Page 78 of Wicked Beautiful (Wicked Games 1)
I stand there in the hallway for several more moments, grappling with the sudden, gut-deep instinct that something is terribly wrong.
TWENTY-FOUR
~ Victoria ~
“Girl, have you lost what’s left of your vodka-addled mind?”
“Darcy, just hear me out—”
“No! The answer is no! This is a stupid plan, and I don’t have nothin’ to do with stupid plans! Comprentamento?”
Darcy’s in a snit. Why she’s in said snit, I don’t really understand—or comprentamento, as she butchered the word in her Spanglish translation—because I know this would work. She’s told me so herself. Not only that, but als
o she’s already taken part in my scheming where Parker is concerned, so I can’t see what her problem is.
“Look, you’ve told me—on more than one occasion, I might add—that in addition to being a first-rate, crystal-ball-gazing fortune-teller, your mother is a voodoo priestess of legendary stature in New Orleans. Am I right or am I not?”
Scowling, Darcy pops a cocktail onion between her fire-engine red lips and chomps on it. Obviously the answer to my question is yes.
“And did you or did you not once tell me that all it would take to put a hex on someone is a lock of his hair?”
Darcy downs the rest of her Gibson. I sense a chink in her armor, so I go for the jugular.
“And did you or did you not just a few days ago say, and I quote, ‘What are friends for if they won’t help you move a body?’”
“Yes, yes to all that shit! But girlfriend, you do not want to mess with black magic. Seriously. You do. Not. My great, great, great, great-grandpaw-paw once asked the spirits for immortality, but the caster forgot to ask for health along with endless life. And do you know what happened?”
Eyes wide, I sit forward in my seat. “What?”
“The same thing that would happen to any hundred-and-thirty-year-old human body. It disintegrated. Only he stayed alive. You remember the Crypt Keeper from that old HBO show Tales from the Crypt?”
When I nod, she says, “That’s Paw-Paw on a good day. The man’s nothing more than a rattling bag of bones. My mother keeps him propped up in a rocking chair in the parlor. Her new clients think he’s fake, one of them Halloween skeletons.” She chuckles. “Until he gets up to pee. On their shoes.”
I stare at her. “That’s not true.”
She stares back at me. “Or is it?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! C’mon, Darse, you have to help me put a curse on Parker! I can easily get a lock of his hair, and we can just mail it to your mother.” A new thought occurs to me. “Wait—do spells work if they’re cast from far away? Because if not, I can totally fly her up here.”
Darcy groans, rolls her eyes and flips both hands in the air, as if giving up all hope of having an intelligent conversation.
We’re at one of my favorite bars in the city, a rooftop deck on the fifty-fourth floor of the Hyatt in Times Square, enjoying a spectacular view of the city lights. Darcy has coordinated her outfit around her lipstick—I’m not kidding, she actually said that—and is wearing a stunning low-cut crimson dress with spike-heeled sandals to match, gold hoop earrings so large they graze her shoulders, and an armful of red plastic bangles. Every man in the bar is staring at her. Even the gay ones.
In my purse, my cell phone rings. It’s Tabby. I ignore it and go back to harassing Darcy.
“I’m just trying to cover all my bases. I’ve got Tabby searching for serious dirt on Parker on the Internet, I’m going to break into his home safe, and you can do your part by getting your mother to jinx him.”
Darcy mutters, “How’s that for an unholy trinity?”
My cell phone chirps, indicating Tabby’s left me a message. She’d left an earlier message saying she’d gotten food poisoning over the weekend while I was gone, but was feeling better, and she’d see me tomorrow morning at the house. I wonder why she’d be calling again but decide it can wait until after Darcy and I are finished. I turn the phone to silent.
When I look up, Darcy has folded her arms over her chest and is staring at me with a disappointed frown like she’s the school principal and I’ve just been called into her office for throwing a firecracker into the girls’ toilet.
“Was that your baby-daddy?”
Uh-oh. I know that tone. I’m about to get a verbal smackdown.
When I open my mouth, Darcy sits forward in her chair, points a manicured finger in my face, and says, “No.”
