The mandrake bush.
I glanced back at the growing inferno in front of us. I was up against a powerful entity. I couldn’t do this alone. I was going to need Aidan’s help.
The kitchen door was open, the room still free of the flames. Given the age of the building and the dryness of its timbers, I imagined it wouldn’t last long. Most homes burned beyond help within ten minutes, long before emergency vehicles were able to arrive. It was now or never.
I got up and rushed back in through the kitchen door.
Yanking open the refrigerator, I found an old-fashioned glass bottle of milk. On the breadboard was a loaf that looked homemade, and next to it a saltshaker. Perfect. On the shelf, in front of the heart-shaped sachets, was a jar full of pennies. Everything I needed.
“What are you, crazy, lady?” Tomás called out from the doorway. I looked over at him. He had so much black soot covering his face he looked as if he were wearing a mask. If it weren’t for the dire circumstances, it would have been comical. “You’re looting the place? I’m not going in after you again, ¿me entiendes?”
“I’m coming!” I yelled, then turned back to the shelf and grabbed one of the stitched sachets.
My arms full of my plunder, I ran back through the door and out to the lawn, where I set everything down.
“Do you have a knife on you?” I asked Tomás.
“Eres más loca que una cabra,” he grumbled, shaking his head. Graciela used to use that expression on me, as well; loosely translated, it meant that I was crazier than a she-goat. I supposed he had cause. Nonetheless, he dug into a pocket and handed over a penknife. His dark gaze kept shifting over to the street and then back down at me, as though he wanted to flee but felt duty-bound to stay. “Are you sure you’re all right? What the hell are you doing?”
“I just need to take some of the root of this plant.” I started chanting softly to the bush. Its scent wafted up to me, clearing my nostrils of the caustic scent of burning, replacing it with the freshness of green growth. I spoke to the plant, telling it of my need, and my situation. I asked if there was a root that would like to come and be part of the walking world.
The mandrake scream was famous for killing or driving into madness those who would pull it from the ground willy-nilly. But there was no need for such dramatics when obtaining the root. The bush simply needed to be approached with the respect and compassion due any living object.
My recipe for the mandragora called for milk to be brewed with three drowned bats, but not only did I not have any more bats on hand, I loathed making life sacrifices unless absolutely necessary. The bat, the chicken, the goat . . . their sacrifice was sometimes needed as a blood payment. But I hated it. Luckily I had some pretty potent stuff running through my own veins.
I made a small X on my palm and let three drops fall into the bottle of milk. Then I poured the milk, laid the bread, salt, and money on the ground, sat back, and waited. A high-pitched shriek emitted very briefly. Though it hurt my ears, it was over as quickly as it had begun.
I located where the brief cry had come from, and started to dig, using a flat stone from the garden border. All the while I spoke to the plant and chanted. Very carefully digging around the root, I loosened the earth, then pulled very, very gingerly, extricating a single bifurcated root that looked almost like a little person already: arms and stubby head, his legs crossed bashfully. Finally, I placed the offerings of bread, money, and salt into the hole and carefully covered everything with earth.
I bathed the root in the remainder of the milk, dried him with the corner of my skirt, and wrapped him in the only cloth I had with me, the black silk bag that had held the Hand of Glory. Normally the mandragora should be put to bed immediately in his own special box, but the best I could do was to make him a little nest in the bottom of my backpack.
“De puta madre,” Tomás swore, breaking my concentration. “This place is crawling with you brujas.”
Brujas means witches.
I looked up to see fear in Tomás’s eyes. I couldn’t blame him. I must look insane, kneeling, muddy, and covered in black soot, pulling roots and burying things while an inferno raged not twenty feet away.
A distant siren grew nearer.
“I needed to take some cuttings from the garden.”
“This is evil stuff here. Let it all burn.”
“Did you set fire to the house?”
“What? You really are crazy. I just saved your life.” He coughed, then swore again in Spanish.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a rush. And I was. “I just . . . Thank you, Tomás. Thank you so much. You’re my savior.”
He grunted and looked out toward the road.
“What were you doing here?” I asked.
“I . . . I was looking for something to do with Jessica. I keep thinking, keep wondering whether the old lady had something to do with her disappearance.”
“How?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I was looking for, a doll maybe, something of hers. Whenever kids hang around here . . . pretty soon they end up gone. I told Jessica to stay away from here, but she liked the old lady.”
That reminded me: the heart-shaped sachet. I used Tomás’s knife to cut into it. Out fell twigs and dirt, bits of bone, and hair, all matted with what looked like dried blood. Not your average sachet stitched by a sweet little old lady.
Tomás was looking down, a horrified expression on his face. “What is that?”
“A sweetness charm. It’s how she convinced people that she meant no harm.”
“I knew it. ‘Hansel and Gretel’ is my nephew’s favorite story.”
“You’re smarter than I am.” I pulled the poppet of Sandra from my pocket. It would have to be disposed of properly. “Could I use your phone?”
He handed over his cell phone, and I talked to Bronwyn at the hospital. She told me that after first being intubated, Sandra had suddenly started breathing on her own. I sagged in relief. At least I had gotten one thing right . . . though if it hadn’t been for Tomás, I may well have forfeited my life for the sake of finding the hex doll. It was a little overwhelming.
We had come a mite too close to a witch burning tonight.
As I stood at the door of Aunt Cora’s Closet, dreaming of a shower and fumbling with my keys, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I jumped about three feet in the air and twisted around. Hervé LaMansec.
“My Lord in heaven, you scared me!”
“Sorry about that. You don’t have a cell phone, and I doubted you’d checked your e-mail.” His ebony eyes looked me over. “Are you all right? You look a bit . . . worse for wear.”
“I’ll be fine if you tell me you know what’s going on. Someone I know was almost killed by witchcraft tonight. And I barely escaped dying in a fire myself.”
“That might explain why I was sent. Mother Decotier says she must speak to you tonight. Apparently time is of the essence.”
“What’s going on?”
“That I don’t know. But she’s expecting you.”
I looked down at myself. The whole way home, the bitter smell of soot had overwhelmed my senses.
“Is there time for a shower?”
Hervé shook his head. “She’s more of a come-as-you-are spirit. Don’t worry about it.”
I wasn’t so much worried about insulting Mother Decotier as I was hoping to get this stench off of me, but I conceded to Hervé’s sense of urgency.
Hervé led me to a green Prius hybrid with a bumper full of progressive political stickers. For the first time this evening, I smiled. Trust San Francisco to produce a hybrid-driving leftist voodoo priest from L.A. He drove swiftly through the darkened streets, parking illegally in a truck loading zone on Bush Street. Then we walked to the corner of Octavia, where Mary Ellen Pleasant’s grand mansion once stood. A simple bronze plaque and a few eucalyptus trees commemorated the spot. This was a busy residential corner during the day . . . I doubted many people to
ok notice of its historical significance. But then again, isn’t that true in most living cities? Every corner contains its own story, its own fascinating tale, but we are rarely made aware of it.
Hervé and I waited.
And waited.
I wasn’t the most patient witch in the world under the best of circumstances, and right now I was weary to the bone, smelled like a fireplace, and had lost faith in my magical abilities. All I wanted to do was take a shower for as long as the hot water lasted, then hide under my bed with Oscar at my side and a bottle of Cuban rum in my hand.
I was about to give up when a crow landed in the tree, then another and another. It was disturbing to see diurnal birds out at night. I looked over at my escort.
Hervé’s hands were held out and up in supplication. His eyes rolled back in his head as he began chanting so quietly I couldn’t make out the words. I felt the tingle of energy starting at the base of my spine and working its way up.
And there before us, standing between the trees, was an apparition.
I was speechless. I’ve never seen anything more than the occasional flashing light or glowing orb. Never an actual “ghost” that looks like Hollywood’s version, like a person made of mist and light. Could it be some sort of trick? I looked around us. Were there projectors somewhere? I had no idea why Hervé would go to that kind of trouble, but lately I was feeling as suspicious as Max the mythbuster.
“Lily Ivory,” the apparition intoned. The voice was melodious, strong and deep. It reminded me of velvet. It made you want to wrap yourself up in it. There was no faking that kind of voice, much less its effects.
“Yes,” I replied. “Thank you for seeing me, Mother Decotier.”
“You have a question for me?”
“Why didn’t my spell work to save Frances Potts?”
“Look to the living threads. Next question.”
I looked at Hervé. He looked a little nervous, which made me doubly so.
“What are living threads?”
She rolled her eyes. A ghost just rolled her eyes at me. Just when you think you’ve seen everything. . . .
“Next question.”
Apparently this was a twenty-questions sort of deal. I thought for a long moment. Graciela used to tell me that asking the right questions was the surest path to knowledge. Too bad I hadn’t thought this out beforehand.
“Did Frances make some sort of deal to get her daughter Elisabeth back from La Llorona?”
“Yes.”
There was a surge of light. Mother Decotier’s figure disappeared in the brightness for a moment, then emerged again. She was manifesting for me, I realized. It wasn’t that my power was any stronger, but that she was allowing me to see her in corporeal form. She probably assumed it was comforting. It wasn’t.
“Where is Elisabeth?”
“Look to the name.”
“The name Elisabeth?”
“No.”
“Katherine?”
“No.”
“Is Katherine actually Elisabeth?”
“No.”
I sighed in frustration. “Is it too late to get Jessica back from La Llorona?”
Another surge of light. “No. Not too late. You must act immediately. Look to the moon.”
She was fading. I watched the light dim until there was nothing but the slightest wisp of mist.
“Wait!” I called. “Who harmed Sandra?”
“Hush,” said Hervé in an urgent whisper. “She has said all that she has to say. You can’t call her back.”
“But—”
“I require payment,” came the voice. The corporeal vision was gone, but the voice wrapped around me, ephemeral but real, like a cloud. “Do you know what it is?”
And suddenly I did. An image came to me of a figure in the wax museum. Not of Mother Decotier, but of Mary Ellen Pleasant, San Francisco’s mother of civil rights.
I nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Look to the moon.”
And the presence was gone.
As Hervé and I walked back to his car, he looked over at me.
“See that you do.”
“Do what?”
“See that you fulfill your end of the bargain. I love her, but believe me—you don’t want to make the woman mad.”
I nodded and we climbed into his car.
We were silent as we started the drive across town. Finally, I turned to him.
“Hervé, do you know what the heck she was talking about?”
“Apparently you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know she’s cryptic, but she gives you the information you need. You must know enough to put the puzzle together. That’s the way she operates.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if she just said what she meant? What’s with the guessing game?”
He shrugged. “I imagine it must be something about speaking from the next dimension—you know how Ouija boards are mostly about asking yes and no questions?”
“I think she just enjoys screwing with people’s minds,” I grumbled.
Hervé laughed.“Perhaps it’s supposed to develop one’s character. In any case, you must know what it all means. I’m impressed with your knowing what the payment is that she requires. I didn’t pick up on that one at all.”
“She wants a wax sculpture of Mary Ellen Pleasant. That part I’ve got covered. And going after Jessica—looking to the moon—that must be tomorrow night. It’s the night of the full moon. La Llorona should be out in full force.”
I looked over at Hervé’s dramatic profile.
“I’m not strong enough to go up against La Llorona alone,” I said.
He pulled to a stop at a traffic light on Market Street. His eyes slid over to me, resting on mine for a moment. He shook his head.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“It’s not my battle, Lily. I’m sorry.”
I blew out a breath. Was I scared to go it alone? Of course. But even if I accepted the idea that I might die in the pursuit, the true tragedy would be not to save Jessica in the process.
Sacrifice another. That’s the only way. La única manera.
If I were a mother, I could sacrifice myself without a second thought. I imagined that if I were a mother, I might sacrifice anyone, anything, for my child.
As Frances had done. I wanted to condemn the woman out of hand, but a tiny part of my heart went out to her. She must have gone a little crazy trying to get her daughter Elisabeth back. Finally, out of desperation, she returned to her native New Orleans to study the voodoo of her youth, and had come back and set up an altar. . . . But the candles were burning two days after her death, so there must be someone else involved. Perhaps that someone was the person responsible for killing her, and for laying her out in the pentagram. And what were the “living threads” Decotier mentioned?
Decotier had given me a firm “no” to my suspicion that Katherine and Elisabeth were somehow one and the same, or that Elisabeth had possessed Katherine. Still, Aidan’s book on demonology had pointed out that a child brought back after so much time would have returned with powers similar to those of a natural witch. She might seem perfectly normal until challenged, but she would be altered, a sociopath in psychological terms. Would she be capable of murdering her own mother, or would she think of La Llorona as her only mother now?
Sandra must have somehow stumbled onto all of this while harassing Frances about selling her house to the neighborhood committee. Had she found out something about Elisabeth? Was that why she was being strangled, to silence her?
We pulled up to Aunt Cora’s Closet. I was disappointed that Hervé wouldn’t help me. But I also understood. He already had a lot to deal with in his regular practice, and better him than me. I’d had all the dealings with voodoo I wanted. From here on in, it was straight witchcraft as I knew it.
“Thanks for your help, Hervé,” I said as I opened the car door.
Hervé reached
out and put a hand on my shoulder. It was warm and comforting.
“May the strength of the gods be with you, and the mantle of goodness protect you.”
“Thanks. I’ll take all the help I can get.”
I climbed out, unlocked the door, and let myself into the shop, turning to wave at Hervé as he drove away. Locking the front door behind me, I hoped to feel the warm embrace of my environment. But the subtle vibrations of the clothing didn’t comfort me much tonight. I felt frustrated and insecure. What good were my talents if I wasn’t strong enough to save a child, or to understand what was being asked of me?
Oscar sat on the next-to-last step of the stairs in the back room, head in hand, glowering like a worried mother waiting for her daughter to return from the prom.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“It’s been a busy night,” I said.
“So busy you couldn’t call?”
“Oscar, please.”
“I was worried.”
“I’ll bet you were more hungry than worried.”
“That, too.” As if on cue, his little belly rumbled so loudly I could hear it across the room.
On the green linoleum table was an empty carton of Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies crackers that I kept on hand as emergency snacks for hungry children, and several wrappings from the hard candy I keep in a basket near the front register.
Guilt washed over me. There weren’t any leftovers in the fridge, and I hadn’t spared a thought for Oscar’s welfare. I wasn’t used to having a pet, or anyone at all, dependent upon me.
“I’m sorry, Oscar. I apologize. I’m going to have to teach you to cook, little guy. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll fix you something—how does pasta sound?”
As I moved toward the stairs, I noticed a couple of strands of pale hair on the back of the velvet chair glinting subtly in the overhead light.
Hair. Like silky threads. Look to the living threads. Look to them for what? I used Frances’s hair in the protection spell. . . . Or did I? I had assumed it was hers. Was I inadvertently protecting someone else?
Secondhand Spirits Page 21