Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  Together we formed quite the parade. Heads swiveled as we passed, but I held my chin up and nodded serenely, trying my best to channel a dark-haired Grace Kelly. I probably more closely resembled a cross-dressing Doctor Dolittle.

  One of the best things about being a vintage clothes merchant was having a huge closet to choose from every day, and I had gotten in the habit of advertising by modeling my own merchandise. Today I was wearing an outfit from the late fifties: a wide-skirted, knee-length, yellow-and-red madras plaid sundress topped by a persimmon-colored cardigan. Though I adored the look of vintage shoes, they didn’t really suit my active lifestyle—working at the store, investigating murder scenes, running from demons and what all. Instead, I favored Keds. Today’s were orangey red, with a hint of sparkle. Looking down, I enjoyed the way the shoes caught the light as I walked the several blocks to Jefferson Street.

  San Francisco’s Wax Museum is an ever-popular tourist destination, but in my opinion it is creepy on its best day, which no doubt explained why Aidan Rhodes kept an office here. I believe he thinks it’s funny. The wax figures, however artistically rendered, made me decidedly uncomfortable; they reminded me too much of poppets, used in many magical systems as stand-ins for humans. As if they were a reserve army of mindless automatons, I feared they could be transfigured, if desired, by someone with enough power.

  Like a certain male witch.

  There was no denying one fact: I feared Aidan’s power . . . but I envied him his mastery. Though my innate talents might rival his, I was nowhere near as in control.

  Just as my little entourage approached the museum entrance, a man strode out of the building. He wore heavy-looking black motorcycle boots. Faded jeans. Leather jacket. And a really bad attitude.

  A fellow I knew only too well.

  A fellow named Sailor.

  Chapter 3

  Upon spotting me, six feet two inches of muscled man reared back, on guard and wary.

  This was the sort of response I’d become inured to as a child in Texas, when my neighbors got the notion I was a witch. But Sailor wasn’t unfamiliar with witches; on the contrary, he worked for Aidan—albeit reluctantly—and was himself a powerful psychic. Still and all, he’d been assiduously avoiding me ever since he’d helped me drive a demon out of a building not long ago. Unlike most psychics I’ve known, who enjoy their abilities to communicate with the beyond, Sailor was not what you’d call at home in his psychic skin. He was also one sorry excuse for a human being. For some reason, I really like him.

  “Hello, Sailor,” I said as I approached him. “Lookin’ for a date?”

  “That wasn’t funny the first hundred times. What are you doing here?” His dark eyes swept over my vintage outfit before shifting to my animal entourage. “And do you think you could cause a bit more of a scene?”

  Passersby were starting to take note of the pig.

  I gestured to Oscar to go on inside the museum. He herded the cat over to the old-fashioned kiosk that served as a ticket booth. The lethargic young attendant, Clarinda, glared at me, but nodded. Clarinda loathed me—and by extension my pig, presumably now also my cat—but she respected or feared Aidan more. So she cooperated. After a fashion.

  “I’d better be going, anyway,” Sailor said.

  Having been shunned for most of my life, I had developed a fairly thick skin when it came to personal slights. But it still rankled that Sailor was always so anxious to get away from me. After all, we were . . . friends. Sort of. I didn’t have all that many, so I figured he counted.

  “Wait,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Asked you first.”

  “I’m here for a lesson. Aidan’s helping me hone some of my skills.”

  “What?”

  “You told me yourself I should get a better handle on my powers. Remember? So I talked to Aidan and—”

  He gaped at me, aghast. “You’re letting Aidan train you? Good Lord, woman.”

  “He’s a pretty powerful fellow.”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s the freaking understatement of the year. Sure as hell doesn’t mean you should trust him to train you.”

  “Hey, Sailor, know what I’ve noticed?”

  “I have the feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “You’re happy to cast aspersions on Aidan, yet you never explain why. So do you have an actual, you know, reason for distrusting him, or are you just still twelve years old?”

  Sailor’s eyes slewed to the side, looking around us surreptitiously, as though only now realizing we were still standing near the entrance to the Wax Museum. With an agitated quirk of his dark head he strode out into the busy street, looking neither left nor right, assuming the cars would stop for him.

  Which they did.

  I trotted along behind him. On the opposite sidewalk we were immediately engulfed by hordes of chatty tourists rushing to and from bay cruises, seafood restaurants, and the assorted attractions of Pier 39, the Cannery, and the Ghirardelli Chocolate factory. Their vivacious energy swirled about us, creating a virtual cone of silence.

  “Look, if you need training,” Sailor said, still surveying the crowd, “which you do, why don’t you go back to your source? Who started you out?”

  “My grandmother, Graciela. But she’s back in Texas, where I grew up. She won’t come out here—you know how old-school witches are. Attached to the land.”

  “So move back to Texas. That sounds like a really good idea, the more that I think about it.”

  “You’re saying you wouldn’t miss me?” I smiled coquettishly, or at least as close as I could come. I’m not what you’d call a natural-born flirt, and I’ve never had much chance to practice.

  Apparently I still wasn’t much good at it. Sailor’s mouth pulled even tighter in irritation.

  “I’m saying if you’re smart you’ll get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “San Francisco is my home now,” I said, as much to myself as to him. “I love the Haight, and I have no intention of leaving. Besides, there seems to be a lot of . . . ‘activity’ in this town lately. I think I’m needed.”

  I could see the muscles in his jaw working, as though he was biting back words.

  Giving him a moment, I inhaled deeply and relished the scenery. The salt off the bay mingled with the aroma of steaming seafood. A child ran past, trailing a bright red balloon. His father followed, laughing, a little girl perched atop his broad shoulders. Two teenage girls in brand-new Alcatraz sweatshirts slouched by, clutching bags of saltwater taffy and loaves of sourdough bread. A small crowd milled around a man whose clothes, skin, and hair were all painted a shiny silver color; when money was dropped into his bag, he performed a jerky, robotic dance.

  I love tourists. So normal. So happy. So blissfully unaware that witches and whatnot lurk in their midst.

  “I might know someone who could help you,” Sailor said finally, bringing my attention back to our conversation.

  “Help me how?”

  “Train you.”

  “Rather than Aidan?”

  He nodded.

  “Sailor, I know Aidan’s . . . unpredictable sometimes, but surely he’s good at what he does. He’s talented, and seems to be in full control of his magick. Other than not liking him personally, is there a reason you’re waving me off?”

  Sailor finally met my eyes. I knew he couldn’t read my mind, a fact for which I was profoundly grateful. But there were times . . . odd moments when I felt as though he really did understand what I was thinking and feeling, even though there was nothing psychic about it. This worried me. Sailor was undeniably intriguing; but when all was said and done he was a bitter, misanthropic shell of a human being. Why should I feel such kinship with him?

  “Fine, princess, have it your way.” He shrugged. “Just be careful. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked off toward his motorcycle, parked illegally on the sidewalk. His back was as stiff and as unrelenting as his icy gaze.
/>   Still, I couldn’t just write him off. He had helped me not long ago. A witch like me, accustomed to flying solo, didn’t forget something like that.

  Besides, every once in a while a glimpse of something else shone through Sailor’s bitterness: a searching, yearning loneliness that reminded me, too much, of my own.

  That topic bore further scrutiny, I supposed. But right now I had an appointment with the male witch Sailor had just warned me about.

  I gathered my animals from the sullen Clarinda, thanked her with all the warmth I could muster, then led my entourage up the floating central stairs to the second floor. We passed wax replicas of the Mona Lisa and Elvis—both the young, curled-lip version and the Las Vegas, jumpsuit-wearing edition—walked by the sinister Chamber of Horrors, and proceeded through a small exhibit of European explorers to an arched mahogany door that appeared almost invisible to the throngs of casual visitors who enjoyed the museum.

  But to me it beckoned.

  Aidan opened the door before I knocked. Though I was prepared for what I would see, the breath still caught in my throat at the sight of him.

  Aidan Rhodes, male witch, possessed a kind of soulmelting good looks. Too good. I had witnessed women, and a fair number of men, quite literally stop in their tracks to stare as he walked by. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had golden hair that curled slightly at the nape of his strong neck, while his square jaw held just a hint of manly whiskers. His long-lashed eyes were a captivating periwinkle blue, his crooked smile showed white, even teeth, and his easy laugh was accompanied by a slight duck of the head that gave him an endearing sense of aw-shucks, little-boy vulnerability—an openness that was sheer veneer, of course.

  But over and above his physical appearance, Aidan sparkled with power. He gave off twinkly, almost blinding vibrations. Even those who never sensed auras felt his.

  And to add to it all, he was capable of using witchcraft to help others attain their desires. Was it any wonder the man had so many admirers? Poor long-suffering Clarinda was charged with screening his potential visitors, he had become so popular.

  “Lily, it is always such a pleasure,” Aidan said, his eyes sweeping over my vintage outfit with a warm gaze just this side of impolite—the kind that left a woman in no doubt as to whether her figure was appreciated. “Don’t you look just lovely in that dress? Let me see . . . 1960?”

  “Round about there, yes.”

  “You see, I’m learning something new simply by being in your company. One of the many things I adore about you.”

  He stepped back and gestured to me to enter. Not unlike Malachi Zazi’s place, Aidan’s office seemed like a holdover from the Victorian era of the old Barbary Coast, featuring a red-and-gold color scheme, dark wood, velvet, tassels, and wall-to-wall bookcases jammed with magical tools and books. A snowy-white lace doily atop one small table made me think of Zazi’s body lying so still upon his dining room table, his life’s blood staining the tablecloth. Maybe his death had nothing whatsoever to do with bad luck symbols—broken mirrors and trapped sparrows and black cats. Perhaps it was a simple crime of passion, stemming from jealousy or greed. Weren’t most murders, ultimately?

  I yanked my thoughts back to the present as Aidan closed the heavy door behind us. Oscar dropped his potbellied pig façade, but as usual around Aidan, he remained uncharacteristically silent.

  Upon spying the black cat, Aidan’s white long-haired familiar leapt into his arms. It glared, then hissed, at the orphaned feline, which ran behind the grimacing Oscar.

  I sneezed. Repeatedly. With each achoo Oscar whispered, “Gesundheit.”

  “Who’s this?” Aidan asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I was hoping you might want another cat.” I sniffed. “But it looks unlikely.”

  “I’m afraid my familiar would object,” Aidan said, handing me a monogrammed linen handkerchief. “You know how females are. They like to be cherished, to be the only one.”

  “So, now we’re adding sexism to our long list of faults?” I blew my nose into his soft handkerchief. “Seems to me most men have a problem with sharing as well.”

  He laughed. “So, have you been doing your reading?”

  “I’m up to ‘H’—Hauntings, Healing, Heaven, Hell, Hermetics . . .”

  I envied Aidan his control in the long run. But at the moment what I really lusted after was his musty, rarified library. Bound in crumbling leather, these thousands of parchment pages held the secrets of the ages. There were thick volumes concerning ancient and contemporary sacred paths, magickal and alchemical grimoires, manuscripts of paganism and Christendom, and books of the dead. Writings of magi, sorcerers, Gnostics, chaos magic priests, alchemists, scholars, and—of course—witches. Encyclopedias of ritual magick from around the world, obscure as well as celebrated secret societies, power brokers, masters of corruption, and healers. Testaments, charts of symbolism, and the complete roll call of angels and demons. Folklore and the foretold, the divine and the defiled, the creators and those whose hunger will never be satisfied, the lost technologies and manifestations . . . and more.

  This was the sort of rarified information that still couldn’t be found on the Internet—and I had spent many, many hours looking. It was a tempting, somewhat overwhelming world of arcane but essential knowledge. If I could take it all in, memorize it and learn to work with it, I might be able to control my own powers more efficiently, as well as to overcome my frequent cluelessness when it came to other magical traditions.

  In the last week I’d made it through the “F” section: Faeries, Financial conspiracy, and Freemasonry. I then moved on to “G”: Ghosts, Glamoury, Gnosticism, Goddesses, Gods, Golden Dawn, Grace, and Grimoires. As I persevered in reading the tomes, my mind had started to feel numb and my eyesight blurred. But I was determined.

  Aidan chuckled. “I never suggested you should work through the shelves alphabetically.”

  “It seemed the most straightforward approach,” I said. “And as long as there’s no math involved, I’m a fast reader, so it moves along pretty quickly. Especially the healing and botanical writings—though I wrote down a few instances where the books got it wrong.”

  I handed Aidan my notes. He looked down at them with a quizzical expression.

  “You’re correcting my sourcebooks now?”

  “As you know, botanicals are my strong suit, so as I read I compared the books with the notes and recipes in the Book of Shadows I inherited from Graciela.” Aidan kept studying the papers in his hand, making me nervous. “Just a few changes,” I hastened to add. “Mostly minor.”

  He acknowledged me with a little lift of his chin. “All right, I’ll have to take your word on all this.

  “So.” He set his cat on the desk and rubbed his hands together in the way of someone getting down to business. “What’s on the agenda today? How about taking another shot at scrying?”

  I groaned. Scrying was hard.

  “I know you must hate to be separated from me,” Aidan continued, “but you’re supposed to stay in the cloister until you see something. Last time you lasted all of five minutes.”

  The “cloister” was a windowless five-sided room off the main office, not much bigger than a closet. It was used for the sole purpose of meditation and scrying—or “seeing” with the mind’s eye, as in gazing into crystal balls or black mirrors. The cloister was constructed as a magical portal, with a variety of charged stones, mirrors, and charms set up to create magnetic fields sympathetic to the needs of the supernatural.

  “I always feel as though I should be doing something instead of just sitting there.”

  “What you’re supposed to be doing is opening the portals so that you can communicate directly with your helping spirit. You don’t even know who, or what, it is. I’ve never heard of such a thing. No wonder you aren’t in control of the magic you’re stirring up.”

  “My spirit comes to me when I brew, not when I stare at black mirrors.”

  “And crystal balls . . . ?”<
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  “They’re even worse.” I thought of the beautiful jewel-encrusted crystal ball I had been given, years ago, by one of Graciela’s wealthier colleagues. It gathered dust on my bookshelf at home, exquisite and useless as a pampered, dim beauty queen.

  Doubt shone in Aidan’s too-blue eyes. I feared I wasn’t the stellar student he was hoping I would be. I had a lot of power, but it was locked up strangely.

  “My grandmother didn’t believe me, either.”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Lily. It’s . . . unusual for such a powerful witch not to be able to read, that’s all. Come on, I’ll help guide you.”

  I followed him into the cloister, though I remained doubtful. I had been trying to unlock the secrets of algebra lately, with my friend Bronwyn’s help, and hadn’t made much progress. If I couldn’t master an eighth-grade skill like solving for the x, how was I going to learn the art of “seeing” what is not shown?

  Black mirrors hung on each of the five walls. A multitude of charms dangled from the ceiling—mostly silk bags hanging on braided cords—and symbols were drawn in a red, black, and ochre border at the top of the walls. Shallow shelves were adorned with stones. The room carried a powerful scent of sage.

  I’m no claustrophobe, but when Aidan shut the door the walls of the little room, lit only by candles in four sconces—one for each direction—seemed to close in on us. I breathed deeply and tried to allow the evident magnetic forces to flow through me, rather than blocking them.

  As we said back in Texas, I was as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rockers. Being here made me realize how much I rely on the calming sanctuary of my home, my cauldron, my mortar and pestle and herbs and roots. Maybe I was like Graciela; I would get to the point where I could never relocate, even if I wanted to.