But what really interested me were the dozens of pieces of parchment paper. I drew one out: On it, in a typed font as though from an old-fashioned typewriter, was Travis R. Pfost, 2704 Potrero, Apt. 217. Travis’s name was signed in an illegible scrawl. I took out another: Kelli Vilaria, 1872 Divisadero (at Golden Gate). Kelli’s signature was loopy and she dotted her i’s with little hearts.
There was something about those scraps . . .
Placing my finger on Kelli’s signature, I felt it: a shimmer, a quickening. The unmistakable energy of blood magic.
I took out another piece of parchment, and another. All had names and addresses; all had been signed in blood.
Well, now, didn’t that just take the rag off the bush?
Were these markers of some kind? People who owed Aidan favors? If so, they must be very important favors to have been signed in blood. The magical community exchanged minor favors all the time; one’s word of honor was usually sufficient. Markers memorialized in print and signed in blood were reserved for serious magic. I had always thought of Aidan as the godfather of the Bay Area’s magical community, so perhaps he was living up to his name in great Hollywood tradition: Maybe he was making offers folks couldn’t refuse and then forcing them to do as he willed in return.
I sat back, hugged myself, and glared at the satchel.
It was one thing to join forces with Aidan to keep Selena safe and to go up against whatever magical threat might be looming over San Francisco. Quite another to be part of a magical shakedown.
So . . . what was I going to do about it?
Exhaustion washed over me. It had been one heck of a day.
I was putting the markers back in the satchel when one escaped from the pile and slowly drifted to the floor. It was signed with a particularly elaborate signature:
Autumn Jennings.
Damn.
Chapter 4
First thing the next morning I called the hospital again but learned only that Autumn Jennings was no longer in the ICU.
Bronwyn wouldn’t be in until late, and Maya had a sketch group, so I was alone in the shop. It was quiet, with only one or two customers at a time, so I sorted through business-related paperwork while Oscar snored on his special purple silk pillow. Maya had called to say her mother had taken Loretta to her sewing loft this morning, so I didn’t have to worry about her.
I had tried—and failed—to get Oscar to tell me more about the satchel, or to divulge Aidan’s location, or at least how to get in touch with him. But Oscar either didn’t know, or—more likely—wasn’t talking. One of the more disturbing aspects of my relationship to my familiar was that he filled me in only on a need-to-know basis, and his interpretation of my needing to know was often quite different from mine. That was one of the problems of having a familiar who wasn’t a real familiar. A real witch’s familiar, I grumbled to myself, would do as its mistress said.
Oscar was more like a . . . sidekick. A recalcitrant, garrulous, hungry, stubborn sidekick.
I stashed Aidan’s satchel under the counter and promised myself that I’d try to work up the energy to look through it soon, hoping to figure out its significance.
But for now I sipped my coffee, looked around Aunt Cora’s Closet, and willed myself to relax.
My shop gave me a deep sense of satisfaction. I felt the welcoming hum of the clothes, breathed in the scents of clean laundry and herbal sachets, and appreciated all the way to the very marrow of my bones just how lucky I was. I had been alone and lonely for so long, but now I had my health, a wonderful job, good friends to confide in and watch my back, Oscar to make me laugh—and occasionally save my life—and Sailor to woo my heart and hold me in his arms. Oscar and Sailor were occasionally infuriating to the point of madness, but still. I honestly had no idea what I’d done to deserve so much.
The memory of Autumn’s apartment highlighted my good fortune. Despite the opulence of her store and its wares, her living space had seemed so dreary and depressing and . . . depressed.
The bell over the shop door tinkled.
“You Lily Ivory?” demanded a thirtysomething woman, wearing a sort of hippie-chic outfit that included scarves and leather boots. Trailing her into the store was a woman of similar age, dressed like a Goth, in all black.
Not another process server, I thought. Who did Oscar head-butt this time?
“Yes,” I said. “And you are . . . ?”
“I’m Ebony Trevil,” said the one dressed in black. “Aidan said we were supposed to bring our issues to you.”
“Ah,” I began. “Listen, I—”
“I’m Isadora,” said the first. “One name. Like Madonna.”
Ebony rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, Lily, maybe you could tell the wannabe Madonna here to keep her nose out of my client list?”
“I can’t help it if your former clients come flocking to me,” responded Isadora with a shrug. “Cheaper prices, better service. This is a capitalist system we live in, more’s the pity, and that’s how capitalism works.”
“Pardon me, I really don’t—,” I began, but they weren’t listening.
“Are you even licensed?” Ebony demanded.
Isadora made a face.
“That’s what I thought! You’re not even licensed! If I wasn’t such a team player I would have reported you to the authorities already. You have to be licensed. Tell her, Lily.”
Oscar snorted awake, startling both women. As was usually the case for anyone who spotted Oscar in his piggy guise, their surprise turned to laughter.
“It’s a pig!”
“So cute! Here, piggy piggy pig . . .”
The brief respite gave me a chance to gather my wits. The women’s squabbling was obviously the sort of thing Aidan had asked me to take care of. How hard could it be? I could handle it. I adapted one of the techniques Bronwyn’s coven used during group discussions, grabbed a Brazilian rain stick, and held it up high.
“This is the talking stick,” I said solemnly, enjoying the sound of the rice inside the stick cascading down, like a torrential rain. “Only she who holds the stick may speak. Am I clear?”
The women nodded.
I handed the stick to the first woman who had walked in. “Ebony, tell me your side of the story, slowly and clearly. You have until the sound of rain stops.”
“But—,” she said, shaking her head.
“You’re wasting your talking time,” I warned.
Ebony finally settled down enough to tell me her complaint. “Okay, here’s the deal. Isadora used to be my apprentice. She didn’t complete her training but opened her own shop nevertheless.”
Isadora jumped in: “I don’t have to—”
“Do not disrespect the talking stick,” I ordered, ignoring a snort of laughter from Oscar.
Isadora fell silent.
“Continue,” I said.
“I sell love charms and prosperity spells, only for good, never for evil! Isadora’s been making up these stupid do-it-yourself kits, which cost half what I charge, and I’m losing business because of it. It’s not fair—” The stick fell silent, and so did Ebony.
I took the stick, turned it over, and handed it to Isadora. “Now you.”
“My kits aren’t stupid!” she said. “They contain herbs and stones, whatever is required for the spell or charm. I have as much right as Ebony to sell whatever I want to whoever I want, thank you very much.” She handed the stick back.
Both women looked at me expectantly.
“Hmmmm,” I said, wishing I had a long gray beard to stroke to make me look wiser. “Isadora, do you explain to your clients the concept of a witch’s ability to influence reality? That it is the concentration of intent that is crucial, not the specific items in a kit?”
“Sure,” she said.
I raised one eyebrow.
> “Well, I mean, kind of. I mean, I try, but they don’t always understand.”
“Perhaps that’s because you are not being clear,” I said. “If spells were as easy as mixing a few items together, then anyone could cast them. But we all know that’s not the way things work in the magical world. Now, what’s this about you not being licensed?”
“I thought Ebony was just making that up!” Isadora protested.
“Oh, please,” Ebony said with scorn. “You want to be a businesswoman, learn about business.”
“Fortune-tellers and necromancers must be licensed by the city of San Francisco,” I confirmed. “Go down to City Hall and apply for a license, or else you’ll be subject to fines and possible imprisonment. Nobody wants to see that happen, now, do we?”
“Fine by me,” Ebony said. “Let her spend some time in jail. It’ll build character.”
“I can’t believe this,” Isadora said. “You must be mistaken.”
“Afraid not.” I crouched down behind the counter, opened the satchel, and brought out a copy of the licensure for necromancers. “Article 17.1 of the San Francisco Municipal Code makes fortune-telling permits available in exchange for an application and license fee. Section 1305 states says that the chief of police ‘shall grant the permit’ unless the applicant has been convicted of a felony or two or more misdemeanors relating to fraud, etc. in the past seven years.”
Isadora was avoiding my eyes and seemed to be thinking.
“Felony fraud conviction?” I asked.
“Oh, wait, conviction?” she repeated. “Oh, no, no. I’m good.”
By which I assumed she had, perhaps, been brought up on charges at one point. But I wasn’t going to open that can of worms.
“But I’m no fortune-teller,” Isadora continued. “So that stupid statute doesn’t apply to me.”
“These are civilians we’re talking about,” Ebony said. “They don’t know the difference.”
“She’s right,” I said. “The statute covers that. Listen: ‘Fortune-telling shall mean the telling of fortunes, forecasting of futures, or reading the past by means of any occult, psychic power, faculty, force, clairvoyance, cartomancy, psychometry, phrenology, spirits, tea leaves, tarot cards, scrying, coins, sticks, dice, sand, coffee grounds, crystal gazing, or other such reading.’” I paused to take a breath. “‘Or through mediumship, seership, prophecy, augury, astrology, palmistry, necromancy, mind reading, telepathy, or other craft, art, science, talisman, charm, potion, magnetism, magnetized article, or substance.’”
Ebony had crossed her arms over her chest and was waggling her head in an “I told you so” gesture.
“Wait,” said Isadora. “Coffee grounds? Who does that?”
“It’s as legit as tea leaves,” responded Ebony.
“And that’s not all,” I continued. “‘It shall also include effecting spells, charms, or incantations, or placing, or removing curses or advising the taking or administering of what are commonly called love powders or potions in order, for example, to get or recover property, stop bad luck, give good luck, put bad luck on a person or animal, stop or injure the business or health of a person or shorten a person’s life, obtain success in business, enterprise, speculation, and games of chance, win the affection of a person, make one person marry or divorce another, induce a person to make or alter a will, tell where money or other property is hidden, make a person to dispose of property in favor of another, or other such similar activity.’”
I put the paper down.
“Dang,” said Isadora. “They cover just about everything, don’t they?”
“Just about.”
“Are you licensed?” Isadora asked me, her chin jutting out stubbornly.
“Aidan takes care of all that for me.” In fact, I didn’t have a license because I didn’t need one. For me witchcraft was a way of life, not a source of income. I had vintage clothing for that, and lately the store had been doing really well.
At the mention of Aidan’s name the two women lowered their eyes and seemed less certain.
“Oh, and just in case you’re wondering, Municipal Code 1302 (b) states, ‘fortune-telling shall also include those pretending to perform these actions.’”
They both looked a little stunned.
“Just FYI,” I added.
“Okay,” Isadora said, picking up the paper and looking it over. “I’ll go register for a license. But Ebony has to get off my back about ‘stealing’ her customers. It’s a free country, after all.”
“But you’ll agree to do as Lily says, and inform them of the difference between hiring a professional—a licensed, trained professional like me—and doing it themselves at home with your kit?” Ebony demanded.
“You honestly think they can’t figure that out for themselves?” Isadora asked. “But okay, sure. I’ll make it clearer, and then they can make up their own minds.”
“Fair enough,” Ebony said.
The women turned to stare at me. What was supposed to happen next? Acting on instinct, I reached down, grabbed the satchel, and set it on the counter. Ebony and Isadora took a step back.
“Whoa,” said Ebony.
“Yeah, what she said,” said Isadora.
Ebony met my gaze. “So we put our hands on it and swear? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” I said, though in fact I was following their lead. I was one sorry excuse for an Aidan substitute. To be fair, I hadn’t had much in the way of on-the-job training. And I knew from experience that this was Aidan’s idea of fun, to watch me flailing. Not that he was actually watching. I hoped.
The women placed their right hands on the satchel and whispered some kind of oath. Satisfied, they looked at each other, nodded, and left.
Case closed, I thought with relief. But just as I was stowing the bag beneath the counter, another woman stormed into Aunt Cora’s Closet. Like Isadora and Ebony, she didn’t have the air of a person looking for the perfect 1970s outfit for a costume party. She was already dressed in a distinctive fashion: a colorful dashiki over bright purple leggings, with lots of chunky tribal jewelry.
“I’m in a time crunch. I need help getting some paperwork through City Hall.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I said without thinking.
“If I knew the answer, I’d do it myself, wouldn’t I? Aidan always took care of it. Don’t you have the mayor’s number?”
As a matter of fact, I did. I remembered seeing it in the satchel. But was I supposed to call the mayor now? And what would I say? Offer a bribe? A veiled threat? A campaign pledge?
“Leave me your information. I’ll see what I can do,” I said, pushing a pad of paper and pen across the counter to her.
What a morning, I thought as the woman scribbled a lengthy note. I’m ready to call it a day and it isn’t even noon. How long is Aidan planning to be gone?
Just then the scent of roses enveloped me. I looked up to see Sailor opening the shop door, its little bell tinkling merrily.
He paused in the doorway, motorcycle helmet under his arm, hair tousled, dark eyes smoldering, a very slight smile on his face.
“There she is,” he said in a quiet voice.
Those few words thrilled me to my core. They made me feel as though Sailor had been searching for me his whole life and had finally found me. They made me feel wanted, and . . . loved. And, let’s face it; they made me think about things much more delicious than bureaucratic obstructions. . . .
The woman finally finished writing her saga, and I promised to look into the matter. She didn’t seem particularly satisfied, but she nodded and thanked me nonetheless. Then she paused and looked from me to Sailor and back to me. She raised her eyebrows, smiled, and left.
Sailor wrapped his arms around me, we kissed, and I lost track of the rest of the world. It took Oscar snorting and bumping our legs to re
mind us that we were in public and that I had a business to run. My pig didn’t approve of public displays of affection, or PDA, as he called it.
“Your visitor seemed agitated,” said Sailor when he released me. He took a sip of my now cool coffee and grimaced.
“You should have seen the pair before her. Want me to make you a fresh cup?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. No time. But tell me, what’s going on?”
“Aidan left town.”
“For good?” There was a hopeful note in his voice. Despite our recent pledge to work together if and when the need arose, Sailor and Aidan weren’t exactly buddies.
“Just temporarily. At least, I hope so.”
“Oh, well. How I shall miss his delightful company.”
“Meanwhile, he’s left me in charge.”
“In charge of what, exactly? He asks with trepidation . . .”
“I’m still figuring that out. Basically he gave me a satchel and told me to deal with things, then took off before I could ask him questions.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“’Fraid not.”
“Let me get this straight: You have Aidan’s satchel? The satchel?”
“Yes. What is it about that stupid bag? Oscar was freaked-out as well.”
“What—”
I felt a tingling on the back of my neck.
Sailor felt it, too. We glanced at each other, then turned as one to face the door.
A man and woman entered the store. He was older, probably in his early fifties; she looked to be about my age. Both wore inexpensive dark suits, and neither smiled.
“Lily Ivory?” asked the man.
Sailor planted himself between them and me. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Inspector Stinson,” the man said, pulling a leather case from his breast pocket and flashing a shiny SFPD badge. “And this is my partner, Inspector Ng.”
Since arriving in San Francisco, setting up shop, and delving into the occasional murder investigation, I had dealt with the police department a fair amount. But usually I was interrogated—sometimes on a good day even asked to help solve crimes—by Homicide Inspector Carlos Romero, who had become a friend. A crazy part of me wanted to ask whether I could request Carlos’s presence, as though a person could ask to be questioned by whatever cop she wanted.
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