Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  “No.”

  “Was Malachi aware of this relationship between you and his father?”

  “There was no ‘relationship,’ Inspector. Thousands of people invest in my research. If you were smart you’d do so as well. This is the future, I guarantee you. People are willing to spend millions of dollars on curing things that aren’t actual diseases: aging, sagging, erection problems, baldness. None of those are illnesses per se, yet people will spend much more on them than they will on a simple vaccination that saves the lives of countless children.”

  “So you do pro bono work, then use some of your profits to help children?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Why should the onus be on me?”

  “I thought it might be on all of us, with some having more to give than others.”

  “I’ve worked hard to get where I am,” Perkins said with a shrug. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Could you tell me once more what’s been happening with your employee Gregory Petrovic?” Carlos asked. “I understand he’s had some difficulties in his laboratory research?”

  “There were some questionable experimental protocols, which led to a number of incidents. But I don’t discuss confidential employee files with anyone, Inspector, unless you’ve got a warrant for such information.”

  “Have you fired him?”

  “Not yet. Believe it or not, I’m loyal to my employees. I get a lot of satisfaction out of providing people with jobs, with livings. Gregory is not only an employee, I consider him a friend. He has a wife, a family. I don’t take those things lightly.”

  “A lot of the guests seem to think they’ve been suffering from bad luck, stemming from those dinners with Malachi,” I said. “How about you? A lot of bad luck lately?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Zazi hoped to champion the cause of rationalism, but superstitions run deep, don’t they? As you can see, I’m doing just fine.”

  “Well, I thank you for your time,” Carlos said. “I’m sure you’d like to get home and relax.”

  “No problem at all. Always happy to do what I can for the SFPD.”

  Carlos and I saw ourselves out. It was late afternoon, and the sky had become overcast. Dusk would be falling soon. We both breathed deeply of the damp, eucalyptusscented air.

  “So creepy,” I said.

  “It wasn’t just me, then?”

  I shook my head and told him about the charms and witch’s signs I’d noticed. “Plus, did you see his belt?”

  “Somehow it escaped my notice.”

  “Snakeskin.”

  Carlos gave me a questioning look.

  “A lot of people wear snakeskin belts where I’m from. But until Mike Perkins, I’ve seen nary a one since arriving in San Francisco.”

  “I can’t exactly arrest the man for bad fashion choices,” said Carlos.

  “I just thought I’d point it out. Seems odd, is all.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” Carlos said, unlocking his car. “He claims not to remember this Doura person. You sure about her?”

  “I think you should look into it, yes. Prince High says she looks after his interests here at Perkins Laboratories, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was her handiwork in Perkins’s office.”

  He gave a quick nod and started to climb into his car.

  I felt agitated. The Presidio surroundings called to me—as they did to many. There were couples strolling, families playing, joggers passing by. I hardly ever took the time to walk in the woods, and I was the lesser for it.

  “I’m going to take a little walk, enjoy what’s left of the day. You go on.”

  “How will you get back?”

  “I’ll take the bus. I’ve been meaning to check it out anyway. If that fails, I’ll call a friend to come pick me up. I can manage.”

  “You sure? ’Cause I’ve got to get back to the station.”

  I smiled. “Very sure.”

  Carlos looked torn for a moment, then nodded. “Watch your back.”

  “You bet.”

  Cool and fragrant of eucalyptus leaves, damp with the ocean fog, the air here was so different from the dry, arid atmosphere I was raised on. In my part of Texas the soil was red as the Golden Gate Bridge; here it was yellowish, sandy, sometimes almost white. An ocean breeze played with the leaves. Squirrels scampered up and down trees, busily hoarding their nuts. A hummingbird buzzed right over my head.

  I walked, hoping the damp afternoon air would clear my mind. We witches feel an innate connection to the natural world. We’re close to our mother earth; her spirit replenishes us. I should take the time to do this more, spend more time in the woods. Like most witches, I drew sustenance from the earth, the moon, and the ocean, and the five elements: earth, water, fire, air, spirit. Each was powerful. Each essential. It was in nature that they came together.

  There were some important ritual days coming up. Since they were about pleasing and appeasing the forest folk, they were best conducted in the thick of the woods.

  I passed a serene little pond full of lily pads, and just beyond it I came upon a clearing. Stones had been erected, in a similar construction to Stonehenge, though at a tiny fraction of the scale. The stones were a few feet tall, at most. It always amazed me that people were still trying to figure out places like Stonehenge, when their magic seemed so obvious to me.

  The primeval forces of the earth were held in the memory of stones, which arose from the great pool of remembrance within the land. The pressure, the heaving molten lava, these processes were powerful reflections of the life force of the earth itself. When stones are laid out in spirals and labyrinths, forces emerge from them and surge through them.

  They’re called serpent energies, because the lines are not straight, but curve and flow.

  The ground around the stones was overturned. It was a newly established ritual ground. Unused.

  I supposed it could have been put together by New Age types constructing a labyrinth based on ancient designs, without any real sense of what they were creating. It could even be the result of a bunch of kids fooling around, playing with stones and only accidentally creating a magnetic field.

  Or it could be something more. It might be grounds for a worshipping group of some sort, Druids even. A coven perhaps. I didn’t know any of the local covens, other than Bronwyn’s. But the more I looked at it, the more I believed someone had placed these stones with intent. They formed a strong web of magnetic lines. When I walked among them I could feel the reverberations coming off my skin, through my teeth.

  I should at least meet with some of the other local covens, get to know some of the other witches. Aidan was the one I should talk to about that; too bad he wasn’t available to me these days. I wondered whether Bronwyn might know. Her coven was made up of natureworshipping pagans, but perhaps she knew something of the other groups in the area? Were there witch associations, conventions, that sort of thing? I knew from my travels that there were a whole lot of politics among covens, and I’d always tried to stay out of such entanglements. But that didn’t work for me anymore. Since I’d decided to stay in San Francisco and become part of this community, and to associate with the likes of Aidan Rhodes, I’d entered that world whether I wanted to or not.

  I wished I knew a way to communicate with the forest creatures, the brownies, the imps. There were many such creatures, but to tell the truth Oscar was the first truly sustained relationship I’d had with an other-being. And even then, I wasn’t sure where he’d come from, how old he was, or even where he had lived prior to working with me and Aidan.

  While I walked, dusk began to fall. Pools of light from occasional streetlamps illuminated the darkening eucalyptus forest as I made my way back toward the parking lot.

  Perkins’s car was still parked in front of his offices: a champagne-colored Lexus with a personalized plate: UTH EVR. It took me a moment: youth ever. The search for eternal youth.

  Staying forever young . . . the Fountain of Youth . . .
Shangri-la. It was a dream that had plagued generations of humans. What would a genuine youth serum entail? Was Perkins simply an ambitious scientist, trying to push the boundaries of nature through creative chemistry . . . or could he be operating on a different level entirely? Could he have, for example, allied himself with someone who wasn’t bound by the rules of nature?

  Chapter 19

  When I got back to Aunt Cora’s Closet that evening after a bit of an odyssey riding the city’s less than perfect public transportation system, Sailor was sitting on the curb waiting for me, with Conrad at his side.

  Sailor looked angry, but his voice was surprisingly measured as he said, “Conrad needs to talk to you.”

  “What is it, Conrad? Are you okay?”

  “I saw . . . something yesterday,” Conrad said. “I think I did. I think it was real.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was a man, all bundled up. It was like he was, dude, almost like he was trying to get into the store. I totally, like, told him you weren’t open this late, but he sort of looked at me, but through me, if you get me.”

  “Could you see his face? What did he look like?”

  “Nah, man, he had these totally dark sunglasses, like the kind the motorcycle cops wear? Dude, those things make me, like, nervous.”

  “Me too.”

  “And then I thought I saw him in the park last night.”

  “Did he do anything? Say anything?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe . . . maybe it’s in my head, man. I been thinkin’ . . . you know, down at the free clinic sometimes they can help you get, you know, clean.”

  This was new. “I could help you, too, Conrad. I’d be happy to.”

  “Dude,” he said, in a serious, thoughtful tone rare for him. “I’m, like, gonna think about it. I don’t like seeing things like that.”

  “So you think you imagined it?”

  “I dunno. Seemed real. But even so . . . it was like I couldn’t do much about it, I was so out of it. Feels weird being high if you need to, you know, do something.”

  I just nodded and tried to emanate empathy and understanding. Even mentioning going straight was a big step for Conrad. I didn’t want to scare him off by jumping all over the idea.

  “All right,” Conrad said as he stood. “This is good. Good. Good night, then.”

  “Want us to walk you to the park?” I asked.

  “Nah, dude. I’m good. Thanks much.” He ambled off in the direction of Golden Gate Park.

  Now Sailor felt free to vent. “You left me in that apartment with a freaking snake!”

  “Look on the bright side—I left you my car. Meanwhile, I’ve been riding buses for an hour and a half. And you abandoned me to the SFPD, I might point out.” I unlocked the shop door. “Besides, that snake wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I have a kind of connection with snakes.” I flipped on the lights. “Trust me.”

  “You’re a snake charmer now?”

  “Not hardly. I just . . . I’m not afraid of them, is all. And sometimes I can sense what they’re going to do.”

  “Snakes creep me out.”

  “What is it with y’all and snakes? I thought guys liked reptiles. Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. . . .” I entered the store; Sailor followed. “Did you sense anything in the apartment?”

  “Didn’t have much time. It’s been cleansed, obviously.”

  “What do you think about what Conrad was saying?”

  “I think the poor kid needs to get clean.”

  “Malachi Zazi’s body has gone missing.”

  “So?”

  “The thing is, a lot of people—not just Conrad—think they’ve seen him. Walking around.”

  “Uh-huh. A lot of people think they see Elvis, too. Maybe someone stole the body. It would be just slightly more likely.”

  “Good point. So as far as you know, there’s nothing like actual vampires or anything, right?”

  “No. But why do you keep asking me this? I’m a psychic, remember, I don’t know about this sort of stuff. Besides, it’s not the same in my tradition.”

  “Your ‘tradition’? You have a ‘tradition’?”

  “Sort of.” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’m half Rom.”

  “Rom? As in Romani, as in Gypsy?”

  He gave a curt nod. “On my father’s side.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t have much association with it. My father separated himself from it fairly early on. A lot of that stuff—it tends to be handed down by the women, and my mother’s Scots-Irish. I was raised just like any other ethnic mutt in this country.”

  “You act as though your heritage is something to be embarrassed about.”

  “I’m not embarrassed. I just don’t want to have to answer any damn fool questions.”

  “Do you know any Rom witches or healers?”

  “Questions such as that, for instance.” Sailor rolled his eyes. “You know what they say: Ki shan I Romani, Adoi san’I chov’hani.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Loosely translated, it means we’re loaded with chov’hani, or witches.”

  “Is that a bad thing, or a good thing?”

  “Depends on whether people are paying you for your services, or burning you alive, or herding you into Nazi concentration camps.”

  Not to put too fine a point on it.

  “So, are some of your family . . . ?”

  He sighed. “My aunt is a Gypsy witch, yes. Is that what you want to know?”

  “Wow. That’s fascinating. Is she local?”

  “I’m not having this discussion. I just came by to make sure you hadn’t landed in jail. Now I’m going home.” He surprised me by kissing me on the forehead. “Be good. If I can’t get off this detail, I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.”

  Up in my apartment, Oscar was still trying to decide on a name for the cat, and the cat was now totally uninterested in knowing him. Since I was allergic, it saved all of its affection for me. I sneezed repeatedly, which Oscar felt duty-bound to respond to with a series of “gesundheits.” I fixed them both something to eat, reminding myself, again, to stop and get some actual pet food soon. Oscar would find it offended his dignity to eat it, no doubt, but it would probably be best for the cat.

  “Oscar, when we were at Malachi Zazi’s apartment the other day, you said something about gargoyles being practically family. What did you mean by that?”

  He stared at me. Oscar was so talkative that when he went mute, it was significant.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” I asked.

  He shrugged and started picking at his talonlike toes, refusing to make eye contact. “Oh, Mistress! I forgot to tell you. There’s a message on the phone. From that man, the cowan.”

  “Don’t call him that, Oscar. It’s not nice.” I used it in my own mind from time to time, but tried not to say it aloud. “Cowan” is an archaic, derogatory word for a nonwitchy human.

  “I don’t like cowans.”

  “That’s not true. You like Bronwyn.”

  “The lady, she’s nice,” he said in a dreamy voice. Bronwyn tended to slip Oscar snacks, and to cradle him in her arms and against her ample bosom.

  “And Maya.”

  “Maya . . . ,” he crooned. Maya sang to him when she thought no one was listening. And she also brought him doggie bags from lunch.

  “And just about every customer that comes into the shop. Especially the female ones.”

  “Female customers . . .”

  I smiled and turned toward the message machine. But then I hesitated. Part of me was glad Max had called, but the other part wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what he had to say. Especially with Oscar watching me with those huge, intent eyes.

  Saved by the phone.

  “Lily, it’s me,” said Bronwyn. “I’m right outside. Could I come up and talk to you? It’s important.”

  “Of c
ourse,” I said, going to open the front door of the apartment.

  This was perfect. I loved the idea of having friends just dropping by—made me feel downright normal. Besides, I’d love to use her as a sounding board, not just for all the craziness surrounding Malachi Zazi, but also with regard to Max Carmichael. I was scared to listen to the message he’d left me. Who was the coward now?

  But the moment I saw Bronwyn’s face, I knew it wasn’t going to be a girls’ gabfest kind of evening. She refused my offer of tea, and we took our seats on the sofa in my cozy living room.

  “Bronwyn, is everything all right? Did something happen with Gregory?”

  “No . . . sort of. Lily, I want you to stop what you’ve been doing. Rebecca has asked me to get you to stop looking into this . . . issue of Gregory’s.”

  “Before, you and Rebecca both asked for my help.”

  “I know that. But when I brought her the tonic you brewed, it set off an argument. She made some calls, talked to some people. She seems to think that Gregory will be exonerated soon anyway, and having people like us involved . . .”

  “‘People like us’?”

  She fixed me with a look, her soft brown eyes shiny with tears. “Witches. She doesn’t want my name, much less yours, connected with them, with . . . any of them.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “She doesn’t mean anything by it,” Bronwyn said. “Or . . . I guess she does, doesn’t she? But still, I have to honor her wishes in this. This is my chance, Lily. I have to do what she’s asking of me. I failed Rainb—Rebecca—as a mother, but now I have to try to make it up to her. You need to let go of this.”

  “How do you mean you failed her?”

  “I was so young when I had my baby.” Bronwyn pushed some loose lavender around on the coffee table, absentmindedly making the shape of a pentacle—a symbol of safety. “I tried . . . I really believed that unlimited love would be enough. But now I see that structure and security are important, too. She lacked all of that. I didn’t give that to her. There were times . . . I even remember bringing her to parties—with all kinds of things going on. What kind of mother does something like that?”

  Shame rolled off of her in waves. This was not the calm, confident woman I had come to love and depend on.