Hexes and Hemlines

by Juliet Blackwell

  I’m not really a hugger. Other than children or animals, I could count on both hands the number of times in my life when I’ve willingly hugged someone. But Bronwyn sank into me, and sobbed with a broken heart. I held her for a very long time.

  As much as I wanted to please her, I couldn’t promise Bronwyn not to pursue the case. Not now.

  If the powers that be wanted me to drop this case, they had just succeeded in convincing me to do the very opposite. I would hunt them down, and I would do what I had to do in order to destroy them, or at the very least to drain them of power. No one went after someone I loved. No one.

  I could no more keep from exacting revenge than I could stop being a witch. I wasn’t sure how that would play out among the Zen-inspired Bay Area types, but it was my witchy nature, plain and simple.

  I only hoped Bronwyn would understand. Someday.

  After another restless night, I headed down to the café for coffee and breakfast.

  I was pretty clear on how to deal with the hex left on Bronwyn’s doorstep, but I wanted to double-check with someone more familiar with this sort of curse than I: Hervé LeMansec. Hervé was a voodoo priest and—at least last time I checked—one of my few remaining friends. His shop didn’t open until eleven, though, and I was just as glad. I could use a little downtime in the shop this morning, soaking up the vibrations of the clothes and their history.

  A charming, rather scruffy holdover from the Summer of Love, the Coffee to the People café was now peopled by pierced, tattooed, vaguely antisocial types rather than the original peace-and-love hippies. But its rebellious nature was intact; whatever the majority of the middle class wanted, these folks did not. Along with the head shops and secondhand clothes stores—for Aunt Cora’s Closet was not the only vintage shop in the neighborhood—it was both a Haight Street holdover and a landmark.

  While standing in line, I listened in on the conversation in front of me.

  “It just seems like you’re giving in to conformity, though, if you actually have the gender reassignment surgery and then start acting all masculine. I mean, would you even still be a lesbian if you’re, like, officially, a man?”

  It was the kind of conversation it was hard to imagine hearing in most parts of the world. I smiled to myself and tried to remember it to share with Bronwyn later. But as the thought occurred to me, I remembered how we left things last night. Bronwyn. It about broke my heart to hear her crying yesterday.

  I reached the front of the line. Wendy was an ample, curvy young woman with a penchant for wearing in public what would have been considered bedroom attire back home in Texas—for that matter, it would have been considered lingerie in most parts of the Bay Area. Today she was dressed in a black fishnet jacket over a corset—both of which she had found at Aunt Cora’s Closet last week—along with black leggings. But with her Bettie Page smooth black hair cut in dramatic bangs across her forehead, and the “don’t mess with me” look in her brown eyes, she was more than an empowered woman; Wendy was a phenomenon.

  “I hear you need to stop messing around with Bronwyn’s deal,” she said as she started to concoct a Flower Power drink for Conrad and a Chocolate to the People for me. When life was difficult, I opted for chocolate. This was much of the time lately. If I wasn’t careful, I wouldn’t be able to fit in my own vintage clothes much longer.

  “Bronwyn’s ‘deal’?” I asked.

  “She didn’t want to go into details, but she asked the coven to help support you in not butting in. I mean, she said it nicer than that, but that was the basic idea. So”—Wendy caught two bagels as they popped out of the toaster—“are you going to drop whatever it is you’re doing?”

  I considered lying. It would be much easier, and frankly, not that uncalled for in this situation, in my opinion. I wasn’t sure that this was any of Wendy’s business.

  On the other hand, she was a coven sister to Bronwyn, who had clearly confided in her. They had known each other, been friends and fellow Wiccans, for much longer than I had known either of them. I was the newbie, the interloper. As usual.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Starr, another member of the coven, beat me to it.

  “Don’t be such a hard-ass, Wendy,” she said from behind the local free paper, the Guardian.

  “Just looking out for what Bronwyn needs right now. We take care of our own,” she said as she slathered hummus onto the bagels and added roasted red peppers and kalamata olives. “No offense, Lily, but you’re not a member of the coven. It’s not the same. You’re not a sister.”

  “Don’t worry too much about it, Lily,” said Starr. Her voice was kind. “Bronwyn’ll get over it soon enough.”

  “I never did like that stick-in-the-butt Rebecca,” said another woman, whom I recognized from the coven meetings as well.

  I appreciated their words, but it was clear their loyalty was with Bronwyn—as it should be. They had been friends much longer than I, and shared the bonds of the coven.

  I, on the other hand, had asked for the coven’s help twice now, putting them in danger both times. Before they met little old me, their coven meetings consisted of benign prayers to the goddesses and rituals celebrating the solstice, and nature in general.

  I felt like an outsider, again. I thought I had found friendship, a sense of belonging in this neighborhood. But had I? Was it that easy, or was a lifelong loner unable to forge those bonds? It had only been a few months, after all.

  Would anyone even be talking to me anymore when this was all said and done? I felt a stab of regret deep in my belly. Not for the first time I considered hopping in my car and driving off, away, just abandoning the scene and starting anew. It’s what I had done for the past decade or so of my life, and escape always beckoned. But I had to remind myself that this was my town now, my community.

  Back at Aunt Cora’s Closet, as though to hammer home that point, I looked up from my bagel to see several familiar faces coming into the shop. I loved the informal, casual friendships I was developing with the regulars. These were mostly neighborhood residents, but there were also a few artsy types who made it a point to check out new inventory every week or so, as well as a number of trendsetting fashionistas. I was lulled by the rhythm of their conversation and the swish-swish-swish of the hangers along the racks.

  Sailor arrived and wordlessly took up his bodyguard station, sitting by the dressing rooms. He looked up at me in silent gratitude when I offered him coffee.

  “Here’s an impossible challenge for you,” said one young woman I recognized as a student at the School of Fine Arts. Lagging behind her, as though he wished he were anywhere but here, was a young man wearing a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt and grungy jeans. “My boyfriend and I are going to a thirtieth birthday costume party, and the theme’s the pirates of the Caribbean. I don’t suppose you’d have some sort of matching costumes we could wear?”

  “Nothing’s impossible when it comes to vintage clothes,” I said. “You won’t be a perfect match, but I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  I spent the next half hour digging up everything from leather vests to frilly Victorian bloomers. It was amazing to see the couple transform from sloppy artists into a swashbuckling duo worthy of, if not Hollywood, at least a community theater production. The young man claimed he had a collection of real swords and knives at home to finish off the outfits.

  “Just be careful,” I said, unable to help myself. They rolled their eyes at me, but were so happy with their new clothes I could imagine them wearing their costumes to more than just a single party.

  I noticed Sailor watching me with a sardonic smile on his face, but I tried to ignore him. I supposed vintage clothing may seem silly to some, but I loved finding outfits that suited people and made them happy. I reveled in the vibrations, and the history, and the humanity of it all.

  Bronwyn was on the schedule to start at noon today, but instead Maya walked in.

  “Good thing I’m on break from school,” she said as she hung up
her sweater and scarf. “Bronwyn asked me to cover for her again today. Listen, Lily, I really think you should stay out of whatever it is that’s going on, if she asked you to.”

  Apparently Bronwyn had spent some quality time on the phone since last I saw her.

  “I can’t, Maya. I can’t explain why, exactly, but it’s for her own protection. And for all I know, for your protection as well. Someone went after her because she’s my friend, I’m sure of it.”

  Leaving the shop in Maya’s capable hands, I grabbed the covered tray that held the ugly hex, slipped out the back door, and hopped into my car before Sailor realized I was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Hervé LeMansec had rotten timing. Unfortunately for me, he was out of town, visiting family in Southern California.

  His wife, Caterina, gave me this unwelcome news when I stopped by his voodoo supply shop on Mission Street. Caterina was a beautiful woman with traditional tribal facial tattoos, long locks, and two young boys who were huge basketball fans. She was soft-spoken, and though this was now one of my favorite supply stops, we had never exchanged many words. But I knew she worked with Hervé, and ran the shop. I was betting she would know something about my ugly little package.

  Upon lifting the black cloth from the hex, her nostrils flared and she reared back.

  “This is a suffering root. Charged with a blood sacrifice. This is no small thing.” Her dark eyes were shiny and untelling as mirrors. “It could be hoodoo, or it could be one of yours. Have you run afoul of any practitioners?”

  “Not that I know of. Unless . . . have you ever heard of Malachi Zazi?”

  She became very still. Her movements were careful, studied.

  “I think you should speak to Hervé directly.”

  “When does he come back?”

  “Next week, but you’ll need to talk to him before that.”

  “I hate talking on the telephone.”

  “So does he. Call him anyway.” She dialed a cordless phone, handed it to me, and gestured for me to take my call in the back offices of the store. I didn’t appear to have much choice. Caterina may be soft-spoken, but I had the sense she had a will of iron. Not that I was surprised; from what I knew of Hervé, it made sense he would have chosen an equal as a life partner.

  “What can you tell me about suffering roots?” I asked Hervé as soon as we had taken care of basic pleasantries.

  “That they have nothing to do with roots, but I imagine you know that. They’re not amateur hour—if it was charged properly, then it was done by someone with skills. Were you able to disarm it?”

  “Yes. And I looked it up in my Book of Shadows; I was planning to perform a drowning spell to dispense of it permanently.”

  “Good idea. I’m sorry I can’t see it in person; I might be able to tell you more.”

  “Let me ask you this: If a body disappeared from the morgue, what would you think?”

  “That someone was trying to avoid an autopsy.”

  “So it wouldn’t occur to you that he, you know, walked away? Kind of . . . undead style?”

  There was a very loud silence from his end of the line.

  “You think you have a zombie on your hands? And you think that because I am a vodou practitioner, I would know about it? That’s a very unwelcome stereotype about my belief system, you know.”

  “I know. And I don’t really think . . . I don’t know. I’m just a little shaky.”

  “You really believe in such things?”

  “Not really. But you do, don’t you?”

  “Not in any way that you’re thinking.” He laughed again. “Someone’s been watching too many late-night movies.”

  “I guess you’re right. How about this: Have you ever heard of Malachi Zazi? His father called himself the High Prince Zazi, had a—”

  “Him, I know. If you’re involved with anything that has to do with him, I’d stay away from it.”

  “What can you tell me about Zazi?” While we talked, I meandered around his back room, checking out his grinding equipment, jars, tubs, and boxes full of herbs and roots I had never heard of. And I thought I knew a lot. It was fascinating.

  “It was before my time, but I’ve heard the stories about Prince High. He’s a devil guy.”

  “Do you know any details about him?”

  “Not really. Hasn’t been particularly active for a while. I think everyone was hoping he’d aged out of it. Still lives in the same place, though, as far as I know, at least I assume so. It was a house out in the Richmond District, on California. Painted it all black. If he’d moved, the new owners would have painted it, I feel sure.”

  “Yeah, I met him the other day. The house is still black.”

  “You met him? How did that go?”

  “Um . . . okay. He’s a nut, obviously, but there were no overt threats.”

  “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

  “Do you know anything about his son, Malachi Zazi?”

  “All I know is that when he was a kid his father did a big public baptism. Had a naked woman draped over the altar, and hailed the devil.”

  I braced myself.

  He said nothing more.

  “That’s it?”

  “Kind of a freak show.”

  “They didn’t hurt the woman?”

  “I don’t believe so, no. It was mostly theatrics. They filmed it.”

  “And they advertised this to the world? Sounds like he’s more of a showman than a serious practitioner. I mean, if they’re serious, don’t these people keep things sort of on the down low?”

  “Like you?”

  “And you.”

  “I would think. But it was a little wild back then, or so they tell me. It was before my time, which I think was just as well. I don’t like that stuff.”

  I perused Hervé’s bookshelves while he spoke. Voodoo was such a different system from mine; there was a lot of root work that overlapped, but it dealt much more with dirt and powders.

  “But let me say this much: You shouldn’t be messing with Prince High. Leave it to the police, or whoever’s involved.”

  “This feels more like my area of expertise. Someone left that suffering root bundle to hex my friend. And a snake for me. I’m getting the sense it’s personal.”

  “A snake?”

  “A rattler at the scene of the crime. Whoever it was couldn’t have been a witch, though, right? Or they would have known it wouldn’t bother me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Plenty of witches are bothered by snakes. We vodou types use snakes all the time, of course. The eggs, blood, heads, flesh, sheds, bones, and skins of all species of snakes are used in our magic. Then there’s always Goofer Dust and Living Things in You poison.”

  “What is Living Things in You poison?”

  “You really should know more about snakes than you do. This isn’t only hoodoo—you use it in your system as well. In jinxing and crossing—you do hexes, don’t you?”

  “My grandmother never cared for snakes,” I said. “She trained me, so I guess we just overlooked all those bits. And then I never quite finished my training.” I hesitated, refraining from telling him what happened with me and snakes, back in the day. What was done was done, and the link I had with serpents now seemed like a handy thing, all things considered.

  “With the Living Things in You poison, powdered eggs and sheds are mixed into the victim’s food, along with the appropriate incantation. The target feels as though a creature is wriggling around in his body. It causes pain and distress, and has been known to drive men insane.”

  “Ew.”

  Hervé laughed, a deep rumble that I appreciated, but which made me a bit apprehensive at the same time.

  “You of all people should know, Lily, the Craft is not for the faint of heart.”

  “That’s for sure. One more question: Do you think Aidan Rhodes could have anything to do with this?”

  “The murder, or the hex, or the snake?”

  “I real
ly doubt the snake would have been placed by anyone who knew me; they would know it wouldn’t be a threat to me. But the murder, or the hex . . . either or both?”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not well. He’s been training me a bit.”

  There was another pause on the other side of the line. This was one reason I didn’t like talking on the phone—I couldn’t tell what it meant.

  “What do you mean, training you?”

  “I never finished my training with my grandmother.”

  “And you’re having Aidan train you?” Echoes of Sailor.

  “Why is everyone so afraid of him? And why won’t they tell me what the secret is?”

  “For that very reason: fear. What does he think about you working on this?”

  “He’s”—I thought of his face the last time I saw him, the shimmering, powerful anger that emanated from him—“perturbed.”

  “Look, Lily, Aidan isn’t my master. But we have an understanding. He’s left me alone, and I’d like to keep it that way. And . . . I doubt I should be telling you this, but there was an agreement. Some kind of pact. It was established before my time, but it’s very clear. The voodoo practitioners, the witches, the devil folks—we keep out of each other’s way. We don’t tread on one another’s territory.”

  “Do you mean there’s a figurative, unspoken pact, or a pact pact?” I had heard of such supernatural covenants, but I’d never actually witnessed one.

  “You’ll need to get the details from Aidan. As I said, it was before my time, and since I don’t trespass, I haven’t had to worry about it. Listen, you’re in my office?” he asked. “There’s a blue jar on the edge of the shelf nearest the window. Take a chunk of three fingers root. And some cemetery dust. Keep some in your medicine bag. It will help. And I have plenty of snake products if you need them as well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Look, Lily, my mom and dad just showed up. I can’t talk about this anymore.”