the demons that built his temple?”

Rowena goes very still. “Yes, I think so. I’d have to take a look at my old magical history texts to be sure. Goddess, Zee-Zee, why do you ask?”

“A friend thinks it turned up in a little old lady’s safe in Beverly. But now it’s gone missing. And since when do you follow Her?”

“It’s just an expression, goose. Honestly, it’s been years since I even thought about that sort of thing. I had a close call, and, well, I decided that path was better left alone.”

A surprisingly wise move from Ro. But then, we’ve both grown up in the last five years. “This friend asked me to help him find it. I hoped you could at least give me an idea of what I’m looking for.”

I hoped for a lot more than that, but there’s no point in badgering Ro. Particularly if she’s made a good choice about staying off the Left Path.

She shakes her head. “Sorry, hon. I can take a look through my books to see if there’s a description, but I don’t remember anything off the top of my head.” She takes a bite of salad. Chews meditatively. “You know, I think I know someone who could help, though. He’s a history professor at Tufts. We had a little thing a while ago. It didn’t go anywhere, but we still keep in touch. I could give you his number. Come to think of it, I think he still has most of my magical history books.”

“That would be great.”

“Look, I’ll gladly give you his number, but, Zee-Zee, do you think this is something you should be doing? I mean—” She gives a delicate little shudder. “Demons aren’t anything to play with. This isn’t like ritual class. We’re talking your immortal soul here. And I know you know you have one, for all your agnosticism.”

I shrug. “I never questioned whether or not I have a soul.” Just whether there’s a God. Or Goddess. “And I’m not taking this