But then I thought about the Ruerymplegandling cloth Oscar had planned to share with my supposed baby. I relented.
“All right, come along if you want. But I’m sorry to say, dog or no, you’ll have to wear a leash.”
Chapter 15
The sign clearly read: No Dogs Allowed.
I looked down at Oscar. He returned my gaze, pink piggy eyes imploring.
My familiar wasn’t a dog. So strictly speaking we weren’t breaking the rules. But probably the forbidding of livestock was implied.
I glanced around, searching our surroundings. There were no guards, no security of any sort that I could see. Probably someone was sitting in a guardhouse watching the entrances to the bridge on a closed-circuit TV. But even if so, it would take a while before someone could get here.
Graciela always said: It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission. A handy motto, especially if you happened to be a witch who occasionally needed to color outside the lines.
“Hurry,” I said. “When breaking the rules it’s best to be quick about it.”
Oscar trotted at my side as we walked along the pedestrian walkway, heading for the center of the span. Several passersby paused to laugh when they saw Oscar, some patting him as we hurried along. But most were too occupied to notice us; they were taking pictures, soaking up the beauty of the sunset, and appreciating the majesty of their surroundings.
The tourists were easily distinguished from the locals by their lack of warm clothing, having underestimated how chilly San Francisco could be in the summer. Though it was cold and windy, I had lived in San Francisco long enough to realize that “summer” wasn’t the warm season here. So I had come prepared, and was snug in my vintage wool coat and scarf. The setting sun cast a glorious orange light on the Tuscan red paint of the bridge. Streaks of clouds hovered over the horizon, and a fogbank slowly rolled in from the ocean.
Oscar and I passed dozens of people snapping photos that would never manage to capture the glorious light of the here and now. A little boy cried when his red helium balloon was caught by a strong gust of wind; his father comforted him as the balloon danced in the breeze over the bay. A young couple attached a padlock to the metal railing, then tossed the keys into the gray water below, laughing and kissing.
The Golden Gate Bridge was a wondrous place. I found myself understanding, with some chagrin, why it would be a glorious place to end it all.
Amid the throng of the living I felt whispers of ghosts. Could one of them be Nicky Utley? Or was I sensing the remnants of the hundreds of souls who had thrown themselves off the span into the churning waters below?
At the halfway point, I stopped and leaned over the four-foot-high rail, noting the lack of any other form of restraint or safety net. No cables, no fence, no obstructions of any kind that I could see to prevent someone from resisting the temptation to climb up and over.
“Don’t jump,” came a voice from behind.
“Aidan,” I said, surprised, and more than a little trepidatious. “What in the world are you doing here?”
Oscar snorted and hopped about, his typical response to Aidan, but then hid behind my legs. I wasn’t sure if he had seen Aidan since I freed Oscar from his obligation to his former master.
“You stole my line,” said Aidan. “What are you doing here?”
“Enjoying a sunset stroll with my familiar, of course.”
“Of course. Anything more to it than that?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out what happened with Nicky Utley. I wanted to feel . . .” I shook my head and looked out at the gray nothingness. The wind whipped my hair, and I could taste ocean salt. “There is something very seductive about the ocean here. Somehow it makes sense that folks kill themselves jumping off this bridge.”
Aidan frowned. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Tell you about what?”
“About whatever it is that has prompted you to consider, even for a moment, jumping.”
“No. No, of course not. I was trying to put myself in Nicky Utley’s position, hoping to learn something about what happened that night, that’s all. Really, Aidan.”
He smiled. “Sorry. Must be the influence of such a magical spot.”
“So why are you here? Did you learn anything new about Selena?”
“No, sorry to say, I haven’t. But I walk out here often,” he said. Like me, Aidan couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the slate-gray water below.
“Really? Why?”
He shrugged, and avoided my eyes.
Just then a police officer walked past us, nodded politely to me, and greeted Aidan by name. His eyes flickered down to Oscar, who was still unsuccessfully attempting to hide his girth behind my skirts.
Aidan gave the officer a beautiful smile. “Nothing to worry about,” he said reassuringly.
“Evening, Mr. Rhodes. Ma’am.” The officer continued walking.
“You know him?” I asked a moment later.
“In passing.”
“I thought you weren’t a fan of the police.”
He grinned. “I have no problem with the police, though they occasionally have a problem with me.”
“How did he know your name?”
“I told you, I come here often.”
Hold on. “You’re not . . . I mean, you couldn’t be the . . . Golden Gate Guardian?”
“No, of course not.” He would not look at me, but embarrassment rolled off him in waves.
“You are! Aidan Rhodes is the Golden Gate Guardian?”
“Keep it down, would you please?” Aidan said in an urgent whisper. He looked around and said quietly, “No, I’m not. The real Guardian is Sergeant Kevin Briggs of the California Highway Patrol. Over the years, he’s credited with saving more than two hundred souls. But he can’t be everywhere at once. So others pitch in from time to time.”
“When did you . . . how did you start doing this?”
“A few months ago I saw a man climb over the railing. He just stood there, looking down at the water, for the longest time. I introduced myself, and we started talking. It turned out his wife was in the hospital, he didn’t know how he was going to pay the medical bills, he had lost his job, and his father had died recently. I guess everything had come crashing down on him all at once.”
Aidan paused and turned to watch the sun setting. The fading light bathed the stunning planes of his face in an otherworldly, golden glow.
“Did you cast a spell over him?” I asked.
“I tried, but he was so wrapped up in his misery, he didn’t respond to my magic. I figured the longer I could keep him talking, the less likely he was to jump. Frankly, I kept expecting some help to arrive, someone with a net or something,” he said, chuckling. “I almost panicked when I realized it was just him and me. So I asked what his wife would do without him, and he said if he died she would be able to collect his life insurance. Which wasn’t true, of course; very few life insurance policies pay in cases of suicide. I didn’t tell him that, though; figured that might depress him even more. So I just kept talking.”
“What made him change his mind?”
“I asked him how his wife would feel the moment she realized he was gone, that he wouldn’t be there to help her when she left the hospital. . . . A very long hour and a half later, he accepted my offer of help.”
“That’s amazing, Aidan,” I said. “What a wonderful thing to have done.”
“You needn’t sound so astonished. Is it so hard to imagine me doing a good deed?”
“It’s not that. Really. I just . . .” I trailed off with a shrug.
“It’s just that you are more likely to think of me manipulating the mayor from my office, then out in the world helping people.”
“Or stealing Oscar’s wings and holding them hostage, that sort of thing, yes.”
He shrugged. “I do what I have to do.”
I decided I’d circle back to that line of thought later. “So, after talking the first
man off the bridge, you kept going? Now it’s a regular gig?”
“After speaking with the officers who have witnessed more of their fair share of suicides off this bridge, I realized that I just got lucky connecting with a man like that. So I got some training, and now I walk out here at night whenever I have the chance.”
“That’s really . . . something . . .” I trailed off, feeling as though my response was painfully inadequate. Aidan Rhodes, patient, understanding, suicide counselor? This was a whole new side to him, one that I’d only suspected lurked somewhere beneath that too perfect exterior. It was difficult to reconcile this with his selfish, brutal side, to which I’d also had ample exposure.
Nor was I forgetting the troubled history between him and Sailor, and him and Oscar . . . but the truth was, it was so much easier for me to dislike Aidan when he wasn’t nearby. In person, there was some undeniable connection between us—perhaps it was just the recognition of kind, the inkling of kinship between powerful witches.
I worried about myself sometimes. When I started spellcasting I tapped into a deep, murky part of my core that sometimes scared me. I became oblivious to all, and hell-bent on succeeding in whatever I willed, even if others fell by the wayside. That tendency toward single-mindedness seemed to be increasing with time and experience—in direct proportion to my growing power—rather than diminishing.
I suspected that not only did Aidan know this about me, he understood—even admired—it. Sometimes I appreciated that, but usually it worried me.
“I feel almost like spirits are trying to speak with me when I stand here,” I said. “But as usual, I can’t understand them. Do you think it’s possible Nicky’s trying to make contact?”
“You mean, if her death was the result of murder rather than suicide? That her restless spirit is seeking you out? Possibly. But a suicidal woman might also leave behind a restless spirit as well.”
“True enough. I don’t really know why I came here. I just thought maybe I could feel something, or I would see something that gave me some insight. Maybe I should see if Sailor can make contact with anyone, or sense anything.” If Patience would allow him to, I thought.
“You and I could try,” said Aidan. After a rather pregnant pause he added: “Together.”
“That doesn’t go well. Remember what happened that time we linked our powers?”
“I wasn’t prepared last time. I believe I’m more in control now, as are you.”
“But . . . San Francisco is my adopted city. I would feel pretty rotten if we managed to melt the Golden Gate Bridge.”
Aidan laughed. “You’re right. Something like that would tar the reputation of the magical community for many years to come. But, as I said, I’m prepared this time. And you’re much more polished than you once were. I think we could risk it.”
Tourists pushed past us. The sun had gone down, leaving only an orangey night sky and the light of the overhead lamps reflecting off the breezy wisps of fog.
The bridge would be closing soon. It was now or never.
Aidan’s blue gaze met mine, and I had a sudden visceral memory of what it felt like to kiss him. For months now, being with Sailor had been so overwhelming that I hadn’t even thought of another man. And I wasn’t thinking of being with Aidan in that way, either . . . but there was no denying the memory. The strong, deep, frightening connection I had felt when our lips met.
Aidan held out his hand.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll be with you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He ignored this. “Check that your guard is up against me, and then cast a summoning spell using my power as conduit.”
“You think?”
“Seriously, Lily. You are much more powerful than you think you are. If anything, I’m the one who should worry that you’ll siphon off part of my energy. Do you want insight into what happened with Nicky Utley, or not? Maybe it will tell you something to help locate Selena.”
He was right.
I’m not a necromancer and have never been able to communicate directly with those who have passed on to other dimensions, but sometimes they were able to send me visions or sensations.
I closed my eyes, stroked my medicine bag, and centered myself. It was crucial to feel safe when casting; I was cautious of Aidan, but when I connected with my ancestors and tapped into the power of my guardian spirit, the Ashen Witch, serenity and calmness washed over me.
I started chanting a simple charm that helped me open to the energy of the spirit world:
You are welcome here, you are invited.
Come to me, reach out to me, allow me to see.
Take my hand. Help me to understand.
Until moon and sea are reunited.
I call to thee; so mote it be.
I reached out and clasped Aidan’s hands in mine. The moment our palms met, I felt a current rush and throb between us. Then he leaned down slightly and we touched our foreheads together.
There it was.
The energy sang between us. Every atom, every molecule in my body zinged to attention, became encircled by vibrating rings of energy. My hair lifted from my scalp, and for a brief moment I wondered if this was what it felt like to be electrocuted. But there was no pain—on the contrary I felt allied and connected to a great energy source beyond anything I had ever imagined. It was similar to when I was spellcasting, and the portals between me and my ancestors opened . . . but multiplied a thousandfold.
I held my breath, but the metal of the bridge didn’t start fluxing, so that was something. And then . . . flashes. Glittery, shiny bits of light engulfing me. Silvery flickers of brilliance. Was that sunlight glinting on the water? But that couldn’t be; the fog was rolling in, and the sun had set.
Leaning far over the railing, gazing at the water below, I felt strong hands at my back.
And then the terror of weightlessness as I fell, the water rushing up to meet me.
Chapter 16
I was yanked away a split second before hitting the water.
“Lily,” I heard a stern voice calling. “Lily, come back. Come back!”
It was like waking from a nightmare, in the nick of time. I came out of the trance to find Aidan’s arms wrapped around me. Just as before, we were still standing in the middle of the bridge, by the railing. Aidan was reassuring passersby that he had me, that I was fine.
“What happened?” I asked, my voice muffled by the damp fabric of his overcoat.
“You seemed to want to jump.” He pulled away slightly to study my face. “You sure there’s nothing you want to share with me?”
I managed a rueful smile. “My troubles might make me hopping mad, but they don’t prompt me to jump off a bridge. Believe me.”
“Did you see anything? Feel anything?”
“A lot of shiny lights, and then . . . I think I was envisioning Nicky headed over the rail, toward the water.”
“That’s it?”
I nodded. “Except . . . there were hands at my back. I mean, her back.”
“Tell me exactly what you felt.”
“I was leaning over the rail, looking at the water. I had no idea of jumping—my attention was captured by the light flickering off the water. And then I felt hands at my back.”
“Were the hands trying to save you or trying to push you over the rail?”
“I guess that’s the $10,000 question.”
Aidan held my gaze for a long moment, then shook his head.
“The $10,000 question,” he said, “is this: Whose hands were they?”
* * *
“Didja see that?”
The whole way home Oscar nattered on about seeing Aidan, excited but nervous. To calm him down when we got home, I encouraged him to sing a little Billie Holiday karaoke—Stormy Weather—while I made three-cheese mac-and-cheese. He finished off a huge wedge of cake before crawling into his cubby over the refrigerator.
I filled my old claw-foot bathtub, adding bath salts from the De
ad Sea, infused with lavender and rose petals. Sitting back in the hot, fragrant water, I breathed deeply and reflected upon what I knew. Rolling it over in my mind.
If Nicky Utley had not committed suicide—and my vision raised that possibility—who had killed her? If she had walked out to the center of the Golden Gate Bridge to cast her spell charm into the churning waters below, might she have leaned out so far that someone could have pushed her without being seen?
According to Carlos, there were witnesses to Nicky’s death; if someone had pushed Nicky, surely someone would have mentioned it. I tried to imagine Carlos’s reaction if I were to ask for a list of the witnesses so I could go interview them.
On the other hand . . . could we be dealing with someone who was able to push her from afar? Even someone skilled in poppet magic would have had to have known when Nicky Utley was on the bridge, and when she was leaning over the rail . . . there was no way to see something like that from afar, was there? Unless, of course, one had the gift of sight, like a certain fortune-teller I knew.
Could I somehow pin this on Patience?
I chided myself. That’s the jealousy talking, Lily. Why in the world would Patience go after Nicky Utley?
Maybe I needed to take a different tack.
Who might want Nicky Utley dead? Was her husband, Gary, so sick of her quest to become pregnant, or perhaps so enamored of a girlfriend, that he would kill her? Or did he have a financial motive? As Aidan pointed out, suicide voids most life insurance policies, but perhaps Nicky had money of her own that Gary would inherit if she died.
Who else stood to benefit from Nicky’s death? Nicky Utley was Betty North’s daughter, and Betty had recently died. Which reminded me, I still hadn’t found out who benefitted from Betty’s will.
Nosy-witch fail.
Maybe Maya knew. After all, she had witnessed the signing of the revised will. I would ask her tomorrow. If the heir was Ursula Moreno, then I guessed she would be up on those fraud charges. This was exactly the sort of thing the mayor’s campaign against fortune-tellers was targeting.
Spellcasting in Silk: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 16
