Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Ringing the bell, I gazed directly into the tiny camera in the corner. Not so much of a psychic that she didn’t need a little electronic assistance, said a snide voice in my head.

  An angry buzzing noise spurred me to open the door.

  Straight ahead was a flight of carpeted stairs, a velvet cord strung across the first step from which hung a sign marked “Private.” To the left, through a wooden archway, was the front parlor, a large room almost completely devoid of furniture. A worn Oriental rug lay upon the gleaming hardwood floor, and in the center of the rug was a small round table. It was covered by a heavy blue brocade that matched the floor-to-ceiling drapes and was flanked by two straight-back wooden chairs. An overhead chandelier and wall sconces cast an ambient glow across the room. On the walls were mirrors of all types: round and square, oblong and rectangular, antique and brand-new. One concave mirror radiated gold and silver spikes, like a sun. In the mirror’s reflection the room appeared serene but distorted. Double doors at the back of the room separated the rest of the home from the parlor where Patience conducted her business.

  I had barely taken it all in when the double doors slid open and a woman appeared.

  She was even more beautiful than her photograph. Backlit by the sunny room behind her, Patience Blix was the embodiment of a romance novel heroine: Her hair was abundant and glossy, curling around her face and falling in a tumble down her back. Her mouth was full-lipped and generous, highlighted with red lipstick. Sparkling green eyes were lined in kohl. She was dressed in the best Hollywood Gypsy fashion: a purple peasant skirt, loose white blouse cut low across her ample bosom, a scarf tied jauntily around her waist, and lots of gold jewelry. Ropes of necklaces cascaded into her cleavage, big gold hoops in her pierced ears gleamed against the dark mass of her hair, and bangles adorned her slim arms. Gold anklets circled her slender, sandal-shod feet.

  She smiled. At least, I thought it was a smile until she cocked one eyebrow and I realized it was more of a haughty smirk. She was amused, peering down her nose at me even though she was only a few inches taller.

  “Lily Ivory, I presume?”

  I nodded. Maybe she was psychic.

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Have you?”

  “I saw it in my crystal ball.”

  “Really?”

  She laughed, a sound like merry, tinkling bells. “No, of course not. Sailor said you might drop by. Have a seat. May I offer you some tea?”

  “Um, no, thank you,” I said, feeling off-balance. What did it mean that Sailor had assumed I might drop by? Was he annoyed at the thought? Amused by it? He couldn’t read my mind, so did this mean he now knew me well enough to anticipate my movements? And if he could, what did that imply about us and our future together?

  I slipped into one of the wooden chairs at the small round table. A stack of well-thumbed tarot cards sat to one side, and a large crystal ball held pride of place in the center.

  Patience took the chair across from me.

  For a moment we stared at each other.

  She let out a husky peal of laughter. “You’re not . . . quite what I expected.”

  “Is that right?”

  She shrugged, the mocking smile never leaving her face. “When Sailor said you were a powerful witch, perhaps even more powerful than Aidan Rhodes, I pictured . . . someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “A woman. Not a little girl.”

  A small mirror flew off the wall and landed on the table with a clatter.

  Patience jumped and I enjoyed a moment of satisfaction at seeing her smile slip. She regrouped and raised an imperious eyebrow.

  “No need for parlor tricks,” she said in a dry tone. “I’ll take your word for it. Yours, and Sailor’s.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said, trying to calm myself down. “It wasn’t intentional.”

  She shrugged, a slow, sensuous movement that seemed to promise . . . something. I wondered if she was aware of her effect, and suspected she was.

  Great balls of fire, I thought. It was a good thing she and Sailor were cousins, because . . . how could a man resist a woman like Patience?

  “What is the nature of the training you are giving Sailor?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  I had, of course, many times. And he remained mute on the subject. Which was totally his right, since it really was none of my danged business. And now what was I doing . . . ? Asking Patience about him, behind his back? That’s low, Lily. Get a grip.

  “Sorry. Never mind. I’m not here about Sailor,” I said. “Aidan told me you are skilled at reading the crystal ball. I’m looking for a girl, a fourteen-year-old who may be in danger. Can you help me find her? For a fee, of course.”

  “Do you have something of hers? A piece of jewelry, a lock of hair? An article of clothing, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “And you think I can, what? Just conjure out of midair?”

  “Why not? Everyone keeps telling me you’re talented. So show me.”

  For the first time, she gave me a genuine smile. “Are you going to double-dog dare me next?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You are very . . . droll.”

  “I try.”

  She settled back in her seat, tilted her head, and folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve met this girl?”

  I shook my head.

  “Been in her space, at least? Do you have some connection to her? This isn’t some random name out of the paper, for instance?”

  “Of course not. I was in her grandmother’s shop, where she spent a great deal of her time. I touched a lot of things she might have touched. And I met her grandmother, though I didn’t touch her.”

  Patience nodded. “All right. Let’s see if you’re the powerhouse everyone thinks you are.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I’ll use you as a conduit to the girl. We’ll hold hands and I’ll read you.”

  “I . . . I don’t know about that.” I folded my hands in my lap. Like any witch worth her salt, I was habitually guarded, my emotions and sensations protected by the medicine bag around my waist, as well as a lifetime of shielding myself from others.

  “Why don’t you just look in there”—I nodded at the crystal ball— “and see without seeing? Unless that’s beyond your abilities.”

  She gave me a patronizing look.

  “Or . . . I could try to get something from the grandmother’s shop,” I offered.

  “That might help. But let’s first try it my way. What are you afraid of?”

  You, I thought. Me. But especially of me and Sailor. And that was just for starters.

  “Let me ask you about something else. How does a ‘cold reading’ work?”

  “It’s a technique used by fortune-tellers with no actual psychic powers. It’s a very old parlor trick, in fact, which is also used by stage magicians. It involves pretending to know something about the subject, throwing out general statements until you stumble across something that rings true with the client. Then you build upon that. If it’s done with enough confidence the client believes you’re psychic, and you gain her trust.”

  “So it’s fraud.”

  “Such a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as acting.”

  “But it’s still a scam. I thought you were a genuine psychic.”

  In her face I saw a flash of annoyance, but she continued, “Once the client is emotionally involved, the reader tosses out more generalizations, watching the client’s reactions to see when they’ve hit the right buttons. For instance, I might say: ‘Lily Ivory, you are searching for love, but you are afraid. Afraid to allow yourself to be vulnerable, to trust. Afraid your boyfriend might not be faithful to you.’ ”

  Two more mirrors fell, this time crashing onto the wood floor and sending glittery shards skittering across the room.

  Patience and I both jumped up and twirled three times, counterclockwise. Each of us then pocketed a small
piece of the shattered mirror that we would touch to a gravestone in order to avert the seven-year curse. I didn’t like to think I had anything in common with this gypsy woman, but clearly we shared some traditions.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  She shrugged and made a sweeping gesture, inviting me to return to my seat.

  “My fault,” she said. “I am not accustomed to dealing with one such as you.”

  “You sound adept at cold readings,” I said.

  “The average lawyer knows how to bribe a juror, too, though they may never do so.”

  “So you’re saying your fortune-telling is truthful, not a scam?”

  “Most people come to me because they don’t have enough faith in themselves. They know what they should do, but lack confidence in their intuition. All I do is confirm what they already know. Yes, they pay me. But if they didn’t come to me, they might pay a therapist to achieve the same result. My way gets faster results, and I guarantee you it’s more fun for everyone involved.”

  “You don’t have any genuine insights then?”

  “I didn’t say that. I have insights . . . but most of them I don’t share with my clients.”

  “Why not? Isn’t that what they’re paying for?”

  “You should know as well as I do that great harm can come from telling someone what is in their future. Generalities are one thing, but the very act of knowing one’s future changes that future. And that would not be a responsible thing for me to do.”

  We stared at each other for a several beats.

  “This is all very interesting,” I said. “But I’d like to get back to the important matter: locating the girl.”

  “All right,” said Patience. “What happened when you tried to read your crystal ball?”

  “Not much. It’s not one of my strengths.”

  “No? That’s rare for one of your talents, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged.

  “Let me read for you, and then we can talk.”

  With the exception of Graciela and Sailor’s aunt Renna, I’d never allowed another practitioner to read for me and I certainly didn’t want to start now. But there was something about the challenge in those green eyes. I didn’t want to back down in front of this woman.

  “Come now, you’re not afraid, are you? According to you, a girl’s safety is at stake,” Patience said.

  Who’s playing double-dog dare you now?

  I blew out a long breath. I needed to find Selena. But was this the only way? Not only was I afraid of allowing Patience, a virtual stranger, to access any part of my psyche, but it could possibly prove dangerous. When Aidan and I had connected, the resulting power surge caused some serious collateral damage. I wasn’t at all sure I could control what might happen if Patience and I linked. And what if our energies clashed?

  She reached across the table, rested her hand on the cloth for a moment, then slowly turned it palm up. Her fingernails were freshly manicured, her fingers festooned with gold rings. I placed my right hand on the table, inching it toward hers.

  I looked into her dazzling, teasing eyes. Just as her fingers were about to wrap around mine I reared back, leaping up so quickly I knocked my chair over. It landed with a thud on the threadbare Oriental carpet.

  The fortune-teller’s laugh rang in my ears as I ran out the door and down the front steps. I didn’t slow until I hit the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Idiot.

  What was I truly afraid of? That our energies would merge and create something out of control? Possibly. But property damage can be repaired. Was it that Patience would be able to read my mind?

  Or did my fear stem from worry that Patience would tell me something about Sailor, or my relationship to him, that I didn’t want to hear?

  I had learned the hard way to be guarded in my life, to make sure when I was going into a potentially hazardous situation that I was armed to the teeth. So that’s what I would do: I would brew, cast myself a centering, protective spell, and then come back to deal with Patience.

  It would help to know more about her, though. Sailor was no help; Aidan not much more. Where else could I turn?

  The newspaper. Nigel Thorne had quoted Patience in his article in the San Francisco Chronicle about fortune-telling scams. The article hadn’t said anything about Patience being implicated, but that by itself meant nothing. Nigel was far too crafty a journalist to make unsubstantiated claims against anyone.

  In person, however, Nigel might be more forthcoming about what he had uncovered about the delectable Patience Blix. Maybe now would be a good time to stop by the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle.

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught my reflection in the shiny plate-glass window of a real estate office.

  Today I was wearing a sundress featuring bright red cherries against a turquoise background. It was one of Lucille’s reproductions, not true vintage but patterned on a dress from the early sixties. I wore a little red cardigan over the sleeveless bodice. I had thought the outfit was darling when I tried it on in the store, but in Aunt Cora’s Closet I had been surrounded by friends and positive vibrations. Now . . . with my feet clad in scarlet Keds, and my hair swept up in a ponytail tied with a gauzy turquoise scarf . . . Patience was right. I looked like a girl on her way to an after-school dance. Not like a grown woman.

  Not like her. Nothing like Patience Blix, sexy, busty, confident, Rom fortune-teller.

  Upon returning to my car, I resisted the urge to bang my head against the roof of my car. Goodness knows I’m no stranger to self-doubt, having experienced it often enough in my life. But this felt different. This stemmed from something I couldn’t control, couldn’t cast against. Being in love meant making myself vulnerable with no guarantee my feelings would be returned, and oh, was that a challenge.

  What I wanted to do was to cast a love spell over Sailor, to ensure his everlasting fidelity and adoration.

  But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  Graciela had drilled that lesson into me: You must never use your power for the wrong reasons, m’ijita. That is not what it is for. And selfish reasons are almost always the wrong reasons.

  When I was in the fourth grade that lesson was driven home. I had developed my first crush on a boy, but he didn’t return the sentiments, and my days were spent in a tizzy, my nights in painful, agonizing yearning. With the single-mindedness of youth I searched my grandmother’s Book of Shadows for a love spell, and set about gathering the ingredients. Graciela found me in a neighbor’s henhouse, searching for a spotted egg with a greenish cast. She grabbed me by the arm with impressive force for a woman of her diminutive stature and dragged me, protesting vehemently, back home.

  “No puedes forzar el amor, Lilita—you can’t force love. It will come or not come, it has its own energy in its world. It is a living, breathing entity. If you try to force it, you will corrupt it, and then you will destroy it. Understand? M’entiendes?”

  And then she made me clean the kitchen and the bathroom with a pail of hot, sudsy water and an old toothbrush.

  I wished I had the benefit of Graciela’s wisdom as I sat behind the wheel of my car. I took a deep breath and tried to locate her. I couldn’t do this for anyone else, but recently my grandmother seemed to have carved out a little place for herself inside the core of my being. It felt a little like when I was casting, reaching out through the years to the ancestors, and to the Ashen Witch, my guiding spirit. But this was quieter, more direct, and I immediately felt warm and connected. And calmer.

  No, I wouldn’t cast a love spell over Sailor. That was wrong, unethical, a violation of my powers.

  What I would do, I thought as I turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto Fillmore, was to stop by the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle to see what Nigel Thorne had to say about Patience Blix, the mayor’s campaign against larcenous purveyors of magic, Nicky Utley’s suicide, and El Pajarito.

  Chapter 14

  I was pleased to see the newspaper of
fice was still abuzz. Journalists were becoming an endangered species as readers turned to the Internet for their news, and advertising revenues fell. The trend worried me, as I considered journalists among the last stalwarts against official corruption and vice. But then, perhaps they were simply finding their way onto the Internet, a medium to which I was a stranger.

  I really did need to get over myself and join the twenty-first century. Put that on the list. Right after resolving this particular case of suspicious death and magical mayhem.

  When I stepped off the elevator, I glanced around the big room full of cubicles. I didn’t even know if Max Carmichael was still working regularly at the paper, much less what I would say to him if I saw him. I wanted to ask him about interviewing Lupita and the gang at El Pajarito, but it was awkward speaking with an ex-boyfriend. I hadn’t had a lot of experience with this sort of thing.

  I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted Nigel Thorne, who had helped me out with my first paranormal case in San Francisco.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Nigel said, his hawklike eyebrows shooting up. He was slouchy and potbellied, and had what looked like a coffee stain on his yellow oxford shirt. Long yellow hairs from his beloved golden retriever adorned his dark slacks. “Long time no see, Lily. How you doing?”

  “I’m well, thank you. How about yourself?”

  “Doin’ okay. Wife’s redoing the bathroom. You want to talk about dust?”

  I smiled. “Maybe later. Right now I was hoping to talk about fortune-tellers.”

  “You saw today’s article? Nice one, huh?”

  “Well written, as always. And well researched. How did you get the fortune-tellers to talk to you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve got a way with people.”

  “Max Carmichael was the one who started the series, wasn’t he? I seem to remember he wrote a piece on the botanicas in the Mission.”

  Nigel nodded.

  “Do you have any idea why Max was poking around El Pajarito, in particular?”

  “I asked him to do it as a favor. I’d set it up as a kickoff to the series, but a crisis at City Hall took precedence and I wasn’t able to go. Max filled in for me, but he’s got more important things to do these days.”