Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “So maybe she doesn’t like babies?” I let out a frustrated breath. It wasn’t much to go on. It wasn’t anything, really. How did a person find one girl in a vast city like this? I turned to Aidan. “You can’t get a feel for her, somewhere, somehow?”

  “I’ve tried. I believe she’s cloaked. I don’t know whether it was her doing or Ursula’s, but she’s not as easy to track as another might be.”

  “Dangitall,” I said, shaking my head as I glanced at the list of names Hervé had given me. “I guess there’s nothing to do now but to speak to some of these folks. They might know something, I suppose. I swear, it’s like puttin’ socks on a rooster.”

  Hervé and Aidan shared an amused glance.

  “What?”

  “Your Texan comes out when you’re peeved.”

  “Well, then, best shine up the Lone Star ’cause I’m feelin’ mighty peeved. Thanks, Hervé, for the help. Please tell Caterina good-bye for me. Aidan . . .” I let that last trail off, and just nodded. “I’ll let you all know if I learn anything from these folks.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Aidan.

  “No need,” I said.

  “Happy to do it.”

  “I’d rather go alone.”

  Our gaze held. He smiled a slow, knowing smile.

  “I don’t need you,” I insisted.

  “Sure about that?”

  Hervé’s gaze shifted from me to Aidan and back again, as though watching a tennis match.

  “Fine,” I said, giving in to the inevitable. “Tag along if you must. But I’m doing the questioning.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  When pigs fly, I thought.

  * * *

  We headed to the first botanica on Hervé’s list.

  Aidan moved along the crowded sidewalks with an elegant glide, gracefully dodging other pedestrians and bestowing a pleasant smile upon all he passed. His golden hair glinted in the bright afternoon sunshine; his eyes were a piercing periwinkle blue. A strong jaw and a hint of manly stubble kept Aidan from looking too pretty. He was stunning, was what he was. Most women—and a handful of men—gawked and a few even came to a standstill to watch as he walked by.

  But I knew it was a facade, the result of a glamour Aidan cast to hide his true appearance. Years ago he had been disfigured by fire during a battle with a demon, and now rarely went out in public. I didn’t know if he had been this good-looking before his injuries, or if he had embellished a bit, but in any case his appearance was only part of his appeal. Aidan’s aura was so glittery that even those who weren’t sensitive could feel it.

  Love him or hate him, there was no denying that Aidan was extraordinary.

  But maintaining the glamour cost him a lot of energy, especially during the day. It was easier at night, when the portals are open wider, allowing magical folk to more easily call on our ancestors for assistance. It was rare to see Aidan walking around in the afternoon sunshine.

  Finding Selena must be important.

  About half a block down, we entered Botanica Suerte. The shop’s interior was similar to El Pajarito: The jammed shelves held rows of candles, cans of various sprays, bags of herbs, packets of tiny charms.

  Aidan and I hung back and watched as a tiny gray-haired customer selected two candles, one labeled “health,” the other “fortune,” and carried them to the front counter. The woman sitting behind the register, her black hair in a thick braid on top of her head, picked up a sharp pencil and drilled deep holes into the soft candle wax. She grabbed a bottle of essential oil and poured a thin stream onto the candle, rotating it in circles while chanting under her breath.

  While we waited, we checked out the store’s merchandise, feeling for sensations, errant or otherwise. If this thing with Ursula really was some kind of infection moving through magical businesses, we should be able to sense it. In any case, it was important to remain on guard.

  In each corner of Botanica Suerte was an altar. Offerings of roses, fruit, and candy surrounded statues of saints. Candles flickered. As we watched, another customer laid two oranges and a full bottle of rum at the feet of St. Sebastian, knelt, and said a prayer.

  “People give offerings of fruits, flowers, and honey to sweeten the paths of those who believe in the saints,” explained the proprietor when she spotted me. “The flowers are for having a good life path, protection, health, money, love; it represents peace and tranquility among the family. What can I do for you?”

  Her eyes widened as Aidan stepped out from behind a display.

  “Señor Rhodes, perdóneme,” she begged forgiveness in Spanish. “I didn’t see you there—I am so nearsighted in my old age. How are you? What honor brings you to my store?”

  “This is my friend, Lily Ivory,” said Aidan.

  She nodded at me, but we did not shake hands. This wasn’t unusual. Sometimes physical contact is a bit more than we magical folks can take.

  “Lily and I are looking into the situation at El Pajarito,” Aidan continued. “What can you tell us?”

  She shrugged and eyed a pair of young women absorbed in reading the contents on the packets of herbs. Their heads were bent low, and they were paying so little attention to us I assumed Aidan had cast a cocooning spell to keep our conversation private.

  “You know Ursula Moreno, of course,” Aidan said.

  She nodded.

  “Come now, Maria. No need to be coy.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  Aidan fixed her with an intense gaze and cast her a soul-melting grin. Maria seemed to relax.

  “Of course I know Ursula. She undercuts me on limpias, cleansings, offering to do them ten dollars cheaper, no matter how much I reduce my price.” Resentment rang in her words. “Also, she says her readings are better than mine.”

  “Ursula Moreno did readings?” I asked. This was news.

  “Not her, that girl.”

  “Selena?” I asked.

  Maria nodded. “She’s a very . . . special girl.”

  “Do you know where I might find her?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about Lupita?”

  Maria’s eyes narrowed. “Lupita’s not to be trusted. She only came to Ursula when she needed money. That’s all she ever wanted, a sweet little pair of shoes, a new car, a nicer place to live. She even dragged a reporter in here one time. I’m sure to make money.”

  “The reporter paid her?”

  “Lupita never did anything unless there was something in it for her, so I bet she got paid somehow.”

  “Do you remember the name of the reporter?”

  She shrugged. “It started with an M.”

  “Michael? Mark? Matthew?” I suggested.

  “Malcolm? Malachi? Maxwell?” Aidan said.

  “That is the one!” Maria said.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “Mac . . . no, Max. Max something.”

  A part of me froze. I knew a Max who was a reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle.

  “Max Carmichael?” I asked.

  She nodded. “That could be it.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Guapo. Handsome. Tall, dark. Light eyes.”

  Not long after I’d arrived in San Francisco, Max Carmichael and I had gone out a few times. It was a short affair, but burned brightly in my memory, perhaps because, other than my relationship with Sailor, I didn’t have much to compare it to.

  But Max had been on my mind since I realized the parallels between the suicide of Nicky Utley and Max’s wife, who had killed herself after a psychic told her to go off her meds. Was this yet another coincidence?

  “Let’s get back to the point,” Aidan said. “Have you noticed anything off about your merchandise?”

  She shook her head. “No, all is normal.”

  “And how about the city officials?” I jumped in. I’d made a big deal about being the one to ask the questions, after all. “Has anyone been i
n to ask you about fortune-telling? Maybe talked to you about practicing medicine without a license, for example?”

  “They’ve been checking everyone’s credentials, and warning us. But I don’t ‘practice medicine,’ as you say. A lot of my clients, they go to the regular doctor but the doctor can’t help with what ails them. They have to look for help elsewhere, so they come to me.”

  “And you tend to them.”

  “With plants, and prayer, and lo que quien sabe . . . what one knows, with who knows what.”

  “And Ursula did the same, as far as you know?”

  “Not as well, but yes, about the same.”

  “You didn’t know her to have any sort of . . . special powers? For good or for ill?”

  “As I said, she offered services like I did, and tried to give them away cheaper. But when it comes down to it”—she shrugged and seemed to speak grudgingly—“I suppose Ursula should not be in jail any more than I should.”

  * * *

  “What do you know about Santeria?” I asked as Aidan and I walked to the next store on the list Hervé had given us.

  “It’s essentially a mix of Catholicism and the Yoruba religion, brought to the Caribbean by West African slaves. It spread throughout many Latin American countries in the nineteenth century, and is pretty common among Latino communities here in the U.S.”

  “I’ve heard of it, of course, and I’ve seen people leaving offerings and that sort of thing. But I didn’t know it was used in curing.”

  “Like most belief systems,” Aidan explained, “it is concerned with the health of the community, both physical and mental.”

  “That makes sense. So, other than the fact that Ursula was a fierce competitor, did that interview tell us anything?”

  “Not that I could tell. What’s the next shop on the list?”

  “Botanica de Mercedes.”

  “Sounds like a car dealership.”

  “Mercedes means ‘mercies’ in Spanish.”

  He chuckled. “I know that. I believe I speak better Spanish than you do, my friend. I lived in Bolivia for five years.”

  “When was this? How did I not know that?”

  “Perhaps because you’ve never really taken the time to get to know me,” he said, looking at me with an odd smile on his face.

  This was true. Though circumstances frequently brought us together—in fact, Aidan may have saved my life more than once—I didn’t really know him. But neither did I trust him. And I knew that, despite his smiles, he was furious with me at the moment. He was such a good actor it would be easy to be lulled into a false sense of security.

  Botanica de Mercedes appeared marginally more upscale than the others. Its sign was professionally lettered, the name repeated in gold gilt on the window. The front display was more organized, the windowpanes freshly washed. A woman stood in the doorway shooing away a pair of tourists who were trying to take a picture of the shop.

  “It’s bad luck!” she exclaimed. “Mala suerte.”

  They apologized and hurried off.

  “Bad luck?” Aidan asked as we approached.

  “Of course,” she said, her chin raising a notch. “Hello, Aidan. You must know this, it is bad luck to have your picture taken without the proper preparation. I don’t like when the tourists or reporters come around here with their cameras. It’s foolish to invite bad luck into one’s life like that.”

  Aidan introduced me to Yasmin, and I reluctantly admitted to myself that having him along on this expedition was helpful.

  We entered the store, which shared inventory with the others of its ilk. The walls of the shop were lined with rows and rows of prepackaged herbal blends. They were all marked with labels declaring, in a sloppy handwriting, their different purposes: one to attract money, another to keep away meddlesome neighbors, yet another to increase luck in love.

  I noticed half a dozen silver spoons hanging from a row of hooks. It looked almost like the old-fashioned spoons people used to bring back from their travels. I remembered seeing such a collection in Betty North’s living room.

  “Pretty spoons.”

  “Magic holders. You’ve heard of dream catchers? It’s like that. The silver, you see how shiny it is? As the magic dissipates, the tarnish returns.”

  “And then you just polish it again, and that brings more magic?”

  She laughed. “As though magic were that easy to come by. It must be cleaned by a professional, someone who knows what she’s doing.”

  “And I take it you do?”

  “For a small fee.”

  “Of course.”

  “But mostly, I deal in herbs. The best in town. Some I grow in my backyard, others I gather at the Presidio or Golden Gate Park where they grow wild. It’s hard to find some of the plants I knew from my home, in El Salvador, so I have my sister-in-law ship me things.”

  “Isn’t it illegal to ship plants and seeds into the U.S.?”

  She glared at me. Aidan looked amused. A long moment of silence passed.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What kinds of plants?”

  “Chichipince is good for problems with your stomach, or your woman parts. It’s really good for that, but they don’t have it here. Here they have some things, like chamomile and basil and rue. If you have bad energy, I treat you with peppermint and garlic and chamomile and lemon balm. Epazote helps people with gassy stomachs.”

  “I put it in black bean soup,” said Aidan. “I thought it was just for flavor, but maybe it works twofold.”

  “You cook?” Yasmin asked. “A good-looking man like you?”

  A smile was his only response.

  “I grew up watching my aunt,” continued Yasmin. “Someone would come to her with a broken bone, a foot that was chueco, or twisted. She would grind her herbs with a mortar and pestle and mix them with an egg, then rub it on their foot and they’d be cured. Now I am the curer. I do purification ceremonies to clear plants of negative energy before giving the herbs to clients. I spray them with agua florida, made with orange flower, rose, lavender, and other herbs, and cleanse them with a little rum.

  “Plants can retain positive or negative energy from humans. They are living things. If you talk to them and show them affection a tiny plant will grow large and healthy. If you forget about them, neglect them, they will shrivel up and die. An herb is energy, it needs part of your energy.”

  I thought of my friend Calypso, whose relationship to plants was very much like what Yasmin described: giving and intimate, as a parent loves a child.

  “Sometimes you go to the doctor and don’t feel well and the doctor does all those tests. They use all their technology to stick you, but still they say they can find nothing wrong,” Yasmin continued. “But you know better, because you are not right. These are the people I can cure.”

  “What can you tell us about Ursula Moreno?”

  “I told her it was bad luck to talk to a reporter. One should never allow one’s photograph to be taken in a magical context. Some jealous practitioner will use the image against you.” She raised her chin in my direction. “I’m sure you know this much, no?”

  Not long after opening my store, an article about me ran in the Living section of the San Francisco Chronicle. Ever since, I had been involved in some pretty gnarly situations. Maybe Yasmin was onto something.

  “Anyway,” Yasmin continued, “my practice is all about health. A lot of our people, they don’t have good medical care, don’t have doctors they trust even if they have the money. I’m all about keeping people healthy.”

  “And Ursula wasn’t?” I asked.

  “She was . . . but she was about other things, as well. Negative things. And she thinks her spells were better than mine, more powerful. Lupita came over here to brag, said Ursula was great at limpias. Did one for the house of an old lady, claimed she was in line for a fortune now.”

  “What old lady? Do you have a name?”

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  “What about her grandd
aughter, Selena? Any idea where she might be?”

  “No, and good riddance. She scares me.”

  Aidan and I exchanged glances, and silently agreed to move on. We thanked Yasmin for her time and left to try a few more of the names on the list. Everyone we talked to told us some variation of the same thing: Ursula Moreno undercut them with clients, her young charge Selena was “special,” and no one had any idea where the girl was now. The opinion of Lupita, meanwhile, was uniformly unflattering. Clearly the staff of El Pajarito needed to work a little on their neighborly relations.

  “How about a drink?” proposed Aidan after we heard essentially the same story from yet another disgruntled shopkeeper.

  I glanced at my antique Tinkerbell watch. “It’s barely four o’clock.”

  “Then it’s well past time in New York.”

  I wasn’t sure I followed his logic, but since I was hot and frustrated, it was good enough for me. I was ready for a break.

  “Where did you have in mind?”

  “I know just the place. Follow me.”

  Chapter 9

  Somehow I expected a posh wine bar, or maybe a newly trendy Sinatra-era cocktail lounge. Instead, Aidan led me to a side street where we slipped into a dive bar that could have been snatched whole off the streets of Tijuana. Ranchero music blared from an old-fashioned jukebox, and men in boots and cowboy hats played a lazy game of pool, beers in their hands, razzing each other in Spanish.

  Aidan ordered chips and salsa and margaritas from an unsmiling woman behind the counter. We took our seats at a small laminate table in a back corner.

  “You come here often?” I asked, looking around.

  “Trying to pick me up? No need, I’m yours for the asking.”

  I took a gulp of my margarita, avoiding his eyes and trying to decide how to handle the man in front of me. We had some serious unfinished business, but if he was going to act like nothing had happened, I supposed I should play along. Still, it put me on edge.

  “How have you been, Lily?” he asked.

  “Oh, fine, thank you.”

  “You’re not feeling any ill effects from your last magical battle?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure.”