Tarnished and Torn

by Juliet Blackwell

  Then Aidan did the most amazing thing. He hugged me. He didn’t try to kiss me or read my mind or do anything untoward. He simply held me for a moment and stroked my hair.

  Then he held me at arm’s length and gazed at me. “Come on, Lily. Pull yourself together. We still have a real chance against this character. We simply need to locate that ring.”

  Yes, that’s all, I thought to myself. How hard could that be?

  “In the meantime, I suggest you save your energy for the inevitable showdown. Trust me,” Aidan said. “We’ll find the ring. Just trust me.”

  • • •

  The next morning Shawnelle, Marisela, and Metzli came back to Aunt Cora’s Closet to try on their dresses and make sure the alterations were done perfectly.

  At the moment Metzli stood on a short platform by the dressing room while Lucille made some last-minute adjustments. The birthday girl kept twisting this way and that, trying to see herself in all angles in the three-way mirror. Marisela was helping by holding the pins for Lucille.

  Last night I had placed a protective spell on Bronwyn’s apartment and asked her to keep Maya home with her for a day or two, until I could figure this thing out. Bronwyn agreed; she had gotten a stack of DVDs, and this morning they were all involved in a baking project with Imogen. I shared a little of what was happening with Bronwyn; enough, I hoped, to make her cautious without scaring her too badly. Above all, I tried to convey that it was crucial she keep Maya from fire dancing in the park.

  Lucille would go join them once she was through with the alterations. I didn’t want Maya going to her mother’s house, just in case Gene knew Maya’s last name and looked her up.

  While Marisela and Metzli were busy, Shawnelle was checking out my display of jewelry. She tried on a big amethyst ring and held her hand out in front of her. It reminded me of the first time we’d met, at the gem show, when she was trying on rings at Griselda’s stand.

  “Cool ring,” she said.

  “It looks good on you.”

  She smiled. “Nice hands; ‘men like that.’ Isn’t that what the funny old woman at the fair said? What was her name?”

  “Griselda.”

  “Right. Griselda. What kind of name is that, d’you suppose?”

  “I think she was from Germany. Like Johannes.” Just the thought of him made my stomach clench. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to avoid the thought of him going over the railing.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Speaking of whom . . . what did you two do when you got together on Tuesday? Did you do anything at all unusual?”

  “Not really.” She tried on another ring, this one a bright orange glass ring from the late 1960s. “I told you, we did a whole tourist thing.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he said, but he really wanted to go.”

  “Which sights did you see?”

  Her eyes lit up and a faint smile played on her full lips. “We took a cable car, then walked around Fisherman’s Wharf and got some chocolate at Ghirardelli Square. We tried to get an Irish coffee at the Buena Vista, but we didn’t have ID.”

  Nothing suspicious about that. Unless . . . “What did you do at Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  “I already told you, we just walked around and then we had dinner—Johannes got a real kick out of the clam chowder in a bowl made of bread. Have you seen that? You eat the soup, then the bowl. He said they didn’t have anything like that where he was from. And then he was pretty excited about the oyster crackers, until I told him they weren’t actually made of oysters.”

  “Is that all? Did you see any attractions, by any chance?”

  “He wanted to go to Alcatraz, but we didn’t have time. So instead, before dinner we went to the Wax Museum.”

  “Really . . . what did you do there?”

  Shawnelle appeared to tire of trying on rings, as well as of answering my questions. Marisela and Metzli laughed about something, and Shawnelle looked over at the try-on session as though that was the fun table, but she was stuck with me.

  “I dunno. Just looked at the lame statues.” She shrugged. “It’s cheesy, but it’s still sort of fun. Johannes called it the false museum, where the people are false.”

  “Shawnelle, I have to ask you something very important. Did he leave you at any point? Did he do anything unusual while you were there?”

  “Yeah, that was the only kind of weird thing. I mean, the coolest part of the whole museum is the Chamber of Horrors, right? But he told me he’d be right back at one point, and when I found him he was hanging out at the European Explorers exhibit. I mean, snore. Who cares about a bunch of old dead white guys you’ve never even heard of?”

  “Did Johannes seem to feel better after you left the museum, by any chance?”

  “A little bit, yeah. How’d you know that?”

  “Just a hunch.” So Johannes felt better after visiting the European Explorers exhibit. The exhibit I had walked through when in pursuit of Aidan how many times?

  Johannes witnessed his boss being killed and wasn’t feeling well, but he made sure he got to the Wax Museum. Where the people are false.

  • • •

  Later that night, outside the Wax Museum, Sailor was grousing.

  “This makes me nervous as hell.”

  “Told you to stay in the car.”

  He snorted, “Yeah, right.”

  I cast my spell over the door and then brought out the Hand of Glory. I had picked up this gruesome little item, a candleholder made from the mummified hand of a hanged man, from a bizarre murder scene some time ago. As long as I didn’t think about what it actually was, it was one of my favorite magical tools. It opened any lock, and then lit up the room as though it were daytime.

  “I thought you lost that thing last time we broke into a building after hours.”

  “Max got it back for me.”

  Sailor snorted again, more loudly this time. “Max. Great. I gotta say, Lily, you do seem to get men to do your bidding for you.”

  I stopped in my preparations and glared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m just saying . . . Seems like maybe you’re casting your spell over the menfolk in your life, one way or another.”

  “Oh, so you’re saying the only reason a man would want to do me a favor is if I enchanted him? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Simmer down, now. I said no such thing. The mention of Max just. . . .” He shrugged in a gesture that was more akin to shaking off an annoying gnat than an apology. “What can I say? He brings out the worst in me.”

  “I thought Aidan brought out the worst in you.”

  “Him too. You’ve got rotten taste in men.”

  “No argument there.”

  He gave me a long look.

  “Let’s just get this over with and get out of here before Aidan gets wind of what’s going on.”

  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 h
ad 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. Her 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 hate
d 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.