“Why don’t you calm down and tell me what’s happened before you start accusing the most powerful witch in California with dabbling in the dark arts.”
Aidan sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. He always acted so laid back and relaxed, the ultimate West Coast witch. But I had seen him in action and had felt the tingle of his power. He was warning me off, and with good reason. I stroked my medicine bag and got a grip on my emotions. It wasn’t like me—and it was profoundly unwise around someone like Aidan Rhodes—to lose my temper.
I looked into his apparently guileless eyes for a long moment before responding.
“If it’s any consolation, I would never accuse you of dabbling,” I said. “I imagine that anything you do, you do expertly. Besides, I thought I was the most powerful witch in California.”
He grinned. “Let’s call it a draw. I doubt either of us would come out well should we put it to the test.”
Aidan’s snow-white familiar jumped into my lap, and I leaned away from her. I love the beauty and grace of cats, but I’m allergic. I imagined whatever witchy gods and goddesses there might be would enjoy the idea of making a natural witch feline-phobic.
“What’s going on, Lily? Why are you so upset?”
“There’s a demon at the School of Fine Arts.”
“You’re sure?”
“Darned sure. Someone summoned it.”
“Do you have the demon’s name, characteristics?”
Having failed to get the proper attention from me, the cat jumped onto the desk, sauntered across the expanse of gleaming walnut, and leapt into her master’s waiting arms. Aidan stroked her long, white hair with his graceful fingers.
“Not really. But he’s out of control.” I described tonight’s incident to him.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Jerry Becker thought it was some kind of demon. That’s why he came to me.”
“To try to harness the demon’s power?”
“Get your mind out of the spiritual gutter, there, missy. I won’t tell you the details, but Becker came to me for help.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Because you’re a cynic when it comes to men? Powerful men, in particular?”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I . . . It doesn’t sound as though Becker was a very nice man.”
“No, he wasn’t. But that doesn’t justify a death sentence.”
True. “So how can we tell how much of a danger this demon poses for the school community?”
“Most demons are more about mischief than actual violence. Unless, of course, he killed Becker. Have you ruled out the human factor?”
“Not really, but Sailor doesn’t think it was the demon.”
“Sailor should know.”
“So you’re saying Jerry Becker didn’t strike some sort of deal with the demon, back in the sixties when he was hanging around the school? His success—”
Aidan laughed. “I can guarantee you that Becker’s success had much more to do with the drive of a man trying to escape death, rather than embracing it.”
“From what I’ve put together, it seems the demon’s been conjured, then bound, twice: once back with the group of nuns in the closet, and then in the sixties—after John Daniels was killed. Who conjured it this time?”
“I have no idea. Does it really matter? Clearly, whoever conjured the demon did not have the skill, or the intention, to bind it. So you’ll need to do the honors. And make sure it stays that way, this time. How difficult that task will be depends on who he or she is.”
Aidan stood, placed the cat gently atop the desk, and studied the books on the shelf, his brow wrinkled in concentration. I watched, wondering what to make of him. I didn’t trust this male witch, but I did feel a certain kinship. As much as I loved my new friends, someone like Aidan understood me in a way that Bronwyn never could, much less Maya or Susan or any of the gang, coven members or no. He was my kind. It was as simple . . . and as complicated . . . as that.
If Aidan really was what he said he was, just a wickedly talented witch working for the side of good, then I was prejudiced unfairly against him because of his talents, which was something I had always accused the world of doing to me.
On the other hand, Aidan had told me himself that he knew my father. Even if I believed him in all the other realms, that knowledge alone was enough to put me off. Still, I went out with Max, who didn’t really believe in magick despite what he had witnessed in my presence. So what did that make me? WasIaself-hating witch?
“Lily?” Aidan was asking me something.
“I’m sorry? I drifted off there for a minute.”
“Are you still having trouble sleeping? Those pesky mares at it again?”
“They wouldn’t have anything to do with the demon at the school, would they?”
“I’m not sure. Tell me, is Matt having troubles as well?”
“You know very well his name is Max.”
“Right, Max. That’s what I said.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m just waiting for the right witch to come along and ‘corrige’ me,” he said with a crooked smile.
He pulled a huge parchment-covered tome off a cherry bookcase, handing the heavy volume to me. On the front cover the title was written in a bold, Gothic script: Pseudomonarchia daemonum, by Johann Wier, 1583. And down came another tome, Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis, or The Lesser Key of Solomon. Aidan tapped on the second one.
“The Lesser Key of Solomon is an anonymous seventeenth-century grimoire containing detailed descriptions of spirits, as well as the conjurations needed to invoke and oblige them to do the will of the conjurer, or exorcist. That would be you, in case you weren’t clear.” He smiled. “It details the protective signs and rituals to be performed, the actions necessary to prevent the spirits from gaining control, the preparations prior to the evocations, and instructions on how to make the necessary instruments for the execution of those rituals.”
Aidan placed the books in my arms and gently but firmly pushed me toward the door.
“Look up your demon and figure out what you’re dealing with. This is what I’m paying you for.”
“You’re not paying me anything.”
“Okay, this is what I’m canceling your debt for.”
“But—”
“A minute ago you were bragging about your powers. Now, live up to your inflated image of yourself and figure this thing out. I’m busy.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Aidan. I need help.”
“You’ve got plenty of help. You’ve got Oscar, and Sailor, and a whole coven behind you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“They’re a peace-and-nature-loving neo-pagan Wiccan coven. They like to thank the Goddesses and eat baked goods. They don’t usually deal with this kind of thing.”
“Time they started.”
“Aidan, I was never trained for this. I’m . . . scared.”
Aidan let out an exasperated breath. “Did anything actually hurt you?”
“No, I guess not,” I conceded. “It was mostly a lot of noise and visual tricks. Disgusting visuals. It kissed me, though.”
Aidan’s eyebrows rose, and he gave me a crooked smile. “It kissed you?”
I nodded.
“What guise was it under when it kissed you?”
“Luc Carmichael, a teacher at the school.”
“Cute.”
“It wasn’t cute. It was . . . weird. Very weird.”
“Do you like this Luc fellow?”
“I do. He’s Max’s brother, among other things.”
Aidan let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one. This demon sounds like a real character. Does Max know about you and his brother?”
“There’s nothing to ‘know.’ And no, I don’t plan on mentioning it.”
Aidan was still grinning. “You see? He’s playing with you
r mind. You know how these demons are—they’re mischief-makers mostly, only ratcheting up toward violence over time. They don’t normally cause so much havoc up-front that people call in experts and exorcise them, that’s the last thing they want. They want to stay and play. Besides, if he was only recently conjured, he’s probably not strong enough to do much real harm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
“In case you didn’t recognize him, that was the mayor of San Francisco you just tossed out on his ear.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“We’re coming up with an evil scheme to transform all elected officials into my puppets. Come on, Lily, what do you take me for?”
I ignored that question. “Why are you so shy about going on campus and just taking care of this yourself?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Which you won’t share with me, no doubt.”
Aidan grinned again. “It’s almost as though we have telepathy, you and I. We understand each other so well.”
Before I knew it, I had been escorted out of the office and found myself on the other side of Aidan’s closed, and locked, door.
Chapter 19
I lugged the big leather research books down the stairs, past the glowering young woman in the ticket booth, and out to my car. Jostled by the tourists flocking to Fisherman’s Wharf, I found a rare pay phone outside a restaurant and called Carlos Romero.
“How is Walker Landau?” I asked.
“He seems okay—physically, at least. Psychologically might be another matter,” Romero said. “Listen, I want to talk to you in person. Someplace we won’t be overheard. Meet me at a club called El Valenciano, near Valencia and Twenty-fourth Street in the Mission.”
I agreed.
It took me nearly half an hour to cross town and find parking in the bustling Mission District. Carlos Romero was waiting for me at the bar, but as soon as he saw me enter, he led the way across the dance floor, where a salsa band was playing a cumbia. The floor was jammed with couples dancing with abandon, some so young they didn’t look legally eligible for drinks while others were white haired and wrinkled. A “wedding crowd” I’d heard it called.
“One thing you can say about Latinos,” the inspector shouted as we made our way to a dark, slightly quieter corner on the far side. He held up four fingers to the overly made-up waitress on the other side of the strobe-lit dance floor. “We like to dance.”
“Isn’t that a generalization?” I asked.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true. Never did understand these clubs where women are standing alone, not dancing. Come to this place or Rockapulco or El Rio, and you’ll be dancing before you order your first drink.”
As if on cue, a man came up to the table, met Carlos’s eyes, and asked me to dance. I supposed he was asking permission for my company. Carlos sent him away with a barely noticeable shake of his head.
It was hard to hear over the live band. We leaned toward each other across the small café table, like conspiratorial smugglers.
“Landau’s not seriously hurt,” Romero told me. “More shook up than anything. We’ve got him in the psych ward at S.F. General.”
“Just to clarify—this was no suicide attempt.”
“Then what was it?”
“I think Landau was temporarily possessed.”
The inspector sat back and gave me a skeptical look.
“I’m afraid our little haunting is getting out of hand. The students are already at one another’s throats. It’s only a matter of time till more serious problems develop and someone gets hurt.” I took a drink of water. “You need to close the school.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“There’s a demon entering through a third- floor closet.”
“A demon.”
“Demons typically sow chaos and discontent, and it ratchets up from there.”
“I would assume, based on the careful study of horror movies, that a demon would disembowel, that sort of thing.”
“It might well be building up to that. He’s just playing with us right now.”
Carlos folded his arms over his chest and fixed me with that unconvinced mien. “I was kidding.”
“This is no joke.”
The band ended the cumbia and started in on a merengue . The beat was catchy, and dancers flooded the floor. I looked over the crowd, taking comfort in their high spirits. It was a welcome reminder of life, and of joy.
“Right now he’s just playing around,” I continued. “Trying to see how far he can push people before they crack. Demons love to see humans display their basest emotions—jealousy, greed, fear. But I don’t know where it will go from here. I fear for the students’ safety.”
The waitress came over with four shots of tequila, cut limes, and a salt shaker. I watched as Carlos licked the back of his hand, applied salt, downed his shot, and bit into a lime wedge. I did my best to mimic him, but sipped the tequila rather than shooting the whole thing. I’m a lightweight. Besides, I needed all my wits about me.
“I feel like I’m going from zero to sixty here,” Carlos said after he was fortified. “I admit to you—and to myself—that I’ve actually heard haunted house noises. And now we’re going straight to the concept of a homicidal demon?”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I don’t have a lot of time to sugarcoat it.”
“I have the sense you’re not into sugarcoating, time or no.”
“I need to ask you a couple of questions about Becker’s death. Would it be possible for me to see the evidence, the body?”
“I thought of that. But frankly, I don’t know how I would explain you. If anyone finds out a secondhand-clothes dealer is looking at evidence, I’m a laughing-stock. But I do have this.”
He extracted an iPhone from his pocket.
He pushed some buttons before handing it to me. Photos showed the body at the bottom of the stairs, and afterward, on the table at the morgue. I remembered the red marks I had noted on his neck when I first saw him. The medallion that Andromeda mentioned was still around his neck—and there were marks as though the symbol had been burned into the skin. It was hard to make out, but it looked a lot like the sigil Sailor and I had found in the hotel room.
“What were the papers scattered about the body?” I asked.
“Mostly standard business documents. The only thing notable was a blackmail note.”
“A blackmail note? About what?”
He handed a copy to me, which I read aloud. “I know about John Daniels. You know what I want in return for silence.” It was written in the classic kidnap- note way, with letters torn from a magazine.
“It was done carefully,” Carlos said. “We haven’t come up with any detailed forensic information on it yet. But trying to get lab work done around here takes forever—this isn’t like cop shows on television, I’m afraid.”
“Any ideas about who wrote it?”
“Like I said, Becker had a lot of enemies. But as you probably know, it’s usually the blackmailer who is killed in these cases, not the blackmailee.”
“And you understand the reference to John Daniels?”
“Supposed suicide, decades ago, when Becker was a young man—a delivery truck driver who often hung around the School of Fine Arts. So I guess we’re assuming now that Becker was involved in John Daniels’s early demise.” Carlos paused and took another taste of tequila. “I asked you once; I’ll ask again: Do you think this ghost killed Becker?”
“No. I think it was a human.” The band switched to a ranchero-style ballad, and the crowd went wild. I smiled, watching a tiny old man with a pencil-thin mustache lead a woman twice his size around the dance floor. “I have an odd question for you: What would happen if a person committed such a crime while possessed by a demon?”
He gave a humorless laugh and shook his head. “I have no idea. This is all new to me.” Then his dark gaze drilled into me. “Are you saying you have a suspect you
think was possessed?”
“No, of course not. Just thinking about how demons act, is all.” I was glad the room was dim so he wouldn’t take note of my blush. I wasn’t a great liar. “So, about closing the school . . .”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Carlos.
“What will you tell your cop buddies?”
“I’ll figure something out.” Carlos rubbed his eyes. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but he struck me as pale. A fine sheen of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. “Just promise me you’ll get to the bottom of this, as soon as humanly possible—or should I say ‘witchly’ possible?”
“Do you feel okay, Carlos?”
“I haven’t been sleeping well.” He shrugged.
“There’s a lot of that going around.” Fishing around, I found a carved talisman in the bottom of my backpack. I wrote out the words of a protective chant on a small pad of paper.
“Wear this tonight, and walk the perimeter of your room saying these words.”
Carlos looked at me askance, doubt shining in his dark eyes.
“Trust me,” I said. “It will help.” It occurred to me that I should track down Max and do the same thing, or offer to set up a protection spell at his place. Yeah, right. That ought to go over big.
“Just figure out what’s going on so we can finish it,” said Carlos, “and then I’ll be able to get some rest already.”
I raised my shot glass of tequila to him.
“I’ll drink to that.”
I dragged myself back home to Aunt Cora’s Closet, wondering who might have summoned the demon. I knew Aidan had said it didn’t matter, but I disagreed. Knowing how the creature got here, I thought, might help me decide how to get rid of it—once I figured out who “it” was, of course.
Time to do my homework, and I didn’t mean algebra. If the past few weeks were any indication, a thorough knowledge of demonology would be much more useful to me—and to the city of San Francisco—than arithmetic.
I lugged the huge tomes Aidan had lent me through the front door of the shop. Oscar ran to greet me, in his piggy guise. Shifting the books in my arms, I turned to lock up as it sank in that Oscar would be in his natural form, unless—
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