by Josh Lanyon
“Um, no.”
She laughed again. We chatted for a bit, and then she said, “Remember when I asked if you’d like to meet my coven’s Witch Queen?”
I stopped smiling. Wiccans, mortals, and even different Craft traditions use the term Witch Queen to mean a variety of things. Even so, it’s not a title given or taken on lightly. I had never heard of Valenti Garibaldi, the Witch Queen in question, before the night of my stag party when Jinx had informed me she was part of Garibaldi’s coven.
That news was not in itself alarming. Or at least, not alarming to me. I didn’t think Jinx was a witch, but it’s not always possible to tell. She thought she was a witch. And it seemed Valenti Garibaldi thought Jinx was a witch.
Garibaldi probably was a witch. I had sensed it the first time I saw her.
What else she might be, I was unsure, but I thought there was a pretty good chance murderess might be among the possibilities. Accomplice might be best-case scenario. Any scenario was liable to spell disaster for John.
I said, “I remember.”
“I asked Valenti about it, and she would like to meet you. Formally meet you, I mean. I know you sort of met at the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“So are you still interested?”
Oh yes. I was still interested.
“When and where?”
“Now,” Jinx said. “She’s invited us to have lunch.”
Chapter Three
“I’ve never been to Scotland,” Valenti Garibaldi was saying. “But from what I understand, nearly the entire country is one great vortex of arcane power.”
“Certainly since Brexit,” I said.
Valenti smiled, her sea-glass-colored eyes chilly as the equatorial cold tongue. Jinx kicked my ankle. Before I could correct my course, the waiter appeared to take our orders.
We were lunching at Spruce in Pacific Heights.
I’d dined there a few times, but only for dinner. In fact, it’s famous for being the place where the newly liberated bring their parents for that first meal to celebrate financial independence. The dining room offered cathedral-style ceilings and a skylight, the lighting warm and shadowy, and the modern decor leaned toward urban masculine with tonal accents of leather and tobacco. It did not seem like a natural setting for Valenti, but maybe she just really appreciated a good bar and an excellent menu, both of which Spruce possessed.
John would have loved the wine list. I ordered another Modern—blended scotch whisky, sloe gin, lemon, Regan bitters, and absinthe—and the cheeseburger. It’s not true about Scottish cuisine being bland and boring, but if you want a hamburger, a real hamburger—and I’d been craving one for the last week—you have to get it in the States.
Jinx said, “My mother’s very into genealogy. I don’t care about that stuff. I guess John does.”
John’s interest in his Scottish heritage seemed to spring from his taking one of those DIY DNA tests. I found his interest in the results more interesting than the results themselves, but then my own family heritage had been discussed ad nauseum from my earliest childhood.
Valenti said, “Scotland has a dark reputation when it comes to its treatment of our kind.”
Well, yeah. There was The Great Scottish Witch Hunt of 1590, The Great Scottish Witch Hunt of 1597, The Great Scottish Witch Hunt of 1628, The Great Scottish Witch Hunt of 1649, and, finally, The Great Scottish Witch Hunt of 1661. All told, anywhere from four to six thousand people—not all of them witches, by any means—lost their lives during this particular Scottish pastime.
I said, “It was John’s first trip, so we pretty much stuck to the beaten path. We did the Festival of Wine in Glasgow, the Riverside Museum, the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. Mostly we did a lot of walking and drinking and talking.”
“Suuuuuure,” Jinx said.
I gave her my most discouraging look. She grinned.
Valenti said thoughtfully, “There’s an extensive collection of books relating to the history of witchcraft and demonology at the University of Glasgow, isn’t there?”
“The Damned Art exhibition,” I agreed. Given the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm’s mission, I wondered if this was a casual question or if the collection had been targeted.
In fairness, I didn’t know for sure that Valenti was a member of SPMMR. I assumed she was because of her connection to Ralph. But as I knew better than anyone, bedfellows make for strange politics.
Speak of the devil. My cell phone rang, and John’s photo, taken on a rare sunny day on Glas Maol, flashed up. My heart rose. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to take this.”
I left the table and made my way to the foyer. “Hey.”
“Hey,” John said. “Pat said you phoned earlier.”
“I did. It wasn’t anything important. Mostly I just wanted to hear your voice.”
He made a sound that fell somewhere between a snort and a smile. “I miss you too. Are you having a good day?”
“Sure. As a matter of fact, I’m having lunch with Jinx and her friend Valenti.” I was curious whether Valenti’s name would ring a bell with him.
“Are you? What’s Jinx up to?”
To start with, she thinks she’s a witch, and she wanted me to meet her coven’s Witch Queen, who I think might be involved with Rex’s hit-and-run accident.
Can you imagine if I’d said that aloud?
But really, in a perfect world, I could have said it out loud. In a perfect world, I would have been able to tell John the truth about myself, and I’d have been able to warn him that I thought Jinx might be wading into deep and dangerous waters.
As it was, I said vaguely, “You know Jinx.”
“Yes, I do,” John said grimly. “Don’t let her monopolize your afternoon.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
I thought of Ambrose and Abigail Starshine, but that wasn’t something to bring up during a hurried phone call. “No. Just…I love you.”
He made that little sound again, said softly, “I love you too. I’ll see you this evening.”
Then he waited for me to click off, which I did without further delay.
Back at the table, I could see Valenti speaking quietly and Jinx nodding, her expression unhappy. I resolved to make a better impression on the local Witch Queen.
“Sorry about that,” I said, taking my seat at the table.
Our meals had arrived in the interim. After the sad fate of my breakfast, I was starving, and I dived right in. Valenti and Jinx nibbled at their salads and made cryptic small talk. Jinx usually eats like a horse, so I assumed it was the presence of the Witch Queen putting her off her feed.
Finally, Valenti put down her wineglass and said, “Cosmo, Jinx tells me you share her interest in witchcraft. You wear the sacred symbols on your bracelet and a witch’s amulet around your neck. Do you belong to a coven?”
I hesitated. She was Ralph Grindlewood’s friend—in fact, I’d taken it for granted she was his girlfriend—so surely, she knew everything Ralph did about me? And Ralph knew far too much. Knew that I was Craft. Knew that there was such a thing as Craft. Maybe I should have anticipated the question—and this line of discussion—but for some reason I’d imagined we would mostly talk about Jinx. Or, better yet, about Valenti. I had wanted to talk about Valenti.
“Not now,” I replied.
“But you’ve been a member of the sacred circle in the past.” It was not a question.
Jinx watched us attentively, and I felt a flash of unease. Jinx did not know of Craft. Was Valenti so lost to propriety, to commonsense, she might reveal the truth to a mortal?
If Jinx learned the truth, it would not be long before John also knew it. That I was quite sure of.
“Yes. When I was younger.”
Valenti smiled. I understood that smile, at least partly. I understood that my decision not to lie confirmed something for her. And I saw that I was right. She knew exactly what I was—and
not surprising, but still worrying, who I was.
“Perhaps you feel your brothers and sisters failed you?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Not at all.”
She said softly, “Perhaps you failed them?”
That was not a question I expected. It took me aback. “I don’t think so. I hope not.”
She appeared to think it over. “Perhaps you’re someone who prefers to study and practice in solitude?”
“Perhaps.”
“For our kind, safety lies in numbers.”
Jinx said eagerly, “Exactly.”
“Not always.”
Valenti shrugged her slim shoulders and said, “There’s no rule without exception. But barring betrayal, we’re all stronger together.”
Joined hands are the strongest. It’s the sixth Precept.
Also commonsense.
“Are you inviting me to join one of your covens?”
Jinx’s breath caught as though in hope. Valenti glanced at her and shook her head.
“Not at this time, sadly. I think however much you would benefit from the discipline and structure of the sacred circle, you are not there yet. Our novitiates must be willing to forget all previous training, must assume an attitude of humility and servitude, and finally, must be willing to accept the word of their High Priestess as law in all things. Do you think you’re at that place spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually?”
I said, “Pretty doubtful.”
Or, hell to the no. As the mortals say.
Jinx said, dismayed, “Oh, Cos.”
Valenti’s lip lifted in a slightly scornful smile. “I suspect you may regret your attitude in the not-too-distant future. There’s a lot I could teach you. A lot you don’t know.”
I shrugged. “Well, that’s what they say: never stop learning because life never stops teaching.”
This conversation was confusing for a number of reasons. If Ralph Grindlewood was, as I believed, a member—maybe a leader—in the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm, and Valenti was in cahoots with him, why would she be recruiting members for her coven? Why did she even have a coven?
And that’s what this felt like. An interview.
An interview I had apparently failed.
Valenti was Craft. Well, a witch. Without tradition? Self-taught? Perhaps starting her own tradition?
I said, “How long have you known Ralph?”
“A little over a year. We were both customers of Seamus Reitherman. I managed to grab a wonderful vintage scrying mirror before Ralph could get his hands on it.”
“The Creaky Attic,” Jinx said. “I loved that place. It’s such a shame what happened. I wonder if Mrs. Reitherman will be convicted.”
“I hope not,” I said. “She’s innocent.”
“Innocent?” Jinx looked astonished. “But she’s not innocent. She tried to kill you.”
“Er, yes. But anyone can make a mistake.”
Valenti said, “So true.” Her pale-green gaze held mine for a moment. She smiled.
I smiled too. “Who wants dessert?” I asked. “The beignets here are the best I’ve had outside Paris.”
“Not me,” Jinx said. “I’ve got a hair appointment.”
I looked at Valenti, who was still smiling, though her eyes were hard and bright. I didn’t think she was disappointed. I thought I had confirmed something for her. She said, “No thank you. I don’t care for sweets.”
“Ah. Well, that’s probably for the best. I really should be getting back, but this has been a treat.”
There was the usual little back and forth over the bill, which Valenti won—I couldn’t fault her determination. I thanked her again for lunch, and then Jinx and I rose to leave.
“I think I’ll stay and have a drink at the bar,” Valenti said, and we said our goodbyes.
As we were making our way to the front entrance, Jinx hissed, “Why were you acting like that?”
“Like how?”
“Like the-the Comte Comes to Town. You were so arrogant. She’s trying to help you. You acted like no one could teach you anything.”
“I certainly don’t think that.”
“You certainly did act like you think that.” She added, “Why didn’t you tell me you used to belong to a coven?”
“Because I don’t anymore. It was a long time ago.”
Jinx sounded a little aggrieved as she said, “I thought you two would get along so well. You were almost rude.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be.”
“Yes, but I think you did.”
Maybe. I was biased, true enough. I had arrived at this meeting with a full set of preconceptions. None of which had been particularly shaken. I remained skeptical of Valenti’s motivations, especially as they regarded Jinx. Jinx’s growing disaffection toward her family made her, in my opinion, vulnerable.
I said, “How exactly did you meet Valenti?”
Jinx said vaguely, “Through friends.”
I weighed my words. “The thing is, because of your relationship to John, it’s possible that some people might—”
“Want to use me?” she said with uncharacteristic dryness.
“Yes.”
“I’m not stupid, Cos.”
“I know you’re not stupid.” I also knew that if I kept talking, I was going to make it worse. I said instead, “You know, John can’t know about any of this.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Jinx muttered.
It should have been reassuring, but I didn’t want to have to keep secrets from John, let alone secrets that concerned his sister. Nor did I want to encourage Jinx to keep secrets from him.
Jinx edged past a tall man with sun-streaked brown hair and a pleasantly lopsided smile. I smiled back. He did a double take, and said, “Hey, it’s you!”
“Is it?” I said warily. I didn’t recognize him.
Or did I? There was something familiar about him…
He offered his hand, and we shook. “Cosmo, right? It’s me. Chris. Chris Huntingdon.”
“Right. Chris.” I must have sounded as doubtful as I felt because Chris laughed.
“I guess I’m not surprised. We met at your stag party.”
“Oh. Chris.” That had been a long and emotional night, but I vaguely remembered dancing with a cute guy in fashionable camo at Misdirections. “I remember.”
“We danced all night. I kept trying to get your phone number.”
“Did you?” At the time he hadn’t seemed unduly persistent. We’d all been dancing—and drinking.
“So…it looks like you did get married?” He glanced at the ring on my left hand and grimaced.
“Yep. I did.” I thought I understood why I’d kept dancing with him that night. There was something engaging about him; that mix of unabashed flattery and rueful good humor.
Chris shook his head. “Just my luck.”
“Thanks. It was nice seeing you again.”
His eyes warmed. “Like fate?”
“Uh…”
“You know what? This is probably not good manners, but.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a card. “If you ever want to go out for drinks or have coffee. No pressure. No hanky-panky. Just friends.”
I took the card automatically. “Thanks, but really, I couldn’t.”
Chris repeated, “Just friends. Not looking for trouble.” He nodded pleasantly, nodded again at Jinx, and continued into the main dining room.
“Wow. I call bullshit,” Jinx said. “No hanky-panky my eye. You’re married.”
“I do still get together with friends.” I was amused.
“Yeah, but he’s not a friend. You just met him.”
“True.” Amused or not, I agreed with her. It was one thing to continue to socialize with existing friends. It was another to start a relationship with someone who had made no secret of being romantically interested.
“You can laugh, but John wouldn’t find it funny,” Jinx said.
I looked a
t her in surprise. “Is John the jealous type?”
Jinx seemed to consider. She shrugged. “Isn’t everyone?”
We parted ways outside the restaurant. Jinx took an Uber, and I found a postern behind an apartment on Sacramento Street. When I arrived back at Blue Moon, I learned Ambrose had left early.
“Now what’s the excuse?” I asked.
“He was very apologetic,” Blanche said. She seemed apologetic too, by which I deduced she’d told him he could leave.
“Glad to hear it. Though it doesn’t really solve the problem of his not being here when we need him.”
“We’re not that busy today.”
I gave Blanche a look, and she said, “We’re not, Cos. I can manage if you want to leave early. I know you’re exhausted after that flight.”
“It’s not that. We’re having dinner with John’s mother.”
“All the more reason to rest up.”
I swallowed a laugh and said gravely, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“By their deeds shall they be known,” Blanche retorted.
“But what was the kid’s excuse?” I persisted. “Is it his grandmother again?”
“He didn’t say.”
I expelled a long, exasperated breath. However, I was tired, and I had a ton of things to do before Sunday’s party—especially if I was going to do them without the aid of Craft—so I let Blanche persuade me to leave early.
I bundled Pye into his carrier, summoned an Uber, and returned to the house on Greenwich, where I found Bridget O’Leary waiting in the vestibule. She was a medium-sized woman of indeterminate age with mousy hair tied in an unfashionable bun.
“Sorry I’m late.” I put down the carrier and fumbled around for the key to the front door.
Pye purred hello to Bridget, who murmured, “Aren’t you the handsome fellow?” To me, she said, “No need to worry, sir. I have my thoughts to keep me company.” Her voice was smooth as Irish cream with just a hint of a lilt.
Bridget came recommended to us by John’s mother. Apparently, they had become friends at church, and knowing we needed a housekeeper, Nola suggested Bridget. What Nola did not know, of course, was that Bridget was a witch.
I had my own ideas about that. I thought it most likely Maman’s was the real hand working the strings in this little domestic puppet show. She would find it doubly amusing for her spy to arrive via Nola.
