“Let’s see. . . . There’s a movie review site, and Bleeg is a last name . . . and the Urban Dictionary says ‘bleeg’ is slang for something sex-related, but no surprise there. ‘Beeg,’ without the l, brings up nothing but porn. Lily, I know your past is a bit mysterious, but were you at one time into pornography? Because that really doesn’t sound like you.”
“Pretty sure I wasn’t,” I said, elbowing Sailor, who looked amused—and perhaps a little intrigued—at the idea of my being a secret porn princess.
“None of this makes sense—you say he’s looking for an item of some sort?” Maya asked.
Sailor nodded. “He claimed Lily stole it from him.”
“Given my previous encounter with Tristan Dupree, it’s probably something arcane and magical, or at least he thinks it is,” I said. “I have a few boxes of mementos tucked away upstairs; I’ll look through them and see if I can figure out what he’s talking about.”
Oscar rubbed against my legs again, and absentmindedly I reached down to tug his soft piggy ear. Oscar is a very special witch’s familiar. Technically he isn’t a familiar at all, but a shape-shifting creature that Aidan Rhodes had “gifted” me upon my arrival in San Francisco.
Speaking of Aidan . . . the self-proclaimed godfather of Bay Area witches might know something about what Tristan was after. Tristan Dupree had an oddly inflected style of speaking—was it possible he was asking about “the bag”? The most significant “bag” in my life was a special satchel Aidan had asked me to guard when he was out of town not too long ago. Could that be what Tristan was referring to? Aidan might know, and even if he didn’t, he had an occult research library in his office. Some of his books dealt with obscure aspects of witchcraft.
And Aidan was a night owl.
That decided it: If I had time, I would drop by the wax museum after closing Aunt Cora’s Closet this evening, once I’d gotten the busload of witches settled in with Calypso. It was high time Aidan and I had a powwow, anyway, to discuss the supernatural threat looming over San Francisco. I would also warn him not to agree to hold the Magical Match fund-raiser at the wax museum, just in case a member of the Welcome coven got to him. And I felt like I should invite him to my wedding, a wedding he was dead set against. That should be fun.
Great Goddess, my life was complicated.
“Hey, Sailor,” said Maya. She’d stopped searching for mysterious bleegs and was making sure the store’s Web site was up-to-date. “What was the deal with you yesterday?”
“Yesterday?”
“At that Chinese herb place the Lucky Moon, on Sacramento near Grant? A little after four?”
Sailor frowned. “The Lucky Moon is my regular herb shop. But I wasn’t in Chinatown yesterday. I worked with Patience all afternoon, then came here for dinner.”
Maya tilted her head, the way she did when she was puzzled. “But . . . this is so weird. Honestly, Sailor, you’re not easily mistaken for someone else. We were standing right next to each other at the cash register. Motorcycle jacket, black boots . . . ?”
Sailor shook his head again. “I don’t know what to say, Maya. I wasn’t there.”
“Do you have a twin brother, by any chance?”
He let out a quick bark of laughter. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Can you imagine?” I breathed, nearly fanning myself at the thought of two Sailors walking around.
“It must have been someone who looks like me,” said Sailor.
I stared at him, and my stomach fell. He wasn’t being entirely truthful.
Don’t overreact, I told myself. Sailor and I were both new to this romantic-relationship deal; it was only natural to experience a few hiccups along the way. I would ask him about it tonight, when we were alone.
“Nice dress,” Sailor said, checking out the wedding dress Wind Spirit had brought in. One eyebrow rose. “Or am I not supposed to see that before the big event?”
“You don’t find it a little . . . meringue-y?”
He inclined his head. “It does make me think of pie.”
“Sailor, did you feel anything when you met Tristan?” I asked, changing the subject.
“No, he was strongly guarded,” Sailor said. “All I felt was a simmering threat.”
“I would imagine that had more to do with your regular old human radar than anything psychic,” Maya said. “That Tristan is one creepy dude. I could feel it through the glass, and I’m about as psychic as my dog, Loretta.”
“Actually,” said Sailor, “most animals are highly intuitive.”
Maya smiled. “Bad example. You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He returned her smile. “Anyway, I have to rush off; I’m due in Oakland in half an hour. Sorry about yesterday, Maya; I can’t tell you who that was.”
“No worries,” she said.
“What’s up in Oakland?” I asked.
“I’m working with my aunt Renna today.” Once upon a time Sailor had been a powerful psychic, under the wing—and the thumb—of Aidan Rhodes. He had recently gained his freedom but at the cost of some of his psychic abilities. Ever since, Sailor had been training intensively to relearn how to interpret and control his natural talents.
“Oh, um . . . say hi to her for me. If it feels appropriate,” I said. Sailor’s aunt Renna was a talented Rom fortune-teller. She was another person who was angry with me. Since I’d arrived in San Francisco, I had, for the first time in my life, made several good friends, but had also made some powerful enemies. I might want to watch that.
Sailor smiled and brushed a lock of dark hair off my forehead. “She’ll come to the wedding, and peace shall be made.”
“Is that some sort of ancient Rom saying?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. Though I may have mangled the translation. But Renna wouldn’t miss out on what I promised her would be some amazing hors d’oeuvres, and in our family, at least, once someone attends a wedding and eats something, they’re obligated to support the marriage.”
“Well, then,” I said, a little fluttery sensation in my stomach. “We’ll have to make sure those are some darned yummy appetizers.”
“Fried okra, maybe? For the moment, though, Lily, please do me a favor and put some extra protection on the store?”
I nodded. The protection spell I cast each morning was probably the reason Tristan had hesitated to enter Aunt Cora’s Closet. A determined foe would be able to find a way through, including by force, but the spell would slow a person down and, at the very least, give a witch like me a few extra seconds to act.
“And stay away from that hotel and this Dupree character,” Sailor said, his tone sterner.
“Right back at you, big guy,” I responded.
Sailor raised an eyebrow. “So that’s how it’s going to be, eh?”
“‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’”
He smiled. “I’m good with gander sauce. Besides, I’m heading over the bridge, in the opposite direction.”
“Good. See you tonight?”
“Actually, probably not. I’ll be working late.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
He looked into my eyes, cupped the back of my head in his hand, and kissed me. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll call you.”
I nodded and saw him out the front door.
When I turned back, Maya was fanning herself. “I tell you what,” she said in a blatant imitation of my Texas twang. “If that man does have a twin brother, I call dibs.”
Chapter 3
The problem with Tristan Dupree showing up and issuing vague threats was that I was a very busy witch these days, and didn’t have a lot of time to look for whatever it was he wanted. In addition to my planning fund-raising teas and my own wedding, not to mention finding the perfect vintage wedding gown, San Francisco was facing a frustratingly nonspecific existential menace that invol
ved the cupcake lady named Renee Baker.
Hard to believe someone who peddled ornately frosted little “fairy cakes,” as Renee called them, could pose a danger of any kind, much less supernatural. But that was how my life had unfolded ever since that day years ago in Hong Kong, when I met a parrot named Barnabas in a bar. I had been at a crossroads in my life, and Barnabas advised me to head to the City by the Bay—but warned me to “mark the fog.”
And he was right—the moment I arrived in San Francisco, it felt like home, though the fog did seem to inspire a good deal of supernatural mayhem. And now, despite my determination to avoid getting involved in such things, I was smack-dab in the center of local witchy politics.
Which meant it was high time for a visit to the wax museum.
First, though, I wanted to see if I could find whatever it was Tristan was certain I possessed. That entire episode involving my reunion with my father in Germany remained just barely beyond my mind’s reach, like the cloudy aftermath of a bad dream. I had occasional flashes of memory, disconnected images in my mind, but that was all. I had never been able to make any sense of them, and a big part of me didn’t want to. I was afraid.
Still, maybe I had accidentally purloined the man’s heirloom jewelry or some such. If so, I would find it and give it back; then Tristan would go away, and everyone would be happy. As simple as that.
Yeah, right. As they said in my hometown of Jarod, Texas, just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly.
“Still, it’s worth a shot,” I muttered while sorting through a bag of clothing acquired from a woman whose elderly grandmother had passed. It was a gold mine: designer women’s dresses from the early 1960s that she had sold to me for pennies on the dollar, just to get them out of her closets.
“Did you say something?” Maya asked as she finished ringing up a customer’s purchases. It had been a busy day; the Union Street Spring Celebration and Easter Parade was coming up, and we’d been swamped all afternoon with customers searching for just the right outfit. San Franciscans did like their celebrations.
“Um . . . no, sorry. I was just talking to myself.” Lordy, Lily. Losing track of the conversation was bad enough, but a witch who talked to herself ran the risk of accidentally casting a spell and causing havoc.
“No worries. Hey, Bronwyn just forwarded me another text from your grandmother’s coven. They decided to head to the Monterey Bay Aquarium to see the sea otters, so they won’t be here tonight after all.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” The truth was, I felt of two minds. While I was anxious to see Graciela after so many years, I would be happier if I could get Tristan out of my hair before the coven arrived.
“Speaking of the grandmas . . .” I dialed Calypso Cafaro’s number.
After exchanging pleasantries, she asked, “What do you hear from Graciela?”
“Not a lot, actually. They keep driving through dead zones. They’re in Monterey now, visiting the aquarium. I’m sure they’ll arrive soon. Sorry it’s been so delayed. I hope it’s not driving you crazy, not knowing when to expect them.”
She laughed. “It’s no problem at all. I’m here, tending my gardens. I’ve got cots lined up from back when I had foster kids, and several mattresses and air beds on the floor. They’ll have to share, but we’ll make do. They’re welcome anytime.”
“This really is so generous of you.”
“Are you kidding me? The chance to confer with a coven of botanical geniuses? I’m excited beyond words. Plus, I’m putting them to work: They’re going to do some guest speaking at my classes.”
“Passing on their knowledge to a new generation?”
“Exactly so. And one of these days you promised to teach a few classes with me, too, remember?”
I smiled. “I remember very well. I keep waiting for my life to settle down a bit, but it looks like that’s going to be too long a wait. Maybe I should just jump in—we could do a group event with Graciela’s coven.”
“I can just see it now,” she said with a low chuckle. “They won’t know what hit them!”
Hanging up the phone, I looked around the shop to see what needed my attention.
“Laundry,” I said. “It’s the go-to answer for ‘What’s next?’”
Maya cast a sidelong glance at the clothes I had separated into three piles: repair, machine-wash, hand-wash. “Why is the ‘hand-wash’ pile always, by far, the largest?”
“The wonder of vintage clothing.”
“Want me to start a load of the washables?”
“Good idea. Let’s put a load in, and then close up shop.”
“Don’t you want to try on the wedding dress? It looks a little out of proportion for you, but you’re right—my mom’s a whiz with things like that. She could alter it, no problem.”
I wasn’t sure why I was hesitating. The dress’s vibrations weren’t negative, but they just didn’t feel . . . right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “Selena’s coming by in the morning to try on bridesmaid dresses. Maybe I’ll try it on then. It’s almost six o’clock.”
“Already? I didn’t realize it had gotten so late. That explains why Oscar’s so hungry,” Maya said, feeding Oscar a handful of the Annie’s organic cheese bunny crackers I kept behind the counter for cranky children.
“Oscar’s always hungry,” I said. As I glanced at my pig, I realized he might be able to shed some light on the Tristan Dupree situation.
Maya and I chatted companionably as we tidied up and closed the shop. Then she left to meet some friends at Cha Cha Cha, a Caribbean bar featuring pitchers of sangria, farther down Haight Street. I locked the door behind her, used a candle dressed with olive oil and camphor to cast an extra-strong protection spell as I had promised Sailor I would, then passed through the rear workroom and went up a set of stairs, Oscar’s hooves tapping on the wooden planks as he trailed me. At the top of the stairs I unlocked the door to my second-floor apartment.
As I walked in, the day’s tension and worries lifted from my shoulders. I was home.
This was the first home I had made for myself, and in many ways it was my first real home, a refuge from the world where I felt entirely at ease. A wreath of nettles on the door was pretty, and provided some basic protection. As I walked into the small foyer, I was greeted by the subtle scents of lavender and rosemary, herbs I had grown in my garden, dried, and sewn into soft squares of colored silk. I had hung the fragrant sachets throughout the apartment. A mirror on the wall opposite the front door served double duty: It repelled negative spirits and allowed me to primp briefly before leaving to start my day.
The apartment was not big, but it was more than sufficient for my needs. A small sitting room was furnished with a plump sofa and a comfortable chair, and opened onto the spacious terrace, where I had my garden—essential for a witch who worked with botanicals. My cozy bedroom was painted in soothing shades of white and cream that complemented the handmade quilt, in a wedding ring pattern, on my brass bed.
My favorite room, though, was the kitchen. It was a large, airy space. Sunshine poured in through the large windows, the floor was tiled in an old-fashioned black-and-white checkerboard pattern, and bundles of drying herbs dangled from wooden ceiling beams. A moon chart hung by the counter, on which sat a pot of fresh basil. On a high shelf was my battered red leather-bound Book of Shadows, containing spells and incantations, as well as quotes and newspaper clippings—many of which reminded me of events I would like to forget but knew I must not.
“Oof. That was a loooong day,” said Oscar, sighing wearily, as though he’d spent the day digging ditches in the hot sun instead of snoozing on his silk pillow fifty minutes out of every hour. He perched on the kitchen counter, his snout still covered in orange cracker crumbs. “This ten-to-six business is wearing me out. . . .”
“Is that right?” I said, filling my old copper kettle with water and
setting it on the burner. “Napping all day tuckers you out, does it?”
“That’s a ruse,” Oscar said solemnly. “I’m actually fully alert, ready to spring into action. You think it’s that easy?”
I smiled. “Probably not. So tell me: What does a hardworking gobgoyle such as yourself need to revive?”
“A little mac ’n’ cheese couldn’t hurt.”
Oscar remained in pig form only when we were in public. In the privacy of our home, he shifted into his natural self: a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle. It’s hard to imagine quite how such a pairing came together, but as with many things in the supernatural world, it was best not to ask too many questions. Oscar’s hide was gray-green and scaly; he had large hands and taloned feet, big batlike ears, and a longish snout. At full height he didn’t quite reach my waist.
Oscar called himself my familiar and addressed me as “mistress,” but at this point in our relationship he was more like my sidekick. A garrulous, ravenous sidekick who was wise in the ways of the magic folk.
“Mac ’n’ cheese? What a surprise,” I said with a smile, and began to gather the ingredients for Oscar’s favorite meal. Luckily, I had replenished my cheese supply last weekend at the farmers’ market. Oscar adored cheese. And carbs. Mostly in combination. “Oscar, will you start the pasta cooking?”
“Yes, mistress.” He took the large soup pot from the shelf near the stove and went over to the sink to fill it.
“Oscar, do you know what Tristan Dupree was talking about?”
“Don’t like that guy,” Oscar said, placing the pot on the old Wedgewood stove and lighting the burner.
“So you know him?”
Silence. He stared at me with his wide bottle green eyes, doing his best to look innocent. This was another way in which Oscar wasn’t a typical familiar: He only occasionally told me what I wanted to know, or did what I asked him to do. And he was stubborn as all get-out. By now I knew better than to waste my breath trying to get him to tell me something he wasn’t ready to reveal.
“All righty, then,” I said. “Let’s come at this from a different angle: Do you know what Tristan might be looking for? What’s a ‘beeeuuugh,’ or whatever it was he called it?”
A Magical Match Page 3
