Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  Breaking into the actual Wax Museum had been simple, but breaking into Aidan’s office was another thing altogether. I had to get past his protection spells and undo any number of magical warning devices. It was exhausting.

  One thing worried me: Noctemus, Aidan’s familiar, was nowhere to be seen. That could be a problem. She might have run off to find Aidan and tattle on us.

  But I wanted that ring. From what Shawnelle had told me, I was now certain Johannes had brought it to Aidan two days after Griselda had been killed. Why Aidan would have kept it a secret from me I wasn’t sure, but neither was I all that surprised. Aidan doled out information on a need-to-know basis, with him, of course, the sole arbiter of who needed to know.

  What I did know was that he had not yet used the ring to banish the demon or his minions. I was sure Aidan thought he had reasons for hesitating . . . or perhaps he was just scared, knowing what the fire demon had done to him last time Aidan tried to go up against him. But I wasn’t willing to wait around. I wanted to make sure Maya didn’t fall any further under Gene’s influence, and I wanted to free my father. And I had made a promise to Zeke to help Clem.

  Most of all, I just wanted to banish that overblown Aztec critter before he unleashed disease and bad luck upon this city of which I had grown so fond.

  I looked through Aidan’s desk while Sailor concentrated on trying to intuit something or feel magical vibrations. Though the ring was said to be able to hide itself, Sailor was awfully good at this sort of thing.

  I was hoping the ring might not be too hard to find. Aidan would want it to be easily accessible in case the demon showed, and, besides, he would think he was thoroughly protected from just about anybody . . . anybody but a witch like me.

  I started rifling through Aidan’s collection of witchcraft-related tomes on the wall-to-wall bookshelves, trying not to grow frustrated. If only a ring weren’t so small; it could be anywhere. I looked in the little chamber, Aidan’s cloister, off the main office. It was a tiny, five-sided room studded with magnetic stones, mirrors, and charms set up to encourage fields sympathetic to scrying.

  There were amulets and talismans and crystals aplenty, but nary a single ring.

  I emerged from the cloister to find Sailor sitting in Aidan’s big leather chair, his feet up on the desk, Noctemus sitting on his shoulders the way she often did with her master.

  “Hey, check me out,” said Sailor. “Now I know what it feels like to be Aidan. I guess I should start issuing proclamations or ruining someone’s life.”

  I had to laugh. But then . . . “Hey, where did the cat come from?”

  Realization sank in just a little too late. Sailor and I watched as Noctemus bounded toward the open door, leaping into Aidan’s arms. His blue eyes were icy with anger.

  “Well, isn’t this charming?”

  Chapter 22

  “If I’m not mistaken, you, sir, were banished from this town. And you”—he gestured toward me—“should have known better than to try a stunt like this.”

  “Give me the ring, Aidan. We can do this together. You and I would be strong enough.”

  “I told you I don’t have the infernal ring!” Aidan yelled. I tried to remember if I’d ever heard him raise his voice before. “Do you honestly think that if I did, I’d hold out on you and let the demon’s strength grow? What kind of witch do you think I am?”

  “A scared one,” I said. “Aidan, I know how hard it is to go up against a demon, especially one you’ve met before. And I know what you must have gone through in . . . the fire.”

  “You will never know what your father and I went through,” he said in a quiet, intense whisper. He stroked Noctemus, and regained his carefully casual air. “So, what gives you the sudden impression that I have the ring?”

  “Johannes, Griselda’s assistant, came here two days after she died.”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “Here, as in, to my office?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s . . .” He trailed off, his eyes meeting those of his familiar. Noctemus had leaped onto the bookshelves and now loomed over us, silent and disapproving, as was her way.

  Aidan shook his head. “He never entered my chamber.”

  “Then what was he doing here?”

  “Good question. Perhaps he was looking for me, but I haven’t been around much lately.”

  “I noticed.” I blew out a loud breath in frustration. When Shawnelle talked about the Wax Museum and especially the European Explorers exhibit, I had been so sure. “All right. Aidan, I apologize for breaking into your office. It was wrong of me. I’m sure you’ll think of some way I can make it up to you, and I’ll be happy to, but I’d appreciate it if it could wait until this whole demon thing is wrapped up.”

  Aidan gave me an almost imperceptible nod. I turned toward the door but realized I was alone.

  “Sailor, aren’t you coming?” I asked.

  “Aidan and I have a few things to discuss. We need to have this out, once and for all.”

  “Now? We have a lot to do . . .” I looked to Aidan, hoping for a little coolheaded rationality. Given the heated, angry look in his eyes, I was going to have to keep on looking.

  Great. I was trying to save my friend, my father, and my city, and the boys had chosen this moment to do their top-dog macho thing.

  I stormed out, casting my thoughts about for an idea. Where to now? I paused and studied the wax statues, looking into the faces of John Cabot and Ponce de León. Neither of them were talking. They might not have anything to say, even if they could. Johannes might have hidden that ring anywhere in this city, could have dropped it in a gutter for all I knew at this point. If the Ojo del Fuego wasn’t going to assist us by sending out a signal, there was no way to . . .

  My eyes alit on the sculpture of Mary Ellen Pleasant.

  Did she just wink at me?

  I circled her. One reason reproductions like this worry me is that they can serve as poppets for skilled practitioners. But . . . could they serve as conduits for powerful spirits as well? Giving them a way to exist on this plane, as well as in the next?

  Though Pleasant had been accused of practicing voodoo magic and persecuted for it, there didn’t appear to be any actual evidence that she’d ever practiced. But Madame Decotier, a powerful—deceased—voodoo priestess who had once helped me in exchange for this very wax statue as a tribute to a largely maligned and forgotten champion of civil rights . . . well, Decotier might well be powerful enough to inhabit this poppet. And to keep the ring safe.

  I remembered the note from Carlotta to her sister, Griselda: If All Else fails, have a Pleasant Day. Germans capitalize nouns, but “pleasant” is an adjective. And I had wondered why that last sentence was in English. Did the English make it stand out, so Griselda wouldn’t miss the instruction? Or was it that she wanted to use the word “pleasant” as in Mary Ellen Pleasant? Perhaps Pleasant’s wax figure was the backup plan, and when Johannes couldn’t find Aidan to pass off the ring, he left it in her custody for safekeeping?

  I checked Pleasant’s hands. No rings.

  Darn. Maybe I was stretching, making things up at this point, seeing significance where there was none.

  From the vicinity of Aidan’s office, I could hear deep voices raised in anger. I rolled my eyes. Soon they’d be having a fistfight. What were they, fifteen?

  But then I noticed the pendant Mary Ellen Pleasant wore. The one made of human hair. But this time it was bright orange, in place of the black one she wore last time I saw her. Didn’t Hans say Carlotta’s hair was dyed a bright carrot orange?

  The necklace was bulky, as though woven around something. I flipped it over. There was an Aztec glyph on the back, with a stylized lizard—or could it be a salamander? As in a fire elemental? Pleasant was from Louisiana originally, then New York, then California. An Aztec symbol seemed like an odd choice.

  I laid my hand over the medallion. While my hand rested on her chest, I could have sworn I felt her breathe. He
r glass eyes reflected the lights; they seemed genuine, real, alive.

  Next I examined the medallion around her neck more closely. The hair was plaited intricately into a cord, with a fastener at the back. I undid it and slipped it over my head. At first the vibrations were absent, then dissonant, almost painful. Finally, they seemed to fall in step with my own vibrations, following along with me so as not to be detected. It hummed between my breasts, warm and evocative. This was different from the sensations I picked up from clothing. These were almost alive, as though Carlotta—and others before her—had imbued the medallion with parts of themselves.

  I took it off to study it.

  Carefully, I pulled strands of hair from the woven cord. They put up resistance; the weaving was so fine and intricate that they did not release easily. I hated to take it apart. Aside from not wanting to destroy a work of art, neither did I want to deal inappropriately with an obvious charm of a powerful witch, dead or alive. I could feel it humming now, and emotions streamed through me.

  But when I cupped it in my palm, the hair began to unplait itself, lock by lock. Finally it revealed a massive fire opal cabochon in a tarnished silver setting. The translucent stone was a vivid yellow-orange with green, red, and yellow flashes within. It gleamed as though reflecting the sun.

  At dawn and midnight, the opal shows its color best. Before I fully processed the fact that I had finally found the coveted Ojo del Fuego, colors began flowing over the walls and ceiling, falling like stars.

  “It’s like a disco ball!” said Oscar.

  His voice, so unexpected, pulled my attention away from the powerful fire opal, from the treasure so many had sought for so long.

  “Oscar? What are you doing here?”

  “Aidan sent for me. What are you doing here?”

  “I . . .” I trailed off while I watched Oscar spin around, then put one hand up pointing to the ceiling while another was pointing down and slightly behind him, à la John Travolta in the iconic posters for Saturday Night Fever. He started crooning “Stayin’ Alive” in his gravelly voice, which sounded surprisingly good in a Tom Waits, rock-and-roll kind of way.

  I smiled but tried to filter out his antics, concentrating instead on the colors whirling around the room. How they moved as I did, yet also fell of their own accord. Red, orange, yellow, green. Were they trying to tell me something? Or were they just a beautiful phenomenon?

  I tried to decide what to do next. The Ojo del Fuego had been safe here in the museum, with Mary Ellen Pleasant. I wondered whether there was a way to lure Gene here, on Aidan’s turf, and to have a showdown.

  I felt something I could only describe as a strong premonition, an urging to put the medallion back around Pleasant’s wax neck. Whether Madame Decotier’s spirit was directing the medallion or it was compelling me itself was hard to say. But I obeyed and slipped the necklace over her head for safekeeping.

  Perhaps it knew I wasn’t strong enough to use the Ojo del Fuego by myself. Once things calmed down, I would have to confer with Aidan as to what to do with the piece.

  But first . . . I thought I might know who had killed Griselda and who hurt Renna and Eric. Zeke was already in the hospital by the time Renna and Eric were attacked, and I couldn’t imagine Clem carrying out those tortures by himself. Gene, a demon’s devoted minion, would likely have someone else do his dirty work. But there was someone who had access to Griselda’s things, including, very possibly, the notes she kept about Renna and me and Aidan. Someone whose own place was surrounded by rowan loops, and whose grandfather had left him old clothes in the attic, like the bag of clothes left on the stoop in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet. Someone who was painting a border that looked like lizards—or salamanders.

  Someone entirely human, who might well be in the process of throwing in his lot with the demon in order to secure success for his inn, and whatever else it was that demons offered.

  I hurried down the stairs. If Lloyd was trying to pledge himself to Xolotl, was there a way to stop him before he’d done even more harm? I needed to speak with my father. He would know.

  As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I slowed.

  It looked like one of the wax figures was lying on the ground. But no—it wasn’t wax. It was breathing.

  “Clarinda?” I said, kneeling by her side. “Are you okay?”

  There was a sudden rush of blinding pain, and then all went black.

  Chapter 23

  When I came to, a gun was being held to my temple and I was in a headlock that choked off most of the oxygen to my lungs. I clutched at the arm wrapped around my neck, trying to loosen it not so much to escape as for a more immediate need: to breathe.

  “Lloyd . . .” I managed, a whispery croak.

  “Oh, you’re awake. Good. You can walk on your own, then. You’re heavier than you look.” He released the arm, but kept the gun trained on me and wound his hand in my hair, urging me along painfully. My head ached from the earlier blow, and my scalp stung where he pulled my hair. Still, it was better than being choked. I swallowed convulsively, trying to ease the crushed feeling in my throat.

  The scene was nightmarish. We were in a windowless, dank room—I was guessing the basement of the museum. The ticket taker, Clarinda, lay on the floor, looking as broken as the misshapen wax figures surrounding her. Rows of heads, a table full of boxes labeled REAL HUMAN HAIR, containers of fingernails, and medical-grade glass eyes. Dismembered arms and legs.

  “Woah, check this out!” Lloyd said, awe in his voice. “Gene told me how to get down here. Isn’t it awesome? Plus, no cameras, which is helpful.”

  “Lloyd, please listen to me,” I said. “Try to understand what I’m saying. Gene isn’t . . . he isn’t a normal man. He’s working for a . . . demon, for lack of a better word.”

  “You think I don’t know this? ‘Demon’ makes him sound like a bad thing, but demons can be helpful as well. Gene explained it all to me when I first met him. It was on that trip to Europe, five countries in as many days, but I really loved Germany, so I stayed on for an extra week. That’s where I bought the cuckoo clock you liked so much. Remember?”

  He started to drag me by my hair across the room. My head pounded and my scalp ached; I held on to his wrist to lessen the pain.

  I was racking my brain, hoping Lloyd would keep talking. In my experience, this sort of person usually enjoyed the sound of his own voice and relished the opportunity to vent his frustrations. If I could buy time, Aidan or Sailor might be able to find me. I used my mind to call out as loud as I could, hoping someone, somewhere, might sense my need. I’m not psychic, but as a trained witch my powers of concentration are highly developed. Empaths could pick up on my calls, if I tried hard enough. I hoped.

  “I came back from that trip and I finally understood my place in the world, what I had been lacking. The lack of respect . . . no one showed me enough respect. I started to study, just as Gene had told me to. It turned out there was lots of information about demons in those old books Grandfather left me. Years passed, and I wondered whether I’d ever be called, but finally Gene contacted me and asked for my help with Griselda. I had to pretend to meet her by chance when she arrived at SFO, but I pulled it off. And now, if I find the talisman, I won’t ever have to work another day in my life. But Gene’s got other people looking for it, like those two backwoods brothers. Those guys are like all those damned immigrants, coming into this country and stealing jobs.”

  Sailor had always heard me in the past. But I wondered whether we still had that connection. It didn’t seem like anyone was going to burst in and save me. A sudden shaky sigh of fear and regret surged up in me.

  “Lloyd, is Clarinda . . . dead?”

  “Nah, she’ll be fine. She’s still breathing and everything. No one dies from a simple tap on the head.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I need that talisman, Lily. It’s as simple as that. I will be rewarded greatly for its return. And I deserve a little reward in my
life. Why should I have to work my butt off and pay all those taxes to the goddamned government, have other people living as ‘guests’ in my family home? How is that fair? I could sit around and enjoy myself, waiting for government handouts. But instead, I have to do it the hard way. I guess it’s like my father always said: Nice guys finish last.”

  Anger edged out the fear. As though his life is all that hard, I thought to myself with disdain. Why is it that so often, it’s the most fortunate of the world who feel sorry for themselves? This man lived in the Bay Area, inherited a beautiful old house, and seemed to be educated and healthy. And yet somehow he was the victim here because he had to work for a living?

  I welcomed the anger. It was clarifying, helped me concentrate. I could use it to—

  Lloyd suddenly picked me up as though to cradle me in his arms, then dropped me unceremoniously on the floor. The wind was knocked out of me and I lay there, stunned. Before I could push myself up he set a heavy plank of wood on top of me.

  Lloyd sat on the board for a second, making me grunt from the pressure.

  “Oh, look. It’s a sandwich. Get it? A sand-witch?” He stood, releasing the compression momentarily, but then placed two heavy supply boxes right on top, over my midsection. The board pressed on my chest and abdomen.

  It wasn’t bad at first. The board on top of me was heavy, but it didn’t hurt.

  “You can put a stop to this anytime,” Lloyd said. “Just tell me where you’ve hidden the talisman, and it’s over. Simple as that.”

  “It’s in Coit Tower,” I lied. “Behind a heating grate on the third floor. I’ll take you there.”

  “Gene told me it had to be in someone’s possession. Like, with a witch. I detest liars.” Lloyd gave me a pained expression and put another box on the board. “Mendacity of any kind, really. And yet it’s all around me. I’m a rare honest man in a deeply dishonest world.”

  I took another breath just as deep as I could, savoring the air and desperately trying to concentrate, and it dawned on me whom I should call: Oscar. He was my familiar. Could he hear me? Could he help me?