A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  I glanced at Patience, who was inspecting her perfectly manicured nails, and wondered if I could—or should—ask her about the prophecy. It embarrassed me, to tell the truth.

  “What do you think the silverfish mean?” I asked.

  “I told you: You need to fumigate.”

  “But they’re restricted to the box. Also, there’s a distinct thumping sound coming from the box, from time to time.”

  I broke the salt circle and went to the bookshelf, then brought my Book of Shadows back to the coffee table and flipped through the pages.

  “Doesn’t say anything about silverfish in particular. Silver is a traditionally powerful metal for witches, as it reflects the light of the moon. And fish can be a sign of abundance and faith, or of fertility. Insects in general can be considered signs of resilience and steadfastness—or destruction and disease.” I shook my head, disappointed. “That’s all it says.”

  I rewrapped the box in the rowan and knotted the twine, then stashed it back in the suitcase. Before leaving, I would ask Oscar to make double sure no one came upstairs and started poking around. No one ever had, but just in case, I wanted to be cautious.

  “So you still don’t know what Tristan was after, exactly?” Patience asked.

  “There’s no obvious bēag, no. I know Renee has been collecting lachrymatories, so perhaps it’s as simple as that. Or there’s the watch—Sailor had a vision with a watch. But that doesn’t tell us much or help me figure out what Tristan wanted from me.”

  “So what’s next, then? I’m willing to do what I can to break Sailor out of the slammer, but I don’t have time to sit around.”

  “We could go back to the hotel,” I suggested. “Maybe Hervé and I missed something last night. And then . . . it’s not too far from Fisherman’s Wharf. Probably if you’re with me, Aidan will be civil.”

  “That’s your plan?”

  “It’s not like there’s a handbook, you know. I’m open to suggestions.”

  She let out a long-suffering sigh, whipped her scarf around her shoulders, and said: “I’ll say one thing for you, princess—you’ve got a cool car. I’ll drive.”

  “When pigs fly.”

  Chapter 15

  There were three cop cars parked outside the Hotel Marais, so we rolled right on by, continuing down Bush Street. I pulled over in front of Café de la Presse, across from the Chinatown gates.

  “You have a sudden need for an espresso?” Patience asked. “A copy of Le Monde to catch up on all the latest French news, perhaps?”

  “Just taking a moment to rejigger the plan.”

  “Is ‘rejigger’ a word?”

  “It is where I come from.”

  I was half hoping Patience would come up with some bright idea, but she just gazed out the window, arms crossed over her chest.

  “You know, last night the hotel’s clerk, Shawn, told me Tristan hadn’t been feeling well and directed him to an apothecary in Chinatown. The same one Maya saw ‘Sailor’ in once.”

  She arched an eyebrow at me. “And you haven’t checked it out yet?”

  “It’s been an eventful day.”

  “So what are we waiting for?”

  I navigated the clogged Chinatown streets to the Lucky Moon herbal shop, and then started the search for parking, never an easy feat in this part of town. The sidewalks were crowded: Fishmongers touted today’s catch; produce stands were heaped with a vast assortment of vegetables; golden roast ducks hung in display windows; bakeries featured sesame balls, char siu bau, and cabbage rolls; tourist shops hawked silk robes, postcards, refrigerator magnets, and windup cable cars. Gaggles of women and men pawed through the merchandise, bright pink plastic bags hanging from their arms. Double-parked delivery trucks snarled traffic, and small clutches of tourists lingered on corners, consulting their phones and maps, further slowing down the flow of cars.

  We wound up circling the block a few times, rolling past the Lucky Moon apothecary repeatedly. I kept pondering Sailor and Sailor’s double. Self-doubt clutched my heart. What in the world was going on? How could I prove Sailor’s innocence?

  I was on the verge of using my parking charm to free up a space when a small hatchback pulled out near the corner of Grant and Sacramento. I parallel parked, smoothly backing my Mustang into the tight space.

  “Not bad,” said Patience.

  I smiled. I was proud of my parallel-parking prowess—I’d had plenty of practice since moving to San Francisco. And in comparison with parking the bulky shop van, the nimble Mustang was a breeze.

  The Lucky Moon was a typical Chinatown herb shop in many ways: An innocuous sign outside displayed the name in Chinese characters, repeated below in smaller English letters. I had been inside a couple of times with Sailor; there were a long counter, and an entire wall full of hundreds of wooden drawers, and shelves lined with dozens of huge jars. Behind the counter stood an old man who served as clerk, diagnostician, and pharmacist. He wasn’t an acupuncturist and was careful to explain that he wasn’t a medical doctor, either. But he filled scripts, mixing ingredients with a mortar and pestle, filling tiny Baggies with herbs and powders, and vials with pressed pellets.

  “I love that smell,” said Patience, breathing deeply.

  I nodded in agreement. Even with my stuffed-up nose I could sense a bit of the spicy aroma of exotic spices and herbs.

  Before we could say anything, the old man called to someone in the back of the store. A boy about thirteen or fourteen, thin and gangly, all elbows and knees, wearing basketball gear, came in to translate for us.

  I tried to describe Tristan Dupree, but realized I didn’t have a photo or anything to show.

  “Sorry,” said the boy, shaking his head. “We get a lot of tourists in here. Lot of people from out of town, all the time.”

  “He was complaining of stomach problems,” I said, putting my hand on my belly to demonstrate.

  The old man spoke and placed a small plastic bag full of herbs on the counter.

  The boy translated: “He says this tea is good for digestion. Brew five minutes, take after meals.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and then sneezed. “But my stomach is fine.”

  The boy reached up for a packaged product and pushed the small box toward me.

  “Good for colds.”

  “Thank you.” I sniffed. “But I’m actually not here for a remedy for myself. I’m interested in the man who came here yesterday.”

  The phone rang and the old man picked it up, speaking in Cantonese to the person on the other end of the line.

  While we waited, I noticed one of the jars. On a square white label, beneath the Chinese characters, was written Mandrake root. I was no slouch when it came to botanicals, myself, and I was familiar with the mandrake root. In fact, I had used it to make a mandragora—a sort of household imp—for Aidan. I made a mental note to ask Aidan whatever happened to the little guy.

  “What is the mandrake root used for?” I asked when the old man hung up the phone.

  The boy translated: “He says it is poison.”

  I nodded. “I know. That’s why I asked what it can be used for.”

  The boy conferred with the old man, who spoke for a long time. Finally the boy turned back to me and said simply: “It’s complicated.”

  “Seriously?” Patience rolled her eyes.

  I smiled. Whether the boy hadn’t understood what the old man had said, or simply didn’t want to bother to translate, or whether the old man wasn’t willing to give away his secrets, I understood. Like practitioners of magic, those involved in health care had to be careful about sharing their rarefied knowledge.

  We were about to leave when I had another thought. I didn’t have a photo of Tristan Dupree, but I carried one of Sailor—a wallet-sized copy of the one that sat on my bedside table. I pulled my billfold out of my bag and flipp
ed it open.

  In general, Sailor avoided having his picture taken. This was common for magical folk; after all, if the photo fell into the wrong hands, it could be used for hexing. But with Sailor I thought it had more to do with something else. He didn’t enjoy people telling him how handsome he was. Even me.

  But I had talked him into letting me take his snapshot with my antique Brownie camera. I hardly ever used it, but when I did, I loved how imperfect the results were. The photo was black-and-white, fuzzy around the edges, with a streak of light that might have been an orb, but was more likely the result of light exposure from my flawed camera. Sailor was sitting on his bike, his arm resting on his helmet on the gas tank. He looked relaxed, but also happy. Or at least as happy as Sailor got, which was limited. There was the slightest smile playing on his lips. The look in his eye was a little bit lustful, a little bit tender, a little bit cynical.

  I wondered what he was doing now, and hoped and prayed that he was all right. And that I could figure this thing out soon and hold him, breathe in his scent.

  Patience snorted, pulling me out of my reverie. I realized she was looking over my shoulder at the photo. I didn’t know how long I had stood there staring at it, but the old man and the boy were gazing at me as well.

  “Sorry,” I said, clearing my throat and holding the wallet out to them. “Have you seen this man here?”

  Both sets of eyes widened. The old man spoke for a moment, seeming agitated. The boy nodded, then turned to me and said, “He used to be a good customer. But now we would like him not to come back, please.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “He was asking for Chuan Wu tea,” said the boy. “But raw.”

  “What kind of tea is that?”

  “Sometimes it is used for pain. But if it is not processed properly, it is a deadly poison.”

  “Do you know what it’s called in English?”

  The man looked something up in an old catalog, then showed it to the boy. “Here, it says monkshood, or wolfsbane.”

  “Those are aconite plants,” I said.

  “Yes.” The boy nodded. “It is a poison. Last year a lady died after drinking some tea that was improperly prepared.”

  “This man asked for that?” I said, holding up Sailor’s photo again.

  The boy nodded. “But . . . he didn’t look nice—he didn’t smile like this. He was sort of whack.”

  “Whack?”

  “Scary. A little bit crazy-seeming. He didn’t speak, just wrote things down.”

  “Did he say—or write—anything else?” I asked.

  The boy turned to the old man and translated my question. “He asked for mushrooms.”

  “What kind of mushrooms?”

  “Amanita mushrooms. They are poisonous, too. Grandfather says he does not deal in such things. We would like this man not to come back, please.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “That’s a lot of poison talk,” said Patience as we walked back to the car.

  “True. But many medicines—maybe even most of them—are poisonous in the wrong dosage but helpful if administered very carefully. Like the aconite tea, which is used in a number of ways, such as to treat pain or bruising. It’s only deadly when not prepared properly.”

  “So you’re saying maybe this fake Sailor guy was in the market for medicine?”

  “No, you’re right. He was probably looking for poison. The question is, why? I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “Good place to start.”

  I opened the car door and looked at her over the roof. “Maybe there was no motive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if someone wanted to set up Sailor, for whatever reason, and Dupree was simply a victim of opportunity?”

  “You’re saying some Sailor look-alike wanted the real Sailor out of the picture?”

  “It’s possible. It would explain why he was so obvious about leaving the scene of the crime.”

  “Putting aside the fact that this mystery assailant just happens to look exactly like your boyfriend—”

  “Fiancé.”

  “Whatever. How would this person know that Sailor knew Dupree, much less that Sailor had threatened him earlier in the day?”

  “Good question. The only ones who heard that were Sailor, me, and Carlos.”

  “You trust Carlos?”

  “I’d trust Carlos with my life.”

  “How about with Sailor’s life?”

  “That, too.”

  “All right. What about that dubious character who hangs out on the sidewalk in front of your store?”

  “Conrad? I suppose he might have overheard, but he wouldn’t be involved in something like this.”

  “You sure about that? Needs money for drugs, maybe thinks it’s no big deal to do a little informing on the side, doesn’t think he’s hurting anyone . . . ?”

  “No way,” I said with a firm shake of my head. “Not Conrad.”

  She shrugged. “So what’s next, then? We go to Aidan and grovel? By which I mean you’ll grovel, of course. I have no beef with the man.”

  “I have a better idea. First let’s check out Sailor’s apartment. We can leave the car here; it’s just a couple of blocks over.”

  “I’ve never been to Sailor’s place,” she said.

  “Never?”

  Patience pressed her lips together, looking displeased at the thought that she had been denied the privilege.

  I waved off a man in a Mercedes who had been waiting for my spot. Clearly disappointed, the driver made an obscene gesture, which Patience returned with enthusiasm.

  I extracted my supplies from my trunk. After being caught without it the other night, today I had remembered to bring along my Hand of Glory. I also had my woven backpack packed with talismans, salts, herbs, and a widemouthed mason jar full of protective brew.

  “What’s all this?” Patience asked when I handed her the wooden box.

  “Just in case.”

  “More silverfish?”

  “Not hardly.”

  She gave a wry smile. “What exactly do you think we’re going to find in Sailor’s apartment?”

  “Nothing. Probably. It just pays to be prepared.”

  “What an excellent Girl Scout you must have been. So you cart around all this stuff in your trunk, do you? You must live a pretty fraught life.”

  “You have no idea. Hey, it occurs to me,” I said, slowing my pace. “Sailor would hate the thought of us poking around in his apartment, looking through his things. He’s pretty big into privacy.”

  “Aren’t we all? But at the moment I don’t particularly care what Sailor wants. He got himself thrown in jail, so his desires aren’t paramount to me right now.”

  “It’s not as though he got arrested on purpose.”

  “So what? The result’s the same: He’s detained and we have to spend our time and energy finding a way to get him out. So in this case, at least, the ends justify the means. And anyway, he should have known the police were coming for him.” She shook her head. “He’s been distracted lately.”

  “Are you suggesting Sailor ‘let’ himself be arrested because he’s distracted by me? I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to cop to that.”

  “All about you much?” she said. “No, I wasn’t blaming you. At least, not this time. There’s been something going on with him, with his trance state. I can’t say exactly what, but something’s been off.”

  “Off, in what way?”

  “He’s just . . . not fully himself. You’re familiar with trance states, right?”

  “Sort of. I approximate a trance when I’m brewing sometimes, or casting a complicated spell. But I don’t think it’s the same.”

  “No, not by the sound of it. For a psychic like Sailor, it involves al
lowing his conscious self to leave his body, to become a conduit for spirit helpers or guardians, or to get in touch with others’ auras.”

  “That’s why Renna was working with him on astral projection?”

  “He was having trouble—new for him, I might add—with being fully there, fully present.”

  “And yet not.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This is why I don’t do well with things like scrying. That whole ‘concentrate but let your mind wander’ thing isn’t easy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  We crossed Waverly Place, and walked past the Willie “Woo Woo” Wong Playground. A few kids were running about, screaming and playing, while their parents sat on benches, chatting. Unlike many of the city’s other tourist draws, San Francisco’s Chinatown is a vibrant neighborhood full of immigrants and native-born citizens, chock-full of people going about the business of everyday life.

  As we turned onto Hang Ah Alley, Patience sniffed the air. “You smell that?”

  “I can’t smell much lately, but there used to be a German perfume manufacturer here, a long time ago.”

  A young man was leaving Sailor’s apartment building as we approached, and he held the front door open for us. The windowless hallway was dim, lit only by a single bare lightbulb. We climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor. At the landing outside Sailor’s apartment, I set down my backpack and took the wooden box from Patience.

  “Something happened here,” said Patience, a frown marring her brow. “Something bad.”

  “A fight over a gambling debt that didn’t have a happy ending.” If I could feel the spirit that lingered on this landing, I could only imagine how much Patience was feeling. “Sailor said that’s why the apartment’s so cheap. He says the spirit doesn’t bother him.”

  “It feels . . . mournful.”

  “I always thought so, too.”

  This was surreal. I had spent so much time stressing over Patience, had seen her as so very different from me—and here we were, working together, and basically on the same wavelength.