A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  Aidan nodded. “I believe you were named in a prophecy, yes.”

  “Me?”

  “It wasn’t clear until recently, but yes, I believe that’s so.”

  “That’s why everyone’s always acted so weird around me? You couldn’t have told a person?”

  “The signs weren’t clear.”

  “But now they are?”

  He inclined his head, as casual as if he were ordering eggs for breakfast.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “I believe the timeline sped up a bit when you went up against the demon named Deliverance Corydon. I told you it was a mistake for you to battle her alone. A part of her now resides within you.”

  Deliverance Corydon was a demonlike creature who had been burned at the stake after being accused of witchcraft, way back in the day. My own guiding spirit, the Ashen Witch, had known—and fought—her back then. So it did seem foreshadowed, somehow, that I would battle her when she tried to rise again. But I rejected Aidan’s theory—which he’d espoused before—that Deliverance Corydon was now a part of me.

  “That’s even more ridiculous. I mean, seriously, Aidan. I know Corydon was bad news, but she’s gone. She came back and was destroyed by lightning, no less. Also, she despises witches.”

  He shrugged. “I can feel it when we meld energies.”

  “And I have the Ashen Witch as my guiding spirit.”

  “More evidence for the prophecy.”

  “And what does the prophecy prophesize, exactly?”

  He hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully. “That a practitioner connected to your father would come to town, and spark a kind of supernatural showdown in San Francisco, the results of which would be crucial, and not just for the city. The effects have the potential to ripple out, endlessly.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s a bit more to it, but that’s the gist of it.”

  “And couldn’t there be someone else who fits that description? You, for instance?”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “And your role in this has been, what?” I demanded. “To help me? To stop me? Both? Was Oscar your spy?”

  Aidan sat down in his desk chair, as though tired. “For the moment, I’m here to help you, and to help San Francisco. Lily, you’re missing the point: If I know about this, it’s a good bet other practitioners, like Renee, do as well. And if she does, she’ll stop at nothing to siphon off your powers for her own use. Yet another reason this relationship between you and Sailor is a problem. It couldn’t come at a worse time.”

  “Could you please drop it, already? You’ve made your opinion known, as have I. Can’t we please move on? Why do you insist on trying to direct my life?”

  “You don’t take your magical talent seriously enough.”

  “That’s not true. I mean . . . that might have been true when I first arrived. But things are different now.”

  “You’ve gained power, to be sure. And that’s no small thing. But you’re still not ready. Take this shoe box, for instance. Why haven’t you opened it?”

  I had no answer to that.

  “Because you’re protecting yourself—that’s why,” Aidan continued. “You haven’t wanted to deal with your past, Lily, and it’s coming back to bite you, the way unsettled pasts tend to do. And now, instead of focusing on developing and controlling your powers, you’re rushing into marriage with a man you barely know.”

  “That’s not true! I have been working on my powers, and I know Sailor very well.”

  “Is that right? You asked me my middle name when you arrived tonight. Do you know Sailor’s middle name?”

  “I’ll get it off the marriage license. Anyway, I know him in the ways that count.”

  “You don’t know him at all,” Aidan said, an uncharacteristic note of anger in his voice. “Let me ask you this: What about children?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you want them? Does he? The only thing that will bring a powerful witch down faster than falling in love is becoming a mother. Children will make you vulnerable, Lily, dangerously so. It’s one thing to go up against demonic forces when your own life is at risk. Imagine risking the life of your child.”

  “I don’t think—”

  I cut myself off when Noctemus leapt down from her perch on the bookshelf, meowing loudly and heading for the door. A moment later there was a soft rapping. Aidan went to answer the door, opening it just a crack. I heard him talking softly to Clarinda.

  “Call Maya,” Aidan said, closing the door. He took a cell phone from his breast pocket and held it out to me.

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Maya left a message that you need to call her. That’s all I know.”

  “I didn’t know you have a cell phone,” I commented, taking the phone.

  “Everyone has a cell phone.”

  “Not me.”

  He shook his head and gave me a rueful smile.

  “And if you have a cell phone, why don’t I have your number?”

  “Make the call, Lily.”

  My fingers shook slightly as I dialed. If Maya had tracked me down at the wax museum, it must be important.

  “Maya? What’s wrong?”

  “Lily. I’ve been calling everyone I could think of, trying to find you. Sailor’s been arrested.”

  An entire shelf’s worth of books flew across the room and smashed against the opposite wall, falling to the floor with a crash. Across the desk, Aidan’s too-blue eyes held mine.

  “My Sailor? Arrested for what?”

  “Murder.”

  Chapter 6

  The knowing look in Aidan’s eyes was insufferable. I avoided it while I rummaged in my bag for Carlos Romero’s card and called his number. The inspector wouldn’t talk about the case over the phone, but to my surprise, he suggested we meet at the Buena Vista Café in ten minutes.

  “What did I tell you?” Aidan asked after I had hung up and handed him his phone. “A witch like you cannot maintain a serious romantic relationship. If it doesn’t destroy you, it will destroy him. Frankly I’d rather it be Sailor than you, but ultimately it’s not good for—”

  “Listen, Aidan. If you can’t—or won’t—help me,” I said, enraged, as I grabbed my still-unopened shoe box and stormed out of the office, “then stay out of it.”

  I slammed the door behind me.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Buena Vista Café sits at the corner of Hyde Street and Beach Street, not far from Fisherman’s Wharf and the wax museum. Since it was past midnight on a weeknight, I found a parking spot almost directly across the street, just above Aquatic Park.

  Carlos was waiting for me on the corner. I parked and jogged over to him.

  “What happened?” I demanded as soon as I was within earshot. “Where is he? How do I get him out? I need to talk to him.”

  “And a good evening to you, too, Lily.”

  “Seriously, Carlos. What in the world happened? Sailor didn’t kill anybody.”

  “If you don’t know what happened, how do you know he didn’t kill anybody?” Carlos asked.

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  Are you sure? a tiny voice in my head asked. Could Aidan be right? How well did I know my fiancé, after all? Sailor had a temper—a sometimes volatile temper. Was it possible he had lost control while facing an adversary?

  Once again I sneezed. I was worn-out, tired. It was late, and I was still feeling the aftereffects of melding magic with Aidan, but truthfully I had been feeling off all day. What was going on with me?

  “Please, Carlos, tell me what happened.”

  “It’s still under investi—”

  “Is it your case?”

  “Come, buy me a cup of coffee and we’ll chat.”


  “At this hour?”

  “We’ll make it Irish coffee. A little whiskey will be good for what ails you.”

  “I want to see Sailor.”

  “All in good time. Let’s talk first.” He gestured to the battered box under my arm. I hadn’t wanted to leave it in the car. Just in case. “What’s that?”

  “A shoe box,” I said.

  “I can see that. Is it time for show-and-tell?”

  I shook my head. “Just worried about car break-ins. It’s a . . . project I’m working on.”

  His eyebrows rose a smidgen, but he didn’t pursue it. Carlos held the door open for me and I led the way into the Buena Vista.

  Even at this late hour on a weeknight, the place was jumping, with most seats occupied. To the left was a long bar reminiscent of an old-timey saloon, and in front of the windows were tables. We grabbed a small one not far from the door, and I stashed the shoe box on the seat next to me. Until I figured out what was in it, I wanted to keep it close.

  “They say the fishermen used to drink here because they could see when the boats came in,” said Carlos after ordering two Irish coffees from the bartender.

  “I’ve never been here,” I murmured, not in the mood for small talk. “But what—”

  “You’ve never been to the Buena Vista?” Carlos asked. “It’s a genuine San Francisco watering hole, made famous by columnist Herb Caen. He used to ride the cable car down Hyde Street and stop in for Irish coffee. Which was invented right here at the Buena Vista, by the way.”

  “To tell you the truth, Carlos, I don’t even know what Irish coffee is, and at the moment I don’t particularly care. Please tell me, who is the inspector assigned to this case?”

  “As luck would have it, I am.”

  “You are? But Sailor’s a friend of yours.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Are you allowed to investigate someone you know?”

  “According to General Rules of Conduct Order Number Fifty-seven, ‘Conflict of Interest in Investigations’: ‘If a member is assigned to an investigation in which the member knows or suspects, or should reasonably know or suspect, that the member has a personal or family interest, the member shall immediately report the interest to the member’s immediate supervisor.’”

  I blinked. “You’ve got that memorized?”

  “I’ve got several of the General Orders memorized. Comes in handy. Besides, I’m sorry to say this isn’t the first time a potential conflict of interest has arisen. San Francisco is in many ways a small town, and I’ve got a large and colorful family. Ah, the drinks.”

  Carlos retrieved the Irish coffees from the bar and set before me a stemmed glass of steaming, fragrant coffee topped with a thick layer of cream.

  “You’re going to thank me for introducing you to this,” he said, taking a seat and raising his glass in a toast. “Here’s to exonerating your jailbird boyfriend.”

  “Tell me what happened. Please, Carlos.”

  He grew more serious, gazing out at the darkness in the direction of Aquatic Park. Finally, he blew out a breath and took another sip of his drink. “Just so we’re clear, I wouldn’t be discussing any of this with you if the situation didn’t strike me as hinky.”

  “‘Hinky’ being the official police term for something that doesn’t add up.”

  He nodded.

  “Who is the victim?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tristan Dupree.”

  My heart sank. Of course. “Carlos, honestly, Sailor was headed to Oakland—”

  “There are witnesses.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. Except that there are indeed witnesses.”

  “Well . . . eyewitnesses can be mistaken.”

  “You think I don’t know that? But three different people picked him out of a lineup. Three, Lily. Upstanding citizens, with no apparent ax to grind. And if that weren’t enough, I’ve seen the hotel’s security camera footage. It was Sailor.”

  I sat back, stunned. “There has to be some explanation.”

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  “Then tell me, what seems hinky to you?”

  He shrugged, took another sip of his Irish coffee, and inclined his dark head. His eyes searched mine: intelligent, caring. Worried.

  “Sailor denied it. Completely. Claimed he wasn’t in that part of town, not there at all.”

  “And?”

  “According to the witnesses and the security tapes, he was there. Walked out through the hotel lobby with blood on him, stopping to check his watch, cool as a cucumber. Big as day and bold as brass.”

  “But that makes no sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Frankly, that’s what troubles me the most. I can easily believe Sailor could go after someone he thought might harm you—but I can’t believe he would be so ham-fisted about it. Sailor’s not stupid. If he’d planned to do Dupree harm, why wouldn’t he have caught him out on the street, away from witnesses and cameras?”

  “Good question.”

  “And if Sailor did murder Dupree, why would he go straight home and wait for the cops to bang on his door? Or if it was a deal where he just went to talk to him, and things got out of hand, why wouldn’t he have told us Dupree attacked first, claim self-defense?”

  I nodded, and sneezed.

  “Bless you,” Carlos said. “And finally, according to the witnesses, Dupree must have fought back, because Sailor left the hotel battered—cuts, bruises, blood dripping down his face, the whole nine yards.”

  My heart flipped. Was Sailor okay? “Was he taken to the hospital? Is it bad?”

  “That’s another hinky part: When Sailor was arrested, he didn’t have a scratch on him.”

  “He didn’t?” I was relieved for Sailor, but Carlos was right—that was hinky.

  He shook his head. “Of course, I hear tell there are folks out there with special talents, maybe the ability to cure a person faster than would be normal. So, the crime happened late this afternoon. Where were you this afternoon and evening?”

  “I was in the shop, with Maya. We closed at six.”

  “That the usual time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. What did you do after the shop closed?”

  “I went upstairs, made dinner for—” I halted. I made mac ’n’ cheese for my pig would sound weird. “. . . myself, and did a little housekeeping.”

  “And afterward . . . ?”

  “I was with Ai—” I stopped, remembering how Carlos felt about this particular witchy godfather. But the cat was already out of the bag, so I finished what I was saying. “Excuse me. I met with Aidan Rhodes at the wax museum.”

  Carlos gave me a look. A cop look.

  “He’s a business associate, Carlos.”

  “And what kind of business would that be, exactly?”

  “Witchy business.”

  “Uh-huh. When was this?”

  “I probably arrived at the wax museum about seven thirty or eight.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And you spent the next several hours with him?”

  “Time flies when you’re doing witchy business.”

  “I’ll just bet it does.” He rubbed his neck. “Okay, it’s not the greatest alibi, but they’ve got security cameras at the wax museum, which can verify your presence. Unless . . . Is this the sort of thing you can do from afar?”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Curing Sailor, healing his wounds.”

  I sneezed again.

  “Bless you.”

  “Thanks.” I shook my head. “Lately I can’t seem to even heal myself, much less someone else.”

  He gave me a skeptical look.

 
“Seriously, Carlos, that kind of healing isn’t in my repertoire. My grandmother can cure all sorts of things, usually with the laying on of hands or a brew. But even she can’t cast over serious injuries from a distance, as far as I know.”

  He nodded and lapsed into silence. This was Carlos’s way, and although I sometimes had to literally bite my tongue to keep from blathering on in his presence, I had learned to try to respect his silence lest I blurt out something incriminating. I was pretty sure this was what made him such an effective homicide inspector.

  We both took a moment, sipping our drinks. I’m not a big drinker, but the Buena Vista’s Irish coffee was sweet, creamy, and delicious. It made me feel warm and cozy inside. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and I hoped the alcohol wouldn’t go straight to my head. Clearly, I had work to do.

  “Did you find anything interesting in Dupree’s hotel room?” I asked.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “As a matter of fact, we found a root and some unidentified powders; sent ’em to the lab. You know, I had asked a friend of mine, a beat cop, to stop by earlier in the day, after Dupree seemed to threaten you at your store. At that time Dupree said he felt sick to his stomach, and my friend said he looked pretty green around the gills.”

  “And what does that tell us?”

  Carlos shrugged.

  “I didn’t hex Dupree, Carlos, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, exactly, but I’m glad to hear you deny it. Is Sailor right- or left-handed?”

  “Right-handed. Why?”

  He nodded. “That’s what I thought. The forensics guys said the blood spatter patterns indicate that whoever attacked Dupree was left-handed. Also, on the hotel’s security footage Sailor seemed to favor his left hand: He carried a pocket watch in his left pocket and opened the door with his left hand.”

  “I hate to say it, but that seems . . . a little flimsy, evidence-wise. A lot of right-handed people use their left for some things.”

  “I know. It’s just another in a long line of hinky aspects. But despite the fact that we found no trace of blood on Sailor, and no discarded clothes anywhere, the eyewitnesses and the security footage place him at the scene and are probably enough to get a jury to swing guilty. Not to mention, Dupree told me himself that Sailor threatened to kill him this morning. I gotta tell you, Lily, it doesn’t look good.”