Tangled Web

by Gail Z. Martin

  I recognized nearly all of them as long-time vendors who had been in their spots for years. As we talked to the other merchants, I expected to get an earful about “squatters”—unlicensed sellers who swooped in if a booth’s owner was temporarily absent and set up an illegal shop. The other merchants watch out for each other, and they’d be quick to report someone who did that, but oddly enough, their memories proved vague.

  “How can no one remember any details?” I ranted once we got outside. “The person had to be there for at least a whole day!”

  “Please believe me,” Pat begged. “I want to help Joan. There was a person there selling woven items—shawls, scarves, ponchos, even men’s ties. They were all nicely done, but I guess I wasn’t in the mood to try anything on,” she said, with a little shiver that I picked up on even if she didn’t seem to notice. Intuition can be a powerful protector.

  “We do believe you,” Teag said. “Scam artists are very good at not being memorable.” I was betting more on witchcraft than larceny, and I figured Teag felt the same, but his answer seemed to satisfy Pat.

  “What now?” she asked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.” She looked crushed, and I empathized with wanting to help a friend in trouble.

  “Here’s my card,” I said, handing her one from the shop. “If you think of anything—or you see the vendor somewhere else, call me. Don’t try to approach the merchant yourself. We need to get the proper authorities.” Pat might think I meant the cops, but I was thinking about Sorren and Rowan.

  “Sure,” Pat replied. “I’ll keep an eye out.” She swallowed hard. “Do you think Joan will be all right?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be released very soon,” I replied. “But if the police give her back the shawl—don’t let her keep wearing it. See if you can get it away from her, but don’t touch it—we don’t want it affecting you.”

  “This is why I don’t trust chemicals,” Pat said, shaking her head. “They’re in everything. Probably something in the dye. Like that food coloring a while back that they said caused cancer.”

  A malicious Weaver witch was more likely the cause, but I couldn’t tell her that. “Thanks for all your help,” I said, and we walked Pat back to her car. After she left, Teag and I headed back to find Mrs. Teller and Niella in their usual spot.

  “You’re looking better,” Mrs. Teller observed, sparing a glance from her weaving. “Gave us all a scare.”

  “Scared me, too,” I admitted. “Did you hear anything about a squatter up in Building Two a couple of weeks ago?”

  Niella’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s connected?”

  I shrugged. “It’s the only lead we’ve got.”

  Mrs. Teller stared down at the basket in her hands, fingers flying as the braid took shape. “If a person with real strong power came to the Market, I’d know it,” she replied. “Unless that person was strong enough to hide what they are. If that’s the case, we’re in for trouble.”

  “Maybe the person with power had a minion,” Niella suggested. We were all carefully avoiding words like “magic” or “witch” because the Market was crowded and we had no way to know who might be listening.

  “Someone who could handle things and not be affected?” Teag asked.

  Niella nodded. “Maybe a charm of some sort for protection. It’s a possibility.”

  “Too many possibilities, and no answers,” I said with a sigh. “But if the squatter sold anything like my scarf, I’d hate to be the minion taking chances touching those things.”

  “They wouldn’t dare sell something that strong here,” Mrs. Teller said, and I saw anger in her gaze. “I guarantee people would notice if someone bought a scarf and fell down sick.” She looked back down. “No, it’d be subtle. Maybe build over time, so when the reaction came, that buyer’d be well away from here.”

  That made sense. Even people who didn’t believe in magic could follow a short chain of cause and effect. If a customer bought a shawl and immediately got into a fist fight, people would make a connection.

  “I do remember something, and I bet it’s related,” Niella said. “That one day, everyone seemed so out of sorts. Pretty day, but oh my, people were in foul moods.”

  “I do recall,” Mrs. Teller said. “But it didn’t affect us, and I know why. We’ve held this corner for a long time, Niella and me. I put down salt and goofer dust, and say a blessing every week. Say a prayer for protection and good fortune. Draw down some white light. Do that kind of thing every day for years and years, and bad things keep their distance.”

  We thanked Mrs. Teller and Niella and headed back to Trifles and Folly. I couldn’t help feeling that we had spent all morning and had nothing to show for it.

  “What about those botanicas and New Age shops?” Teag said as we pulled into traffic. “We could hit one or two and see what people are saying.”

  Maggie had assured us she could handle the store, so I figured a detour wouldn’t be amiss. I drove to a little shop on a side street in an older part of town that missed out on gentrification. Most of the signs were in Spanish, and so was most of the store’s clientele, but Marcella, the owner, catered to everyone who needed plants and herbs for healing or rituals.

  “Hola, Marcella,” I called out in greeting as we entered.

  Marcella looked up and grinned when she saw us. “Hiya Cassidy. What brings you out here?” With her dark hair pulled back and her makeup perfect, Marcella looked like she walked out of a telenovella. And whether it was magic or good genes, she also looked too young to have a kid in high school and two more graduated and out on their own.

  Teag grabbed a basket and started to make the rounds, picking up supplies. Spending money earned goodwill, and, besides, we went through a lot of protective plants and herbs.

  “The usual. Need to stock up. How’s it going?” Marcella’s shop always put me to ease. I figured some of that had to do with the smell of sage, sandalwood, and copal from the incense and candles, and some from good energy vibes.

  Marcella came from a long tradition of doulas and brujas, women who healed, delivered babies, and watched out for the people in their communities. Her magic wasn’t flashy, but it had quiet power. The glass case held a collection of saints’ medallions, as well as rosaries and jewelry made with protective gemstones and silver. Behind her, shelves held all kinds of prayer candles. Some had the image of Catholic saints on the glass holder, but closer inspection also revealed Voudon Loas, Wicca ritual candles, and Hoodoo symbols.

  Beneath the other counter was a display of spices, herbs, powders, roots, and dried plants used for magic or medicine. On top of the counter were trays of gemstones and crystals. Behind me, tall shelves held books, liquids I couldn’t begin to identify, Tarot cards, and ritual materials. Marcella stocked the good stuff, and her customers appreciated it.

  “You didn’t come just for supplies,” Marcella said, tilting her head and eyeing me carefully. I suspect she’s a bit of a mind reader, or maybe an empath. “What’s up?”

  “We do need some supplies,” I said with a nod toward where Teag explored the shelves. “But I’m really looking for information. Have you had a run on any particular kind of thing lately?”

  She gave a boisterous laugh. “You mean the way protection candles and charms have been practically flying off the shelves? Oh yeah. Don’t know what’s going on, but people are feeling it. Haven’t seen folks this scared since the last big hurricane warning.” Marcella leaned over the counter. “You know something?”

  “A little, not enough,” I confessed. “Someone was selling cursed clothing down at the Market. Now the vendor can’t be found. And it’s like there’s something in the water—people’s moods are off without any good reason.”

  Marcella nodded. “I hear you. I didn’t know about the cursed clothing—that’s a real shame. Stuff like that’s bad to mess with. The community needs to find that person and shut them down.” I knew when Marcella said “community” that she didn’t mean the Chamber of C
ommerce. She meant the magical community, a close-knit network that operated under the radar, present but out of sight.

  “No argument from me on that,” I agreed. “Have people said what they’re worried about—any particulars?”

  Marcella shrugged. “Everything and nothing. What it comes down to is dread. My customers come in saying they have this feeling like something bad is coming, bad things going to happen, but when I ask ‘is it your relationship’ or ‘is it your job’ they say no. It’s in their gut,” she said, putting her hand over her midsection. “Like when animals know there’s going to be an earthquake or a storm, and they leave, get to shelter. Only my customers, they can’t leave, so they buy candles and incense and make offerings at their shrines, and hope for the best.”

  “You have any theories?”

  Marcella’s dark eyes held old secrets and deep wisdom. But now, she looked worried. “I wish I did, Cassidy. I’ve done the Tarot time and again, looking for insight, and I’ve cast corn and read the omens from eggs. Even when I’ve tranced, it’s the same. There’s a big threat, a storm, a danger, but all I see is the image of a woman with dark hair, and a tall man. I can’t see their faces. But the woman is angry. And the man…his head is the wrong shape. Like a large bird.” She dropped her voice. “My customers are scared. Normally, I find peace in my magic, but all I get are more questions and a warning. If you know something, I’d sure like to hear it.”

  “I’ve got all the same questions, and none of the answers,” I replied. “But whoever’s behind this has power—and they’re dangerous. The magic is dark—and it’s strong enough to kill.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I think you ought to see what we’ve found.” Ryan Alexander said, catching up to Teag and me as we were ready to close up shop for the night. Maggie had already headed home, and Ryan slipped in right before I flipped the sign to “closed.”

  “Ghosts or cryptids?” I asked.

  Ryan, aka the “Nikon Ninja,” is a photographer who leads a group of Urban Explorers that likes to poke around in abandoned buildings, forgotten infrastructure cubbyholes, and other interesting places that aren’t open to the public. Given how often Teag and I ignore things like trespassing or breaking and entering when it comes to busting supernatural bad guys, I can’t get too upset that some of Ryan’s expeditions border on illegal. We just don’t mention that to Anthony.

  “Neither,” Ryan replied, leaning against the counter in the break room. The coffee was long gone, and the carafe for the drip brewer sat cleaned and drying in the rack. I offered Ryan a soda from the fridge, but he shook his head. “Thanks anyhow. I wondered if you’d be up to coming with us tonight. Something strange is going on, and I think it’s your kind of weirdness.”

  “Thanks—I think,” Teag said. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve been exploring the new drainage tunnels they put in a few years ago around the City Market,” Ryan replied. “Remember?”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s why the Market doesn’t flood ankle-deep every time it rains anymore.”

  “Exactly,” Ryan confirmed. “They’re one hundred and forty feet deep, and they run all around the Market. They’re drains, not sewers. And they’re big—nine feet top to bottom and side to side.”

  “How big are the rats?” Teag quipped.

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “Big enough. Although we don’t see many down there. I think it’s too new—not enough easy ways for them to get in.”

  “But your folks found a way,” I said.

  “Make of that what you will,” he replied with a grin. “We got in, and the rats didn’t. And since the tunnels are new, it was more about the thrill of documenting them than thinking we’d find any cool secrets. After all, the news crews filmed the site during construction, but no one’s gotten good pictures since the tunnels were completed. So we decided to tackle it.”

  “So what did you find?” I asked. “Bones? Hidden treasure?”

  Ryan looked uncomfortable, like we might not take his discovery seriously. “It’s a little stranger than that. There are pieces of…clothing…scattered around the tunnels. They weren’t there the first time we went down a month ago, but then we went in earlier this week, and there they were.”

  Teag and I exchanged a look. Ryan doesn’t know nearly as much about our “extra services” as Kell does, but we’ve helped him out of enough scrapes with supernatural trouble that he considers us his own friendly neighborhood ghostbusters.

  “What kind of clothing?” Teag asked.

  “Ponchos. Big scarves. Shawls. They’re not dirty or in bad condition, so I don’t think it’s a homeless person making camp,” Ryan said.

  “Why does that sound like it’s up our alley?” I asked, knowing that there was something Ryan was holding back.

  He rubbed his neck and looked flustered. “My team gets along really well,” he began. “We’ve been doing this for a long time. And you know the kind of stuff we run into—we’ve got to have each other’s backs. So we’re tight. But when we went down into those tunnels, a couple on my team freaked out. They got angry over nothing, and one of them took a swing at someone else on the team. It was bad.”

  “What do the people who got angry have in common?” I probed. “And how are they different from the rest of you who didn’t?”

  Ryan quirked his head as he considered my question. “They’re probably the two people on the team who are wound the tightest, if you know what I mean. They get upset faster, stay mad longer, hold a grudge. The rest of us are laid back, by comparison.”

  I hadn’t considered that items like Joan’s cursed shawl might affect people differently, but then again, Pat had avoided the items at the Market, while Joan rushed in.

  “Were any of you wearing protective items?” Teag asked.

  Ryan smirked. “We always use protection.”

  I rolled my eyes, and Teag groaned. “You know what he meant.”

  Ryan grinned. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. But the answer is yes—physical and spiritual. This wasn’t going to be a dirty crawl, because the tunnels are fairly new, and they’re carrying storm water, not sewage. But still, since you never know what goes down a drain grate, we’ve got waterproof boots, coveralls, gloves, and respirators. As for the other kind of protection, I always carry the agate and onyx you recommended, and most of the others have their own amulets or charms.”

  “And the ones who were affected?”

  I could tell from Ryan’s expression that he made an unexpected connection. “Probably not. They’re our resident skeptics. Pretty much agnostic about everything in life. Very much on the ‘I have to see it to believe it, and maybe not even then’ side of things. So no, I doubt it.”

  “That might have made a difference, along with their personalities,” I mused.

  “And if the tunnels run near the Market, maybe those pieces of clothing are causing the general grouchiness we’ve noticed,” Teag said.

  “How does clothing cause mood swings?” Ryan looked perplexed.

  Teag let out a long breath. “Someone’s been weaving curses into fabrics. One of those pieces almost killed Cassidy. And the lady who attacked Maggie was under the influence of another piece.”

  “You’re not kidding,” Ryan said quietly, looking from one of us to the other. We shook our heads solemnly. “Damn.”

  “I think you suspected something like this when you came here,” I replied.

  Ryan frowned. “I thought you’d tell me I was being silly, and that we probably had a stripper vagrant loose in the tunnels.”

  “I wish I believed that,” Teag said. “But I don’t.” He and I exchanged a look of silent agreement. “So when can you take us down? We need to get rid of those pieces of clothing and do a cleansing.”

  “I don’t suppose you mean with bleach.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. But if we can neutralize those cursed garments, it might make the whole city breathe a little easier, and prevent a raft of assaults.”

>   “I’m in,” Ryan said. “I’ll pull the team together. We can go later tonight if you’re up for it.”

  Teag moved to make an excuse on my account, but I shook my head. “That works—unless Anthony will be home early.”

  Teag shook his head. “His continuing ed program has a three-day retreat. He won’t be home until the weekend.”

  I tried to sound more confident than I felt. “All right. Let’s do it.”

  The first hurdle was getting into the tunnels without being seen. But by three in the morning, Charleston’s closed up tight. Ryan and his team knew their way around, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they might even have a few friendly cops who look the other way.

  The hardest part was getting a steel box down with us. Teag and I agreed that whatever else we did to break the curse on the fabric in the tunnel, the garments would ultimately need to be burned, and we didn’t think that was a smart idea to do down below. So we planned to use his blessed wood walking stick to pole the cloth into the box, haul the box away to somewhere less noticeable, and take care of everything.

  “You really need that box?” Ryan eyed the container skeptically.

  “Yes. Unless you want us to light them up in the drain,” I replied.

  He winced. “Okay. I see your point.” He helped us lower the box on a rope. It was awkward, but not heavy. I really hoped Ryan knew where the traffic cameras were located, because anyone watching would probably think we were planting a bomb.

  We climbed down a long metal ladder and finally dropped onto a concrete floor. The only light came from the headlamps on our hard hats, and the glow barely penetrated the darkness. My breath rasped in the respirator, and the face mask made me feel claustrophobic. The protective coveralls gave me plenty of room to move, but they felt baggy, and I missed my regular jeans and jacket.

  It had been a while since we were out with Ryan and his team, so he reintroduced the gang once we were in the drain and out of sight of passers-by.