“Was she ever unsafe? Was she hurt?” I asked.
“No. But we were lucky.”
“I think you need to cut yourself a little slack. It might not have been the ideal situation, but you loved her, you took care of her. And it’s all in the past, anyway. She’s a healthy, accomplished woman.”
Bronwyn nodded, took a deep breath, and released it slowly. “I know. I know that. This whole thing has just been so hard. But you know the crazy part? In a way it’s brought us closer together—she’s looked to me for support. That’s why I want to respect Rebecca’s wishes in this. I want you to stop investigating.”
I thought of Carlos saying insulting things to me about witchcraft earlier in the day, and how strangely threatening Perkins had seemed. And how Aidan had reacted to my involvement, and the malevolent energy of Doura. . . . Who was Malachi Zazi to me, anyway, that I should spend such time and energy on him? True, it was bewildering that the apartment—and the corpse—had been cleansed before we arrived. But given the man’s unfortunate relations, it could have been done for any number of reasons. I wouldn’t put it past Prince High to have stolen his son’s body and conducted séances in the apartment—if he researched cleansing ceremonies, used the right ingredients, and truly believed, he could have managed to instill at least a temporary freeze.
And now Bronwyn, my dear friend, was asking me to butt out. I didn’t have much choice.
“All right,” I said softly. “If that’s what you want.”
Chapter 20
I tried to spend an evening like a normal person. I didn’t brew, and I didn’t read about ancient Roman gods, or flip through my Book of Shadows in search of new recipes it might have miraculously added. I didn’t try in vain to scry in my useless crystal ball. I did my best to put all thoughts of Malachi Zazi and Prince High and the Huffmans and Gregory and Rebecca and Perkins out of my mind.
Finally I decided that if I was looking for distraction, Max Carmichael seemed the most likely candidate. We met at the pub not far down Haight Street from Aunt Cora’s Closet.
“How are you?” he asked as we settled into a small table in a secluded corner.
“Could we start with an easier question?”
“That bad?”
I shrugged. He ordered margaritas, adding, “Make them doubles.” A man after my own heart.
“How are things going with the Satanists?” he asked.
I had to smile. “I haven’t seen them since we were last there together.”
“Good.”
“Could you tell me anything about Prince High, or his so-called Church of the Devil?” I had promised Bronwyn to stop investigating, but I just wanted to clarify a few things in my own mind. That’s all. It would stop here.
“I don’t think they’ve got an actual hotline to hell, if that’s what you’re asking. As far as I can tell, the ‘Prince’ milked the ‘Church’ thing for as much money as he could. When times changed he lost the shock factor, and then he faded out of sight pretty fast.”
“Should I assume you don’t think he has any actual evil powers, then?” That was a silly question—Max Carmichael didn’t really believe in my powers, though he had witnessed them in action.
“I don’t think a person needs to connect with any supernatural evil in order to perpetrate crimes upon humanity, Lily. We’ve seen enough through human history to document that fact, haven’t we?”
I nodded and took a deep sip of my margarita. The broad glass was rimmed with salt, of course, and redolent of limes.
“I looked up Prince Zazi, or whatever it is he calls himself,” Max continued. “He has a long record of inquiries from Child Protective Services when Malachi was a boy, including several ER visits. Anyone who could hurt a child, or expose him to the sorts of things Malachi was exposed to—that signals a perfectly human evil, in my mind.”
“Speaking of natural evil, do you know anything about Mike Perkins?”
“The founder of Perkins Laboratories? A little. He’s not a person to be messed with. More money than the queen, and less of a sense of humor. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I spoke with him and he just . . . he gave me a pretty strange vibe, to tell you the truth.”
He chuckled. “Now you’re sounding more California than witchy. ‘Strange vibe’? Is that a technical term?”
I smiled and played with the frost on the outside of the margarita glass, drawing swirly lines.
“He’s not someone to be crossed, though, I’ll tell you that much,” Max said. “He didn’t get where he is now, as fast as he did, by being a nice guy. I wouldn’t put much past him. And a meddling witch like you . . . that could be a recipe for trouble.”
“Bronwyn wants me to step away from all this, to stop asking around.”
“And you, of course, refused, because you know what’s best for her.”
“It’s just—”
“You think you know better than she does. Than any of us do.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to deny it. But it was true. In this one very particular area, I was smarter and more able. I understood witchcraft, was able to alter reality and affect the future, simply by using the talents that ran in my blood and the accumulated knowledge of my training. I was more than happy to admit my lack of knowledge about almost everything else—I hadn’t even graduated high school. And my mathematical and interpersonal skills were decidedly challenged. But with witchcraft, yes, I was a star.
“I am better. More able. In the Craft.”
His lips pressed together, just a tad, and he stared at me with eyes the color of the gray sky over the sea. Those eyes killed me.
“You should stay away from this if Bronwyn asks you to, Lily. And I’m not saying this as someone who wants to keep you safe from people like Prince High and Mike Perkins. I’m saying it as a friend. She has reasons to ask you to back off, and as her friend you should respect those reasons.”
“I know that. I already told her I would drop it.”
“Then why are we talking about men with strange vibes?”
I smiled. “I just wanted your take on the subject, but that’s it. Case closed.”
“Good.” We looked at each other for a long moment.
“Speaking of vibes . . . I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching lately,” Max said, “as well as a lot of research into the world of the occult.”
“Really. And what does your research tell you?”
He shrugged. “That it’s a bunch of hooey, by and large. And yet I’ve seen too many unexplained things with my own eyes—always in your company. And . . . and I care for you, even though your entire being is invested in this idea of yourself as a witch. It leads me to believe that there has to be something to it.”
“And?”
“Look, as you know, I screwed up, royally, with my . . . late wife. She’s still with me, in a sense.”
“You mean your guilt’s still with you?”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Maybe. Yes. I loved her. I wasn’t there for her when I should have been. I should have done more, should have done whatever I could. I think I still have ‘work’ to do in that area. I was hoping that for the moment, at least, you and I could be friends.”
“Just . . . friends?”
He nodded. “Good friends.”
“That was a very friendly kiss yesterday.”
“I know, I was out of line. I couldn’t help myself.”
“I don’t know, Max,” I said, slowly licking salt off my lips. “I’ve never tried to be friends with someone when I wanted to . . . you know.”
“What?”
I shrugged. “You know.”
“I . . . are you saying . . . ?” His voice sounded just a tad hoarse.
I just stared at him for another moment, shrugged again, and left him to pay the bill.
I might not know much about male-female relations, but I was a quick study. If the man wanted to play games, so be it.
Two could play at suc
h matters of the heart.
Haight Street was crowded with people in high spirits, bustling to and from dinner and drinks. I walked among them, past Aunt Cora’s Closet, to Bronwyn’s place.
It killed me to see her so upset, so full of self-doubt earlier. I counted on her to be a rock, a port in the storm. I would do as she asked, but . . .
I only hoped Carlos could figure out Malachi Zazi’s death without my help. Because this man who had survived his father, who had loved a beautiful movie star, who had been afraid of the sun but who set up a rooftop garden . . . the late Malachi Zazi was growing on me. I hated to let the injustice of his murder stand, just because of Rebecca’s ridiculous prejudice against witches.
Maybe I could talk to her directly. Maybe all three of us—she, Bronwyn, and I—could hash this out like grown women.
Bronwyn’s second-story lights were still on. I let myself into the building.
Something was wrong.
I felt it the moment I walked into the foyer—there was a rank odor, as though the yeast in the neighbor’s baked goods had gone bad. But that wasn’t the problem . . . it was something else. As I mounted the stairs, I realized the dread was not merely internal. I was feeling something bleak and wrong outside, as well as within me.
I slowed my pace. Took deep breaths, trying to stay attuned to the vibrations.
On the stairs. Right above me. What was it?
I paused, stroked my medicine bag, whispered a protective chant, and then crept up the rest of the stairs.
Finally, my eyes alit on something on the landing. Right in front of the door, on the woven hemp mat that welcomed all to Bronwyn’s hearth and home.
The door opened. “Lily, what—”
“Stop right there!” I commanded. “Don’t step over the threshold!”
Bronwyn looked startled, but did as I said. “What’s wrong?”
I gestured to an ugly bundle sitting on her doormat. Three nails and three sharp needles, wrapped up in ribbons of black, and deep purple thread. Humming, alive with malice. Charged with wickedness.
The nails were rusty, old. Coffin nails.
“It’s a hex.”
Chapter 21
“A hex?” Bronwyn paled.
“A curse.” I nodded, surveying the landing to be sure we weren’t dealing with anything else besides the bundle on the doormat.
I looked above the lintel. I didn’t see anything, but I sensed something. In the old days lintels were often arched or bowed, because the straight horizontal shelf created by standard doorways was an invitation for demons to perch. Bronwyn should hang an amulet there. In the meantime, just in case, I needed to make a sign that evil spirits weren’t welcome here.
“Do you have any paint? Something red I can make a mark with?”
She shook her head. “I can’t think of anything.”
“No paint, lipstick, anything at all?”
“I don’t use lipstick, but . . . the kids and I made red velvet cupcakes earlier. There’s still a little batter in the bottom of the bowl. Would that work?”
I gave her a small smile, despite the tension. “Bring it here, let me see it.”
It might have been rather unorthodox, but I was after color more than substance. I reached across the threshold to take the bowl from her.
“I thought you said not to cross the threshold,” Bronwyn said. “What about you?”
“I want them to come after me. Their hexes are no good where I’m concerned.”
Between being a natural witch, which meant I was guarded at all times, and the protective talismans and medicine bag I was carrying, I was like a mirror when it came to something like this. The Wiccans like to point out the rule of three, that any act of goodness comes back to you threefold; similarly, a hex set upon someone like me bounces off of me and reflects many times back onto the curser. I welcomed their hexes.
I scraped my hand along the edges of the sweetsmelling mixing bowl, then jumped up, slapping the wall immediately above the lintel. The mark of the human hand was powerful. The mark of a witch’s hand even more so.
My handprint was clear, in deep red batter against the creamy white paint of the wall. It would do for now.
“Listen to me very carefully, Bronwyn. Don’t let any part of your body cross the threshold, and make sure none of your animals do, either. I have to run to my place for supplies, but I’ll be right back. Are you expecting anyone?”
She shook her head.
“Good. But if you hear anyone come in, warn them to stay downstairs.” Keeping my eyes on the bundle, I started to back down the stairs. “Or better yet, have them wait outside. In the meanwhile, make yourself some tea.”
“What kind?” she asked, eyes huge.
I smiled. “It doesn’t really matter. It’s just to calm yourself. Chamomile would be excellent. And light a white candle and say a protection charm, then pet your cats. I’ll be right back.”
I ran.
The three blocks might as well have been as many miles. My lungs burned from the exercise and the fear, each searing breath feeding my rage. Bronwyn was an innocent in all of this. Someone had gone after my friend. My friend.
I burst into Aunt Cora’s Closet.
“Oscar!”
I heard a thump overhead, and then the sound of the door opening. “Mistress?”
Oscar sounded unsure. I never called for him like that, always coming up for him when I was ready.
“Grab my box of stones and bring it to me. Then crush some rosemary with the mortar and pestle, set it on the tray in the kitchen, and bring it down as well.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Oscar, for once doing as he was told.
I crossed over to Bronwyn’s herb stand, pulling a glass jar of crushed eggshells off the top shelf. Eggshells are potent. In the old days, it was said that if you threw your eggshell away haphazardly while cooking, a witch could come upon it at night, make a boat of it, and sail away wherever she pleased. That didn’t sound like such a bad idea at the moment.
I also gathered cobwebs, three dead flies, and a coarse black cloth.
Oscar brought me what I had asked for. I told him to stay upstairs with the cat and not to open to anyone, no matter whom, except for me.
“Can’t I help?” he growled.
“No. Stay here.” The look on his face gave me pause, even in my haste. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Oscar, but right now I want you to stay here, safe and sound, with the cat, so I don’t have to worry about you two. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Then I ran back to Bronwyn’s with my supplies. Upon hearing me come in the main front door to the foyer, Bronwyn opened her door.
“Stay there,” I said.
I crept back up, slowly, to the top of the stairs. I coated the fingertips of my left hand in the pure white powdered eggshell and picked up the bundle with my protected hand, holding it away from me.
Still holding the charm in my left hand, I drew a pentacle in salt around the rosemary on the tray, set stones of malachite and jasper and marble at each point. I chanted a protective spell, muttering the words as a verbal talisman while I created the pentacle.
North South East West
Spider’s web shall bind them best
East West North South
Bind their limbs and shut their mouths
Blind their eyes and choke their breath
Wrap them up in ropes of death
Finally I set the evil bundle at the center of the charged pentagram, adding the cobwebs, the flies, and covering it all with the black cloth. The lines of salt would bind the wickedness temporarily, keep it from attaching to me or anyone else.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
In Bronwyn’s kitchen I washed my hands thoroughly with lavender soap and then checked her whole apartment for Goofer Balls or any other hexes. It was clean. Still, I performed another brief protective spell, and then Bronwyn and I swept the whole place from the back to the front, including the landing
and the stairs, and I took the broom out to the front porch.
Afterward, I sat with Bronwyn at her kitchen table, drinking tea from handmade, brightly painted ceramic mugs. A big yellow platter held a dozen or so very sloppy red velvet cupcakes topped with white buttercream frosting. Coloring books and crayons were still scattered about the main room, but the children had gone back home with their mother.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
“I’ll take the hex with me when I go. Try not to worry about it, Bronwyn. I promise you, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“I don’t want you to.”
I met her eyes for a long moment. She shook her head. There were tears in her soft brown eyes.
“Please, Lily. I meant what I said when I asked you to stay out of it. I thought you were going to.”
“I was, but not after this. Not anymore. I can’t.”
“You can. Rebecca says if we keep pursuing it, she won’t let me see my grandbabies anymore. She said she’ll cut me out, shun me, won’t speak to me.” Tears ran down her face.
I was speechless. I knew they weren’t all that close, but . . . Bronwyn’s daughter didn’t want to even acknowledge her mother? How could she? I thought of my own mother, who sent me away at the age of eight—albeit to a loving home with Graciela, but still—and who then put me at risk in a desperate attempt to normalize me. The mother I still sent money to, but who preferred I didn’t call. The mother who was still friends with the hometown neighbors who had vilified me. What would I have given for a mother like Bronwyn: openhearted, generous of spirit, confident in the good of humanity?
“Bronwyn, I’m so sorry.”
“How can she ask me to renounce what I believe in? It doesn’t hurt anyone. That’s our creed above all: ‘An ye shall harm none. . . .’ ”
“I know.”
She shrugged and tried to smile through her tears. “I was so young when I had her. I truly thought . . . I believed that with enough love, she would eventually love me back.”
“Oh, Bronwyn.” I wanted to tell her that Rebecca did love her, in her own way, but it sounded like a platitude. Instead, I reached out to envelop her in a hug.
Hexes and Hemlines Page 19
