Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “They’re coming,” said Sailor. “Ten minutes, fifteen, tops.”

  “Okay,” said Aidan. “Let’s get this started.”

  Aidan had Sailor draw Sitri’s sigil on a piece of parchment. Aidan and I were both too powerful to do so—we might inadvertently call on the demon before we were ready, which would be disastrous.

  I drew the magic circle carefully with the brew, placing a white candle at each of the four directions, east, south, north, west. Within this I sketched the pentagram with the five points marking the elements: earth, wind, fire, water, spirit. At the top I drew a triangle, within which was placed the black mirror.

  Using the athame, I performed the cleansing rituals to establish the sacred circle, then began the evoking ritual while I was safely ensconced within the circle.

  Holding the athame in both my hands, I pointed it at the parchment with Sitri’s sigil.

  “I call upon the strength of my ancestors. I am the power. I command you to show yourself. I evoke thee and conjure thee, O Sitri, to appear before me in a fair and comely shape. With the strength of my ancestors, with the ties that bind, I command thee.”

  The pendant thrummed steadily now, and I could feel it lending me its power. Suddenly I felt sure, confident. I used the athame to cut a tiny “x” in the palms of both of my hands, then lifted the athame over my head and channeled the strength of all those witches that had come before me. They were part of me; their blood coursed through my veins. My helping spirit appeared before me as the conduit, the holder of the threads.

  The stench of sulfur burned my nose, swirling around me. And just that easily, Sitri appeared. Not as a vision in the mirror, but as though emerging from it, confined to the small triangle and yet seemingly huge, a griffin with the body of a leopard and wings. The sound of those wings was terrible somehow, and had haunted my dreams.

  “Liiiiiily,” he said. His voice was seductive; merely hearing it was a temptation. “I have miiiiiissed you. . . .”

  “You are here at my command, to do my will.” The pendant thrummed as he looked at Aidan and Sailor, both of whom were in trances, lending me whatever psychic strength they could.

  “You will look at me, Sitri. I call you by name, I hold you within the triangle. I command you.”

  He laughed, trying to look beyond me as though for someone else to enchant. He was a wily, clever one.

  The door flung open, and in walked Gene, backed by Clem and Zeke. Zeke seemed fully recovered. The Jones brothers gawked and trembled in the face of the huge demon standing in the center of the room.

  Gene, for his part, scoffed loudly.

  “What’s this? You’ve got what—a pet demon? He’s got what? A few hundred legions? My master’s got ten times that number, and gaining more all the time. That fire-dancing gig is bringing people in like moths to a flame. I flamed amazement; sometimes I’d divide. And burn in many places.”

  A small fire broke out atop the broad walnut desk, but Aidan and Sailor remained in their trances. They trusted me; their lives were in my hands.

  “Poor old Lloyd,” said Gene with a smile. “Guess he’s going to prison, eh? Too bad. I liked that guy. Turned out to be quite brutal; no training at all. Just channeled his general bitterness and dissatisfaction with life and boom, a truly violent man was born.”

  “So, the promise of the good life stops when someone’s arrested, does it? That hardly seems fair.”

  Another small fire began in the corner of one bookcase.

  He shrugged, pushing out his chin as though pondering my words. “Truth is, I’ve never understood why people sell out so easily. They do so much and ask for so little in return.”

  “How about you? What do you receive for being a demon’s lackey?”

  Anger flared, bright and fierce, but passed through him quickly. “I serve my lord with loyalty. I love him. That’s enough.”

  The fires blazed hotter.

  “Is it enough? Maybe I should be talking with your master, Xolotl.”

  “Dare ye not invoke his name!”

  I wrapped my hand around the pendant. The hair unwound itself, showing the Ojo del Fuego. I slid the ring onto my finger, then turned the stone to my palm and closed my hand to make a fist.

  “Xolotl, I call on thee and command thee to manifest here and now.”

  “No!”

  “With the strength of my ancestors, I am the power.” I could feel the huge power surge afforded me by Sitri—whether he wanted to or not, he was acting as my assistant on the astral plane. “I call you by name, Xolotl. I know you. I command you. I exorcise you.”

  Holding up my fisted hand, pointing the athame at the pentacle point for the element of fire, I barely noticed that Gene had fallen to his knees at the edge of the circle where I was pointing, hands cast to the side, crying out.

  Zeke and Clem were both on the floor, cringing and covering their heads as though the building were going to cave in.

  It was only then that I realized things were shaking, books were tumbling from shelves, falling papers stoking the fires that were already burning.

  And the lights began flickering. Whirling overhead and all around us, the Ojo del Fuego spun a web of light and magic around the room, then shrunk and passed through everyone in the room until it spun around only Gene, like a cocoon.

  Despite the strength of my ancestors, the borrowed power from Sailor and Aidan and Oscar, and the astral assistance of Sitri, I could still feel myself losing strength. The pendant was draining me, taking the energy I had built up.

  I couldn’t hold it.

  The room still shook and the smoke from the fires began to gather, choking us all. Sailor and Aidan came out of their trances.

  Suddenly my father showed up at the door.

  He was chanting. At first I thought he was going up against me, but as my strain eased, as I regained my psychic footing, I realized he was helping me. His energy was boosting mine.

  And fire burst out upon his suit jacket. But he didn’t hesitate or pause in his chanting. Our eyes locked.

  I took a deep breath and repeated loudly, “I call you by name, Xolotl. I know you. I command you. I exorcise you. I call you by name, Xolotl. I know you. I command you. I exorcise you!”

  And suddenly, all was quiet. Sitri’s terrible flapping wings, the roar of the fires, the whooshing of the lights were silenced. The cocoon of light was extinguished, and Gene lay still on the pentacle, his eyes open and terrified. He was dead.

  Aidan rushed over to my father and threw his own coat over the burning jacket, smothering the flames. After a stunned moment, we all seemed to realize at the same time that while Xolotl had been expelled, Aidan’s office was now beginning to blaze out of control. We ran out as fast as we could. Aidan carried Clarinda, Sailor carried Oscar in his pig form, and I had Noctemus wrapped around my neck, her claws gone clear through the cotton of the shirt and sunk into my shoulders, making me sneeze. Zeke and Clem led the way, and my father took up the rear.

  A deafening clanging noise indicated the fire alarm had been tripped, and it was clear to see why: Disparate fires had begun all over the building. Worse, they were burning so hot that the sculptures were melting like birthday candles: Juan Ponce de León keeled over, defeated by the heat; Sir Francis Drake and John Cabot followed. The Chamber of Horrors was ablaze, its figures appearing even more gruesome than usual.

  Mary Ellen Pleasant’s sculpture, I noticed, was not softening. On the contrary, I could have sworn she was smiling.

  But she was the exception. Colored wax puddles started to run together, making the floor slick and hot with the burning. It seared through the canvas of my shoes.

  It felt like an eternity before we made it to the floating metal-and-glass stairs, where a small river of wax was already dripping down. We made our way down nightmarishly slowly, hanging on to the railing to keep from slipping. Clem offered to help Aidan with Clarinda, and my father helped Sailor with Oscar.

  In the foyer, other than t
he wax dripping down the stairs, everything was clear. There was no fire here. At my insistence, Aidan and Sailor went down to the still-smoke-and-flame-free basement and managed to haul out the tied-up Lloyd, dumping him outside the front door.

  Our group of six, plus two familiars, stumbled out into a miraculously cool, foggy night. It appeared that the heat wave had finally broken.

  Chapter 25

  What’s worse than being menaced by a demon’s number-one flunky? Being followed around by sullen minions. Luckily, it wasn’t Xolotl’s gang, but a few of Sitri’s legions had decided I was the one in charge for the moment, and trailed me, waiting for orders.

  So the first order of business, just as soon as I regained my strength, was to cast another circle, carefully evoke Sitri once again, and cast him and all of his legions back to the astral plane. I was plumb worn out lately, though, so I had asked Bronwyn’s coven for a little backup.

  A few days after the fire at the Wax Museum I received a postcard from a little town in West Virginia, in which Zeke thanked me, told me his mother was praying for me, and informed me that Clem and his sweetheart had already set a date. The brothers had taken off on the night of the fire without telling me how they’d become beholden to Xolotl. Though I was curious, I supposed some things were better left unsaid. The important thing was that they were freed from Xolotl’s clutches and had returned to their hometown. I noted the return address on the postcard, and decided to send the vintage white embroidered tablecloth I’d gotten at the thrift store as a wedding present. Let bygones be bygones, and all that.

  Eric was recovering from a concussion and smoke inhalation, and though he would carry the scars on his chest for the rest of his life, he was already in his typical high spirits. Renna’s condition had been upgraded from serious to stable; she had even accepted my healing salves and brews to speed up the recovery process. Bronwyn and Maya had gone with me to comb through the charred wreckage of their Oakland home, but her large extended Rom family had beat us to it. They would support Renna and Eric through this difficult time and help get them back on their feet.

  After a short stint in the psychiatric ward, Johannes finally convinced his doctors he hadn’t intended to kill himself, but he remained hospitalized for the exhaustion and dehydration he suffered from holding the ring. He was hoping to be released in time to accompany Shawnelle to the quinceañera, as he’d promised, before returning to Germany.

  My father . . . well, what could I say about my father? When I confronted him with what Johannes had said, that he had witnessed my father kill Griselda with the athame, my father told me that he had left the knife in her hand so she could kill herself. It was horrific, but at least she had been able to choose her own death. Still, I wasn’t entirely sure I could believe him. He also denied sending the Escalade in an attempt to take Zeke out of the equation, but this time he wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I was sure he was lying. He was a ruthless man.

  Then again, I had to remind myself that in the confusing showdown at the Wax Museum, he had worked with me to defeat Xolotl. He had ignored the flames and linked his energy with mine at the final, crucial moment. So I couldn’t condemn him out of hand, even though afterward, as was his wont, he had disappeared just as fast as Clem and Zeke.

  I couldn’t help but wonder: Did he do it for me, or to free himself? Probably a little of both.

  As far as family reunions go, it was less than satisfying. But at least I knew a little more about him than I had before, and I had been instrumental in freeing him from Xolotl. And I decided I believed him when he said he sent me away that time in Germany to keep me safe from the powers of Xolotl.

  All in all, I was glad he’d come to town.

  I wasn’t so sure Aidan would agree. His office had gone up in smoke, but then he’d helped to defeat the demon that had injured him so badly, once upon a time. Last I heard he was shopping around for new office space until the museum was repaired, but despite several obvious hints for an invitation, I wasn’t offering him any of my floor space. Things were way too crowded in Aunt Cora’s Closet as it was. I did, however, agree to go real estate shopping with him, just because it sounded like fun.

  In the meantime, there were clothes to wash, customers to fit, and books to be tallied. As usual, the busy days here in my shop helped me to find my balance, to recover my equilibrium.

  And today, during a momentary lull in customers, Maya and I were trying on dresses for the quinceañera Marisela’s family had invited us to. Maya was herself again, saying she looked back on the last few fire-dancing nights through a dreamlike haze. But she had taken one habit from the experience: She had started playing with the store merchandise, trying on dresses like never before.

  At the moment, we were cracking each other up, trying on one tulle-laden, crinoline-stiff, frothy number after another.

  “I swear, you two are worse than Metzli and her gang!” said Bronwyn, laughing at us as she pushed the rack of prom dresses into the large communal dressing room.

  I blew at the bright pink netting sticking up from the bodice of the gown I had on; hiked up the many layers of voluminous, crinkly skirts; and shambled out to admire myself in the three-way mirror. The puffy sleeves, low scoop neck adorned with netting, and satin roses at the ruched waist appeared to have been inspired by a Barbie fashion design circa 1986. I had no doubt that if I’d been allowed to have a quinceañera, my fifteen-year-old self would have chosen something exactly like this hideous concoction.

  “You’re just being cynical, Bronwyn,” I teased. “I love it. I think I look just like a—”

  “—princess.” A deep voice finished my sentence.

  I spun around.

  Sailor.

  He stood in the doorway. Though the look on his face was brooding and intense—as per usual—he nodded hello to Bronwyn and Maya before returning his scalding gaze to me.

  My heart thudded and my palms started to sweat. I hadn’t set eyes on Sailor since the night we escaped the burning museum, when Aidan had insisted he would make sure I got home safely. Before I’d had a chance to talk with Sailor, he had slipped away into a sudden wall of fog.

  “Sailor, how lovely to see you,” Bronwyn said. “Maya, could I ask you about something in the back room?”

  Subtlety wasn’t Bronwyn’s strong suit.

  “Of course! Hi, Sailor. We’ve missed you,” said Maya. Wearing rhinestone-covered high heels and a butter-yellow princess-style gown, Maya hiked her skirts up and tottered after Bronwyn. “Excuse us while we go talk about important things in the back room, with the radio on really loud.”

  Maya wasn’t exactly Ms. Subtle herself.

  Moments after both women disappeared through the curtains, lilting 1920s-era music came floating toward Sailor and me, not only giving us some privacy but also making the scene eerily reminiscent of another time, with me in my formal gown and the violins swelling.

  “You’re still here.” My voice sounded calm, not matching my inner turmoil. “I . . . I thought you’d left town again.”

  “Apparently I’m welcome back in San Francisco,” Sailor said as he slowly strolled across the shop floor toward me, one outstretched hand passing over the silks and satins hanging on the racks, leaving the garments swaying slightly in his wake. “Even got my old apartment back, the one in Hang Ah Alley. Seems no one wanted to rent it.”

  “I guess a lot of tenants are put off by haunted murder scenes.”

  “Cowards,” Sailor said with a shrug, coming to stand very close to me. Too close. “Luckily, a simple haunting doesn’t faze a manly man like me.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. Nothing scares you.”

  “Nothing at all.” His smile faded as he reached up and traced the line of my jaw with one finger. His voice dropped, quiet but gruff. “Nothing, except seeing you in danger. The thought of something happening to you . . .” He shook his head. “That scares the hell out of me.”

  “Sailor . . .” I began, but didn’t know what else to say.
I moved toward him ever so slightly. His arms wrapped around me.

  I tilted my face to his, and his mouth came down on mine. I tingled from my head to my toes, passion and joy coursing through my veins. Though I couldn’t cry, I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes; it was so good, so very right to be with him again.

  After a long moment he lifted his head and whispered, “Promise me you’ll stop scaring me.”

  “I can’t do that.” By now it was clear my life in San Francisco would never be without excitement—sometimes dangerous excitement—and I refused to make a vow I couldn’t keep. “But I can promise to keep kissing you.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, woman,” he chuckled, then sighed, eyes searching my face. “But since I’m new in town, and currently unemployed, I guess I’m no prize myself. So I’ll take what I can get. Unlimited kisses. It’s a deal.”

  We embraced again, locked together for several minutes until a pair of customers walked in; and Oscar ran in to greet them; and the music was lowered; and Bronwyn, Maya, and I got back to work. Sailor took a seat on the velvet bench near the dressing rooms, watching over me—and the suddenly busy shop—with a slight, reluctant smile.

  As far as I was concerned, banishing minions could wait. Sailor was back, my friends were safe, Aunt Cora’s Closet was bustling . . . and at the moment, that was all that mattered.

  Don’t miss the new book in Juliet Blackwell’s

  Haunted Home Renovation series,

  HOME FOR THE HAUNTING

  Available in December 2013, wherever books and e-books are sold!

  Keep reading for a special preview.

  You know your job sucks when you find yourself escaping into a Port a Potty for a minute alone.

  The blue outhouses are indispensable on a jobsite, and, like the old joke about growing old, are a darned site better than the alternative. But they’re not normally a place I choose to spend much time.

  Today, however, I found myself lingering in the bright blue toilet. Warmed by the early-spring sunshine, it reeked of hot plastic and a sickly-sweet air freshener, but offered me a few minutes’ respite from the steady barrage of questions and demands from the dozens of eager but singularly unqualified volunteers I was directing.