Then again, even if Oscar were a cat, I imagined Sailor would have recognized him anyway. Guess I would have to take my chances.
On the way to Sailor’s apartment, I tried to think up a story in case I found him at home. I wanted company, I thought, I needed a friend. They say the best lies were half true, and I guessed that was so. Because the part about wanting a friend was true enough.
Sailor lived in an apartment on Hang Ah Alley in Chinatown. There used to be a perfume manufacturer here, so the area retained the ghostly scents of flowers and musk. The heady aroma floated on the chilly evening air.
Cars weren’t allowed in the alley, so I parked on Sutter Street, around the corner. Oscar was supposed to keep an eye out for Sailor, but I couldn’t think of any way he would let me know he had seen him. By sitting on the horn, maybe? I didn’t even know if I would hear it, so far away.
I walked past the dim sum restaurant, the mah-jongg parlor, and entered through a nondescript gray door in an even grayer building. Inside, the stairwell smelled like cabbage and spices. On the third floor, right outside of Sailor’s door, was the ghostly remnant of a long-ago murder. Sailor claimed this was why his rent was so cheap, because no one else in their right mind would live in such a place. He also claimed it didn’t bother him. Tough guy.
No one was tough enough to ignore that kind of despair day in, day out, I thought. I imagined it had a whole lot to do with his general attitude.
I knocked on the scarred wooden door. Nothing.
“Sailor?” I called out, knocking again.
Still nothing. I took out the Hand of Glory.
I hated this thing, but I couldn’t deny it worked wonders. According to legend it was the left hand of a hanged man, cradling a thick candle in its palm. Upon lighting the candle, all doors before it swing open and it lights the way—not like a flashlight, but bright as day.
The apartment door swung open in front of me.
Sailor’s place was a studio apartment, certainly nothing fancy. It was also a terrible mess, with books and newspapers and old coffee cups stacked everywhere. There was a bed under the windows that looked out over Hang Ah Alley, a tiny table and two straight chairs, a small chest of drawers. It smelled great, though, of exotic spices and perfume.
Where to start? I was a nervous wreck. I took a deep breath to steady myself. I was trying to help him, after all. Even if Sailor found me, I could explain it to him. Surely he’d see I was doing it for him.
I searched his bureau, the tiny closet with the bare bulb. Then I stood and looked around. There wasn’t much more. The kitchen cabinets were bare—really bare. I found a half-full box of Triscuits and checked—stale. A single plate, fork, and knife were in the strainer. A bottle of tequila and a glass. It reminded me of Malachi Zazi’s kitchen. Was it the sign of something wrong, something supernatural, or simply the style of a bachelor, depressed and sad?
I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. Plenty of dust bunnies, but no charm.
But then I felt something. It was on the bed—I started tearing back the covers. And there it was. Sewn into the pillow. I could feel it. Using the pocketknife, I picked at the stitches. It was a packet sewn with crinkly, stiff fabric, decorated with spangles. . . . How could Sailor not have felt it? Was it disguised by some sort of glamour? Surely if Aidan was strong enough to concoct a charm to keep Sailor, he was probably strong enough to hide it from him. Still and all, it seemed odd to think of Sailor sleeping on this thing each and every night and not noticing. Not exactly a princess-and-the-pea type.
I put the packet in my satchel, but then realized that I was leaving Sailor’s pillow torn open. That would be a tough one to explain. I couldn’t imagine a fellow without a bowl would have a needle and thread lying around, but a quick look wouldn’t hurt.
I opened a couple of drawers in the kitchen and found some miscellaneous odds and ends—soy sauce packets from takeout, disposable chopsticks, a couple of old keys, twist ties, double A batteries—but nothing of use. Then I remembered my mama used to keep her needles in the refrigerator on the theory it made them easier to thread. Further, she kept the thread in there with the needles, on the theory that when one needed needles, one needed thread.
I peeked in. A couple of white to-go containers, a half bottle of orange juice, three bottles of beer. A jar of mustard that looked several years old, and three bottles of hot sauce. Not a single needle, much less thread.
“Hungry?”
I screeched and whirled around.
“Sailor. Lord, you scared me!”
He tossed his keys onto the counter, then looked around, wary and apprehensive, as though checking for accomplices. Assured it was just little old me, he stared back at me.
“May I ask what the hell you’re doing in my apartment?”
“I can explain.”
“Start talking.”
“I wanted to see you. I feel . . . lonely and wanted to be with a friend.”
He let out a harsh laugh. “You’re not leaving here until you tell me what’s going on. Did Aidan send you?”
“No, of course not. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m working on what I promised, trying to free you from him.”
“I take it you’ve come up with a plan? Did it include absconding with my fingernail clippings or cuff links or something? Because I gotta tell you, Lily, you’re sort of growing on me, but I sure as hell don’t trust you. I’d rather you left me out of your witchcraft altogether, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s nothing like that. I’m not brewing and casting . . . I was looking for something rather specific. Something you don’t even know you had.”
He looked at me intently, but didn’t speak.
“Your aunt told me Aidan is using a kind of amulet to keep you under his thrall. She told me if I could find it, I could free you from Aidan’s debt.”
“And you believed her?”
“Um . . . yes?”
“Are you crazy? I think she may have been in league with Aidan in the first place to set me up.”
“Why in the world would she do that?”
“She always wanted me to use the powers.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you weren’t born with psychic abilities.”
“I wasn’t. But I’m the direct descendant of a great psychic, on my father’s side. My aunt wanted to train me when I was younger, to develop what she was sure was lurking there somewhere, but my mother wouldn’t allow her to. Still, apparently I had the inner capacity somewhere.”
“So how did Aidan bring it out?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Please tell me.”
He turned away and grabbed a bottle of tequila and a shot glass down from the shelf. He poured two fingers’ worth in the glass, downed it, then filled it again. Finally, keeping his back to me, he spoke.
“There was an accident. A car accident.” He took another drink. “It wasn’t my fault, but I was driving. I walked away without a scratch, but my wife, Amanda, was hurt, badly. In a coma. The first time I met Aidan, I was in the waiting room, distraught. He promised he could help, he could cure her, if I would pledge my allegiance to him. I didn’t believe him, of course, but I wasn’t about to give up any hope, however small. I agreed.”
“Just like that?”
“It wasn’t quite that simple. There was a ceremony. Smoke. Blood. I don’t remember it all. But afterward, I had these . . . powers. This curse. True to his word, Amanda came out of the coma. Recovered at a miraculous rate. It was so astounding, one of her doctors wrote up her case for inclusion in a medical journal.”
“Where is Amanda now?” I asked, thinking of his sad, solo occupancy apartment.
“She left me. Couldn’t handle this ‘gift’ that Aidan saddled me with. Or maybe she just couldn’t handle how I reacted to it, which wasn’t positive. I can tell you that. I spent a lot of time and energy keeping away from the Rom magic, and then here I was, thrust back into the parano
rmal world more than ever.”
“But why would you even think to introduce me to your aunt if you don’t trust her?”
“I don’t completely trust her, but if she wants something, it’s because she thinks it’s for the best. She’s arrogant, because she’s more in touch with the other realms. So she tends toward the paternalistic. Rather like you.”
“Like me?”
“You think you know what’s best for everybody, and you sure don’t mind meddling.”
“I usually can help, though, when it comes right down to it.”
Sailor grinned and took another swig of tequila. “Like I said.”
“So whatever happened to Amanda?”
He laughed, more a cynical snort. “She married a dull, steady systems analyst and moved to Danville. Just popped out her second kid. Meanwhile, I’m stuck for life. Sold my soul. And that article you found in my pillow is the only thing keeping Aidan in check, thank you very much. I paid dearly for it.”
“You put it there? What is it?”
“None of your business. But it’s mine.”
“Do you know why someone as powerful as Aidan needs so many minions?” I asked, wondering whether Sailor knew of Aidan’s injuries.
“He has his limits, like anyone else.”
“Do you know anything about his background, or maybe how old he is?”
He shook his head. “I can’t read his mind any more than I can yours. He’s a mystery to me, and I’d just as soon leave it that way. This place is safe from Aidan and any of my family—I’ve made sure of that. So give my charm back to me and I’ll banish you as well.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I apologize. I was wrong. I should have spoken with you.”
“Damn right.”
“You’re my only . . . lately I seem to be dropping friends at an alarming rate. I wouldn’t want . . . I don’t want you to banish me.”
“Well, I got news for you, little witch: You and I aren’t exactly friends.”
“Then what are we?”
“We’re a couple of misfits without the ability to make friends, is what we are. And we’re each out for ourselves, so at least we can trust each other, up to a point. Sort of. So where’s my charm?”
“In my bag.”
The satchel was sitting on the counter, nearer to him than me. He reached out to undo the metal clasp, then jumped back, cradling his hand.
“Ow! What did you do? That thing’s hot!”
“Promise you won’t banish me.”
He glared at me.
“No matter what you say, I think of you as a friend. In fact, lately you’re pretty near the top of the list.”
“Must be a short list.”
“You have no idea.” I looked at him, beseeching. “Promise, and you can have it back.”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
Not exactly a declaration of devout and loyal eternal camaraderie, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Chapter 27
My cauldron had been washed in rosewater and lemon verbena. My massive Book of Shadows lay splayed open on the counter beside my athame, a length of blessed rope, Sorcerer’s Violet, and a jar of powdered snake sheds. Another jar held powdered snake eggs, and a rattle, two fangs, and a tiny vial of venom. My familiar looked up at me, huge bottle-green eyes full of fascination and trust in my abilities, ready to facilitate my powers in slipping through the otherworldly portals.
I was ready to go, but I hesitated.
This sort of witchcraft—casting hexes on strangers—was the sort of thing my kind was forever being accused of. It was for precisely this kind of power that so many of my ancestors had forfeited their lives. But as far as I could tell, my friends were in danger. I wouldn’t let that stand. I couldn’t let that stand. I would brew, and I would cast, and I would let the chips fall where they may in the full knowledge that no action exists in a vacuum. There would be consequences.
Besides, whoever murdered Malachi deserved it, I thought. Or did they? How did I know? Who was I to judge?
I wasn’t the final judge, I reminded myself. Whoever it was had the right to be judged by a jury of their peers, in the decidedly normal court of law. The spell would reveal the murderer and make him or her wildly uncomfortable, even temporarily insane, but it was reversible. I would brew the antidote along with the curse.
Before beginning, I asked Oscar to put the black cat—now named, at least temporarily, Beowulf—out on the terrace. For me, brewing was a solitary art, the witch’s familiar being the only exception. For some reason the feline presence interrupted my spell casting, yet another reason to find him, or her, a new home.
I centered myself, putting myself into the almost meditative state of stripping and crushing herbs, measuring and counting out ingredients, and chanting as the brew began to boil. I had never used snake ingredients before, other than the occasional shed here and there. Now, upon including them in the bubbling cauldron, memories washed over me, heightened by the steam and transformation of the elemental brew. The snake magic felt natural to me. And I supposed it was no wonder.
Snakes had once saved my life.
My father had some kind of special relationship to snakes. And ever since I was very small, I had the sense that this was one trait I had inherited from my father that scared Graciela, the only thing I can ever remember making her nervous.
My mama and most of her family are members of a snake-handling church in my hometown. They truly believe that if their faith is strong enough, the snakes’ poisons cannot hurt them. How many times had I heard the story of my uncle Boyd, bit by a cottonmouth, who was cured by a laying on of hands in front of the entire congregation ? As a healer myself, I wasn’t about to deny the possibility that with enough faith, miracles could be brought to fruition.
One day, when I was seventeen, my mother begged me to go to a church meeting with her. She never asked anything of me—in fact, she rarely wanted any contact with me after sending me away to live with Graciela when I was just eight. Afraid, but unable to deny her, I agreed.
So on that sweltering summer day, air so thick it was hard to breathe, much less move, I entered the huge tent with my mother.
I had barely set foot inside when rough hands grabbed my arms. I was lifted off the ground and carried to the makeshift stage. My struggles were useless against the strength of the grown men who held me. They laid me on the floor and strapped me down, then placed their fat rough hands upon me. As though to cure me.
And then they opened the boxes that held the snakes. The reptiles wound around me, up and over my chest, encircling my arms and legs.
The preacher chanted:
“In my name shall they cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up serpents, and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”
Over and over, they all said the words. They shall take up serpents. Chanting swirled around me. I was surrounded by our neighbors: men in John Deere baseball caps marked with salt rings, their workingmen’s jeans caked with the red dust of our west Texas earth; determined, frightened, thin-lipped women wearing embroidered cardigans and wedding rings; kids from school, pimply and spiteful, scared but driven to change me. Alter me. Or kill me, if need be.
They were exorcising me.
Their fear and rage swirled about me, invaded my soul. My fright turned to sheer, blind rage. Aluminum chairs started to cast about. The keys flew off the small keyboard they used in lieu of a proper organ. The preacher’s Bible was wrenched from his hands.
The snakes turned on my tormentors.
By the time the screaming and near riot ended, there were twelve snakebite victims. I tried to do what I could, but several in the congregation covered my mouth to keep me from chanting. I still recalled the acrid taste of the dirty rag shoved in my mouth, a faint scent of axle grease.
In the end, two men and one w
oman perished that day. Old Mrs. Lockmiller, my third-grade teacher—the only teacher who had ever been kind to me—died from a cottonmouth. A man who ran the gas station when his farm went bust succumbed to the venom of a rattler. Another, a man who had been terrible to me, vicious even, died an excruciating death from a water moccasin.
Though I had not enchanted the snakes, nor wished death upon any of my attackers, they were out for blood, for vengeance. In the chaos I escaped the church and ran to hide in the woods, not wanting to endanger my grandmother.
Still, the townspeople marched on Graciela’s house that night. I surrendered myself to police custody to keep myself—and Graciela—safe from the mob. One by one the witnesses dropped away as I sat for weeks in that filthy, sweaty jail cell. Then the county prosecutor fell ill, victim of some strange, unexplained malady. I knew it was Graciela’s doing, though she denied it. In any case, the official charges were dropped, but the town’s populace wasn’t going to let it go at that.
Graciela packed my bags and sent me away in the middle of the night in her rusty old Ford truck, with a change of clothes, her old mortar and pestle, my crystal ball, and four hundred dollars, along with the directions to the home of a good friend of hers, a powerful curandera in Chiapas, Mexico.
Instead, I went in search of my father. Graciela had forbidden me to go to him. She was right, as usual.
“Mistress,” I heard Oscar growl, waking me from my reverie, “it’s ready.”
The brew was giving off the distinct aroma that signaled it was ready for the next step in the process. The most important step.
Earlier today Renna had sent Eric over with a box, wrapped and bound eight times. In it was the poppet, in which Malachi’s lock of hair and piece of bloody mirror had been enveloped in black wax. It was an evil-looking doll, featureless, crude.
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