A Cast-Off Coven

by Juliet Blackwell

  “New guy?”

  “What did you see, Lily?”

  I swallowed hard. “An image of the demon.”

  He nodded. “Uh- huh. The poor ghost—John something—has been trying to warn you. God damn it. Why couldn’t you just stay out of it?”

  “Did the demon kill Becker?”

  “No. It’s hard to explain how I know . . . but I didn’t smell death on him. Not yet. I think he’s looking for a host.”

  “A host?”

  “He’s looking to possess someone. Permanently. Didn’t you tell me that was a concern already?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. So what do we do about it?”

  “We aren’t doing anything about it. I sure as hell can’t bind a demon. I don’t want any part of this.”

  “I need help, Sailor.”

  “You’re the damned witch. Act like it and bind that thing. I did my part and have to live with those images for the rest of my life, thank you so much.”

  I hurried after him as he hustled down the sidewalk, headed toward his motorcycle.

  “Damned witchy freaks,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Excuse me?” I hated that word, and I was itching for a fight myself. “You’re calling me names?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You’re a freak.”

  “It takes one to know one.”

  “Absolutely. I’m a freak show myself.”

  As much as I wanted to argue with the man, that just struck me as sad.

  “No, you’re not, and neither am I,” I said.

  “Look at yourself. You sound like a parody of The Wizard of Oz. I’m a good witch,” he mocked in a falsetto, singsong voice, then snorted. “Good or bad, it’s the same power source. Just embrace what you are, I say.”

  “You’re saying I’m evil?”

  “I’m saying there’s no such thing as an evil witch or a good witch. You’re just a plain old witch. Haven’t you ever heard that old saw, ‘With great power comes great responsibility’? What you choose to do with those powers, in the moment, may be good or bad, but you’re still a freak of nature.”

  We reached his bike. He swung one long leg over the seat and pulled on his helmet.

  “You sure as hell had better find a way to bind that thing before he finds a permanent host. Given his growing strength, I’d say you have a couple of days, tops. A moonless night’s coming up, isn’t it? That’d be good timing.”

  I nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “Me? I’m gonna go drink. Someplace where nobody asks questions.”

  I lingered in the doorway, watching while he roared off on his motorcycle. He was scared, and how could I blame him? Sailor could communicate with spirits, but he didn’t have any powers to protect himself from them.

  Vaguely, I noted the echoes of students arguing behind me. I had to get someone to close the school, or at the very least to board up the bell tower stairs for a while—and maybe the third- floor hallway. And I had to go up against a demon. And I still didn’t know who had killed Jerry Becker.

  Next on my agenda were talking with Walker Landau and seeing why he had been asking so many pointed questions. Walker hadn’t come to Ginny’s event tonight; could he still be working at this hour? It was worth a try to find out. I made my way back into the school and up to the dusty second-floor studio he was sharing with Luc.

  The door was ajar. Walker stood before a large canvas propped on an easel, painting frenetically. As I came closer, I could see the theme of his composition. A chill ran over me.

  It was a self-portrait. Walker sat in a thronelike chair, the one I had seen in the third-story closet, surrounded by a bevy of dark-haired young women dressed in frothy Victorian garb. The painting was nearly complete, but as I watched, Walker began jabbing at his own likeness on the canvas, his paintbrush dipped in a brutal red pigment. He seemed to stab at the painting, gouging, while the paint ran down the canvas in bizarre crimson streams.

  “Walker, what are you doing?” I asked quietly.

  He whirled around to face me. His face looked exactly like the face on the canvas, grotesque and melted, bloodied.

  Chapter 18

  As I watched, it worsened.

  I retched. Forcing myself to overcome my shock and revulsion, I began chanting, holding my medicine bundle in one hand, wishing I had my ceremonial knife with me. I needed my salts. I needed Bronwyn’s coven at my back, or Aidan’s power, or some idea of what in the world to do. I didn’t have any of them. My witchcraft is more the brew-in-the-peace-and-quiet-of-my-home kind of talent than the middle-of-the-action, throw-down-situation kind.

  I took a deep breath and calmed my lurching stomach.

  The biggest advantage I had at my disposal was less fear of the supernatural than your average person.

  I am powerful, I reminded myself. If Sailor was right, supernatural entities should be able to smell me like so much cheap perfume.

  Besides, I reminded myself, what I am seeing is not real.

  I hoped.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, surprised at the steadiness of my voice.

  Walker—or whatever Walker had become—threw back his head and laughed, his jaw flapping strangely as though about to disconnect from his skull. He seemed to be trying to talk but was making a strange grunting noise instead.

  With my left hand holding tight to my medicine bundle, I held my right hand, palm-out toward him, focusing my intent on visualizing a line of light from the palm of my hand to Walker Landau.

  “Demon be gone!” I yelled. “Leave this man, I compel you!”

  There was a rasping, terrible sound. Walker’s neck distended, as though something were inside, fighting to get out. Finally he stopped and smiled a grotesque, deformed smile, his face twisting further in front of me.

  Dropping his paint-covered hands to his sides, he started backing away from me and stepping straight toward the open window.

  “No! Walker, don’t!”

  “Demon. Be. Gone,” he rasped, still smiling, and flipped backward out the window.

  Stunned, I stood unmoving for a second, the harsh rasping of my own breath the only sound in the void.

  I heard a lone scream, then far-off shouts, then more screaming.

  I ran to the window and stuck my head out. Walker Landau had landed faceup on top of a thick evergreen hedge. To my great relief, that face no longer looked melted, but back to normal. His eyes were closed, but he was moving. He was alive. I sagged in relief against the window frame. A splinter of wood cut into the palm of my hand, but I welcomed the pain, appreciating the normalcy of it.

  I fell to my knees, focusing on breathing.

  In front of me were footprints in the dust: one a normal man’s shoe print; the other a paw, like that of a big cat. And under a small painting cabinet, I noticed three small cut-out letters, as from a collage.

  Something moved behind me.

  I jumped and whirled around, landing on my butt on the floor.

  Luc stood in the doorway, his features sketched with concern.

  “Lily? Are you all right? What happened?”

  I struggled to my feet and ran across the room, throwing myself at him. Stone dust poofed up from his white T-shirt, but I didn’t care. I grabbed on to him as to a lifeline. Strong arms wrapped around me as I laid my head on his warm, broad chest.

  “Luc. It’s Walker. . . . He threw himself out the window.”

  Luc’s large hand caressed the back of my head, smoothing my hair.

  “Poor thing, you’re shivering,” he said. “It’s okay. . . . You’re okay.”

  “I should never have confronted him, I—”

  “It’s true. You shouldn’t have.”

  He started humming. It was the music box tune, “There’s a place in France . . .” Luc was still petting my head, but his other hand started to caress me just a little too intimately, dropping from my waist to my hip. I tried to pull away, but the hand on my head grabbed my ponytail, holding me to him, not let
ting me go.

  “Luc, what—”

  “Just calm down now, Miss Fancy Pants.” His voice was off-kilter, whispery, so it was hard to tell whether he was actually speaking or whether it was someone—something—else. “Big bad witch gonna take on the demon?”

  I pushed against his chest with all my strength. Luc wasn’t budging. He laughed; I heard the rumble in his chest under my ear.

  “Where do you think you’re going, spitfire?”

  “Luc, listen to me. This isn’t you. Fight it.”

  “Why would anyone want to fight this?” He pulled my head back, and his mouth came down on mine. But it wasn’t Luc who was kissing me; I was very sure of that.

  I centered myself and began kissing him back. When he was off guard, I yanked my knee up, as hard as I could, into his groin. I jumped back as he doubled over, then grabbed his head and brought my knee up into his nose. I let out a blast of energy from the palm of my hand. He tumbled to the ground and rolled.

  Invoking the power of my spirit guardian to help me, I held up my medicine bundle and began chanting a protective spell.

  Luc rolled in the dust on the floor, eyes tearing, in the fetal position. He changed as I watched him, his eyes glassy, almost glowing, his neck extending oddly as though he were fighting to swallow, or to breathe. There were choking sounds beyond anything I had caused.

  I held my hand out to him to hold him at bay, the blood on my palm practically glowing.

  Quickly, I drew a circle in the dust around him, and within that a pentagram, and within that, a triangle.

  I compel you . . .

  Luc looked up at me now, and it was Luc. His eyes were confused; he was looking around, still blinking back his tears, and bringing a hand up to touch his nose.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “What happened?”

  I leaned in to help him up.

  He sat up and smiled at me. A smile of evil intent.

  I ran.

  Sirens were approaching the school by the time I reached my vehicle. My heart was pounding; my stomach was taught with tension and fear. I couldn’t block out the sight of the hapless Walker Landau flipping backward out that window . . . or the memory of my powerlessness to do anything about it.

  I shouldn’t have come on so strong or been so scared. I should have tried to communicate with the creature rather than immediately trying to cast it out. Maybe it was trying to tell me something.

  Stupid. This is what came of not having the proper preparation and training.

  Poor Walker. Even if he wasn’t physically damaged, I could only imagine what his memory of tonight would be like. He didn’t possess much strength of personality in the first place.

  And what about Luc? Given how easily he had returned when I trapped him within the triangle, I judged he was already back to himself, confused but free of the demon. On the other hand, when I leaned in at the last moment, the evil creature had smiled at me . . . but that was my fault. I reached out too soon, breaking the circle myself. The demon must have been still hovering nearby, ready and able to come back to inhabit Luc’s corporeal form. By now it would have fled; Luc wouldn’t be able to cross the circle until the demon had left him, and the evil spirit would slip through the portal formed by the triangle rather than remain trapped.

  All of this boiled down to one thing: Sailor was right. I needed to figure out how to exorcise the creature before it gained sufficient strength to take over whomever it wanted, whenever it wanted. At least the demon was still contained within the school.

  Somehow it had been awakened, and I imagined Jerry Becker’s murder further spurred him on. That kind of strife and rancor was like Miracle-Gro to those of evil intent. I had seen a set of footprints in the dust, one human, one animal. That was the classic sign of an incubus, but it might also belong to a higher demon. Demons adhered to a clear hierarchy, and some commanded legions. Could I have stirred something up on my first visit with Maya, when we found Becker, and the demon sent the lesser spirits to harass me and Max and others at night?

  Several students stood by the front entrance, avidly taking in the scene of firefighters plucking Walker from atop the high hedge. The flashing lights of a multitude of emergency vehicles gave the night a strange blue-white-red strobe-light effect.

  “Could I borrow your phone?” I asked a young man with a backpack. He jumped at the sound of my voice behind him.

  “Oh, uh, sure,” he said.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “S’okay,” he said as he handed me a sleek, lime green phone. “Did you see what happened? Some guy jumped. A real genius, he fell into the bushes.”

  I just nodded but didn’t respond. I didn’t feel up to making small talk, to pretending things were anything close to normal.

  I called Carlos Romero.

  “It’s Lily Ivory. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m at the School of Fine Arts—”

  “I already got the call. I’m on my way to the scene. Wait for me there,” Romero answered in a clipped tone.

  “I—I can’t,” I said. “I have to check something out first.”

  I was spooked. I felt out of my league. I needed more information before I had an in-depth discussion with police officials.

  “Lily—” Romero began, and then stopped, as though intending to try talking me out of it but then reconsidering. “All right. Call me back in an hour. I want to talk to you about this, in person.”

  I agreed. Before giving back the phone, I made one more phone call, to Max, asking him to get his brother from the school and take him home. I told him I couldn’t give him an explanation but asked him to trust me. He agreed with obvious reluctance.

  Then I headed to the San Francisco Wax Museum, located at Fisherman’s Wharf.

  Aidan Rhodes had gotten me into this mess; he was refusing to help me, and I wanted to know why. Even if he really was out of town, maybe I could snoop around his office, see if I turned up anything telling.

  In the ticket kiosk of the Wax Museum sat a bored young woman, very Queen of the Dead in her Goth outfit of dyed black hair, heavy kohl eyeliner, and multiple piercings. She grudgingly put down the worn paperback romance novel she was reading when I approached.

  “One adult?” she asked with a sigh, leaning her head in her hand as though she could barely stay awake.

  “Not for the museum, but is Aidan Rhodes here?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  Did I really want to risk going through Aidan’s office without his permission? I had a moment of self- doubt. What did I think I was, a one- woman crusade able to hold off powerful witches? But as I was thinking, it dawned on me that I couldn’t tell whether the young woman in the ticket booth was lying or not; I couldn’t get a read on her aura at all. That was odd. I assessed her. She didn’t have powers . . . unless the booth was enchanted. I placed my hand on the metal railing and perceived a faint hum. Clever; Aidan didn’t want her giving anything away.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll come out here and talk to me?” I said.

  She screwed up her forehead as if I had suggested she eat nails. “Say what? Could you step aside? There’s other customers.”

  I waited while she served a large multigenerational family speaking some sort of eastern European language. The children were teasing one another, ratcheting up their titillation about visiting the Chamber of Horrors. I was right there with them. The whole Wax Museum put me on edge. There were too many possibilities for transfiguration. Wax figures in the form of humans, otherwise known as poppets, are used too often for destruction, in my experience.

  As the family hustled up the main stairwell, I followed them.

  “Hey!” I heard the booth attendant yell at me.

  I figured given her level of investment in this job and her probable minimum wage paycheck, she wouldn’t care enough to make it out of the booth. She didn’t.
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  I moved quickly past the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors, and slipped behind a small display of European explorers next to a heavy walnut door.

  I banged on it. No answer.

  “Aidan?” I called.

  Nothing.

  I banged some more. Then I spotted Aidan’s familiar: The elegant, white long-haired cat sat on a small ledge near the corner, absolutely still, as though made of wax itself. I looked into its intelligent eyes. It was acting as guardian. If I tried anything, I reckoned I’d be dealing with cat scratch fever.

  But it also meant that Aidan was not out of town. Graciela had always told me I had more power than I knew. It was time to stop screwing around.

  I focused my rage—and I had plenty—on the door, and flung it open with my mind.

  Aidan Rhodes, male witch, sat behind his large walnut desk.

  “What in tarnation’s going on?” I demanded as I stormed in.

  Aidan’s eyes shifted to the chair in front of his desk.

  “I apologize for my friend’s intrusion, Garrett,” Aidan said. “We’ll finish this up later.”

  Only then did I realize Aidan was not alone. I turned to see a man in a well-cut, expensive-looking charcoal gray suit that was now covered in a generous helping of white cat hair. With a jolt, I realized I had seen him earlier at Ginny’s art opening. Garrett Jones, the mayor of San Francisco, sprang out of his seat, looking ashen.

  “I’m sorry, I—” I began, but the damage was done.

  The mayor scurried by me, frightened. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile as he scooted out of the office. I cringed inwardly, feeling chagrined at my impulsive behavior.

  “Don’t stop now, Lily,” Aidan said to me, looking simultaneously amused, bemused, and irritated. “Come on in, by all means. My door is, evidently, always open to you.”

  I shut the door behind me and took the seat the mayor had just left.

  “Tell me what Jerry Becker wanted you to do for him,” I demanded.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “He wanted something . . . wrong from you, didn’t he? Wanted the strength of a demon at his beck and call, something like that?”