“Gouge out her eyes.”
“What?”
“Go ahead. What harm could it do?”
“Give me a break,” he scoffed, and tried to sound condescending, but he wasn’t as casual as he’d hoped. The horrified expression on his handsome face gave him away.
“Why not?” I challenged. “It’s just a piece of paper stained with chemicals.”
“Put down the goddamned knife already.”
“Then curse her name. They’re just words, right? According to you, they don’t mean anything.”
“I get your point.” He snatched the photo back and slipped it into his wallet, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Don’t you see, Max? We all ascribe meaning to inanimate objects; that’s what we do as human beings. It’s a bit of magic. Witches just tend to ascribe more meaning, and in a more conscious way. And we learn to direct that meaning. It’s all about focusing intentions.”
“What I believe is that you’ve cast a spell over me. Talking to you, a person could almost start to believe in this nonsense.”
From him, that was high praise indeed. I smiled and returned my attention to polishing off the rest of my tacos. I sneaked a peek or two over at Max, watching the way his jaw worked while he ate, and the movements of his throat when he threw his head back and drank from his bottle of beer.
Why did he appeal to me? For one thing, he was smart, and I was a sucker for smart. And the chemistry was impossible to deny. And he was . . . normal. What would it be like to be able to be friends, or even something more, with someone perfectly normal like him?
Romance, not to mention sex, was problematic for me. The potent associations of sex and witchcraft was one favorite subject for the authors of the Malleus Maleficarum. They considered women to be temptresses, luring men to their doom, as in so much of the world and throughout so much history. But it is true that there is power in the intense feelings associated with sex. That kind of emotion can strengthen a witch’s abilities, and for someone like me, who was not always in command of her own talents, the loss of control the emotions stirred up could be . . . significant.
My first boyfriend in high school, who I thought was decent and brave until I realized he was showing off to win a bet, wound up with a minor head injury. Graciela had gotten me out of that predicament, but not without a lot of effort and a stern warning. Later, in Geneva, I met a psychic with some knowledge of and sensitivity to my world. He and I had a brief relationship until I realized I was with him primarily because he wasn’t afraid of me, and he was with me because he hoped to glean some of my powers. Luckily I was mature enough at that point to break it off without causing him bodily harm.
But how could I have feelings for someone like Max, a man who not only didn’t believe in my world, but despised it? I could force him to care for me; love spells are simple enough, and can be very potent. I knew I had that kind of power. But I didn’t want to do that. That always smacks of something sordid to me, the idea of making love to someone who wouldn’t be interested in their right mind. I might as well go out and hire myself a gigolo.
“So back to my question about the police . . .” Max said, breaking into my thoughts.
“It’s really none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
I took a deep breath, felt my medicine bag for moral support, and shrugged. “The house we were at . . . I told you a friend of mine was killed there.”
“Was she a close friend?”
“Not really, no. As a matter of fact, I’d only met her once . . . twice, sort of. Once, really. But I still feel responsible.”
“How could you be responsible for her death?”
“Not responsible, exactly, just . . . It’s hard to explain. I feel like I should have protected her.”
“I have to say, Lily, you strike me as someone who takes a lot on yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Here’s a for-instance: You meet a total stranger, and don’t want him going out on a boat for some secret reason of your own. So besides giving him what seems to be your own personal good-luck charm, you also make sure the boat never picks him up.”
I smiled at him, despite myself.
“Seems like a lot to take on yourself, seeing as how we had just met.”
“Speaking of the cops, what’s the story with you and Romero?”
He shrugged and took a drink. “He doesn’t much care for me.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I investigated a story about police corruption. . . .”
“He’s a bad cop?”
“No, quite the opposite. But police don’t like outsiders nosing around, making accusations. It’s a hard thing: Their job is tough, and their closeness is necessary to deal with what they have to. But when there’s a problem they close ranks.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Plus, my wife . . .” His gray eyes met mine, filled with a restless, deep sadness. “Let’s just say that the circumstances of her death were . . . unusual.”
“Unusual?”
“Romero doesn’t trust me; let’s leave it at that. He’s actually more your kind of guy.”
“How so?”
“I think his aunt or someone is a witch. I forget exactly. It came up when I was doing the story. He asked me to keep it out of the article, and I agreed.”
I nodded. Our eyes met longer than was strictly polite.
“I’d better get going,” I said. “I have to get back to the store.”
He looked at me a moment more before inclining his head. We cleaned our table, walked to the truck, and headed back across town. Evening had fallen and traffic was thick, people rushing out to happy hour and home to their families.
“You know, now that we’ve had our first date, it’s all downhill from here,” Max said as we neared the Chronicle building.
“Excuse me?”
“First dates are where you get all the awkward things out of the way. . . .”
“Like being investigated for homicide?”
“Oh, sure, and being a witch, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, that can be awkward.”
He gave me a crooked grin as we pulled up to the entrance to the parking garage. “Luckily I’m not easily daunted.”
The light from the streetlamps highlighted the masculine planes of Max’s face, and made his light eyes sparkle. But wasn’t this the man who so recently stalked out of my apartment, unable to deal with the idea of something otherworldly? Accusing me of lying to him, and to myself? Suspicion settled upon my shoulders like a heavy shroud. Could he be after something? Was he doing some sort of investigation, looking for an angle on a story? What was with his sudden change of attitude?
“Thanks for dinner,” I said as I opened the door and slid out of the cab.
“So, may I see you again? This time I’ll take you someplace with table service.”
“I . . . I’m sort of involved.” With spirits and witches.
“Involved.”
I nodded, hesitating to meet his eyes. I wasn’t great at lying.
“Too bad,” he said, the doubt clear in his voice. “My loss, then.”
He waited until I was safely in my car before taking off.
It was almost six thirty before I pulled up to a parking spot just down the block from Aunt Cora’s Closet, which meant we were closing in less than half an hour. It was a good thing for me that Bronwyn was so flexible, I thought to myself. She had offered to watch the shop again tomorrow while I went to Oakland for Frances’s funeral. I was going to have to start giving her a bigger commission.
As I neared the shop I walked right past Conrad, who sat with his back against a lamppost.
“Hi, Conrad.”
“Oh, hey.” He got up and followed me.
“Did you need something?” I stopped and turned toward him.
“Um . . . it’s kinda awkward. . . .” He rocked back and forth slightly o
n unsteady feet.
“Well, that does seem to be the word of the day. What’s up?”
“This morning right after you went to the café, your neighbor came by and said she left something in your store.”
“What neighbor?”
“The nervous one. She doesn’t like me.”
“Sandra?”
“Yeah! That’s the one. Sandra. I tried to talk her into waiting for you, but she was pretty insistent. I just thought you should know. Hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, of course not. Do you know if she took anything?”
“A bunch of white stuff. Looked like clouds.”
“White stuff?” I asked. “Like fabric? Could they have been wedding gowns?”
He waved an index finger at me. “You know, I think you’re right on the money. More likely wedding dresses than clouds.”
“Thanks, Conrad.”
“Dude. Anytime. Night.”
“Good night.”
He veered off to Golden Gate Park for the night. I headed straight to Sandra’s shop.
I couldn’t quite figure out Sandra’s involvement in this whole mess, but there were too many bizarre incidents lately. Her bringing out the Malleus Maleficarum. The feverish need to get her hands on the stone statue at the auction. Her insistence on seeing Frances’s clothes, and what I had found out about her interest in the Potts house. And now Sandra had taken Frances’s wedding gowns. Unless she was planning an emergency double wedding, I bet she was trying to use the dresses to conjure. I just couldn’t figure out why.
The Open sign was up in the door of Peaceful Things, but there wasn’t a soul in the place.
“Sandra? Hello, anybody here?”
No response.
I started walking toward the back. About halfway across the store I felt it: a wave of nausea and dread. A pungent, metallic smell. I took my medicine bag out and held it in front of me as I made my way slowly and carefully past innocuous racks of T-shirts and love beads. By the time I reached the back of the store and could look through the archway to the back room, I spied a corner of cloudy white.
One of the stolen wedding dresses.
Sandra was dressed in Frances’s bridal silk. The Malleus Maleficarum was open on the floor by her side.
She was sprawled on her back on the floor, writhing.
Silent but clutching at her neck, she looked up at me with terrified eyes.
Chapter 16
Sandra was choking. Her breath whistled as she labored to breathe.
I lurched toward her. The power of the circle hit me; she had cast a spell, but it was weak and was already dispersing. I was able to cross the lines of salt.
I didn’t think her choking was caused by natural forces, but just in case, I opened her mouth to look for obstructions, then pulled her up to me and performed the Heimlich maneuver. To no avail.
As I held her, I felt strong vibrations from the dress. There was a layer of false feeling on top; it had fooled me before, when I didn’t see any reason to be suspicious. But now I felt the undercurrents: Frances had not passed on to the other side. Was she haunting us? I hadn’t felt her presence. Could she be possessing Sandra?
No. Intruding spirits don’t like to kill their host. On the other hand . . . asphyxiation was a famous witches’ hex. The Malleus Maleficarum included a whole section on suffocation from afar.
I laid Sandra back down. She looked up at me with horror. I could hear the wheezing, which was good—it meant that she was still able to get some air into her lungs. But she was panicking.
“Listen to me, Sandra. You have to stay as calm as you can,” I told her, gazing into her pale green eyes. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
I ran and used her shop phone to call 911, then Bronwyn, who was still at Aunt Cora’s Closet. She raced over.
“Oh, my Goddess!” Bronwyn exclaimed as she fell to her knees in front of Sandra. “Sandra, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Oscar had been following at her heels, but hit the brakes as soon as he felt the tremors of malevolent witchcraft. He looked up at me, then turned tail and ran back out of the store.
I started rifling through nearby drawers, then moved on to chests and boxes and trunks.
“What in the world are you doing, Lily?” Bronwyn asked.
“Looking for something causing this. It’s witchcraft—there has to be a hex doll somewhere.”
Sandra’s movements became frantic as she gestured to me. I leaned down to her, and she clutched at the front of my dress to bring me to her. I put my ear right near her mouth, trying to hear over the dreadful wheezing.
“Fran . . . ces . . .” she managed.
“Frances is involved? But she’s—”
“Her . . . house . . .” She started gagging, then released my dress and fell limp against the floor.
Of course. The hex doll wasn’t here in the shop. I was looking in the wrong place.
Just then I heard sirens in the distance.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the desk, I knelt beside Sandra and snipped a lock of her hair. At first I avoided her eyes, the look of panic there. But I stopped myself, took her by the shoulders, and looked into her wide, fearful gaze.
“Sandra, listen to me. Try to be as calm as you can. I’m going to find what’s doing this to you, and I’ll stop it. Do you believe me?”
She nodded.
“Just hang in there; breathe slowly.” I looked up at Bronwyn. “Help her to breathe in and out, really slowly, like the opposite of the Lamaze method. I have to go.”
“Go? Where?”
“Just tell the authorities you dropped by and found her. Leave my name out of it if you can.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I think she’s suffering under a curse, Bronwyn. I have to find the object used to cast the spell. Try to keep her calm. The more frightened she gets, the more she panics, the faster she’ll . . . It will be better if she can remain calm.”
Evil witches liked to use the person’s complicity in their own demise.
With one more squeeze of Sandra’s hand, and a silent promise as I looked into her eyes, I ran.
I pulled up to the back of Frances’s house with a screech of my tires. As usual the house stood silent, dark and foreboding against the evening sky. I ran up the back walk, pulled the gruesome Hand of Glory out of my backpack, and the back door unlocked before me. Inside the kitchen the hand made it as bright as day; unlike a flashlight, it left no dark corners, illuminating everything. As long as I repressed the knowledge of what, exactly, I was holding in my hand, this was a neat little tool.
I ran up the stairs and to the bedroom door at the end of the hall. No spirits pestered me, unlike last time I was here. Could it be the effect of the hand, or had things changed?
Crossing through the room, I opened the closet and pushed aside the clothes hanging on the bar. As before, there was a soft light emerging from under the door. I flung it open.
No one was there. Only burning candles and the same items on the altar as last time. But added to these was a carved wooden box. I opened it to find a crudely formed hex doll with green eyes, a black string twined around its wax neck.
Setting the Hand of Glory on the altar, I grabbed the hex doll, picked up the sacrificial knife, and used it to snip the string.
I could practically feel the doll take a deep breath, and I did the same. I stashed the poppet in my backpack, along with the lock of hair I had taken from Sandra. As a part of her, the hair would help me rid the doll of its association with Sandra, just in case it fell back into malicious hands. Closing my eyes, I sagged in relief.
The light changed. I opened my eyes to see that the Hand of Glory had opened, allowing its candle to fall to the floor. The altar candles were knocking over, one after another. Within seconds a stream of fire raced along the black cloth, consuming the fringe along the altar.
I felt heat behind me. Turning, I watched as a wall of flames engulfed the clothes in the
outer closet.
Sheer terror.
I fell to the floor, gasping for air, clutching my medicine bag. There was no way out but through the flames. I started coughing, quickly losing any sense or sight in the smoke and heat. I had to go, now, despite the flames . . . or die where I was.
Suddenly I heard something above the crackle of the blaze. A spurting, spitting sound . . . Foam was being sprayed in the closet! A fire extinguisher!
My eyes burned from the smoke, and I couldn’t stop coughing. A strong hand reached into the altar room and wrapped around my arm, pulling me through the smoking closet and out into the bedroom, which was now going up in flames itself, fire licking at the old-fashioned curtains, swallowing the paneling like so much dried kindling.
As we raced through the bedroom I looked over to the man running beside me. Intricate tattoos ran up strong arms, all the way to his neck: Tomás. My savior.
The wall of flame was following us, reaching out toward us like a living entity. Tomás grabbed my upper arm to urge me faster as we ran down the upstairs hall. At the top of the stairs we paused. There was fire at the bottom, marching up in our direction. I pulled Tomás toward the other end of the hall until we reached the double-hung window I had climbed through the other night. Shoving the sash high, I breathed in the blessedly smoke-free air as I swung my leg over the ledge, and began to climb down the trellis. Tomás followed right behind me.
The lattice began cracking under our combined weight before we were halfway down. It started to pull away from the house, and we fell with it, jumping the last ten feet and rolling on the soft garden dirt below.
Looking back at the burning building, we scrambled another length from the structure and then lay on the dry, crackly lawn, coughing and hacking from the effects of the smoke.
“Thanks,” I choked out when I could finally speak. I sat up and watched as flames began to lick outside the bedroom window.
Tomás pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.
As we both sat there, stunned, my eyes fell to the neatly planted garden right beside our resting place on the lawn. A dark green, leafy bush sat in the corner nearest us. In the evening air I could smell the delicate apple-like scent of its fruit, in stark contrast to the acrid stench of the fire.
Secondhand Spirits Page 20