“Mistress, lookee here: More ideas for your honeymoon!” Oscar thrust another handful of glossy brochures at me. One was for New Zealand, with a striking image of snow-capped mountains on the cover; another was for Beijing, featuring the Forbidden City.
“Heh. ‘Forbidden,’” Oscar snickered. “Yeah, right. Why would you call a place ‘forbidden’? Doesn’t that just make you itch to go there?”
“Oscar, honestly? I appreciate the thought, but this isn’t a good time. A woman’s life may be in danger.”
“So go to Alcatraz already, mistress, and figure it out,” he said. “Duh.”
“What do you mean—how would a trip to Alcatraz help right now?”
Oscar heaved a sigh. “The kidnappers left the stolen van near Pier 39, correct?”
“Correct.”
“The ferry to Alcatraz leaves not far from there, at Pier 33, correct?”
“Correct.”
He made a rolling motion with one oversized hand, as though waiting for a witchy nitwit to catch up. “And Elena’s a National Park Service ranger at Alcatraz? Who was carrying an old inmate’s shirt from when Alcatraz was a prison . . . ?”
“You think the kidnappers took both Elena and the shirt to Alcatraz? But why? She would have headed back there, anyway. Why steal a van and kidnap her here on Haight Street when they could have just taken the ferry to the island and waited for her to arrive?”
“Yeah, huh, good point,” he said, perusing a Mandarin language textbook. “You got me there. All I have to say to you is bǎi nián hǎo hé.”
“Meaning?”
“‘May you have a harmonious union that lasts one hundred years.’”
“What?”
“It’s a blessing for your wedding.”
“Oh. Um. Thanks.”
“There’s another one in here wishing you the arrival of a son as soon as possible, but I thought that might be taking it a little far.”
Now a different sort of anxiety struck me, deep in my belly.
Sailor and I still needed to Talk—with a capital T.
“But hey, mistress, this is the sort of thing you’re good at. Maybe you should go to Alcatraz and figure this out so we can move on to important things, like making honeymoon plans.”
Oscar was right again: This was the sort of thing I was good at. At least in a flailing, roundabout kind of way that merged magic with luck and tenacity. “Never give up” had been the unofficial motto of my childhood. “Nunca te rindas, Lily,” Graciela would say whenever I became frustrated because a spell was not working. “You think life is easy? You will see. No te rindas, nunca.”
This was my role, whether I wanted it or not. And these days, at least, I wasn’t alone. I had a lot of magical help: Sailor, Patience, Aidan, Hervé, and now my grandmother’s coven.
Elena Romero was in danger, and the source of that danger might very well be supernatural.
If I truly was San Francisco’s resident witch detective, I had best get on with it.
Chapter 6
Visiting Alcatraz Island wasn’t as simple as I thought it would be. As Oscar had said, the Red and White Fleet ferry launched from Pier 33, true, but because the National Park Service could accommodate only so many visitors at once on the relatively small island, ferry reservations were required. The man in the ticket booth informed me that the first available booking was in two months.
“Two months?” I asked.
“It’s summertime,” he repeated. “Alcatraz is one of the most popular attractions in the entire national park system.”
“And there’s no other way to visit the island?”
“Not legally.”
I blinked.
“I’m saying, Alcatraz isn’t that far off shore. Some people try taking a boat or an inflatable raft to get to the island. I wouldn’t recommend it, though—as I said, it’s against the law and most are picked up by the Coast Guard. Assuming they even make it that far and aren’t swept out to sea through the Golden Gate.”
The currents tugging at my legs, pulling me toward the open sea . . .
I thanked him for his time and ceded my spot in line to a large family visiting from Iowa, who had been smart enough to reserve their tickets for the tour months earlier.
Now what?
“Young lady, here’s an interesting thing about this area.” An older man with a bushy white mustache called me over to his folding table covered with brochures and maps. He wore a khaki vest with a huge Alcatraz: Just Ask Me! lanyard around his neck. A half-completed New York Times crossword sat in front of him, testimony to how few people took him up on the lanyard’s offer. “Did you know that the Golden Gate refers to the opening, not to the bridge itself?”
“How do you mean?”
“The Golden Gate is the mouth of the bay, where the ocean and the bay waters meet. The bridge was built across it in 1933, and took its name. Ever since, people say ‘Golden Gate’ like it refers only to the bridge. But it doesn’t.”
“That is interesting,” I said.
“Didn’t make reservations for the ferry, huh?”
I shook my head.
“Lots of people make that mistake. Too bad, Alcatraz is worth a look-see.”
“You volunteer there?”
“I do. Ever since the wife passed, got to keep myself busy. Fact is, I used to be a guard at the prison.”
“You were? When was that?”
“In 1962, right before it closed for good.”
“You don’t look that old,” I said, before I realized that was a rude thing to say. I sometimes had trouble with the social graces.
“I like to keep fit. Look good for my age, though, right?” He chuckled and curled his arm in the air, flexing his muscle. “Anyway, I was just a kid back then, fresh out of school. Name’s Ralph Gordon, nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I said, picking up a brochure with a map of Alcatraz Island on the cover. I tried to think of something I could ask the former guard that would be relevant to Elena’s disappearance, but my mind was a blank. Ray Perry had escaped decades before Gordon arrived on the island.
I glanced up at a huge version of the poster Elena and Forrest had asked me to put up in the window of Aunt Cora’s Closet, touting Kyle Cheney’s Festival of Felons. It was coming up soon, on the night of the full moon.
I supposed I could buy a ticket for the creepy penal party, but it was still five days off. That did me no good. More important, it did Elena no good.
“Oh, sorry, I’m Lily Ivory,” I said when I realized the former guard was waiting for me to reply.
“Go ahead and take that map, then, Lily Ivory, and if you have any questions, just ask. If I’m not here, I’m out on the island in the museum.” He turned his attention back to his crossword puzzle. “Now, if only I knew a twelve-letter word for ‘fetch, or double.’”
“Doppelganger.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a twelve-letter word for ‘fetch, or double.’”
“Oh! Thanks!”
So much for a trip to Alcatraz. Now what?
While I was in the neighborhood, I decided to check in with Aidan Rhodes, who had an office at the wax museum. Aidan was a sort of witchy godfather to the magical community in the Bay Area. I didn’t entirely trust him, but we were allies in fighting whatever peril San Francisco was facing. In addition, we had been working together to train Selena, a teenager with more power than she—or the grandmother who was raising her—knew what to do with. I had found the whole process enlightening; nothing like teaching someone else how to do something to master it thoroughly oneself.
And Aidan often knew things. Such as, perhaps, why a national park ranger had been kidnapped off Haight Street in broad daylight.
But first, I had one more thing to do to complete the binding spell I had cast upon
the inmate’s shirt this morning. I walked to the edge of the dock, brought the smooth river rock out of my backpack, thanked it for helping to contain whatever evil might have been in the inmate’s shirt, and dropped it into the dark, unfathomable waters of the bay.
It probably wouldn’t help Elena at this point, but if the kidnappers had wanted the shirt for its inherent malevolence, this would help to thwart their intentions.
It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny and breezy, so I decided to get a little exercise and walk to the wax museum. As I passed the historic old pier buildings, heading toward the raucous tourist mecca that is Pier 39, I took in the lively scene. Mounds of glossy seals lounged and barked on the old docks, entertaining humans with their antics. Seagulls cawed and played tug-of-war over discarded French fries. Street performers and jewelry vendors studded the sidewalks, selling souvenirs of all kinds. Eateries and food carts hawked fresh seafood and luscious clam chowder served in sourdough bread bowls. The air was filled with the distinctive aroma of fresh crabs cooking in huge vats of boiling water, mingled with the tang of salt off the bay.
Crowds jostled me as I made my way along the sidewalk, but I didn’t mind. I enjoy tourists. They give off a bright, green-apple scent, and retain a refreshing openness to the new things they are seeing and experiencing. Even when they limp back to the sanctuary of their hotel rooms at the end of a long day of sightseeing, their auras are mellow.
As I approached the wax museum, I spied the man I was planning to marry. Sailor.
The sight of him made my heart skip a beat, the breath catch in my throat. He was tall and dark haired, his broad shoulders encased in a heavy motorcycle jacket. Sailor was often brooding, sometimes sullen, and occasionally downright cantankerous. But when he smiled . . . well, let’s just say he held my heart in his hands.
I stopped short when I realized Sailor was with a statuesque auburn-haired woman who looked like a model in her chic dress and jacket. They spoke for a few moments, then he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek before she walked away.
Jealousy, bitter and acrid, surged through me. Who was that?
I trusted Sailor . . . but still. Whoever the woman was, she appeared elegant and refined—not at all like me. And why didn’t I know her, or any of Sailor’s friends, for that matter? As far as I knew, he had declined to invite anyone other than his closest relatives to our upcoming handfasting.
Sailor turned and saw me. Guilt flashed across his strong features, replaced almost immediately by a crooked smile.
“Lily! Fancy meeting you here,” he said, giving me a kiss and hug. He smelled subtly of cigarettes, a scent I loved even though I knew I shouldn’t. Sailor had quit smoking a while ago but as soon as he began working with Aidan again, he had started back up. He smoked only one or two cigarettes a day, but I worried it would easily ratchet up. Nicotine addiction was a bear.
“Who was that woman?” I asked, gesturing with my head to the woman who had disappeared around the corner.
“A client,” he said.
“Is that right?”
He studied my face, and said: “Tell me what’s wrong,”
“You’re not supposed to read my mind, remember?”
“I don’t have to be a mind reader to know when something’s bothering my fiancée.” My heart skipped a beat at the word. “‘That woman,’ as you call her, is an old acquaintance who wanted to meet Aidan. She’s nobody important, Lily. Surely that’s not what’s bothering you?”
Yes—though I wouldn’t admit it. “No, it’s not that. A cousin of Carlos’s, Elena Romero, was kidnapped this morning by two men in a white van, right in front of the store.”
He frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It gets worse,” I said. “She had just left Aunt Cora’s Closet with a shirt that might have belonged to an escaped prisoner from Alcatraz.”
“An original item, not a souvenir?”
“We think so. The vibrations it gave off were quite bleak.”
“Why did you give it to her?”
Guilt surged up in me. I never should have let Elena take the shirt.
“I cast a binding spell over it, and it had been partially cleansed by the waters of the bay. . . .” I trailed off. “Elena promised to put it in a display case, behind glass. I—I thought it would be all right to let her leave with it.”
Sailor reached out and drew me into his arms.
“Sorry,” he whispered into my hair. “Of course you wouldn’t have let her take it if you didn’t think it was safe.”
“Still, you’re right, it’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault that there are madmen on the streets, Lily. You’re not in control of all the evil in this city, at least not yet.” He pulled back and searched my face, cocking his head. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m just tired. I was visited by a nightmare last night.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to wake you.” His voice was husky as he brushed his fingers along my cheek.
“Anyway,” I said, taking the binding strings from my woven backpack and holding them out to him. “Would you try to read this for me?”
“It’s a binding braid?”
I nodded. “It was torn off the shirt when the kidnappers grabbed Elena. I wonder if you might be able pick up anything? Or . . . maybe Patience could?”
“If you want to ask Patience, she’s upstairs, meeting with Aidan right now.”
“Really? What’s she talking to Aidan about?”
“Is that any of our business, my nosy witch?”
“No, of course not. Sorry. I mean, I wondered . . . whether it had anything to do with what happened to Elena.”
“Why would it?”
“No reason.”
“I’m sure Patience would agree to read for you—for a price—though these days we’re about equally talented at reading inanimate objects.”
Working with Aidan had boosted Sailor’s psychic abilities, a fact over which he felt torn. The two men didn’t much care for each other, so theirs was a complex relationship, but at least Sailor had returned to Aidan’s employ on a more equal footing than previously. Aidan’s powers had been diminishing in recent months, while Sailor’s had grown. Both men were important to me—Sailor romantically, Aidan professionally—so it thrilled me to imagine them getting along, working together against the threat San Francisco was facing.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “That’s great.”
“She’s still better at reading the crystal ball, though, and at divination in general.” He glanced around, then led the way into a small alley between brick buildings. “Sorry, this isn’t ideal, but it will have to do.”
An alleyway off a busy street wasn’t the best place for a psychic reading, but a powerful practitioner like Sailor would make it work. The point was to focus one’s intent. Witches like me got into the right mental and spiritual place by chanting and brewing; my grandmother’s coven piggybacked on one another’s power. Sailor had the ability to tap into the psychic plane that we were all part of, whether we knew it or not.
He held the braid in both hands, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. After a long moment, he lowered his head and opened his eyes.
“Lily.”
“Yes?”
“Not you—you know how I see things in floral symbols? I see a lily.”
“What kind of lily?”
“The kind common to funerals: shaped like a cone, with white on the outside and an orange stamen.”
“A calla lily?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“They may be associated with death and funerals here, but in Mexico calla lilies are considered a party flower, a sign of spring and renewal.”
“Well, there you go: Interpreting symbols is dicey. I’m thinking funerals, you’re thinking good
times and renewal.”
I blew out a breath. “Given that someone was just kidnapped in broad daylight, and we’re dealing with a cursed prisoner’s shirt, I fear your interpretation might be more apt.”
He raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.
“Selena’s been drawing calla lilies lately,” I said. Selena liked to draw, and tended to go on binges, sketching the same thing over and over again. I had assumed these were a reference to myself because before I met Selena she had been drawing lilies as a portent of my coming into her life. Or at least that’s what her abuela thought, and I wasn’t one to go up against the knowledge of grandmothers. “So, that’s it? A calla lily? No vision of a woman held in a cell somewhere specific or anything useful like that?”
“Sorry. I might be able to see more if I go into a full trance at home. Okay if I take the braided strings with me?”
I nodded. “Yes, thanks. I’ll take any help I can get.”
He gazed at me for a long moment. “What else?”
“I . . . well, Aidan said something a while ago. . . .”
“Oh, great, can’t wait to hear what Aidan thinks.”
“Oscar said something as well.”
“This is getting better all the time.”
“I mean . . . maybe this isn’t the best time, but I feel like we need to find the time and space to talk before the handfasting. I know we moved up the date so that Graciela’s coven could be here, but we’ve both been running around so much we haven’t really . . . talked.”
“Spit it out, Lily. You’re having doubts?” Sailor’s face was grim, his eyes, usually so warm, now seemed icy. He shrugged. “It’s not a problem. This is all going too fast. We’ll postpone the handfasting.”
“What? That’s not what I’m saying, Sailor, not at all. I’m just thinking there are some things we need to talk about, to make sure we’re on the same page.”
His eyes remained on me for a long, unreadable moment. Finally he seemed to relax, ever so slightly.
“Why don’t I bring a bottle of wine to your place tonight, and we’ll talk about everything on that intriguing mind of yours?”
Happiness surged through me. But then I remembered. “I’d love to, but I can’t tonight. I’m supposed to go to Calypso’s. I’m in charge of pizza.”
Bewitched and Betrothed Page 5