Belle, Book and Candle: A Fantasy Novel by Nick Pollotta Page 4

  Flushed with excitement, Rissa immediately started forward, then jerked back just in time as an electric trolley clattered by dangerously close. Taking a moment to catch her breath, Rissa whipped out her cell phone.

  ‹Found it!› she texted, then tucked it away again.

  Wisely going to the corner, Rissa waited for the traffic light to change before crossing the busy street, then rushed to the entrance. Even from the sidewalk, she could see the white wicker furniture on the porch and the doorknocker in the shape of a happy Medusa, her snakes awiggle. Oh, this has got to be the place. How many other crazy doorknockers like that could there be in the dignified Southern city?!

  However, it was the sheer ease of the discovery that made Rissa somewhat apprehensive, if not outright suspicious. This had been effortless. For years, her grandmother constantly touted the need for privacy, yet made finding her home virtually child’s play. Something odd was going on here, but Rissa wasn’t sure exactly what. Maybe this had been a test of her determination, rather than her deductive skills? That was a trifle annoying, but also a little pleasing that she had passed it with flying colors.

  Extending around the corner, the entire yard of the Harmond estate was enclosed with an elaborate iron fence made of Spanish lace, and supported by thick granite columns. The delicately curved leaves along the top of the fence looked deadly sharp, and even if Rissa had wanted to try, climbing over would not have been an option without a ladder and body armor.

  A wide double gate barred the curved driveway, the family name incorporated into the floral design. Beautiful! However, there was also a delivery door off to the side for lowly pedestrians.

  Looking about, Rissa found a speaker box embedded into the granite jamb, and brushed aside some ivy to press the call button. “Hello, Grammy? This is Rissa ...

  Clarissa Harmond. Your granddaughter from Chicago ... Illinois?” That made her flinch. Like there’s another Chicago, ya putz?

  However, the only response was the soft crackle of static from the grilled speaker.

  “Hello, Mrs. Harmond?” she asked uncertainly.

  Dead silence. Not even static this time.

  Experimentally, Rissa tried the latch on the Spanish door. At first it seemed locked, and her throat became tight. Then the metal grew warm under her fingers, there came a hard click, and the door silently swung aside on oiled hinges.

  Carefully closing it once more, Rissa made sure the latch had fully engaged before starting up the curved walk. The grounds were full of trees, flowers, and sculpted hedges, the amassed greenery only partially hiding an entire pantheon of mythological creatures: Chinese, African, Greek, Roman, Norse, Jewish, Native American, Egyptian, and just about everybody else.

  The work on the statues was amazing, with every detail precise and exact, almost as if they had once been living creatures. Trying not to blush, Rissa certainly had no trouble telling the Hebrew heroes from the gentiles. Plus, Isis, Andromeda, Kali, and the Celestial Moon Goddess had all very recently visited Brazil. It was a damn good thing the shrubbery hid them from public view, or else the city elders would have had a fit over the stony peepshow.

  Taking her time, Rissa strolled to the front of the mansion to give anybody inside a good long time to see her coming. As a child, her mother had drilled into her that good manners cost nothing.

  Words of wisdom indeed. A masked man had once tried to break into their Chicago home while her father was away on a business trip. Her Texan mother had waled on the bastard with a nine iron as if she were making a meringue. The paramedics hauled him away with every major bone broken, but never once had dear old Mom ever raised her voice, or used vulgar language. A Southern woman is always dignified, even when she’s savagely beating you to death.

  Climbing the short flight of steps to the portico, Rissa halted uncertainly before the oversized front door, then pressed the bell. When there was no response, she tried it several more times, with long pauses between the rings. Still nothing.

  Becoming impatient, Rissa loudly knocked on the door using Medusa. She could hear the banging echo inside the mansion, slowly fading away into the distance. Okay, she was impressed. Just how big was this place?

  Feeling oddly hesitant, Rissa tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  “Hello, Grammy!” she called, stepping inside.

  There was no response.

  Gently closing the door, Rissa looked over the spacious foyer. It was larger than the Savannah train station, with a white marble floor, brass trimmings, and red velvet wallpaper. Very Victorian. There were two curved staircases going up to the next level, shiny suits of medieval armor standing in wall niches, a complex grandfather clock that showed the phases of the moon as well as the time, and a crystal chandelier overhead that was more than fully capable of crushing Bolivia into pâté.

  Sliding off her backpack, Rissa gave a low whistle. Everything was of the finest quality and either edged in gold or monogrammed. If she hadn’t guessed it already, Rissa now knew for certain that dear ol’ Grammy was seriously freaking rich. Donald Trump, eat your heart out. No, wait, he doesn’t have one.

  Listening hard, Rissa could only hear the steady ticking of the clock, so she pulled in a deep breath and bellowed her name at the top of her lungs. The words shook the crystal in the chandelier and rang down the hallway ... then oddly continued up the stairs and onward, ricocheting off the floors, walls, and ceilings in an endless pattern.

  Swallowing hard, Rissa took an uncertain step back toward the door. It was almost as if her shout had quite literally echoed through every single room in the mansion. Of course, that was scientifically impossible, but still—

  “Clarissa, is that you?” A familiar voice softly called out from somewhere to the left. “In here, dear!”

  “Grammy!” Rissa cried out in relief.

  Rushing down the hallway, she slipped on the slick marble and partially slid through a curved archway. Directly ahead of Rissa was a long corridor lined with giant vases, a really nice Oriental runner, and a dozen closed doors. At the far end was a double set of glass partitions that clearly lead to a greenhouse. “Grammy?”

  “I’m in the sitting room, silly!”

  Gratefully heading for the nearest door, Rissa could not help but remember the old comedy routine, “You can wait here in the sitting room, or sit here in the waiting room ...” Thank you, Firesign Theater.

  Eagerly pushing open the leather-covered door, Rissa walked into another huge room. The whole mansion seemed to be designed to impress visitors or to confuse invaders. Either way, it was working. She was both impressed and becoming more than slightly confused.

  The sitting room was cavernous, and held more assorted furniture than her parents’ entire home; armoires, tallboys, sideboards, and a score of wingback chairs. The stone fireplace was large enough to roast a Buick, and every wall was lined with built-in bookcases that rose to a domed ceiling. The room was also vacant.

  “Where are you?” Rissa yelled, straining to hear a reply. Just how long would this game take before they finally found each other in this upholstered maze by Esther?

  “I’m right here, dear,” Grandmother Harmond chuckled from directly behind. “No need to shout.”

  Turning about, she only saw a portrait of her grandmother on the wall. It was clearly a recent work, as she appeared just as Rissa remembered, although wearing an old-fashioned Victorian dress with starched ruffles at the collar, a full corset, bustle, and button-up shoes that would have been right at home during the Spanish Inquisition. Sitting in a wingback chair, her grandmother was holding a volume of Shakespeare and using a finger for a bookmark. Her only jewelry was an amber dragon-shaped ring on the second finger of her left hand. In the background were Big Ben and Parliament on a foggy London night.

  “Marco!” Rissa jokingly shouted through cupped hands down a dark hallway.

  “Polo!” came the surprising reply from the oil painting. “Honestly, Clarissa, do you require gl
asses? I’m right here.”

  Feeling reality swirl away like water down a drain, Rissa slowly turned again to gaze openmouthed at the full-sized portrait.

  Placing the book aside on a table, the painted figure of Grandmother Harmond rose from the chair and walked to the edge of the frame. “Is something wrong?” she asked in concern, reaching out a two-dimensional hand. “You seem very pale, dear.”

  No longer able to think clearly, Rissa attempted to respond, but all that came out was a sort of high-pitched squeak.

  ***

  The drive from Atlanta to Savannah was long but uneventful. As the antique Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost turned the corner and the towering oaks of Forsyth Park came into view, the exhausted man in the rear seat gave a long sigh of relief.

  “Home at last,” Colt smiled, removing his tie and tucking it into a pocket of the rumpled tuxedo.

  “Almost, sir,” John Danvers corrected, both hands tight on the steering wheel. “Just another fifteen minutes and we’ll reach the riverfront.”

  “This is close enough for me, old friend,” Colt chuckled, stretching luxuriously. Then he sat bolt upright, and pressed his face against the armored window. No, it can’t be. Impossible!

  “You say something, sir?” John asked, glancing into the rear view mirror.

  “Yes ... no ... just stop the car right here!” Colt ordered, unsnapping the seat belt.

  “What’s wrong?” John demanded, checking the other trucks and cars nearby. None of them were close enough to be in the danger zone, or exhibiting any of the telltales of possible kidnappers. Being the chauffeur for a billionaire required a strange mixture of talents and skills, not the least of them being a functional paranoid.

  “Wrong? Don’t know yet,” Colt muttered, squinting past the trolley and traffic at the people on the opposite sidewalk.

  Just for a second, a brief split second ago, Colt could have sworn that he saw the woman in the crystal ball. Curly hair, freckles, glasses, and that bewitching smile. His pulse quickened at the memory. An angel in tight jeans. But then she just sort of ... shimmered ... and vanished. Right there on the corner, near the old Harmond estate.

  “Sir, I am armed if Colette has found us again,” John joked, sliding a hand inside his liveried jacket and pulling out a wicked little Beretta automatic.

  “No, it’s nothing quite that bad,” Colt said seriously, then broke into a grin. “Never mind. Just too much beer and not enough sleep, I guess.”

  “Been there, done that,” John said, holstering the weapon. “Maybe a black coffee would help? There’s a Starbucks on the next block.”

  “There’s a Starbucks on every block,” Colt snorted, running a hand over the stubble on his cheek to the sound of crinkling sandpaper. “Then again, sure, a double espresso sounds good ... no, never mind. Better pull over and let me out.”

  “At Forsyth?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Promptly, the Rolls cut through the streams of traffic to take a corner and head back.

  “Want some company, sir?” John asked, putting on his cap. He was still full of adrenaline and sharply alert. Ready for battle.

  “Thanks, but no,” Colt said, as the Rolls eased to a full stop at the curb. “I’m not expecting trouble.”

  “Correct, that’s my job.”

  “Appreciated. But you had better stay here, and tell Laura I’ll be late for our lunch meeting.”

  “Breakfast.”

  “Whatever,” Colt muttered, getting out of the Rolls. “Give me ten minutes. Then come looking.”

  “Check. I got your six, sir.”

  Nodding in reply to the military reference, Colt closed the door and started away at a brisk stride.

  Cutting across the park, he ignored the disapproving looks his disheveled appearance garnered, and instead concentrated on the passing faces. There were numerous pretty women about this morning, both young and old, but then Savannah was rather famous for its plethora of beautiful ladies. Just something in the water, everybody liked to boast. However, none of them had those amazing green eyes, and Colt began to waver, unsure of exactly what he had seen. Perhaps he had only been dreaming in the car, and the woman wasn’t real. Merely smoke and mirrors, instead of flesh and blood. He certainly hoped not.

  Pausing at a street cart, he bought an Irish coffee and drained it before even reaching the corner. Depositing the cup into a trash basket, he popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth and impatiently waited for the traffic light at the corner with the rest of the morning crowd.

  In the distance, a church bell chimed the hour.

  “Excuse me, are you a street performer?” a tourist asked, taking a picture with his cell phone.

  “Yes, I’m nine miles of bad road,” Colt muttered rudely, rushing across the street the moment the signal changed.

  Reaching the opposite sidewalk, Colt stopped, uncertain what to do next. Taking a moment to organize his thoughts, he was startled to faintly hear a bloodcurdling scream. But before he could gauge the direction, the anguished cry was gone, overwhelmed by the sounds of the city traffic.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Feeling better?”

  Returning from the bathroom, Rissa gave a glum nod.

  “Well, you certainly have got a good set of lungs,” laughed the woman in the painting. “That was probably heard all the way in Mousehole!”

  “Wherever that is.”

  “Cornwall, in England, dear heart, southwest of London. A lovely place by the sea.”

  “Swell,” Rissa muttered without much feeling, patting a damp cloth on the back of her neck. Her headache was slowly starting to subside, and the room had stopped twirling. Both very good things. But normalcy seemed to be a gazillion miles away, and dwindling fast.

  “Look, just to clarify things,” Rissa said, wiping her temples. “You are a painting, correct?”

  “Yes, dear. Oils, not acrylics.” That was said with a note of pride.

  Somehow, Rissa managed a weak smile. “Of course, and you’re alive?”

  “Not really,” the painted figure of her grandmother hedged, sitting back down. “Think of me as the answering machine, and you’re on the right track. Your grandmother is sort of a witch, and paintings of them can have tremendous power.”

  “Grammy is a witch?”

  “Tsk, tsk, don’t say it with such disdain! By the way, so is your grandfather. Almost, anyway. Although to be more precise he is a—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Rissa interrupted petulantly. “They’re called warlocks. I’ve seen enough Hammer films to know that much.”

  The woman in the painting beamed with pleasure. “Me too! Hollywood gets everything wrong, of course, but still, many of them are very entertaining!”

  “The older ones, anyway. Not the new stuff.”

  “Agreed!”

  Good lord, I’m discussing modern cinema with a sheet of stretched canvas. “Scotch.”

  “Beg pardon, dear?”

  Rissa sighed. “I desperately need a drink.”

  The painted figure smiled. “I’ll bet you do, indeed. Check the credenza near the ottoman.”

  Stuffing the damp cloth into a pocket, Rissa stiffly rose from the chair and shuffled across the room. Inside the African ironwood cabinet were dozens of assorted liquor bottles from around the world; including a few that she had never heard of before. Tasmanian scotch—is that a joke?

  Spotting a dusty bottle of Glenfiddich in the back, she eagerly snagged that and poured a beautiful Tiffany cut crystal glass slightly more than halfway full. “Do we have any ice in the kitchen?”

  “Try the ice bucket, dear.”

  Lifting the lid, Rissa was hit by a chill and saw that the container was full of ice cubes surrounded by a swirling blue mist. “Was I expected?” she asked, dropping a pair of cubes into her drink.

  “Oh, no, those never melt,” the woman in the painting boasted. “A trick your grandfather invented so his good liquor would not be diluted. When you’re d
one just run the ice cubes through the dishwasher and put them back in the bucket for later.”

  The dishwasher? “Clever man.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Okay, tell me about Grandfather,” Rissa muttered, taking a sip. The Highland brew went down like a magic elixir, spreading warmth to her limbs, and banishing the fog from her beleaguered brain. Whiskey, the cause, and cure, of most of life’s problems.

  “Now, before we discuss Richard,” the woman in the painting said, crossing her arms, “would you please put that ring on your finger?”

  Taking another sip, Rissa lolled the liquor on her tongue before swallowing. “Ring ... do you mean my pendant?”

  “No, dear, it is a ring. Now please put it on immediately. You have no idea how much danger you are in without that touching your skin.”

  Getting the amber pendant out of her pocket, Rissa looked it over as if never having seen the little dragon before. “Ring?” she asked skeptically.

  “Really, I must insist. Put it on right now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, this thing is the size of a hamster wheel!”

  “Clarissa MacDonald Elizabeth Harmond, put on that ring!”

  At the use of her full name, Rissa started to feel her Chicago temper flare ... then remembered that she was arguing with a smear of paint. Feeling incredibly foolish, she took the pendant off the chain, and slid it onto her index finger. Comically oversized, it sat there like a hula hoop around a Vienna sausage.

  “Happy now? I told you it would not fit,” Rissa stated, trying to close her hand into a fist and failing. “This thing is large enough to be a—” Suddenly getting warm, the amber dragon rapidly shrank in size until it fit neatly on her finger.

  “Jesus Christ!” Rissa yelled, dropping her drink and trying to yank the pendant off again. But the dragon was too snug, and would not slide over her knuckle. “What the fuck is this thing?”