“Lily?” Bronwyn called up the stairs.
Darn it all. I needed to concentrate.
I went to the door and found her nearly at the top of the steps. “Your friend Carlos is here.”
I let out a frustrated sound akin to “Unnrrggghhh.”
“He’s such a lovely man. He mentioned his niece has a quinceañera coming up . . .” Bronwyn liked Carlos. But, then, Bronwyn liked almost everybody.
“He’s here looking for dresses? Would you mind help—”
Carlos appeared in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry, Lily. We need to talk. It’s important.”
Reluctantly I closed the apartment door and went downstairs to join Carlos in the workroom. Zeke’s bloody clothing would keep, and, to be honest, it wasn’t such a bad idea for me to take a little time to regroup before casting. What with Griselda’s murder, my father’s unexpected arrival in town, and the gruesome sight of a human being bouncing off the shiny chrome grille of an Escalade, I was feeling off balance.
Carlos took a seat at the green linoleum early-’60s table in the back room of my store. We had sat here together before, many times. Usually we were discussing murder, which, considering I hadn’t been in town all that long, was starting to feel more than a little strange. How had Carlos handled supernatural deaths before I came to town? Or . . . was my presence somehow stirring up such paranormal crime?
“Your name keeps popping up in the oddest of places,” said Carlos.
“Is that so?” I said noncommittally.
“What is your connection to Zeke Jones?”
“How did you hear about— Wait. Did he . . . die?” Carlos was a homicide inspector, after all. Still, I hadn’t been in the shower that long. Surely he would still be working the scene. Wouldn’t he?
“As far as I know he’s still alive. It’s not my case; I just happened to hear. And I noticed your name came up. Again. Got me curious. So, what was your connection to him?”
“He tried to mug me. I guess you could call that a connection.”
“In broad daylight?”
“You ever been to that part of town?”
“And then he was hit by a car.”
“Yes.”
Long silence.
“There were plenty of witnesses,” I continued. “Including two cops who arrived almost immediately.”
“You didn’t see who was driving?”
I shook my head. Then I decided to come clean. “I don’t think anyone was driving, actually.”
“You think it was a runaway?” With the steep hills in this town, runaway cars were about as frequent as their owner’s failure to curb their wheels. “It turned the corner.”
“I just think maybe it was being manipulated by someone. I . . . saw someone in a suit.”
“Again with the suits?”
“It seemed rather unusual in that part of town.”
“Was it the guy you saw at the Gem Faire?”
“Could be. Hard to tell. He was a ways away and shielding his face from view.”
“Your father was wearing a nice suit when he was picked up.”
I shrugged. “I guess the entire financial district could be suspect, if that’s the only clue I’ve got. Right?”
Carlos nodded thoughtfully. “And you had no connection to the hit-and-run victim prior to the mugging?”
“He and his brother, Clem, had been following me.”
“Following you? How long has this been going on?”
“Not long.”
“Ever since you were at the Gem Faire?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think I would be interested to hear about this?”
“They started following me Monday, but I had no way of knowing why or who or what they might be connected to. Do you think it might have something to do with Griselda’s death? How is the investigation going?”
“It’s not going well, as a matter of fact. Funny thing, though. Your name came up there as well. The owner of the bed-and-breakfast where Griselda was staying mentioned you dropped by to get something from her room.”
I started pulling on my lip then stopped, worried I was developing a new tic. “I thought I might see something the police wouldn’t recognize. Given the way she was killed . . . I was looking for anything that might help with the whole witch angle.”
“And did you see anything?”
“No. Someone had ransacked the room, or so it seemed. I didn’t see anything that seemed significant.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“I touched the sheets on the bed, just to see if I could feel anything out of the ordinary.” I let out a sigh.
“You okay?” Carlos asked.
“Sure. Why?”
“You look a little . . . off-kilter.”
“It’s been a tough couple of days.”
He studied me. “I guess it has, at that. Did you feel anything significant from her sheets?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I didn’t take anything, didn’t even touch anything else. I know I shouldn’t have gone there . . . I really did think I might be able to help. I thought there might be some sort of connection between us and I was trying to figure out what, exactly.”
Carlos nodded. “Well, I told Inspector Leibowitz I would take your statement about your visit to the bed-and-breakfast, so at least you don’t have to worry about yet another SFPD inspector breathing down your neck. For the moment.”
I managed an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Carlos. You’re the best.”
“Better not forget it.”
“Oh, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that when Zeke mugged me, I was right outside the hostel where Johannes, Griselda’s assistant, was staying. They said the cops had already been there; I just wanted to mention it.”
“Anything else you want to mention?”
“That’s all I can think of.”
“Okay.” He paused as though choosing his words carefully. “I wanted to tell you your father was released.”
I felt an unexpected wave of relief wash over me. Good to know my father wasn’t a murderer. At the very least, not Griselda’s murderer. I opened my mouth to ask for more details, but quelled my curiosity. When it came right down to it, I didn’t really want to know.
“Watch your back, Lily,” Carlos said.
“You mean with regards to my father?”
“Yes. You say you barely know him?”
I nodded.
“My cop’s intuition tells me he’s bad news. So, back to this character hit by a car . . . his name also came up in the Gem Faire murder investigation. You have any idea why these guys were following you? Did he say anything? You two talk at all?”
I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to go into all the demon stuff, but I could tell Carlos an edited version.
“I think they were after something Griselda might have had.”
“Like what?”
“A ring. A . . . special ring.”
“Special. As in witchcraft?”
“Yes.”
“You have this ring?” He fixed me with his patented Inspector Carlos Truth-Laser Gaze.
I shook my head. “I sure don’t think so. Griselda sold me a box of junk jewelry, but I’ve been through everything several times, and I can’t find a durned thing. There were only five rings, and none of them fit the bill.”
“Thought you told me she didn’t give you anything.”
“I was afraid you’d confiscate things before I could study them. I wasn’t trying to hide anything, exactly . . .”
Carlos snorted.
“If I had figured anything out, I would have told you.”
“Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not really. But from what I’v
e learned the ring is a fire opal, like this one but of better quality.” I showed him my medallion, and he reached out to cradle it in his hand, studying it.
“You’re positive this isn’t what they’re after? Maybe the ring was made into a necklace.”
“I thought of that, too, but when I offered them the necklace they didn’t react. Then again, they’re both a cob or two short of a bushel, so maybe they just got it wrong. Still, I’ve been wearing the medallion since Sunday and haven’t felt anything at all unusual.”
“Doesn’t feel magical or special in any way?”
“Afraid not. Carlos, I imagine y’all looked carefully through Griselda’s things at the fair, but would it be possible for me to look? I might recognize something y’all wouldn’t.”
“You’re asking me to allow a witch—a civilian witch—to look through the evidence in a murder investigation?”
“You could stay there with me. I won’t hurt anything.”
He studied me for a moment, then blew out a long breath and got to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do. And don’t forget what I told you: be careful of dear old Dad if he comes a-calling.”
I nodded and stood to see him out. Just as we reached the velvet curtains that cordoned off the work room from the shop floor, something occurred to me.
“Carlos, have you heard about the fire dancing in Golden Gate Park?”
“What’s fire dancing?”
“I take it that’s a no?”
He shook his head.
“Could you ask around, maybe let me know if you hear anything?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know . . . injuries, kids going missing . . .” I shrugged. “Probably nothing. Witch’s intuition.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” Carlos asked.
“Nope, that’ll do. For now. Thank you so much, Inspector.”
“You’re very welcome, Ms. Ivory.”
• • •
I meant to go back upstairs to brew, but the store got busy and my presence was needed. Usually Maya could handle the store by herself, but today things weren’t going well. Customers were acting stupid: misplacing items, popping buttons, ripping out hems, breaking down in tears in the dressing room when a dress designed for a 1950s teenager didn’t fit a twenty-first-century matron.
It’s this darned protection spell, I thought as I went about putting out emotional fires. It suppresses creativity and, after all, smarts and rolling with the punches use up a lot of creativity.
With Zeke and, I presumed, Clem out of commission, maybe I could dial back the protection. But I hesitated. There were too many variables in play, not the least of which was when—and if—my father decided to make an appearance.
By the time I went back upstairs it was late afternoon. I did a purification spell, looked at the bloodied clothing, and suppressed a bubble of fear. I wasn’t usually afraid when I was brewing in the safety of my own home, a carefully guarded environment full of herbs and charms. But maybe there really was something to this witchy premonition thing. . . . If Zeke was beholden to a demon, I had to be dead certain to attend to every detail in the spell so as not to invite anyone in, much less allow them to exert power over me. I had faced a demon, a fellow named Sitri, only once and frankly it had scared the pants off me.
And there was always a tiny flicker of doubt that since our interaction meant Sitri and I were now bound together, that he was wise to my tricks and if I had to go up against him again I might not triumph.
Not that I had any reason to think Sitri had anything to do with what was going on now. After all, demons didn’t all know one another any more than we humans all knew one another. It was a big, wide, terrible demonic world out there.
And here and now, Zeke was my only tangible connection to what was going on.
I made myself another cup of tea to calm my nerves, then focused once again on the bloody garments. Blood is special. It shimmers with our energy. The Aztecs knew this, along with so many other cultures that sacrificed life—sometimes even human life—as a vital offering to the gods. Practitioners know this. too, and some use sacrifice to contact their ancestors and invoke their abilities to alter reality. As a matter of principle I avoided blood sacrifice, but this time it had quite literally dropped into my lap. I would be foolish to ignore this boon.
I set a clean white cloth on the kitchen counter and laid out my jewel-encrusted athame, trying not to think of the one that had killed Griselda. Had she refused to talk? Had her torturers gotten what they came for and decided to silence her for good?
I shook off such thoughts. One of the most salient aspects of spell casting is concentration. I chanted and stroked my medicine bag to achieve the right frame of mind. I consulted my Book of Shadows, an old red leather-bound volume handed down to me by my grandmother. A piece of sacred rope; herbs such as sorcerer’s violet and magical vinca. As I brewed, I dropped small squares of the bloodied clothing into the bubbling cauldron. Then cemetery dust and marsh weeds, spider silk, and a sharp rock. Red dirt from home. Fresh and dried herbs.
I stirred deosil, or clockwise, and chanted steadily, until the concoction started swirling on its own. I allowed it to boil for about ten minutes, when a distinctive, rank odor signaled the brew was ready. I cut a tiny “x” in my palm with my athame and added two drops of my blood. Then I called upon my helping spirit to guide me . . . and to protect me while the connections were made.
The spell was cast well, and I could feel the portals opening, the power slipping through. Oscar watched silently from his perch atop the refrigerator, his mere presence making my casting easier, smoother.
Try as I might I couldn’t read the steam and divine who Zeke was, who he worked for, or what he wanted. What I could read was another’s influence over him. Since nothing in the world of magic was ever simple, it wasn’t as though I perceived a name or a face. But if I met the person, I would know him or her. I would recognize his or her vibrations just as one might recognize a distinctive face in a crowd, just as I might recognize the owner from feeling the clothes he or she had worn.
Zeke was held in sway by someone. Not just influenced by that person, but . . . held. As though a prisoner, Zeke didn’t have any choice in the matter.
And those vibrations reminded me of something else I had sensed recently. What was it? I thought of all the jewelry I had been studying or any recent acquisitions for the store. Finally I recognized it. I pulled out the little drawer by the sink, where I had placed the gold cuff link I found at Griselda’s stand.
It felt as though it were burning in my palm—it hummed with the same vibrations I had read from the brew using Zeke’s blood. But I couldn’t imagine Zeke, or Clem, for that matter, wearing a solid gold cuff link. Besides the fact that they didn’t appear to have much money, they had been wearing dirty T-shirts both times I had seen them. They didn’t appear to be the types to don cuffs, much less cuff links.
It was much more likely that the cuff link belonged to my father, Declan Ivory. Which would mean . . . could my father be the one holding Zeke in sway? And since there were some definite demonic overtones to this vibration, could my father be more than a simple witch? That would help explain the memory loss when I met him—demon encounters were known for such a thing.
Like I didn’t have enough issues. A rogue witch for a father was one thing, but a demonic dad? Quite another.
I wondered what the paramedics had determined about Zeke, whether he was going to make it. He wasn’t far from a good hospital, the San Francisco Medical Center. I hoped for his sake he had gotten help in time. Would he be conscious and able to talk to me?
And then I wondered whether his little brother would be showing up for visiting hours. Clem was scared, but kin was kin. He’d probably visit sooner or later. And I was willing to bet that with a little effort, I could get at least one of the Ballcap boys t
o speak to me.
Chapter 14
The next morning I embraced my familiar, comforting routine of casting a protective spell over the store, going down to Coffee to the People, and eating breakfast with Conrad and Oscar—in his piggy form, of course.
When Maya came in for her shift that morning, she reminded me that she was interviewing Marisela’s abuelita today.
Carmen seemed to know a lot about legends of fire opals, I thought to myself.
“Would you mind if I join you?”
Maya was gathering her things from her leather backpack. “Of course not. That would be great. You might well come in handy with the Spanish—Marisela agreed to translate, but just in case. I feel like such an idiot not knowing Spanish. I should take a class.”
“In all your spare time, between art school and working here and running the Web site and doing oral histories . . . and now fire dancing?”
She smiled. “What can I say? When it comes to life I have ADHD.”
“I’d say it’s more like a passion to live life to the fullest,” said Bronwyn. “Never apologize for that. And yes, Lily, I’m happy to watch over the store in the meantime.”
“I see you’ve anticipated me. Becoming a mind reader?”
“Oh, good goddess, I hope so,” said Bronwyn, who was cradling piggy Oscar in her arms. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Sounds a little scary to me,” I said.
“Ditto,” said Maya.
“Oh, by the way, if I’m going to work the afternoon shift, would you mind if the coven meets here? Just a partial meeting; we won’t be forming a circle or calling upon the Lord and Lady. Just a few bureaucratic issues we need to discuss.”
“Not at all,” I said, grateful I wouldn’t be here for such a meeting. I had witnessed one once . . . it dragged on for hours. Bronwyn’s coven was committed to a nonhierarchical, communal decision-making process. In theory I applauded their efforts; in reality, it meant even the smallest decision was subject to endless debate and ceaseless tinkering. Yet another reason I was a solo act. I didn’t have the patience for group process.
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