Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell) - By Jenn Bennett Page 0,27

For every inch of my body she examined, I think I shrank two. She might be the demon, but I certainly felt like the devil in the room.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, wondering if I should add “ma’am.” Or would that be insulting? Better play it safe and keep my mouth shut.

She stared above my head. “There’s that silver halo we’ve heard about.”

“Yes.”

“A real live witch, huh?”

“Magician,” I corrected.

She made a little I’m-not-impressed noise, then glanced at the dirt streaks on my sleeve.

I looked down at them as well. “It’s . . . been a bad night.”

“Oh?” She pushed metal-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose with one polished nail, then turned to Lon and lifted a brow. “What happened?”

Great. She’d officially cut me out of the conversation.

“Cady’s bar got robbed earlier this week,” Lon said.

“Oh dear,” she said. “A dangerous business, I’m sure. Open all night, attracting the wrong element. Like owning a liquor store.”

A mild spark of irritation pushed away my initial self-consciousness. “We’re open until two, and we’ve never been robbed before.”

“Tambuku is the most awesome bar in Morella, Gramma,” Jupe said.

“I’d love to see it,” Adella said. “I teach a class on Polynesian art every summer.”

I didn’t think our Tahiti Tropicana pinball machine was going to impress her, but at least she was being nice. I started to answer her, but Rose cut me off. “There’s nothing ‘awesome’ about a bar, Jupiter. Drinking leads to misery.”

Somewhere behind me Lon mumbled, “Christ, I think I need a drink right now.”

“It’s not like that,” Jupe protested. “Right Cady?”

“Bartending isn’t a respectable profession,” Rose said.

I’d never felt ashamed about what I did for a living, and I wasn’t about to start now. If this woman was trying to take me down a few notches, she’d have to try a little harder. “I’m a good bartender. I police my bar and stay aware of how much I’m serving people. When a patron’s crossed the line, I cut them off and call a cab.”

“But you still serve them, don’t you? And just because they get in a cab doesn’t mean they don’t go somewhere else and do stupid things. No good comes from drink.”

I suddenly realized what she was getting at. Yvonne’s stints in rehab—her public struggle with drugs and alcohol. Car accidents and gambling debts, all of it fueling tabloid headlines back when she was still working as a model. I didn’t know if she’d sobered up recently; Lon and Jupe didn’t talk about her. And the media had lost interest in an aging supermodel that hadn’t worked for years.

The Giovanni family had disowned Yvonne. Rose had bonded with Lon over Jupe and chosen them over her own daughter. I knew this was a sensitive subject. I didn’t want to upset Jupe, but I didn’t want to back down, either.

I straightened and locked gazes with her. “I can make a good guess as to why you feel that way, but don’t make the mistake of confusing me with your daughter.”

She flinched in surprise before staring me down like she could will me to burst into flames. The room was uncomfortably quiet for several beats.

“Now, if you’ll please excuse me,” I finally said, “I need to wash up.”

I turned to head upstairs. Lon tried to follow, but I put a firm hand on his arm to tell him no. And as I climbed the first few stairs, I heard Rose say behind me, as if nothing had just happened, “Who wants oatmeal blackberry bars?”

• • •

The evening got better. An unexpected introduction to Mr. Piggy helped liven things up. Who could resist a pygmy hedgehog that could climb up the Christmas tree and leap onto your shoulder when you least expected, like some kind of little psychotic, quilled monkey?

I avoided speaking to Rose directly, except to say “thank you” and “excuse me” and “sorry my pet hedgehog jumped on your shoulder.” And she avoided speaking to me as well, but wasn’t antagonistic. After the hedgehog incident, Lon put on music, a Stax Records compilation he sometimes played on Waffle Day, otherwise known as Sunday outside the Butler household. It was hard to be upset while listening to Issac Hayes and Otis Redding. He knew this; he’d played it on purpose. And when Jupe and Adella began telling a long story about the origin of a handmade Christmas ornament on the tree—a clay disk that on first glance was Jupe’s handprint, but on second, was actually the impression of