Tarnished and Torn

by Juliet Blackwell

  “They were more friends of my father’s than friends of mine,” I improvised. Who knows? Maybe it was even true. “I’m just trying to track Johannes down . . . as a favor.”

  “None of my business either way,” Lloyd said. “You learn that as an innkeeper. Seriously, though, be careful. Johannes seemed a little, I don’t know . . . tightly wound, I guess I would say. I don’t suppose it’s possible he’s the one that, you know, did it?”

  “Could be. I really don’t know him. We’re . . . connected, but, as I said, we’re far from close.”

  The phone started ringing again, and I said my good-byes and left Lloyd to run his busy bed-and-breakfast.

  Chapter 12

  I lingered for a moment in the Morning House’s beautiful garden, enjoying the flowers, whose fragrance had been intensified by the warm sunshine, and trying to decide my next move. A big part of me wanted to just go back to Aunt Cora’s Closet and fold scarves, chat with Maya and Bronwyn, and hang out with my pig.

  But the rowan loops reminded me of Clem holding up the witch’s mark as though he could banish me with it; the memory gave me a sense of urgency.

  First I stopped by Aunt Cora’s Closet, saw that everything was under control, and consulted a city map. Then I headed downtown to the youth hostel.

  The address on Ellis Street was written in bold, black letters on a glass transom above the scarred wooden entrance. The door opened onto a long flight of stairs, its treads splintered and worn from the thousands of young travelers who had stayed here through the years. At the top of the stairs was a small foyer, with the obligatory rack of travel brochures along one wall and a conversation area formed by three mismatched armchairs and a sagging couch. A young man with a scraggly goatee sat behind a tall counter to the right, and behind him was a wooden hutch with dozens of tiny pigeonholes, some holding keys and others messages. Very old school. I liked it.

  I started to ask for Johannes, then realized I didn’t know his last name.

  “I’m sorry,” said the clerk, looking through an old fashioned visitors’ log. “I can’t see anyone by that name registered.”

  Had Johannes used a pseudonym? “Do you ask for ID when people check in?”

  “Yup. Usually a passport. We get a lot of foreign students.”

  “And you don’t remember a young German man, a little over six feet, blond, good-looking? He speaks English with a heavy accent.”

  The clerk shook his head. “Haven’t seen anyone like that, at least not during my shift. Doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been someone here that I didn’t see, but there’s nobody in the book under the name Johannes.”

  I must have looked disappointed, because he glanced around the empty foyer, then added: “Dwight’s been working a lot of shifts lately; maybe he knows something. He went up on the roof for a smoke before heading home. Want me to see if I can catch him before he leaves?”

  “I would be so grateful. Thank you.”

  “Keep an eye on things for me for a second. Will ya?”

  I couldn’t say much for the hostel’s security, but I was happy to slip behind the counter and play hotelier for a few moments. There was no piped-in music, only the sound of far-off voices and someone playing a harmonica. The ceilings were tall and the windows were large and multipaned, bathing the reception room in sunlight. Despite the worn furnishings and generally shabby ambience, the hostel was appealing. It had the strong, energetic vibrations of youth mixed with the wide-open, eager pulsations common to tourists exposing themselves to new worlds.

  In fact, I thought as I helped a young couple from India locate Chinatown on a city map and then sent them off happily in search of dim sum, if I needed a place to stay in San Francisco I might well enjoy this hostel more than the Morning House inn, despite the obvious disparity in luxury. When it came right down to it, I was more about vibrations than comfort.

  The young clerk returned, trailed by a pale, oversized, middle-aged man who smelled strongly of cigarettes. Dwight, I presumed.

  “Yeah, I remember that guy,” Dwight said without prelude. “Johannes Herzberg, right? The cops were already here asking about him. Big blond, looked like he could be a model. I thought he might be looking for work down at the strip club, till he started talking and it was obvious he wasn’t from here.”

  “What strip club?” I had to ask.

  “All-male revue, right down the street. Some of the kids land here when they first arrive from Missouri or wherever, and the strip club’s some easy money for those good-looking country boys.”

  “Oh. Anyway, about Johannes . . . any idea where he went?”

  “Nope. Didn’t even sign out. Left his passport here; we require it in exchange for a room key. Like I got any use for a passport. Right?”

  “So you think he’ll be back?”

  He shrugged. “He’s out of luck on the room. It’s already been cleaned and rented.”

  Darn. I had hoped to see his room in case there were signs of . . . what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. A demon’s sigil, indicating he was beholden? Evidence of having murdered Griselda? The ring everyone was searching for?

  “Could I see his passport?”

  “Gave it to the cops . . . Gotta say, you don’t look like a cop.” The look in Dwight’s eyes told me I had pushed too far, which was frustrating but almost comforting at the same time; I’m always surprised how much information most people will tell you simply for the asking. Since I hadn’t cast any sort of spell to make him trust me, why should he be telling strangers about his clients? I was already keeping him from leaving work, and now I was asking for more.

  “I’m a friend of the family,” I added. “Johannes dropped out of sight, and I wanted to touch base with him, make sure he’s all right.”

  Dwight nodded. “He didn’t look so hot, I gotta say.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, he was good-looking, but not looking good. Know what I mean? Like, green around the gills a little. Real tired, like. Some of these kids, they get off the plane and run right out and tie one on, don’t figure in time to get over jet lag. When I saw your guy Monday morning, I thought to myself, If he doesn’t take it easy I’ll be callin’ an ambulance for him pretty soon. Wouldn’t be the first time the paramedics had to pump a kid full of fluids and stick ’em in bed for a few days.”

  “Did he leave anything in his room?”

  Dwight shook his head.

  “Did you two talk about anything?” I continued. “Anything at all?”

  “Nothing. Look, lady, if he’s got a cell phone maybe you could track him down through GPS or something. I don’t know what else to tell you. The extent of our conversation was the cost of the room, how to get in after hours, and where to buy a CityPASS. That’s it.”

  “What’s a CityPASS?”

  “It’s this doohickey that gets you into the museums and on public transportation for a day or two, all for one price. The European kids always ask about it. They’re smart travelers. Costs a lot more to pay for everything separate, plus it’s a pain. CityPASS gets you everywhere you need to go.”

  He plucked a slick brochure extolling the benefits of the CityPASS from the display and handed it to me. I wondered, If Johannes checked into to the hostel Sunday night and wasn’t feeling well Monday morning when he spoke with Dwight, why would he buy a CityPASS—to go sightseeing on a queasy stomach?

  “Thanks. Listen, could I leave you my contact information, just in case he comes back looking for his passport?”

  “Okay by me.” Dwight shrugged. “You know, I hate to say it, but it’s possible he disappeared into the streets. This city eats people up sometimes.” He shook his big head. “Damned shame.”

  I handed Dwight and the other clerk a business card and gave them each a tip for their trouble and to help them remember me. Back out on the street, I paused and blew out a bre
ath. I wasn’t surprised Dwight was concerned about what might happen to a confused young man on the city’s streets. Even though it wasn’t far from the tony Union Square shopping district, this stretch of Ellis was run-down and seedy. The grimy historic buildings were crumbling, and just about every crevice was filled with trash. A few folks stood clustered together, smoking and drinking out of paper bags. A cyclone fence sported a dozen articles of clothing; I couldn’t tell if they were someone’s possessions hung out to dry or if it was an informal a tag sale.

  Dozens of men stood in a line nearly a block long, waiting stoically to enter Glide Memorial Church, which offered shelter, hot meals, job-placement assistance, and, most important, hope to those in need. Other men and women shuffled along the sidewalk, appearing aimless and defeated. Many gave off the bitter stench common to addicts.

  The scene reminded me of Conrad, whom I wanted so much to help. It was so sweet the way he looked out for me as best he could, how he had been suspicious of the men in the truck . . . strangers who had, indeed, turned out to be following me.

  The nape of my neck tingled.

  Footsteps rang out behind me.

  I started to turn around when I felt something poke me in the back—the muzzle of a gun.

  “Look straight ahead, and put your hands up,” a voice hissed in my ear.

  I put my hands up, though I wasn’t scared as much as astonished. I am as mortal as the next person, but my psychic guard and protection spells kept most folks at bay. Besides, it was broad daylight and there were dozens of potential witnesses waiting in front of the church.

  “Check her pockets,” a man said.

  “You check her pockets,” a second man replied.

  “Now you listen to me,” the first man said. “I’m the one holdin’ the gun, so that means you’re the one doin’ the friskin’, remember?”

  “Zeke? Clem? Are you kidding me?” I said, letting my hands fall to my sides and turning around to face them. They both wore dark glasses so I couldn’t see their eyes, but Clem stepped back nervously. Zeke, unfortunately, just gestured with the gun.

  “Don’t try any funny stuff,” he said. “We’re fixin’ to git that ring one way or t’other.”

  “She’s not wearing it,” Clem said in a low voice.

  “I can see that. I’m not blind,” said Zeke.

  “I have this one,” I said, holding up the hand still adorned with the resin ring with a picture of a raven against a bright yellow background. “You might want to look deep into it, see what you see . . .”

  As was the case last night, Clem seemed put off by my spooky witch routine; his brother less so.

  “Check her pockets,” said Zeke.

  “You really don’t want to do that,” I warned. “I’m a pretty awesome witch, if I do say so myself.”

  “Ze-e-eke,” whined Clem, his Adam’s apple bobbing crazily. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

  “You bet I am, Clem. I would never fool around with something like this. You can feel it, can’t you?”

  “Just go ahead and find the thing so we can get out of here,” said Zeke.

  Clem reached out again, putting one hand on my hip pocket. As he moved in close, I concentrated on his energy. Scattered, frenetic, unsure.

  “Seriously, Clem,” I whispered. “You ever seen what a witch can do to a person?”

  He backed away. I could hear Zeke swearing at my back. And finally the muzzle was gone and I felt his much rougher hands on me instead.

  He went through my purse, emptying it on the sidewalk.

  “You want this, maybe?” I held out the necklace I was wearing. It was the one with the fire opal, and as much as anything else I wanted to see how they would react to it. “It has a fire opal in it. The orange one.”

  Zeke was cleverer than his brother, it was clear. Still, that wasn’t saying much. His hands skimmed my waist and felt the medicine bag at my waist.

  “Zeke, you ever seen what a powerful witch’s medicine bag does to a person if you open it up?”

  I felt him rear back a tad.

  “Look, you two. Why don’t we make a deal? I’ll give you what you want if . . .”

  “If what?” Zeke asked.

  “. . . if you give me what I want.”

  Zeke and Clem exchanged a glance.

  “And what might that be?” Zeke asked.

  “A lock of your hair.” I stared at them, unblinking, and saw fear. “Come on, what harm could it do? Just a simple lock of hair.”

  Clem started backing away, shaking his head so fast his mop of sandy hair seemed to blur.

  “You think we’re skeered o’ you, lady witch? You don’t know what ‘scared’ means until you go up against something like—”

  “Zeke! No!” cried Clem. “Don’t say it!”

  Zeke fell silent, swore, then pulled out a pocket knife, and with a twist of his wrist my medicine bag was in his grimy hand.

  I fought a wave of anger and sadness, and reminded myself that it was my medicine bag; one way or another it would make its way back to me. I didn’t have to wear it at all times and had even loaned it out to protect others a few times in my life. It always returned to me.

  “Do yourself a favor, ma’am,” Zeke sneered. “Git out of town.”

  He swung around and dashed into the street, right into the path of a speeding black Escalade.

  Chapter 13

  The impact sent Zeke cartwheeling into the air, his limbs as limp as a ragdoll’s. It felt as though I were watching everything unfold in slow motion; then reality came rushing back when Zeke landed on the pavement with a sickening thud.

  “Zeke!” cried Clem.

  The Escalade slowed momentarily, then sped up and disappeared around the corner with a squeal of tires.

  Clem and I ran to kneel beside Zeke. Blood was flowing from a wound to his head, and one leg was twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle. He was breathing, still alive and conscious, but just barely.

  A crowd surrounded us, offering help. One woman had scooped up the contents of my purse and handed it to me; another stood in the middle of the street, directing traffic around us. One man offered his grimy shirt to stanch the flow of blood, but I already had applied my handkerchief, very gently, to the wound on Zeke’s brow.

  One of the men from Glide Memorial Church had raced to summon a pair of beat cops, who hurried toward us. Panic in his eyes, Clem looked at the police, then back down at his brother, and finally at me.

  “Don’t run, Clem,” I said. “We have to talk. I can help you, if—”

  “Please, don’t let him die. I’m sorry we took your medicine bag, but you shouldn’a kilt him! Keep him alive, and I can pay you. I got lots to pay you.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  After casting one last desperate look at his brother, Clem jumped up and disappeared down a narrow alley, his footsteps ringing out in the empty space. As I watched him go, I saw a man in a dark gray suit pass by the end of the alley, holding a newspaper up as though to shield his face from the strong sun—or could he be hiding his face from witnesses?

  I cradled Zeke’s head in my lap. He was a scumbag and a lowlife, but there is something so . . . pathetic and simple about us humans when we are hurt. I wished I could lay my hands on him and understand what was wrong, how serious his injuries were, and perhaps help him . . . but my curative powers weren’t that strong. Blood trickled from the corner of Zeke’s mouth, and I knew enough to know that was not good.

  “Zeke, can you speak to me?” I lowered my head to his and whispered, watching as one of the approaching cops spoke into his radio. “Who sent you? Tell me, and I promise to help your brother, Clem.”

  “I . . .” He shook his head, then gave what was either a cough or a weak laugh.

  I noticed my medicine bag lying on the pavement nex
t to Zeke and tucked it into my pocket just as the cops arrived.

  “What happened?” asked the first officer.

  “Hit and run,” I said. “Late-model Escalade, black. I didn’t catch the plates.”

  I did notice, however, that there didn’t appear to be anyone driving the vehicle.

  I had seen such a thing once before, and it turned out a witch had been controlling the runaway car. But not a regular witch. More like a demonic witch.

  Either someone very powerful was trying to shut up Clem and Zeke, or my medicine bag had gotten its revenge.

  • • •

  As the ambulance rushed Zeke to San Francisco Medical Center, I gave a witness statement to one of the officers. Finally free to go, I dragged my sorry and tired self back to my apartment over Aunt Cora’s Closet, stripped off my blood-soaked dress, and took a very long, very hot shower. I washed three times with lemon verbena–olive oil soap, then slipped into a snuggly pink cotton jumper from the 1960s. The outfit made me look and feel about twelve years old, but at the moment it suited my mood.

  I felt as if I had been chewed up and spat out.

  I made myself a cup of peppermint tea and stood in the corner of my kitchen, studying the dress I had laid out on the counter. It was stained with Zeke’s blood. Oscar watched me from his cubby over the fridge, uncharacteristically silent. He knew what I was thinking.

  Blood is life. Blood is powerful. I could use Zeke’s blood to brew and discover at least some of what was going on. At the very least I would learn to whom Zeke—and Clem, by association—were beholden.

  But if my suspicions were correct and we really were dealing with a demon of some sort, brewing could be dangerous. Tapping into my powers opened a portal to the supernatural. I would have to be very, very careful not to accidentally invite an entity into my home.