Tarnished and Torn

by Juliet Blackwell

  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?

  Lloyd crouched down, putting his mouth very close to my ear. When he spoke his voice was very soft and gentle, seductive, like the whisper of a lover.

  “Tell me where to find the talisman.”

  My concentration wandered, interrupted by my body’s signals of distress. Lloyd placed yet another huge box on me, and my breaths became shallow and strained. Never before had I realized how much movement was involved in breathing, the up and down of the chest, however imperceptible in daily life. Just a fraction of an inch to expand and draw in sweet oxygen.

  “Tell me, Lily . . .” Lloyd’s voice was a singsong now, as though we were playing a game and he had all the time in the world.

  He
might have time on his side, but clearly I didn’t. Nausea swept over me, and I fought down panic and concentrated simply on breathing. The pressure on my body was immense, and I felt tingling in my arms and legs. But that was nothing next to the desperate, sickening need for more air. I started to twitch frantically, my eyes darting around the room.

  Lloyd reached out toward the pile of boxes again.

  “No!” I called out in panic. There was a note of pleading in my voice, a whimpering that would have embarrassed me, had I had my wits about me. Though I didn’t make it a habit to envision my own death, I never would have imagined facing it with cowardice. But it wasn’t the pain that bothered me; it was the hideous sensation of one’s body being slowly starved of oxygen that was pushing me beyond reason to one sole thought: No. Please, please, no.

  “No, what?” said Lloyd.

  “Not another box, I beg you.”

  “Would you prefer the strapatto?” His tone sounded disinterested, as though he were happy to proceed with whichever torture method I wanted. “That’s what I used on that gypsy witch, though I hear she lived. It’s not really meant to kill, you know. Neither is pressing. It’s really a way to extract information, not to kill anyone.”

  “You killed Griselda.”

  “I didn’t! I pressed her, that much is true. And sometimes a person can miscalculate, apparently, so she was having a very hard time telling me what she needed to. She passed out, I went to get some water to revive her, and by the time I came back someone had stabbed her with an antique knife. That’s sort of . . . hitting someone when they’re down. Right? What the heck was that about?”

  He put a stone atop me.

  “Please . . .” was all I could manage, but then realized I shouldn’t waste my breath. Quite literally. It wasn’t as though begging would change the mind of this madman.

  My vision started to narrow, the peripheral vision darkening. All I could think about now was breathing.

  Lloyd started to whistle, and then began prancing around the room, as if preparing for the next fire dance. As I panted my shallow, quick breaths, I watched him twirl and fling his imaginary pots of fire.

  “Gene says I’m a natural. A little more practice, and I’ll be invited to join the troupe if I want. I know I’m a bit older than the others, but I’ll be the best fire dancer there.”

  I felt a wave of calm come over me. The tingling in my extremities stopped . . . but now they were numb. The pounding of my heart sounded in my ears. And I heard a thrumming, so low it wasn’t perceivable to the human ear. But I could feel it.

  As could Lloyd. He stopped his dance steps and looked at me with a frown.

  “What is that?”

  I just stared at him, panting.

  “Can’t you speak?” He lifted one of the boxes off of me. “Better?”

  Like a fish dying on the pier, I opened and closed my mouth uselessly. Then I shook my head slightly, as though I couldn’t speak.

  “Dammit. Too much weight again.” He took off the stone. “You know, I read those witch-hunting manuals; looked them up on the Internet. I did my damned research. But they weren’t really clear on how much weight is too much or how long to leave it on. How’s that?”

  Lloyd looked at me with concern, as though he were some sort of twisted therapist worried about my welfare.

  “Like I said,” he continued, “I’m not trying to kill anyone, just get some information. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few days, it’s that you witches are stubborn creatures. Also, you die a lot easier than a person would think.”

  He crouched down and put his hand to my neck. I felt the rough calluses of his finger as he pressed, hard, to feel my pulse.

  Behind him, I saw a slight movement behind a broken wax sculpture of Genghis Khan.

  Oscar. He had come for me. With the Ojo del Fuego pendant around his neck.

  My head lolled to the side, and I tried to telegraph my thoughts to him: He’s got a gun. But truth was, Oscar wasn’t paying attention to me. Everything in his gnarled, adorable little face was concentrated on my attacker, Lloyd. I had seen my familiar in action before—other times when he had come to my assistance—and when he was in his natural form he was surprisingly strong.

  Lloyd has a gun. I tried to shake my head at Oscar, suddenly frantic at the thought that he would be shot. Could gobgoyles stand such an injury? I had no idea, but I knew they were mortal. Naturally long-lived, but just as mortal as the next person if they were shot at close range.

  As I watched, the strands of hair began to unwrap themselves, revealing the Ojo del Fuego. And it was, indeed, afire, blazing with its own light.

  Still staring at Lloyd, Oscar closed his large, humanlike hand around the fire opal, facing the gem into his palm.

  The lights began twirling around the room, like colorful reflections off a disco ball. At first I thought I was seeing things as a result of the lack of oxygen, but then I realized Lloyd saw them, too.

  “What the—” he exclaimed, looking around, spinning to try to focus on the lights, which sped up, weaving among themselves. They rotated faster and faster, growing in size until everything was a blur of pure white light. Lloyd spun so fast he was whipping around, out of control, spinning to keep up with the lights.

  He cried out, then fell to the floor, his eyes still spinning, unfocused.

  The lights subsided.

  Oscar ran to me and threw the boxes off, then the board. Without a word he grabbed one of the heavy boxes, lifted it high over his head and turned to loom over Lloyd. He held the box right over the prone man’s head.

  Still unable to sit up, I drew in a ragged breath and choked out: “Oscar! No!”

  “I’ll smash his head!”

  “No. Put the box down, Oscar. Now. Listen to me.” My hands and feet were overwhelmed with tingles as I regained sensation in my limbs. “You’re my familiar; you have to do what I say.”

  He stood there with the box raised overhead for several more beats, breathing hard. He was facing away from me so I couldn’t see his expression, but after another moment his shoulders relaxed slightly and he tossed the box as hard as he could toward poor Genghis Khan, whose head split off with the force, falling to the floor with a thud and rolling into the corner.

  Shaky, I sat up and started to rub my hands vigorously, trying to get rid of the painful tingles.

  “Oscar. Thank you. You saved my life. Did you hear me calling?”

  He nodded and pulled the talisman over his head. The Ojo del Fuego was once again wrapped up in its hair cocoon, hidden. Oscar walked up to me and slipped the pendant over my head.

  The talisman thrummed that strange bass tone, melding with my energy. I felt my breathing normalize, and the awkward pain from the pressing subsided, the tingling dissipating.

  Finally, it quieted, matching its rhythm with mine, so we were indistinguishable.

  “You keep that, mistress. It is too powerful for me. I almost couldn’t make it here. It took my energy from me.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “It called to me. I don’t understand how. I’ve never seen that kind of behavior in a necklace before.”

  “Thanks, Oscar. Come on. Let’s tie this guy up before he comes round. I’ll call Carlos and tell him what happened. Let’s let the justice system deal with him.”

  “I’d like to serve him a little justice, goblin style.”

  “I know. Me, too. But we have to rise above, let him be judged by a jury of his peers.”

  “They won’t know everything, though. They won’t understand that he wanted to help a . . .” He looked around as though we might be overheard, then leaned toward me and whispered. “A demon.”

  “I know. But he’s an attempted murderer. The inspectors have DNA evidence from the scene, and I’ll testify about what happened here tonight. He’ll b
e punished. Now let’s get out of here.”

  Physically, I felt remarkably chipper, given my ordeal. The talisman had lent me its energy. Mentally, though, I couldn’t deny I was shaken. Right now all I wanted was to get the hell out of this basement, call the paramedics for Clarinda, and go hide somewhere.

  Just then, Sailor raced down the basement stairs, with Aidan right on his heels. At the sight of me and Oscar, Sailor stopped short and Aidan plowed right into the back of him, giving rise to a rather slapstick moment of floundering on the steep wooden stairs. Both men wound up grabbing on to each other to maintain their footing.

  “You two make a cute couple.”

  Scowling, they distanced themselves from each other.

  “You’re all right?” Sailor asked, his dark-eyed gaze shifting over my shoulder to the man lying on the floor, trussed up like a Christmas goose.

  “Just dandy,” I said, still not over my snit. I realized at some deep level that these two had worked together, somehow, to come to my rescue. I’m sure once I calmed down I would be grateful—touched, even—for them working out their differences in order to help me. But at the moment I still had my mad on.

  “What happened to Clarinda?” Aidan demanded, picking her up in his arms and starting back up the stairs. Sailor and I followed, and Oscar brought up the rear. The stairs creaked loudly under our feet, and we all seemed to pause and take a deep breath when we passed through the door to the main floor.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If it was the same as he did to me, it was a blow to the back of the head.”

  Sailor lifted her lids to check her pupils, then put his hands on her head, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath, his head cocked slightly. After a moment he straightened and nodded.

  “She’ll be okay,” he said.

  Aidan just nodded and resumed his hurried stride.

  “And you?” Sailor asked in a low tone, putting his hand on my arm to stop me.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, avoiding his eyes. Normally Sailor couldn’t read my thoughts, but at the moment I was so weakened I didn’t trust my own guard to be strong enough against this man, who still held such a huge part of my heart. The truth was, my head was pounding, and the nausea, after subsiding earlier, was back with a vengeance. But right now all I wanted was to get out of this house of horrors and get back home, where I could heal myself. I would call Graciela . . . she would know how to cure this ill . . . which went way beyond the physical malaise.