Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  “A witch?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “You don’t look much like a witch.”

  “You don’t look much like a prince of darkness.”

  He smiled. “What kind of witchcraft do you practice?”

  I took a deep breath. I still wasn’t accustomed to just coming out and talking about things that were such deep, dark secrets not long ago. And I was acutely aware of Max’s presence right behind me. “Root work, botanicals, mostly.”

  “Do you believe in sacrifice? Blood sacrifice?”

  “When necessary.”

  His face split into a grin. An unsettling grin.

  “Excellent. Most excellent. Shall we retire to the living room, where we can be more comfortable?”

  “Surely, thank you,” I said as I trailed his limping form through the dim foyer, into a living room dominated by a huge orange velour sectional sofa. Bookshelves and artwork covered just about every inch of wall space.

  As we walked, he gestured behind him with one hand. “I believe you’ve met my high consort, Doura. And this,” he said as the short-haired redhead joined us, “is another priestess, Tracy.”

  The Prince sank into the middle of his huge sectional, and the women sat on either side, sandwiching him.

  “Nice to meet you both, officially,” I said. Too nervous to join them on the sofa, I looked around at the objects in the room. Max leaned up against one wall, arms crossed over his chest, much as Sailor had earlier.

  I noticed a large carved chair—almost a throne—with a small brass plaque identifying it as having once belonged to Rasputin. A vintage Tyrone Power Nightmare Alley movie poster adorned one wall, and a bright red cape with devil horns was draped across the shoulders of a mannequin, like an ornate grown-up Halloween costume. Human skulls, a shrunken head, and a Venus flytrap sat on one high shelf. Beside a vintage gramophone sat a small bed of nails.

  A stuffed and mounted wolf guarded one corner, and as I walked toward it I smelled the unmistakable scent of reptiles. On the shelf behind the wolf were a number of aquariums, a fat snake in each. And near them, close enough for all of them to smell one another, a small brown sparrow trapped in an elaborate gilt cage.

  “What’s with the bird?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t lunch.

  “Don’t you like pets?”

  “It just seems . . . it’s so close to the snakes, I would imagine it’s frightened.”

  “Life is a frightening endeavor. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I wasn’t about to get into a philosophical discussion with this poser. “Still, would y’all mind if I moved it?”

  Zazi poked Doura in the ribs. She, in turn, gave Tracy a look. Tracy rolled her eyes but came over and helped me move the cage about ten feet to one side of the snakes. I imagined they would move it back the second I left.

  I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that my mission didn’t have to do with animal cruelty, but with ascertaining what Prince High had to do with his son’s death.

  On a nearby bookshelf were several tomes attributed to the High Prince Zazi: Devilish Rituals, The Devil’s Bible, The Devil’s Workshop, The Devil’s Business.

  “New York Times bestsellers, almost every one of them,” he told me proudly. “You know, others tried to establish their own, similar churches, but none came close to my success. I am the high priest and magister, the Magus of the Devil’s Church. I even went on the Phil Donahue Show—there’s a signed picture with him, right over there near the fireplace.”

  I took a look. Indeed, there was a much younger—but still goateed—Prince High, sitting onstage with the gray-haired Phil Donahue. There were several other photos of Prince High in the grouping; one of Aidan Rhodes and a woman I recognized as a local voodoo priestess, my friend Hervé’s mentor, who had passed away several years ago. Aidan looked exactly the same in that photo as he did when I last saw him, two days ago.

  “I have a theory as to why I rose so high above my competitors. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Of course.”

  “America admires business savvy, rewards it. Simple belief isn’t enough. The more successful, the richer I became, the more popular I was. I based my church on the writings of the great Ayn Rand, Friedrich Nietzsche, Jack London. They stood for individualism, the religion of materialism. That’s what I admire. You are your own God.”

  “You are, or the devil is?”

  “What is the devil?”

  “I thought you might know, since you’re the one who wrote the books.”

  He laughed. “Do you know Satanism is now a recognized religion in the U.S. military?”

  “I didn’t know that, no,” I said. “But I had heard that Wicca is now recognized.”

  He made a disparaging sound and waved the idea away.

  “You don’t care for Wiccans?” I asked.

  “All that hippie nonsense? No, not at all. You’re not that kind of witch, are you?”

  “No, I’m not Wicca,” I said. My eyes alighted on a rich oil painting of a richly attired boy, à la the Blue Boy. Except that this one had fangs: It was a vampire child.

  “Malachi posed for that when he was ten,” Prince High said, pride in his voice.

  “Why?” I asked. “I mean, why portray him as a vampire?”

  He laughed. “Why not? Vampires are immortal, you know.”

  “And that very immortality is their curse, isn’t it? Their damnation?”

  “I suppose some think so. Personally, I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot.”

  “Speaking of not aging, I understand you’re an investor in Mike Perkins’s antiaging business?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Is that just a run-of-the-mill investment, or do you have a particular interest in his research?”

  “Look at these two.” He smiled and gestured to both of his companions, who remained mute. “Aren’t they beautiful? You’d never guess their ages. Go on, try.”

  “Oh, I’m no good at that game.”

  “Give it a whirl.”

  “Um . . .” I shaved a hunk of years off what I thought. “Thirty?”

  “Ha! You see? Both of them are over forty. You’d never guess, would you?”

  I smiled, trying and failing not to feel awkward with talking about the two women as though they weren’t right here in the room with us. “They’re lovely. But I never quite understood the motivation of trying to stay young. I mean, doesn’t age bring with it knowledge, experience, all that? Why try to be something you’re not?”

  “It’s the American dream, to remain young forever.”

  “Doura, I understand you were at Malachi’s dinner on Saturday night?”

  Without skipping a beat, she said, “No, I wasn’t. I was right here.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “She’s quite sure,” answered Prince Zazi.

  “Is it true that you know Mike Perkins?”

  “That part is true,” the Prince interrupted. “Doura looks after my interests at Perkins Laboratories.”

  “What do you do there?” I asked her directly.

  She just smiled, but remained mute.

  Tracy could pass for someone’s minion, remaining silent and allowing others to speak for her. But Doura was another matter. I had the distinct impression that if she wasn’t talking, it was because she’d decided not to. Unless I was sorely mistaken, she was very much in charge of the situation.

  “Were you close with your son, Malachi?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “I just wondered. He was found surrounded by bad luck symbols. Do you have any idea why?”

  “I guess his luck ran out. You can’t play with such things, you know. I’m sure you understand that much. These things have to be respected.”

  Max snorted. I’d wondered how long he would be able to maintain his composure while listening to this discussion.

  “In any case,” the Prince went on, “Malachi’s thesis was faulty. In fact, if you check
into his guests, they did have bad luck.”

  “I’ve heard that. And you think it’s because they tempted fate?”

  “Of course,” he said, absentmindedly rubbing the handle of his cane. “I don’t know where I went wrong with that boy. I taught him everything I knew, but by high school he gave in to peer pressure. I never should have allowed him to go to that prep school. He met the wrong sort of people. But his mother insisted. Then he spent his whole life trying to prove me false. Can you believe he set out to do that to his own father?”

  Zazi spoke with the special disappointment fathers show to their children, a tone that another parent might use if Malachi had been involved with drugs or a criminal lifestyle. I wondered what my own father thought of me, a woman who now stood against everything he believed in as well.

  “Those kids he invited to the dinners, they’re the problem. I imagine one of them killed Malachi’s earthly form.”

  “I believe the police are speaking with all of them.”

  “They’re bad news. They’re only interested in what they can get.”

  “But I don’t understand—isn’t that precisely the kind of materialism you espouse in your religion?”

  He shook his head. “When it has no spiritual framework, no philosophical underpinnings, there is only selfishness and shallowness.”

  I didn’t really “get” materialism as a life philosophy. In my mind, it had always been a condemnation, a bad thing. The belief that ephemeral, earthbound rewards were more important than nature, or love, or our very humanity. Perhaps I was naïve, but I couldn’t bear to live in a world where material goods and comfort ranked higher than the sound of a child’s laugh, or a lover’s glance, or a friend’s smile.

  “If I’ve satisfied your curiosity, I’d like to get back to my bedchamber,” said Prince High. He rose from the sofa with difficulty, leaning heavily on his cane. “It’s time for my nap.”

  “Of course,” I said, moving toward the foyer. “I like your house. How long have you lived here?”

  “Since 1965. My son was born some years later, as I established my house of worship. You know, I believe my son will rise again. I even founded my church June 6, 1966. 666, a very powerful number. The devil’s number.”

  “Actually, wouldn’t June 6, 1966, make it 6666?”

  He looked rather discomfited. “Yes. Of course.”

  Doura flung the front door wide, and met my eyes. I couldn’t repress a shiver. Unlike Zazi, Doura had something . . . special about her. But why would someone with her obvious abilities be willing to act as a lackey to the likes of Prince High Zazi?

  “Doura, could you and I get coffee sometime? Have a chat?” I asked, as though we shared an interest in needlepoint.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I know where to find you.”

  Chapter 13

  “Is it just me, or did that sound like a threat?” Max asked as we exited the metal gate and stood on the sidewalk.

  I nodded. “Sounded like a threat to me.”

  “Why do you want to speak with her?”

  “I think she’s rather more than Zazi’s consort. Do you know anything about her?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never even met the ‘Prince’ until just now, though I’m familiar with his reputation.”

  “He seemed to know you.”

  “A man like him keeps track of the press,” Max said. “He’s probably read my articles.”

  “So, Max,” I said, letting out a breath. “When did you get back from your trip?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “A couple days ago.”

  “You didn’t call.”

  “No. I . . . I needed a little time.”

  “By all means. Take all the time you need,” I said, turning toward the van.

  “Stop, Lily. We need to talk.” Max glanced around, as though searching for inspiration. “Have you eaten?”

  “What?”

  “There’s a Russian neighborhood not too far from here. Amazing pirogis.”

  “You’re asking me if I’m hungry? Besides, you just ate. And so did I.”

  He shrugged, looked uncomfortable. “I thought we might grab a bite, talk.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  He glanced over at the house, where the pale visages of Doura and Tracy were visible in the front window, until they ducked back behind the curtain. “We’re talking outside the devil’s black abode.”

  “Seems rather appropriate to me,” I said.

  “Lily . . .”

  “If you need time, Max, why are you here now?”

  “I was worried about you. And I wanted to see you. You look beautiful, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Our gaze held for a long moment. Max had gray, light-filled eyes that reminded me of rays of sunlight breaking through a storm at sea. I could feel myself melt a bit, even while stubbornly fostering a hard kernel of anger at my core.

  “Answer me one question,” I said. “That woman at the Chronicle, the city editor?”

  “Violet?”

  “Are you two . . . do you have a . . . thing?”

  My heart sank when he didn’t answer right away. As sure as I was that I couldn’t be with Max if he refused to accept my magic, I hated the idea of him being with someone else. At least this soon. I let out a breath and made a resolution: no more ordinary humans. Oscar was right. There must be someone else more appropriate for the likes of me. I knew several attractive magical men, a couple right here in San Francisco. Of course, one of them was mad at me and the other didn’t like me that much, but still. Couldn’t I choose one of them, for Pete’s sake?

  No sense in putting off the inevitable.

  “I take it you’ve decided you can’t love a witch?”

  “Lily, I do care for you. But I can’t pretend that your . . . ‘powers,’ or whatever you want to call them—”

  “Powers is fine. And don’t say it in that tone of voice, if you please. You’ve had evidence, Max. How much more do you need?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I’ve done nothing but think about this, Lily. Believe me. I’ve seen what you can do, and what you’re like when you’re doing your witch thing. It . . . scares the hell out of me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Coward. Cowardly cowan, I thought.

  “It’s not fair to you if I can’t love all of you, including . . .”

  “My freakishness?”

  “You’re not a freak,” he said in a very soft, gentle voice.

  I snorted. It was all I could manage.

  “My brother tells me he’s seen you a few times,” Max said.

  I met Max’s brother, Luc, a short time ago, while clearing the School of Fine Arts of a haunting. Luc was handsome and charming. But I felt nothing for him like I did for Max.

  “He drops by the shop occasionally,” I said.

  “I’ll just bet he does.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” I said, turning away. He grabbed my arm, pulling me back to him.

  His mouth came down on mine. Gentle at first, the kiss deepened. And then some.

  His strong arms wrapping around me felt as natural as breathing. He smelled wonderful, of soap and a manly, subtle musk scent. A visceral memory washed over me, of the night we shared, how perfect we were together. Despite my fears and distrust and anger I could feel myself let go of my misgivings, sink into him.

  The traffic, the sunshine, even the black abode faded to nothingness. I desired, yearned, and at this moment everything I wanted seemed embodied in this man in my arms. I reveled in the feel of his mouth, his body, his . . .

  The van horn blared. Startled, we pulled apart.

  The hapless countenance of a potbellied pig appeared in the windshield of my purple work van.

  Max’s arms remained wrapped around my waist. He smiled down at me. “How’s the pig?”

  “Ooooh,” I exhaled, reality slapping me in the face, “same old pig.”

  “He l
ikes to ride around with you, like a dog?”

  “Something like that. There’s a cat in there, too. Long story. I don’t suppose you’re in the market for a new pet?”

  “I’m already inheriting my dad’s dog,” he said with a shake of his head. “And I’m not sure of my plans yet. Whether I’ll even be staying put.”

  Talk about a slap in the face. Not only was he still unsure of me, but he might be moving, in part to get away from me. Lovely. I was more confused than ever. Did he want me or not? Did he even know himself?

  “I’ve got to go.”

  I stalked back toward the van.

  “May I call you?” Max called out after me.

  I didn’t answer. Instead I climbed into the van, gunned the engine, and zoomed away from the curb.

  “Nice,” Sailor said as he crawled out from his hiding place in the back and sat in the passenger’s seat. “You two want to get a room? I hear they rent by the hour at the Hotel Wharton.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” I snapped. “If you’re going to stalk me you’re going to have to deal with whatever you witness. Just think how much fun it will be to tell on me to Aidan. First the black abode, then Max. He ought to be just thrilled.”

  “I thought you weren’t seeing Carmichael anymore.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “That’s the scuttlebutt.”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror, but Oscar was making himself scarce. “Mmm. Best not to believe everything a pig tells you, I guess.”

  I drove down busy California Street, weaving through pedestrians and trucks double-parked in the right lane. The silence was too good to last.

  “He’s not worth your time.”

  “Thanks for your thoughts.”

  “I’m serious. He’s a wounded soul.”

  “Takes one to know one, huh?”

  “He won’t be able to give you what you need, Lily, and he sure as hell isn’t going to be able to support your witch behaviors.”

  “It’s astounding, Sailor. You hardly speak ten words at a time to me except under duress, yet now it turns out you’re a couples’ counselor. I had no idea you were a therapist.” I was spending too much time with Sailor. His sarcasm was rubbing off on me.

  “Just saying . . . you might want to watch it, is all.” He slumped down in his seat and stared out the window.