“Well?” Aidan said. “Tell me about Zazi.”
“He passed away.”
“As in moved on to the next dimension?”
I nodded.
“When was this?”
“Sometime last night, or more specifically, in the very early morning hours of today. I think. That’s what the police said.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
“Inspector Carlos Romero—remember him? He worked on the other cases? He wanted me to see if I could feel anything at the scene.”
“Why would he want you to do that?”
“The victim’s body was surrounded with bad luck symbols of all kinds. It was . . . odd.”
Again with the staring. Feline and masculine eyes were on me, assessing me, trying to read me. I kept my guard up, but they were a powerful double whammy. Normally a witch’s familiar might step in and help her hold her own against an antagonistic white cat, but Oscar was conspicuous by his absence. He used to work for Aidan—and for all I knew, he still did. Though Oscar liked me, I feared his loyalties might be divided.
“Are you telling me,” Aidan finally spoke, his voice even more hushed, “that officials with the SFPD are asking witches to weigh in on murder scenes now?”
“I don’t think it’s become a matter of departmental policy, if that’s what you mean. But in this case, yes, the inspector was asking my opinion.”
I started packing up my supplies, carefully placing the lavender, rosemary, and rue back in their tiny labeled jars, and the loose chunks of wax in a resealable Baggie. Then, trying my best to ignore Aidan and Noctemus, I carefully pulled on my coat, buttoning it and turning up the faux fur collar against the afternoon chill blowing in off the waters of the bay.
“And I’d appreciate you either telling me why you’re having conniption fits or dropping the whole subject. This bullying act isn’t going very far with me.”
I’m a witch, dag nab it, I thought. I don’t cave that easily, powerful spook or no.
Apparently my anger was casting about, uncontrolled. The wax ball disintegrated, once again becoming a pile of small serpents.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I grumbled, gathering them all up and trapping the writhing creatures in the Baggie with the rest of the wax.
I stared malevolently at Aidan’s malevolently staring familiar.
“And I don’t. Like. Cats.”
As if on cue, I sneezed again. The cat jumped from his shoulder and Aidan dropped whatever supernatural intimidation scheme he was trying to lay on me.
Instead, he shifted to his regular old patronizing ways.
“Stay away from Malachi Zazi, Lily. Walk away.”
“Gee, seems like I’ve heard that before.”
“Just do it.”
“Tell me why.”
“I’m not in the habit of having to explain myself,” Aidan said, his voice rising.
“Nor am I,” I snapped.
Aidan bristled. “Do as I say in this.”
I ignored him.
“Let’s go, Oscar. Bring the cat.” I flung the door open and stormed out of Aidan’s office.
In the corridor, a dozen museum visitors stood frozen in midstep.
The walls, floors, ceiling prickled and popped with hostile energy. Power whooshed along my skin, raising the hair on my arms. I felt the sensation of an army of ants running up and down my spine.
“Move,” I said to Oscar and the black cat as I hustled my brood past the Chamber of Horrors exhibit.
As we passed by, the Texas Chainsaw killer and Lizzie Borden started breathing. Shifting. Reaching out toward us.
“Mistress . . . ,” Oscar whispered, rearing back.
“Keep walking,” I commanded. Aidan had done this to me once before—but then he had been teasing. This was different. This was angry. The sensation of wax characters coming to life—and coming toward us—was sinister, even for a witch.
I stroked my medicine bag, kept my head down, mumbled a protective incantation, and hurried toward the stairs, holding tight to the banister lest a blast of energy from Aidan send me headfirst down the steps. I kept Oscar and the cat on the other side of me, shielding them from Aidan’s direct gaze . . . for what that was worth.
I was only too aware that if Aidan really wanted to stop me, he could do so. There was a reason the entire West Coast contingent of witches both respected and feared Aidan Rhodes. With his easy manner and flirtatious ways, it was too easy to forget.
As I was only too aware, I was more a stay-at-homeand-brew kind of witch. This mano a mano kind of fighting magic had never been my strong suit.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs I glanced up to see Aidan looking down over the ledge, Noctemus perched on his shoulder, the air around him still crackling and glittering with power.
He let me go.
But he was pissed. It gave a witch pause.
Chapter 5
Ah. Rosemary and rue.
I took a deep cleansing breath as I stepped across the threshold of Aunt Cora’s Closet. The shop carried the fresh aroma of clean laundry, and yesterday I had created new herbal sachets that would lend their welcoming aroma to the air for weeks. The racks were crowded with everything from Depression-era cotton slips to 1970s polyester leisure suits, from Victorian silk petticoats to early ’80s padded-shoulder jackets. In addition, there were shelves and cases full of shoes, hats, gloves, purses, silk stockings, and jewelry. I even had one “costume” corner that was expanding rapidly, full of things like boas, tuxedoes, uniforms, and cowboy accoutrements. In a city like San Francisco, the costume pieces were particularly appreciated.
My store was located on the corner of Haight and Ashbury, right in the heart of the neighborhood made famous during the Summer of Love, 1968. The original flower children now sported thin gray ponytails, carried AARP cards in their wallets, and gulped down glucosamine for joint health. Still, their legacy lived on through plentiful head shops, an overabundance of street kids looking for the meaning of life, and most important, a kind of generalized bohemian style still prevalent among the neighborhood merchants and residents alike.
In fact, there were so many bizarre iconoclasts and odd misfits roaming these crowded streets that, most of the time, a witch with a stubborn Texas accent could feel downright normal. I loved the openness of this community, the live-and-let-live attitude that was slowly but surely helping me to admit who—and what—I was. After growing up amid censure and loathing in my hometown, and then searching the globe for a safe place to land, it still amazed me that I now had acquaintances who actually seemed pleased to have a witch for a friend.
The shop had closed just a half an hour before, so it still carried a happy leftover hum from customers and my friends who ran the place when I was gone.
Still, I was surprised to find Aunt Cora’s Closet empty. Bronwyn and I had made plans to have dinner and then to tackle a high pile of laundry. Now that Aunt Cora’s Closet was open on Mondays due to high customer demand, it was harder than ever to deal with the bane of the vintage clothing dealer: Silks and satins, much less crinolines and wools, can’t simply be popped into our jumbo-sized washer and dryer.
Once my initial relief at being home waned, I felt a tingle. . . . Something was off.
For all her flighty ways, Bronwyn always kept her word. And she was never late.
I glanced over at the answering machine. The little red light was flashing, indicating new voice mail.
“I’m so sorry, Lily, but I won’t be in today, and perhaps tomorrow,” Bronwyn said on the recording. Her voice sounded stuffy, as though she’d been crying. “Maya agreed to cover for me. I . . . I’ll explain it all to you in person when I can. For now . . . peace, and Blessed Be.”
I dialed her home number; no answer.
I watched the black cat meander around the shop floor while I pondered. Outside of my grandmother Graciela, Bronwyn was my first true friend. As such, I was unclear on the myriad unwritten rules of such a relationship.
<
br /> It sounded like she wanted to be left alone. Should I honor that?
Oscar was already snoring on the monogrammed purple silk pillow Bronwyn had bought him. It was situated right beside her little herbal stand, which was decorated with floral garlands and cheerful Wiccan-inspired sayings. Bronwyn was one of the most giving, loyal, dependable people I had ever had the privilege to know. I was lucky to have her in my life.
The cat skulked over to Oscar and stealthily curled up beside his sleeping form.
Rules, schmulz. It seemed to me that when one’s pal was in trouble, it was time to get pushy.
Bronwyn lived just a few blocks away, in an old brightly painted wooden Victorian typical of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. I let myself in the main door to the broad foyer, which today was aromatic of fresh cinnamon rolls. The two men who lived downstairs were always baking something decadent and delicious, filling the air with mouthwatering scents, yet they both remained excruciatingly slim. One of life’s many mysteries.
Worn wooden treads squeaked in protest as I climbed the steep stairs, but I loved this building. It gave off a vibrant, distinct hum. Bronwyn told me it had once been inhabited by Janice Joplin and other musicians during the sixties heyday of the hippie movement, and it was easy to believe. It carried the resonance of creativity and music in its tall wainscoting and multipaned windows of wavy glass. Harmony emanated from its bones.
Bronwyn had painted a border of cheerful daisies right above the wainscoting, leading all the way up to her bright purple door at the top of the stairs. A hemp doormat read: Welcome, all ye who enter here. And a hand-painted, flower-bedecked sign on the door held a line from the amiable creed of her Wiccan faith: An it harm none, do what ye will.
Bronwyn was a wide-open, smiling, rosewater- and patchouli-scented soul, the type who would as soon hug you as look at you. Normally. But not today.
In response to my loud knock, she opened the door just a crack. It didn’t take supernatural sensitivity to know she wasn’t particularly happy to see me.
“Bronwyn? What’s wrong?” I stuck my foot in the door, just in case.
“I . . . this isn’t the best time, Lily.” She looked behind her, whispered something, then turned back to me. “I don’t suppose you’ll go away, let me call you later?”
I shook my head.
“Lily . . .”
“Bronwyn, you know how stubborn I can be.”
“Really, I’ll call you—”
I started humming and looking at my fingernails. I did not remove my foot from the door.
Bronwyn sighed, stepped back, and swung the door wide.
She wore a typical Bronwyn-style dress: purple gauze over a tie-dyed slip. Her brown hair was as fuzzy as ever, but lacked the floral decorations with which she usually adorned herself. Her feet were bare, her shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.
Bronwyn’s apartment, like mine, was filled with herbal sachets, crystals, and charm bags hanging above windows and doors. Mirrors were set up opposite the front door and several windows to deflect bad energy. But unlike me, Bronwyn felt no reason to hide her wannabe witchy ways: On the walls hung numerous rainbow-hued goddess paintings, and every horizontal space was graced with stones, herbs, candles, books on Wicca, a crystal ball, a pentacle.
And today, two young children were sitting at a low coffee table in the living room amid scattered markers and recycled paper scraps.
“Lily!” the girl said as she jumped up and ran to give me a hug.
Eight-year-old Imogen reminded me of her grandmother Bronwyn. She had soft brown eyes and unruly hair, an open heart, and an innate sense of joy. I hugged her back, savoring her pure, straightforward vibrations.
Her fair-haired brother James, a studious six-year-old, looked up, mumbled a shy “Hi, Lily,” and went back to his coloring book.
A three-legged calico cat ran up to greet me right after Imogen, rubbing against my legs. I sneezed.
“I don’t suppose you’d like another cat? I have a very sweet one looking for a home. It even has all its limbs,” I teased. Bronwyn took in the rejects from the pound—the ones slated for death.
“Oh, I can’t, Lily. My landlord would kill me. He barely agreed to the last two, and that was only after I cast a spell of cooperation on him. I know I shouldn’t have, but it was for the sake of the animals.”
“I want a cat!” said Imogen. “Mom! Could we take Lily’s cat?”
“No. Cats are dirty,” came the voice of Bronwyn’s grown daughter, Rebecca, from the direction of the kitchen.
Imogen smiled up at Bronwyn and rolled her eyes at her grandma, while Bronwyn beamed at her and winked.
I took a minute to admire the children’s artwork; Imogen’s drawing depicted a woman with a tall hat and a veil up in a castle tower, like a princess of yore. James was fond of cars and monsters, and thus was designing a series of monster-cars.
“Go on back to your coloring now,” I said. “Grownups need to talk.”
Intoning a charm under my breath, I kissed my thumb and touched each child’s forehead in turn, casting a cocooning spell over them. No need for them to hear what we were talking about. I remembered learning too many things I shouldn’t have by listening in when the adults thought I was otherwise occupied.
“Come on into the kitchen,” said Bronwyn. Her anklet of bells jangled as she led the way.
I had only ever seen Rebecca in her usual guise: sleekly put together; highlighted chestnut hair worn in a smooth, styled coif; makeup perfect; clothes spotless, neutral, and expensive. So I barely recognized the woman sitting at the brightly painted kitchen table: Her cheeks were tearstained, her big amber eyes rimmed in red.
Bronwyn had been only nineteen when she gave birth to the daughter she originally dubbed Rainbow, raising her in an urban commune right here in the Haight. Rainbow left for college a year early, changed her name to Rebecca, married an ambitious young scientist, and moved into a posh condo on upper Broadway, where she was now a stay-at-home mom with live-in help. As far as I could tell, she seemed to visit her mother, Bronwyn, only when she needed emergency child care.
“Hello, Rebecca,” I said.
“Hi,” she said with a loud sniff, and little warmth. She turned to Bronwyn. “For the love of God, mother, could you refrain from the witchcraft crap, just for the day? You know I don’t allow that sort of thing in front of the children.”
Bronwyn hummed under her breath, ignoring Rebecca’s remark. She busied herself at the stove, heating a kettle of water and preparing a pot with homemade herbal tea pouches.
Ironically, Rebecca needn’t have worried about any potential powers from her mother embarrassing her. Any change of heart the landlord experienced had been due to simple ethics rather than any enchantment Bronwyn had managed. My friend was many things, but her true gift—her magic, so to speak—was in her wide-open heart and the unconditional friendship she offered her friends. When it came right down to it, Bronwyn couldn’t enchant a squaddie onto a swayback.
But still, Bronwyn was a devoted Wiccan and she lived by the Wicca Rede: She harmed no one. She enjoyed practicing certain pagan rituals, observing the solstices and making simple offerings—usually wine and cake—to the ancient lord and lady, to the gods and goddesses of nature. There certainly was no harm to it, and it was a durn sight kinder than a whole lot of organized religions I could mention. Not for the first time, I wondered whether Rebecca would be as disdainful of her mother for being Episcopalian, or Jewish, or any other religion considered more acceptable by the greater society.
“Tell Lily what’s going on, Rebecca,” said Bronwyn as she poured water from the steaming copper kettle into a porcelain teapot decorated with a daisy chain. “She might be able to help.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Rebecca said, her gaze running over my vintage outfit and her nostrils flaring slightly, apparently displeased. She had a discomfiting way of looking down her nose at those around her, reminding me of the children I grew up with. It
amazed me that she and Bronwyn were of the same blood.
“I can’t guarantee I can help,” I said, taking a deep breath and concentrating on emanating understanding. “But I’ll do what I can.”
She blew on her tea, looked around the kitchen, and finally spoke.
“It’s my husband, Gregory . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sipped her drink. “He was accused in . . . a murder.”
I tried to keep the expression on my face neutral. I knew from a few vague comments from Bronwyn that Rebecca’s marriage had been on the rocks lately, so I had expected Rebecca to mention a separation, perhaps a divorce. Nothing like this. I was doubly glad I had created a cocoon of silence for the children.
“Of whom?” I asked. “He’s been arrested?”
“Not exactly,” Bronwyn said, handing me a cup of fragrant tea in a chipped earthenware mug. I smelled rose hips and chamomile along with orange peel and . . . was it cardamom? Bronwyn was forever experimenting in search of the perfect cup of tea. “He was named as a ‘person of interest,’ that’s all. It could be nothing.”
“Or everything,” Rebecca said glumly. I put my hand over hers, casting a quick comforting spell. In reaction, she took a deep breath and steadied herself slightly. I sensed the dank smell of shame, overriding fear, and dread. I had the distinct sense that the public humiliation was weighing on her more than the fear that her husband might have perpetrated a crime.
“Do you have any reason to think he might have done it?” I asked.
Rebecca’s eyes flew to mine, sparking. “Of course not! What kind of man—why would you—he would never do such a thing!” she sputtered. I could practically see orange-red bristles of aural anger coming off of her.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “I just . . . I’ve never met Gregory.”
“He’s a good man,” Rebecca said, eyes once again welling with tears. “He’s . . . we’ve been having trouble lately. He’s had some problems at work—some of his experiments were compromised. And he’s started drinking. A little. But then a couple of weeks ago he was stopped and charged with a DUI.”
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