“An oath to leave one another alone?”
“Yes, essentially. But it’s also a code of conduct; certain things are not allowed.”
“Such as?”
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.
“Part of the agreement was that no magical practitioner would join scientists, for example, in pursuit of unnatural ends.”
“Would that be a scientist such as Mike Perkins, for example?”
He nodded. “He has no power himself, but if he allies himself with someone, and they go after eternal youth . . .”
“That sounds bad.”
“You have no idea. The only way to produce something like that, on a massive scale, is to leach youth from elsewhere. It could be disastrous.”
I had to ask about something that had been eating at me for days.
“What about you? I saw a photo of you taken more than thirty years ago. It doesn’t seem as though you’ve aged since then.”
“It’s different. It’s a glamour, it’s not real. Look, the only thing we have going for us right now is that the dark practitioners are terrible about forming alliances. When we formed the pact, back in the chaos of that era—it was a time of great opportunity and great risk, like any thinning of the veil.” I thought of the solstice, of Samhain, or Halloween. “A lot of good people were hurt, on all sides. Needlessly. A lot of work went into forming the pact. If it falls apart now, there’s no telling what will happen.”
“And what was the agreement, exactly?”
“It was complicated, as only these things can be. You know how bureaucracies are. But the gist was that we’d stay out of each other’s way. Now you’ve forced my hand.”
“How so?”
“You think you escaped tonight through natural means?”
“But Atticus—”
“Atticus had help. He could never have taken on a coven under normal circumstances—you know that. I’ve had the forest creatures on standby for days, assuming you might just get yourself in trouble.”
I thought back on the flash of light, and thought about the wood sprites and the brownies, the forest folk I thought wouldn’t help me. Traditionally they were allied with witches. Of course. Aidan’s minions. Even the tree—had I been able to invoke the Daphne spell in my moment of panic, or had it been Aidan’s magic that I had piggybacked on? I remembered that surge of confidence I felt, right before the spell began to work.
“So the coven in the woods—who were they? Devil folk?”
“I’m not entirely sure. They certainly aren’t any coven under my jurisdiction.”
“Do they even have that kind of power?”
Pause.
“Not really, not the elder Zazi, certainly. But he has some powerful associates.”
“The woman? Doura?” His eyes slewed away from mine, telling me what I needed to know. “What is she, some kind of renegade witch?”
“Something like that. She certainly doesn’t answer to me, and since she signed the pact along with Zazi, I was just as happy to avoid her altogether. She declared herself his underling, so she’s supposed to abide by his agreement. But clearly, things have changed. I now think she pretended to be allied with him in order to evade oversight from me.”
“So where does that leave you, then?”
“I don’t know. It’s none of your affair, in any case.”
“I think it is. Isn’t that why you agreed to train me? To have one more powerful witch in your army?”
“I’m training you for many reasons, few of which you are capable of understanding.”
“Try me.”
“I did. You failed.”
“What are you talking about?”
He ran his hands through his hair in a rare impatient gesture.
“The pact was disturbed by the death of Prince High’s son. It was not prophesied thus. And your involvement . . .” His voice trailed off as he shrugged.
“Prince High didn’t seem all that concerned by his son’s death, I have to say.”
“I doubt he was sharing all his inner thoughts with you. He’s been going crazy. Running around wrapped up in scarves and wearing a hat, like his son used to do.”
“That was him? Why would he do such a thing?”
“I think he’s trying to keep the idea of his son alive somehow . . . who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if this has driven him out of his senses. He will never have a chance to make things up to his son—regret is a powerful emotion. In any case, now I have to figure out who killed Malachi. They won’t rest until I do.”
“I thought you wanted me to stay out of it.”
“That was before they went after you. Have you felt your powers diminished?”
“Actually, I have.”
He nodded, grim. “Since you disobeyed me in the first place, we now need a way to find the perpetrator, and fast. Perhaps now that you understand better my ‘limitations,’ you’ll see why I can’t just run around the city with you and track this person down.”
“Is this why you have Sailor trailing me? As protection? But he has no magic.”
“He can communicate with me if he has to. If the chips were down, I could be there. It would help if you’d actually let him accompany you, rather than slipping away like you do. Poor guy’s having a heart attack trying to track you down. Besides, you could have used him in the woods.”
Aidan’s familiar jumped onto the desk, glared at me, and then purred so loudly I could hear it from where I was sitting.
“There you are, little traitor,” Aidan murmured to the cat. He took her in his arms and stroked her long white fur. Then he looked back up at me. “For some reason Noctemus thought you should know my little secret. As she’s usually right about such things, I’ll have to trust her. And I hope I can trust you to keep my confidence.”
“Of course. Just so I’ve covered all my bases, I have to ask you: Did you place Goofer Balls in Malachi Zazi’s apartment?”
He gave me a disbelieving look. “You really think I operate that way?”
“And I don’t suppose you know anything about a rattlesnake there?”
“Sounds like his apartment’s something of a hotbed. All the more reason for you to stay away. The only thing I know is that Malachi Zazi chose that place because of a magnetic field of some kind. There’s an arrangement of metal and stones on the roof that tends to cleanse the place of vibrations. But that has nothing to do with hexes or snakes. It has to do with trying to keep his father, and his father’s cronies, away from him.”
I thought about the roof. I remembered the metal rods, but there were no stones set up. There was that little planter, and the statue of Serpentarius, but no Stonehenge-like rock formations, however miniature.
Aidan got up and came around near me, hitching one hip up on the desk and clasping his hands.
“About what transpired between us a few days ago, in the cloister. You know as well as I do that there’s something there, when our powers mingle.”
“Yes.” There was no point in denying it.
“You should know this sort of thing doesn’t come up often for me.”
“I would imagine you could seduce anyone you wanted, anytime you wanted.”
“It doesn’t come up. Believe me.”
I looked into his eyes, those beautiful periwinkle eyes that sparkled, horrific burns or no. This part, at least, was no glamour. It was him, Aidan, the man.
“I want to ask you on a proper date.”
“A date?”
“To the Art Deco Ball. I want to go with you. As your official date.”
“I thought it was hard for you to be out in public, to leave here.”
He smiled his aw-shucks grin and ducked his head. “I believe it’ll be worth it. Please?”
It was the “please” that did it. I still didn’t entirely trust Aidan, and I wasn’t quite sure what he was capable of, or whether he had ulterior motives for asking me. But he was being so . . . decent, it was impossible to say no.
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I nodded. “All right. You’ll have to come by Aunt Cora’s Closet and let us dress you up.”
He grinned. “I can’t wait.”
“First things first, though,” I said. “About Malachi’s murderer . . . I might just have an idea. I think I know how I can identify him.”
“How?”
“By playing to my strengths. I’ll brew.”
Chapter 25
I made a phone call to Hervé to see if my idea was even possible. He confirmed that it was, but also told me what I knew: I wouldn’t be able to pull it off by myself.
“Have you ever heard of a chov’hani, a kind of Gypsy witch?” I asked.
“Of course. That would be perfect for this sort of thing. The Rom are noted for their snake magic. Do you know one?”
“Not yet, but I’m planning to get to know one. Thanks for all your help on this. Oh, and have fun with your parents.”
“We’re watching reruns of M*A*S*H. Many, many reruns. I might not make it.”
I laughed.
“I swear, next time I’m closing the store so Caterina and the kids can come with me.”
“If you let me know in advance, I’d be happy to babysit the store for you. In the meantime, hang in there, big man.”
Most evenings Sailor hung out at a club called Cerulean, off a side street in San Francisco’s vibrant North Beach neighborhood. He wasn’t there when I arrived, so I ordered a dirty martini, extra olives, and took a seat at a booth. I figured if he didn’t arrive by the time I was done with my drink, I would track him down at his apartment. But for now the throbbing bass of the jukebox and vivacious hum of the crowd was strangely comforting. Or maybe it was just the effects of the gin.
After what had taken place in the woods, and then with Aidan, I might just need another martini after this one.
Sure enough, Sailor strode in, big black motorcycle boots stomping on the shiny wood floor. The crowd seemed to part, men wary, women watching him surreptitiously from under mascaraed lashes. He was the classic bad boy: dark good looks, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black leather, overall bad attitude. Just seeing him cheered me up.
When he spotted me, he stopped dead, as though reconsidering his choice of establishment for the evening. A redhead in a short leopard-print skirt seated at the bar preened, smiled, and cooed, “Hello there.”
Sailor rolled his eyes and came to sit across the small table from me.
“Where the hell have you been? I thought you weren’t going to run out on me, ‘buddy.’”
“Sorry. I needed a little time alone.”
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Could I buy you a drink?”
“Out with it, already. We both know this isn’t a social call.”
“If I were to ask a big favor of you . . .”
He snorted.
“What would you want in exchange?”
“What, we’re bargaining before I even know what you’re after? Must be something really good.”
“Name it. What do you want?”
He looked suddenly serious.
“All I want is to be free of Aidan Rhodes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He gave a bitter laugh. “And just how do you propose to do that?”
“I can’t say, exactly. But I’ll work on it.”
He gave me a disbelieving look.
“You yourself keep saying how gol-durned powerful I am. So why do you doubt I could go up against him? Especially if someone like your aunt is willing to work with me, train me.”
“Wait just a goddamned second,” he said. “My what? My aunt?”
“You mentioned her before, remember? Outside of Aidan’s, you said—”
“I know what I said. But I also took it back. I told you, I don’t want any part of that life.”
“She’s the real deal, though, right? Powerful?”
He nodded, still wary.
“All I’m asking for is an introduction, for you to set me up with her. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“And you’re saying that if I do this . . . that you’ll get me free of Aidan Rhodes, male witch.”
I nodded. “I can’t guarantee exactly when, but I’ll find a way.”
He held my eyes for a long moment. Cynicism was edged out, just barely, by something very rare for Sailor: hope.
He blew out a loud breath. “I don’t have a lot of faith, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, that’s about the best I can do.”
“I know.”
I picked up the phone to call Bronwyn and then put it down at least ten times that night. Partly because I don’t like telephones, and partly because I didn’t know what to say.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Bronwyn since I found the hex, though Maya told me she had visited and Bronwyn seemed to be holding up well. I felt terrible that our friendship seemed to be slipping away, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I simply couldn’t accede to her wishes and leave her unprotected.
The next day was busy at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Maya’s mother, Lucille, had started making patterns based on vintage dresses, enlarging them and sewing reproductions for the more typical, larger-framed modern woman. They were selling like hotcakes. On my way to Coffee to the People yesterday I had seen two women on the street wearing a couple of the popular styles.
A mother in her thirties and her teenaged daughter were having a rollicking time trying on outfits—the daughter fit into the originals, and the mother into the reproductions. They each tried on sundresses, then skirtjacket combos, all from the late 1950s. They were joking about wearing matching dresses to the girl’s graduation and started laughing so hard they could barely speak. Their relationship warmed my heart.
That’s it, I thought. I’m calling Bronwyn.
To my surprise, she didn’t hang up on me. In fact, she assured me that she loved me and she knew I thought I was doing the right thing. In a way it made me feel worse than if she’d yelled at me; it was just so Bronwyn of her.
As I was ringing up the mother-daughter purchases, the teenager looked down at the glass counter display.
“Oh, those are so pretty! What are they?”
“Spirit bottles,” I said, bringing a few out and setting them atop the counter.
The bottles were among the few nonvintage items I carried in the store, alongside talismans that I consecrated and charged with the New Moon; pentacles, powerful crystals and stones, and a few small totems. I had recently been inspired to make the spirit bottles out of a bunch of old items I found at a garage sale in West Oakland. Spirit bottles are embellished on the outside, then filled with herbs, oils, and rolled parchments full of thoughts and wishes.
I had no intention of becoming a supernatural supply shop, but I had to admit that with Bronwyn’s herb stand in one corner and my growing display of witch-related items, I might be accused of such. Then again, along the Haight Street shopping district, with its head shops and hippie paraphernalia, Aunt Cora’s Closet was hardly out of place.
“They’re so pretty! What are they used for?”
“They’re meant to draw and trap evil and negative energy.”
“So they bring good luck?”
“Not exactly. They take away negative energy . . . sometimes it seems like the same thing. In the old days they were filled with things like needles, urine, hair, and herbs, and buried under the fireplace hearth, or the four corners of the floor, or plastered into the walls. It was said that evil would be impaled on pins and needles, drown in the liquid, and be sent away by the herbs.”
The mom picked up a blue bottle embellished with shells, spangles, and feathers. It was filled with dew I collected in the forest of Golden Gate Park.
“Ooh, I love that one!” said the girl.
“That’s a water spirit bottle,” I said. “Are you crafty at all? They’re fun to make for yourself. There are all different kinds, incorporating different
sorts of items, depending on what you’re after. Moon goddess and sun altar bottles, prosperity bottles, earth elemental bottles . . .”
“But would it be really, um, magical if I made one myself?”
“Oh, yes. Creative energy is very powerful. For most people, making art and crafts brings up a kind of relaxed concentration, similar to meditation, allowing the positive energy to flow through your hands and into the item you’re working on.” This was the sort of state I couldn’t manage to attain while scrying—or at least never had until Aidan worked his magic. But creating things like carved talismans and spirit bottles got me pretty close.
By now several customers were gathered around for my impromptu seminar, picking up the bottles and inspecting them.
“It’s like wearing a hand-knitted sweater.” I picked up a hand-knitted pale pink baby’s sweater made of the softest wool, with a little pewter Winnie-the-Pooh button at the collar. “What child could wear something like this without feeling comforted? And that goes tenfold when an item’s handmade by someone you love. You can’t help but think of that person whenever you wear it, or use it, or look at it. That’s a powerful spiritual connection, and it sets off a series of positive thoughts, ideas, sensations.”
The mother and daughter wound up buying two dresses each and the water spirit bottle. They also suggested we start a craft day at the store, to teach people to make their own.
“That’s a great idea,” said Maya. “I could bring leftovers from school. We’d have a blast.”
I agreed. We could make it a regular event at Aunt Cora’s Closet. But first I just needed to prevent the dissolution of a supernatural pact so that Mike Perkins didn’t set up a massive youth-stealing company by allying himself with an evil practitioner. How hard could that be?
Right after lunch, Sailor came by the store to tell me we had an appointment with his aunt. He left his motorcycle under Conrad’s loving care, and we took the Mustang east across the Bay Bridge. His aunt’s house was in the Oakland hills.
As we drove, I peppered Sailor with questions.
“Are there a lot of Rom around here, in the Bay Area?”
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