Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  Carlos gave me an incredulous look.

  “We can’t just help ourselves to stuff at a murder scene, Lily. They belong to this poor bastard’s estate.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn. Some people say witches can’t blush. Not true. I can’t cry, and I can’t sink in water. But I sure as heck blush when I’ve got cause. And I too often have cause.

  “Okay, this guy was supposedly founder of something called the Serpentarian Society—thirteen members all had dinner here last night,” Carlos said. “What can you tell me about that?”

  “I don’t know anything about a society.”

  “Do you know what Serpentarian refers to? Serpents, like snakes?”

  “Sort of. Serpentarius is the thirteenth sign of the zodiac.”

  “I thought there were twelve signs, one for each month.”

  “There used to be thirteen, back when there were thirteen months in a year.”

  “No way.”

  “Way. Each with twenty-eight days, like February. The old English calendar was called ‘thirteen and a day.’ ” At his still dubious expression, I continued: “Think about it: Thirteen times twenty-eight is three hundred and sixty-four.”

  Romero’s mouth kicked up in a reluctant smile. “You do that equation in your head?”

  “Not hardly.” I returned his smile. “Math and I don’t exactly get along. Anyway, I’m no expert, but if I remember correctly, Serpentarius is the constellation in between Scorpio and Sagittarius.”

  “Okay . . . how is this Serpentarius guy significant to my homicide?”

  “I have no idea. The only thing I remember about Serpentarius offhand is that, unlike the other horoscope signs, he was based on a real man. A medical man. And his sign is a couple of intertwined snakes—hence the name. I’ll find out more about him if you like, and let you know.”

  The little sparrow rose up from wherever it was hiding and started fluttering about the room. The cat took note. I crossed over to the window and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains. Behind them was a pair of sheers, and then a heavy-duty blackout shade. Finally I wrestled with a casement window that probably hadn’t been opened since the Nixon administration.

  When the window finally swung open, I jumped back, startled by a looming, grinning gray face on the other side of the pane. I caught myself—it was merely the stony countenance of a gargoyle, protruding from overhanging eaves.

  “Feeling a little jumpy?” asked Carlos.

  “Fixin’ to leap out of my skin,” I agreed. “This is only my second homicide scene.”

  “You get used to it after a while . . . unfortunately.”

  I stepped away from the window, hoping the little bird would take note of the light and the air and leave this unnatural place.

  Instead it landed on my shoulder. The cat leapt onto the regal four-poster, its green-eyed gaze fixed on the sparrow, as though ready to pounce on its prey—and on me.

  “Go on now, sugar,” I turned my head and said to the bird. “Get on out of here.”

  The sparrow hopped twice, looked at me once more with one bright shiny eye, then flew out the window to freedom. The cat bounded behind it, leaping up to the window ledge and looking out, yearning, after its quarry.

  “Did you just talk to that bird?” Carlos asked, giving me a quizzical look.

  I nodded.

  “You talk to animals now?”

  I smiled. “A lot of people talk to animals, but that doesn’t mean they understand. Watch: Come on down from there, cat,” I said to the feline preening on the window ledge.

  The cat remained where it was.

  “See, the cat didn’t obey,” I said.

  “Cats never obey.”

  “True enough.”

  “The way the windows are covered up, maybe Zazi was afraid of the light. Like a . . . vampire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed. “There’s no such thing as vampires.”

  “But changelings and ghosts and doppel-whatzits, no problem.”

  “It’s not the same thing at all,” I protested.

  Still, I saw his point. How does one tease out superstition and folktales from reality? I knew from my training that all sorts of supposedly imaginary creatures are, in fact, real: unicorns and pretty much all the woods folk, elves and brownies and faeries. But others were simply inventions of the creative human mind. Unfortunately, I had never finished my education in the Craft, so I was still unclear on a lot of the details.

  Looked like I was going to have to check in with a higher authority: Aidan Rhodes, powerful male witch and unofficial godfather to the West Coast mystical contingent. Speaking of whom . . .

  I glanced down at my vintage Tinkerbell watch. I was late for a lesson with Rhodes, who had agreed to help me complete my witchcraft training. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but I surely did need him. Among other things, I imagined he might shed some light on the identity of the late Malachi Zazi, if not on Zazi’s murderer.

  “I’ve got to get going. I’ll ask around, see what I can find out,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful. I can’t feel anything—and that worries me. Normally I’d be feeling too much in a situation like this.”

  “Okaaaay,” Carlos said in a cynical tone. He had asked me here himself, but he was still dealing with having invited my opinion on his homicide scene, just as I was still reeling at having been asked. It’s not every day that a vintage clothing dealer gets called in to consult with the SFPD. To be fair, the police department had less interest in my expertise in antique Belgian lace than in my talents as a witch. But for that matter, it’s not every day that a witch gets called in to advise on a murder case.

  I had moved to San Francisco only a few months ago and opened my vintage clothing store in the former hippie haven of Haight Street, near Ashbury. Though I had hoped to keep my witchcraft under wraps, Fate had other plans for me, as she so often does. Already I had been involved in more supernatural mayhem than I would have imagined existed in such a welcoming, friendly city.

  Carlos Romero stopped me as I headed for the door.

  “You want this?”

  He held the black cat out to me; the animal hung limp and boneless in Carlos’s hands, gazing at me with huge yellowish green headlamp eyes.

  “I can’t take it. I’m allergic,” I said.

  “I thought your type loved cats.”

  “Even among witches I’m a bit of a freak.”

  The cat stared at me and meowed. Sort of. It was more like a raspy little squeak than a proper meow.

  “Don’t you need a pet?” I said. “I think it likes you.”

  Carlos gave me a look. “Listen, it’s a black cat, and you’re a witch. Allergic or not, you two go together like rice and beans. Why not take it home with you; it’ll keep your pet pig company.”

  “I am not taking a cat.”

  “All right,” he said and sighed.

  “What’ll you do with it?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “We’ll call animal control. They’ll take it to the pound.”

  “And the pound will find it a home?”

  He shrugged. “They’ll try, but they usually have too many cats as it is.”

  “Then . . .”

  “They may have to euthanize it.”

  Our eyes held again. “You are an evil man, Inspector.”

  He smiled.

  I took the dang cat.

  Chapter 2

  “What in the heck is that?” Oscar demanded as I placed the feline in the cargo area of my work van. I slid the heavy door shut with a whoosh and a thunk.

  The purple van was parked right outside Zazi’s apartment building, but Oscar hadn’t bothered to assume his potbellied pig form since no one could see into the back. In his natural state, my shape-shifting familiar was a cross between an imp and a gnome . . . or maybe a goblin. Whatever he was, Oscar was garrulous, perpetually hungry, and opinionated. He had large batlike ears, a face that
resembled a grimacing monkey’s, claws on his hind feet, oversized hands . . . and all of it was covered in greenish gray scales.

  He was so ugly he went clear round the bend into adorable.

  The little guy had burst into my life not long ago thanks to Aidan Rhodes, male witch. Before I knew quite what was happening, Oscar was stuck to me like white on grits.

  Trust a misfit witch like me to wind up with a drama queen for a familiar.

  At the moment said drama queen, Oscar, was flattened against the glove compartment, one clawed hand shielding his face, glowering at the back of the van.

  “It’s a cat,” I told him as I climbed behind the wheel. The “duh” was implied. “It’s not radioactive.”

  “Yeah, but . . . hey, a witch don’t need more than one familiar.” Oscar turned to me, huge luminous eyes the color of green bottle glass. “You already got me, so’s you can’t have that.”

  “The cat’s not a familiar, Oscar.” I sneezed.

  “Gesundheit.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a sniff. “Poor little thing didn’t have anywhere to go. I sort of volunteered to find a home for it. I couldn’t just leave it there.”

  “Don’t see why not,” he muttered.

  I sneezed again. Twice.

  “Gesundheit, gesundheit.”

  “I’m much obliged, but you don’t have to say gesundheit each time,” I said as I reached for a Kleenex from the half-crumpled box in the passenger-side footwell.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You do?”

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “Why?”

  His only reply was a shrug. This was the tenor of many a frustrating conversation I had with my ersatz familiar. I love him, but he’s downright mysterious.

  “Anyway,” I said, “the cat isn’t up for discussion. And really, it’s a sweet thing.” I’m more of a dog person, but homeless creatures of all kinds tug at my heart. I know what it means to be abandoned.

  “It’s not sleeping on my purple silk pillow,” Oscar said, his voice petulant. “Bronwyn got that for me. It’s mine. It’s monogrammed.”

  “I know. Relax. It’s a temporary situation.”

  “That’s what they always say. Just don’t feed it.”

  “That’ll be your job,” I said, ignoring his outraged expression. “And you can keep it entertained while I’m at my lesson with Aidan.”

  “But I don’t want . . . I mean I . . . okay.”

  Wait a minute. Did Oscar just agree to do as I said?

  “Oscar, listen to me: You will be kind and caring to this cat. It will not go missing, or . . .” I wasn’t actually sure what a creature like Oscar might be capable of, now that I thought about it. “Or sprout horns, or a second tail, or anything else out of the ordinary. Understand me, young man?”

  “Ungeoiudmfh,” said Oscar.

  “Pardon me?” I said, lifting an eyebrow in what I flattered myself was an imperious gesture. Oscar wasn’t the most obedient of familiars. I blamed Aidan. “Did you have something you wanted to say?”

  “Nothing, Mistress,” he said with a sigh, crossing his skinny arms over his scaly chest and feigning a sudden interest in a wrinkled old map on the floor. He kicked at it, grumbling to himself in a low growl: “First I have to wait in the van, and then I have to take care of a stupid cat.”

  “I can still hear you,” I said, though I gave him a grudging smile and an affectionate squeeze.

  When we’d first arrived at Malachi Zazi’s building, Oscar tried to talk me into letting him come up to the apartment. Because apparently I wasn’t odd enough all by myself, and Oscar saw no reason why anyone would think bringing one’s potbellied pig to a murder scene would be considered out of the ordinary.

  “But I can help you,” he’d whined, claiming he might be able to tell if there were ghosts or other spirits present. “Besides, there are gargoyles on this building. I love gargoyles! They’re practically family.”

  Not long ago Oscar actually had been able to assist me when I was investigating a haunted art school. Still, with the regular old police involved it had seemed like a faux pas—at best—to bring along one’s pet pig. But now . . . after my lack of sensing any vibrations up in Malachi’s apartment, I was thinking it might not be such a bad idea after all. Could I somehow sneak Oscar up to check out the apartment once the official personnel had completed their crime scene investigation?

  I sat in the driver’s seat without starting the engine, studying the exterior of Malachi Zazi’s apartment building. Based on the architectural details, I was guessing it had been built in the 1910s or 1920s, a symphony of red brick and cream-colored cement. Cornices and handcrafted details swooped out from the façade in a bold blend of Art Deco and Art Nouveau styles. The top of the building was asymmetrical, with terraces and spires and Gothic-inspired gargoyles protruding from all sides. It was decidedly odd. Unique. Gorgeous.

  Like all aged structures, it retained traces of the human lives that had passed through and dwelt within its walls over the years, but I sensed nothing untoward in its halls and stairwells. Of course, I had not felt much beyond the norm in Malachi Zazi’s apartment, either, though my eyes told me otherwise. It was odd. Exceedingly odd.

  This must be how regular people feel, I thought. They move through life without tuning in to each vibration, every wisp or echo of those who had come and gone.

  Must be peaceful. Too bad I couldn’t just relax and enjoy.

  I did feel one strange sensation—as though I were being watched. I glanced around.

  A young blond woman pushed a stroller toward the double doors; the uniformed doorman, graying and portly, hurried to help her out, exchanging pleasantries. An elderly fellow strolled into the building, a newspaper tucked under his arm and a black beret perched on his bald head. The driver of a FedEx van pulled up, double-parked, jumped down with two large packages, and handed them over to the doorman. Two uniformed cops came out of the elevator, passed through the lobby, and headed down the street.

  Other than the presence of the police, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  Behind me, the cat mewed, a raspy squeak that made me think of a cartoon character with a pack-a-day habit. I turned to find it staring at me. The guileless look in its huge headlamp eyes reminded me of the way Oscar tended to gaze at me . . . especially in the air of confident expectation, certain that I would take care of whatever and whoever needed to be taken care of.

  My stomach fluttered. It was tough, living up to that kind of belief. It made a witch more afraid than ever to fail, to let everyone down. Since I’d become more open about my witchcraft, and had helped resolve a couple of local demonic situations, I’d been feeling the pressure. Not long ago I would have blown town at the first sign of trouble. But now that I was making my home in San Francisco, flight was no longer an option.

  “You are special, m’hija,” I remembered my grandmother Graciela telling me.

  I flashed back to a sunny afternoon, sitting at her kitchen table back in Jarod, Texas, sipping a frosty glass of her special ginger-spiked sweet tea.

  “I say this with a heavy heart because such power is bound to be misunderstood. And with great power comes great responsibility. Me entiendes, Lily? Understand? You must be very careful. Learn all you can about your power, about the other world. But use it rarely, and only when you are certain—certain, alma mia, absolutely certain that it is necessary. What have I taught you? The one thing above all?”

  “All things must be in balance,” I said.

  “All things must be in balance,” she repeated solemnly. “You must never forget that, Lilita. No te olvides. If you do, the consequences will be terrible.”

  I nodded and finished my tea. “Could we go try to turn the yellow daisies purple now?”

  “Seguro que si,” Graciela replied with an indulgent smile. “But of course.”

  I was only now beginning to understand what my grandmother meant, to grasp just how powerful a witch I was. Th
ere weren’t all that many of us. I had spent much of my life hiding from that fact, avoiding other people and the responsibility their ordinary human selves engendered in supernatural folks like me. Unfortunately, I still didn’t feel in control of my talents.

  Which was why I was now headed to the San Franciscan tourist mecca of Fisherman’s Wharf. It was time for school. For better or worse, I had entrusted the furthering of my witchy education to Aidan Rhodes.

  I started driving, weaving through a traffic snarl at the intersection of Van Ness and Lombard. Perhaps Aidan would have some insights into the death of Malachi Za—

  “Stop looking at me!” whined Oscar, wrenching me from my thoughts. He was huddling against the front passenger-side door, an appalled look on his already grimacing face. The cat, sitting on the vinyl seat in between us, just stared.

  “The cat’s not hurting you, Oscar. Get a grip.”

  “Mistress, make it stop looking at me!”

  I pulled up to a stoplight and assessed my posse.

  “Cat, stop it. Oscar doesn’t want to be your friend.” At the sound of my voice the feline shifted its gaze to me.

  “There,” I said to Oscar. “All better.”

  Keeping its eyes on me, the cat moved with stealthy determination, climbing onto Oscar’s lap.

  “Mistress!”

  “Stop it, both of y’all,” I said as the light changed.

  I spoke in the severest voice I could manage, but it was pretty hard not to laugh. As someone who has been allergic to felines all her life, I knew one absolute truth: Cats had an unerring ability to detect the one person in the room—or van—who least desired their attention. And then they showered that person with affection.

  Or with dander. Sneezing again, I drove around until I spotted a parking spot in a residential neighborhood off Bay Street, not wanting to worry about feeding parking meters, or using my powers to find a parking spot and cast a spell over a meter. Lately I was trying to focus all my power and strength on the important stuff.

  Easy parking, according to Aidan, did not qualify.

  I grabbed my leather satchel from the back of the van, and since the fog was likely to roll in off the bay by the time I left Aidan’s office, I also carried my vintage cocoa brown wool coat over my arm. But at the moment it was a gorgeous Northern California spring day, breezy and sunny. As I walked I reveled in the fragrance of pink jasmine and fruit-laden lemon trees . . . trailed by a potbellied pig and a cat.