Page 80 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

The last and final stop was a Wiccan in Astoria, Queens. A chipper, extraordinarily pale woman with honey-blond curls, Mistress Jojo was cloaked in dark jeans, a black sweatshirt, and tons of black eye shadow. A pentagram was tattooed on the back of her right hand, and her office was just as goth, with black curtains and black candles.

Ezra and Ricki sat down on oversized black floor pillows. This time, Ricki was out-and-out desperate. She’d broken out in a sweat, and she was chewing the inside of her mouth anxiously. This had to work.

Meanwhile, the small spark of hope Ezra had felt at the start ofthe day had completely vanished. He just wanted Ricki, a nap, and preferably both, together. The spiritualist thing was an obvious hustle. But they weren’t marks ready to be swindled.

Ezra had always wished he could die like everyone else, to end the grinding repetitiveness of living. But now there was Ricki. He couldn’t imagine life without her. If they didn’t solve this, she’d have only ten days left—and it would end in an early death thathe caused, just as surely as if he’d fired a gun or administered poison. The guilt eating away at the edges of his heart was monstrous. There had to be a solve. But this wasn’t it.

“To curse someone, you obviously need magic,” Jojo was saying. “Magic is activated by words and desire. I don’t mean desire in a sexual way. I mean desire as a primal need. The need might be self-sabotaging or dangerous, but it’s very real. The fact that you’ve been immortal since 1928? That’s powerful magic, and as all spiritualists know,self-magicis the most potent. So I have to ask, are you sure your ex-girlfriend cursed you?”

Ezra was tired. And he didn’t love her tone. “Apologies, ma’am, I don’t follow.”

“Maybe you cursed yourself.”

“Respectfully, why would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice dripped with condescension. “You tell me.”

Now Ezra was angry. He shouldn’t have to prove his story to this cheap grifter.

“This is gaslighting,” scolded Ricki. “Ezra knows what happened to him. He was there.”

Jojo chuckled. “With all due respect, sometimes when we self-sabotage, it feels safer to blame an outside party. It’s easier to process being wronged by a villain, rather than yourself.”

“Interesting theory,” said Ezra, “but I didn’t curse myself.”

“Well, just to be sure, let’s perform the Bond-Cutting Ceremony!”She reached into a clunky wooden chest and pulled out two black wooden blocks connected by a foot of twine tied to each. “Just cut the twine with this magic knife. It’s pure sterling silver, sprinkled with salt and garlic. As you cut, say this out loud: ‘I sever and release the bonds I placed upon myself.’”

Ezra’s eyes narrowed, and his posture went rigid. “I’ll say this one more time…”

“First of all,” interrupted Ricki, who was visibly pissed, “silver, salt, and garlic are vampire killers. Ezra’s not a vampire, got it? Secondly, the substances we think of as protection against vampires are actually just antibacterial. Salt and garlic protected against infections and illnesses that, centuries ago, we’d attribute to some spooky influence. I’dthinka Wiccan wouldknowthat. And by the way, this is why Black people distrust health-care professionals. We’re not taken seriously.” She caught her breath. “So. Are you going to listen to him or not?”

Ezra sat there with full-on heart eyes and a modest hard-on. Did Little Richard Wilde just square up on a witch for him? Was he just figuratively little-spooned? He was in awe! No one had ever stood up for him like that. A woman had never been his knight in shining armor. He was used to being the rescuer.

It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

“I understand, hon. But I think we can agree that a Bond-Cutting Ceremony couldn’t hurt. Ezra, would you mind doing the honors? I filed a trademark on the Bond-Cutting Knife, by the way. Ricki, would you mind taking a pic for the Gram?”

With steadfast calm, Ezra took the knife from her. He cut the twine.

“There you go!” exclaimed Mistress Jojo. “Curse broken. How do you feel?”

Out of the corner of his mouth, Ezra muttered to Ricki, “Trigger warning.”

“Huh?”

And then, lightning fast, Ezra covered Ricki’s eyes with his left hand. With his right, he plunged the knife into his heart. After a few beats, he easily yanked it out. The blade was faintly tinged with blood, but in a few seconds, it swiftly evaporated into nothing. All that remained was a slight slit in his coat, over his heart.

With a pleasant smile, he handed the knife back to Jojo. “I’m good. You?”

Eyes open, Ricki looked at the knife, looked at Mistress Jojo, and looked at Ezra, and her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh my God. Oh my God. OH MY GOD…”

On the fifth “oh my God,” Ricki snapped out of her shock. She grabbed Ezra’s arm and pulled him out of his chair. Before rushing out the door, she threw a twenty in the Wiccan’s lap and said, “Don’t worry, you won’t remember him in a month.”

Several blocks away from Mistress Jojo’s office, Ricki and Ezra descended into an E train station, enveloped in the warmth of the nearly empty platform.

Ricki stood in front of Ezra, shaking uncontrollably. And babbling. And pacing.

“Jesus Christ, Ezra. You really are immortal. A Perennial. Holy shit, this is real.”

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