A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  “They are,” Maya replied.

  “And it’s a great cause.”

  “It is.” She nodded, spraying the glass countertop with my homemade vinegar and lemon verbena all-purpose cleaner. A lovely citrus fragrance filled the air.

  “And they wear me out.”

  “They do.”

  We shared a laugh.

  “Do you think the wedding dress will work for you? It was so sweet of Wind Spirit to bring it.”

  “It looks a little . . . eighties,” I said as I extracted the wrinkled heap from the bag. It was made of inexpensive materials that felt unpleasant to the touch.

  “Not exactly your favorite fashion era, the eighties,” Maya said with a nod. “Still, it was thoughtful.”

  “It was. And you never know. . . . Your mother’s pure magic with a needle.”

  “So, where are the grandmas this morning?” Maya asked, stashing the cleaning materials under the counter and turning to the large paper map of the western United States that we had tacked up to a bulletin board behind the register.

  What had started out as a joke had developed into a morning ritual: putting a tack in the map to indicate the progress of the busload of witches heading to San Francisco from my hometown of Jarod, Texas. We traced their zigzag route with red string, linking one thumbtack to the next. I told Maya their most recently reported location was Salinas, and she pushed another tack into the soft cork.

  “I can’t wait to meet them.”

  “Yes, they’re . . . characters, all right,” I said, applying the nozzle of the steam machine to a 1950s ecru linen blouse and watching the wrinkles miraculously disappear. Stifling yet another sneeze, I concentrated on my breathing and tried to project an air of calm, because, deep down, I was nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof.

  As if the imminent arrival of my grandmother and her coven sisters weren’t enough, my mother was also on that bus.

  My mother and I had . . . issues. First, she had sent me away to live with my grandmother Graciela at the age of eight. Then, when I was seventeen, she tried to “save” me during a nightmarish snake-handling revival meeting designed to drive out the demons she believed to be responsible for my strange powers. Things got out of hand, people got hurt, and I was essentially run out of my small hometown on a rail.

  I sent my mother a check every month to help with her expenses, and very occasionally we exchanged an awkward phone call. But I hadn’t seen her since that awful day.

  “Did you figure out where everyone will be staying?” asked Maya.

  “Calypso agreed to have them at her place, thanks be to the heavens. She actually sounds pretty excited about it. Graciela’s coven sisters are a font of arcane knowledge about healing herbs and botanicals, so they’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  Calypso Cafaro was an expert in botanicals who lived in a large farmhouse outside Bolinas, about half an hour’s drive up the California coast. Calypso had also offered to let me and Sailor have our nuptials in her lush garden surrounded by redwood groves. It would be an enchanted place for a handfasting—a witchy wedding.

  Bronwyn had sent away for her license to officiate, and if it got here on time, she would be able to legally marry us. My heart fluttered at the thought: part eager anticipation, part pure nerves.

  “Oh, good,” Maya said with a quiet chuckle. “I kept imagining them all snoozing on yoga mats here in the store.”

  “You don’t know how close we came to that.” I winced at the thought of having thirteen elderly witches—and my mother—literally underfoot.

  “How long will they be staying?”

  “I’m not sure, but they want to be here for the wedding.” On the one hand, it felt as though Sailor and I were rushing into this. On the other hand . . . it meant a lot to me that Graciela, her coven, and my mother would be there. At the very least we could have an unofficial handfasting with them all in attendance, and later make it legal at city hall.

  I wanted—I needed—the strength of my womenfolk around me as I embarked on this new phase of my life.

  I sniffed loudly.

  “You’re sure you’re not getting a cold?” Maya asked.

  “I don’t get colds.”

  “Lucky you. Is that a witch thing?”

  “I’m not sure, actually,” I said with a smile. I had a hard time distinguishing my own idiosyncratic weirdness from the traits I had inherited from my witchy foremothers. “But I’ve never gotten a cold. I’ll try some hot honey lemonade later, just to be sure.”

  “Hey, that reminds me,” Maya said. “I stopped by an herb store in Chinatown yesterday to get some ginseng, and ran into Sailor. He hardly even acknowledged me, which was weird. Is everything okay? Did I do something to offend him?”

  Sailor is my boyfriend. Correction . . . Sailor is my fiancé. Lordy, that was a hard idea to get used to. Still, the thought made me all warm and cozy somewhere deep within me.

  On his best days Sailor had a tendency to simmer and to brood. On his worst, he was sullen and irritable and not prone to social niceties. But he liked Maya, and it would be out of character for him to ignore her. Plus, it was hard to imagine what well-mannered Maya could do to offend anyone.

  “As far as I know, everything’s fine,” I said. “When was this, exactly?”

  “Yesterday, a little after four.”

  “That’s strange. When I saw him last night, he told me he had been training with his cousin all afternoon, which is on the other side of town. You’re sure about the timing?”

  When she nodded, the beads woven into her locks made a soft clacking sound. “I went right after my drawing class.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “He probably just stopped by, and had other things on his mind.”

  Maya and I had been working together for a while now, and she knew me pretty well. Not to mention she was no fool. She could tell the story bothered me.

  I had landed in San Francisco without family or friends, and though I had been working hard to learn to develop emotional bonds, it wasn’t easy to shake my loner ways. My childhood hadn’t exactly taught me to trust others. If it hadn’t been for my grandmother Graciela, I wouldn’t have known any stability—much less love—at all. So when Sailor actually proposed marriage to the likes of little ol’ me, I was stunned. Over-the-moon happy and excited, but stunned. I still couldn’t quite believe it was real.

  I gazed at the ring he had given me. It glittered in a rainbow of green and blue, pink and orange. The stone, set in antique filigreed silver, wasn’t a diamond but a teardrop-shaped druzy, which was the inside of an agate, whose tiny crystals reflected the colorful mineral underneath. I told myself it was just a hunk of metal and rock, not a magical talisman. And yet . . . with every sparkle it reminded me that Sailor loved me.

  Me, Lily Ivory. The outsider, the weirdo, the witch nobody even liked, much less loved.

  All of which made it harder to understand why Sailor would lie to me about what he had done yesterday. It wasn’t a lie, I assured myself. Probably just a misunderstanding. Sailor must have taken a break to run a quick errand to the store, just like Maya had. No big deal. No reason to even mention it.

  Except . . . Sailor’s teacher in the psychic arts was Patience Blix. Patience was Sailor’s gorgeous “cousin,” but it turned out they weren’t actually related by blood. According to Sailor, it was a Rom thing. Patience possessed an hourglass figure, a mass of black curls, and flashing dark eyes, and she took her role of fortune-teller seriously—particularly in the wardrobe department. She was a talented seer, but we weren’t exactly buddies. In fact, I felt like her first name must have been meant ironically, because the truth was, Patience trod on my last nerve.

  “Lily? Everything all right?” asked Maya.

  For the second time this morning, I had lost track of the conversation. Not a good habit to develop.
Given the way my life had unfolded, I needed to keep on my toes.

  “Yes, um . . . sorry. Too much on my mind, I guess.” Without meaning to, I had been squeezing the mint green satin jacket in my hands until it was a wrinkled mess. I tried to smooth it out, but no luck. “Darn it. I’ll have to steam this again. Let me just—”

  Oscar awoke with a loud snort and bolted into the workroom at the back of the store. The nape of my neck tingled.

  I turned to see a man lurking on the sidewalk in front of the shop door. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and pale, almost colorless eyes. He wasn’t trying to open the door—he simply stood there, staring in through the glass. Looming. Threatening.

  He looked familiar.

  Dangitall.

  Chapter 2

  I had met Tristan Dupree when I was a teenager. I had traveled alone to Germany in search of my estranged father, who had abandoned my mother and me when I was a toddler. Our eventual reunion had been a disaster on several fronts, though for some reason I could never remember exactly what had transpired—which was odd, since I usually had a great memory. But whatever it was, I knew it had been bad. And Tristan Dupree had been part of it.

  If only I could remember the details. Still, I had a vague impression that Tristan was an underling, a minion—not an archfiend himself, but the guy who runs to the corner store to fetch the archfiend’s cigarettes.

  But even so, I was wary at the sight of him. As a general rule, anything or anyone popping up from my past was a harbinger of trouble.

  I stroked the soft leather medicine bag I kept on a braided silk rope around my waist.

  “Friend of yours?” Maya asked quietly, sidling up beside me.

  “Not exactly,” I mumbled.

  “Should I call the cops? Or Aidan, or . . . someone?”

  Just then Sailor walked up behind Dupree and tapped him on the shoulder. Dupree didn’t move a muscle.

  Through the glass we heard Sailor’s gruff voice: “Can I help you with something?”

  As Dupree slowly turned to face Sailor, I rushed across the shop and flung open the door.

  The two men were equals in stature and apparent strength. Neither moved or spoke, but instead they stood silently staring at each other, doing that rival-male assessing thing.

  “Tristan!” I said. “What a surprise. What brings you to San Francisco?”

  He turned to face me and nodded once, very slowly. “Lily Ivory.”

  “Listen, buddy,” Sailor growled. “I don’t know what your deal is, but it’s time for you to scram.”

  Dupree stared at Sailor, then back at me, as if a spectator at a slow-motion tennis match.

  “You know what?” I said in as chipper a tone as I could muster, though my voice broke slightly. “Sailor, I’ve got this. Honest. Tristan and I go way back. Why don’t you head on back to work, and Tristan and I will catch up over a nice cup of tea?”

  “No tea,” answered Tristan. His deep monotone was all the more threatening for its lack of animation. “Just the bēag.”

  “The what?” Sailor and I asked at the same time.

  “Is that the way it is going to be?” Tristan asked, his expressionless light eyes never leaving mine.

  “Honestly, Tristan, I have no idea what—”

  “Forty-eight hours. I’ll come back.”

  “You come back,” Sailor said, his voice a study in anger, “and you’ll deal with me.”

  Tristan nodded.

  “Listen, Tristan,” I began, “why don’t we—”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  “Make no mistake, pal. You come anywhere near her, you lay a hand on her,” Sailor threatened, “and I’ll kill you.”

  At that moment I heard a car door slam. Homicide Inspector Carlos Romero, of the San Francisco Police Department, had double-parked his unmarked police car on busy Haight Street, causing an immediate traffic snarl. Relief warred with consternation in my chest. Carlos was a friend. But he was also a cop.

  “Everything okay here, folks?” Carlos said as he joined us, his dark brown eyes evaluating the tense scene.

  “Just peachy,” I piped.

  “Lily Ivory stole from me,” said Tristan.

  “Is that right?” Carlos said. “And who might you be?”

  “I am Mr. Tristan Dupree,” Tristan replied in his stilted way.

  Carlos turned to me, a faint smile on his face. “Lily, did you steal something from this gentleman?”

  “This is one of those complicated situations. . . .” I trailed off.

  “Meaning what, exactly?” asked Carlos.

  “Meaning I’m not sure what he’s talking about.”

  Tristan repeated: “Forty-eight hours.”

  “What happens then?” Carlos asked, his eyes boring into Tristan.

  “Am I free to go, Inspector?” Tristan asked.

  Carlos and I exchanged a glance. He was dressed in plain clothes, and no one else had called him by his title. How had Tristan known he was a cop—and an inspector at that?

  “Not if you’re making threats against Ms. Ivory, you’re not,” said Carlos.

  “I am not the one who is making the threats,” Tristan said. He nodded at Sailor. “He is the one with whom you should speak. One moment ago he threatened my life. Lily Ivory, I am staying at the Hotel Marais. On Bush Street, not far from the Chinatown gates.” He handed me a business card from a downtown hotel. “Room two seventeen. I shall be waiting to hear from you.”

  Carlos, Sailor, and I watched as Tristan Dupree turned and walked down the street. He had a slight limp but was nonetheless an imposing figure.

  “Lily, you sure do know some interesting people,” Carlos said, breaking the silence. “Friend of yours?”

  “An acquaintance, at best,” I replied. “I met him in Germany many years ago, and haven’t seen him since.”

  “What did you steal from him?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  “So you did steal something?”

  “Honestly—”

  “You have no idea,” Carlos finished my sentence with a nod.

  “What brings you here, Carlos?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Just so happens I was down the street at Coffee to the People when Maya called. She thought there might be trouble.”

  “No trouble here,” I chirped.

  Sailor glowered.

  “That a fact?” Carlos said. “So what’s with the forty-eight-hour deadline?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about; Tristan’s a bit of a drama king,” I said. “I’ll look through my old things, see if I might have accidentally squirreled something away.”

  I was lying through my teeth. I had no idea what a bēag was, much less whether I had stolen one from Tristan. I needed to give this some thought, away from the presence of the police inspector.

  Sailor was staring at me, his confusion apparent. Carlos glanced at him, then at me. “All righty, then. Lily, let me know if there’s any more trouble. And, Sailor—don’t kill anyone. Matter of fact, stop threatening to kill anyone. We clear?”

  Sailor didn’t react. He did this often: The curtain would come down over his handsome features like a wall of ice. On the rare occasions that ice melted . . . well, it made my heart go wonky.

  But right now it irritated me. Couldn’t he just once be cooperative and say, “Sure thing, Inspector”? Then again, I reminded myself, not everyone lies as easily as I’ve learned to do.

  Carlos waited. “Sailor, I’m serious. You got a history with this guy?”

  Sailor shook his head.

  “Did you threaten him?”

  Sailor shrugged.

  “Sailor was feeling protective,” I volunteered, “because Tristan’s a bit of an odd fellow, as I’m sure you noticed.”
r />   “And because he gave you a mysterious forty-eight-hour deadline,” said Carlos.

  “That, too.”

  “I have no plans to do anything to him,” Sailor said. “But if he bothers Lily—”

  “You won’t back down. Okay, got it. Lily, may I see the card he gave you, please?”

  I handed Carlos the business card for the Hotel Marais. He nodded. “I know the place. I’ll have a uniform go over and have a chat with this Mr. Tristan Dupree, make sure he understands we don’t want any trouble in our fair city. You’re certain you don’t know what he’s after?”

  “Very certain. But I’ll look into it—that’s a promise.”

  “You do that,” Carlos said as he headed for his car. He paused before getting in and said, “In the meantime, both of you: Keep the peace, will you? I’ve got homicides to deal with. I can’t afford to be riding herd on the two of you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  As Sailor and I stepped into Aunt Cora’s Closet, Oscar peeked out from behind the brocade curtain that separates the workroom from the display floor. Apparently relieved to see it was only us, he ran around in circles, his hooves tapping on the wooden floor, then excitedly butted my shins.

  “A lot of help you are,” I grumbled, but gave him a smile and a scratch behind the ears. “So much for being a fearsome guard pig.”

  “What was all that about?” asked Maya. “Who was that guy?”

  “An old acquaintance. He thinks I have something of his.”

  “Like what?”

  “A . . . blegh, I think?” I tried to recall what Tristan had said.

  “A blog?” Maya asked. “That can’t be right. You’re scared of the Internet.”

  “No, not a blog. A . . . bag, maybe?”

  “Sounded more like a beeg to me,” said Sailor.

  “And what’s a beeg?” asked Maya. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the shop laptop—the one I avoided like the plague—and started to search the Internet.

  “We don’t know,” I said, moving to look at the computer screen over her shoulder. “Does anything come up?”