A Magical Match

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Right. Okay, thanks. So, please, everyone,” I said, getting back to the subject, “err on the side of caution for the next few days, until I can figure this out.”

  Part of me hoped if I kept saying I would be able to figure it out, I would manifest a resolution. If only it worked that way.

  “And does ‘erring on the side of caution’ apply to you as well, Lily?” Bronwyn asked, forehead wrinkled in concern.

  I smiled. “It does. Besides, I have Oscar to protect me.”

  “Quite the ferocious guard pig,” Maya’s cousin Kareem said.

  We all glanced at said guard pig, who was now lying on his back on the purple pillow, short little legs kicking in the air, a huge porcine grin on his face.

  “Maybe not so ferocious,” Duke said dryly. “Lily, I hate to be a wet blanket, but you should take additional steps to protect yourself while you’re home alone.”

  “Yes, please, Lily,” Bronwyn continued. “We worry about you.”

  Maya and Selena nodded in agreement, and I felt a wave of warmth wash over me. With friendship, I was learning, came the obligation to take reasonable precautions with one’s well-being. “You’re right. I’ll be extra careful. And to that end: Maya, would you call a locksmith? I want to change the locks. I left my keys somewhere.”

  “I’m on it,” Maya said, and went to the computer to look up the number.

  Oscar huffed even louder.

  “When did Oscar start acting like this?” I asked.

  “A little while ago,” Bronwyn replied. “He just keeps snickering. He’s also been eating everything in sight.”

  “Well, at least that part is nothing new. Maya, while you’re on the computer, any chance you could find a symbol that looks like this?”

  I took my handkerchief out of my pocket, unwrapped it, and laid it on the counter. Maya looked at me curiously, but reached out to smooth the napkin.

  “It looks like the symbol on the map,” Selena said immediately. “When they finish it, anyway.”

  I glanced at the map with its red thread figure. Selena’s drawings of cupcakes with black icing were now encircling it, held up by bits of Scotch tape.

  “We don’t have a scanner,” said Maya, her hands moving swiftly over the keyboard, “so I’m not sure how to search for it, exactly. I can pull up some symbol dictionaries, but it will take time to go through them.”

  “Maybe . . . check out demon sigils?”

  I still couldn’t understand why the grandmas would be making a sigil, but at this point I was willing to try anything.

  Maya was scrolling through a bunch of them, shaking her head and glancing back and forth from the drawing on the napkin to the images popping up on the computer screen.

  “You know what it reminds me of?” asked Conrad. “Remember a while back, the Da Pinchi Code?”

  “You mean Da Vinci Code?” asked Maya’s cousin Richard.

  “Nah, dude. Da Pinchi. It was, like, this burglar code. Burglars would put these signs on buildings they cased.”

  “That sounds a little far-fetched, Conrad,” said Duke.

  “Dude, it was totally, like, on the BBC. You know how those Brits are—they’re real serious.”

  “He’s right,” said Maya, pulling up an article online. “I remember hearing about it, too. And here it is. It was on the BBC a couple years back. . . .”

  Bronwyn, Duke, and I crowded around to look at the screen over Maya’s shoulders.

  “But . . . no, Snopes doesn’t think it makes sense.”

  “Who’s Snopes?” I asked.

  “It’s a Web site that investigates rumors, tells you whether or not they check out.”

  “There’s a Web site that does that?”

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century, my friend.”

  “And this one doesn’t check out?”

  “They don’t say it’s a fabrication, exactly, just that it doesn’t make sense, since there wouldn’t be much ‘added value’ in doing it. It says that criminals have other ways of sharing addresses beyond physical marks.”

  Not to mention . . . why in the world would a bus full of witches be making the sign of theft? It made no sense.

  “Still,” I said, “this symbol does look a bit like that one, doesn’t it? Maya, would you mind poking around a little more, see if you can find any others like it? The image might not be complete, after all.”

  “Sure, I’ll do what I can,” said Maya. “And Kareem is great at this sort of thing.”

  “I was just going to suggest taking a photo of the symbol,” Kareem said. “That way we can import it and Google it directly.”

  “Good idea,” said Maya. The cousins bent their heads together and worked up a plan.

  Oscar huffed loudly, then snorted, then “coughed”—which sounded a lot like a snicker.

  “I’m going to take Oscar upstairs,” I said. “See if I can figure out what’s going on with him. Come on, Oscar. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t respond, just continued to loll on his bed, so I finally leaned over and scooped him up, then carried him to the stairs. “Lugged him” is more apt. Oscar might be a miniature pig, but he was still a pig, and he was heavy. I nearly dropped him halfway up. Finally, we reached the top of the steps and he transformed—while still in my arms, which was a decidedly odd sensation—into his natural form.

  There was no doubt about it now: Oscar was laughing. Cackling, more like.

  “Oscar, what in the world has gotten into you?”

  “Woooo,” he said. “The stairs are spinning. It’s like a carnival ride! Awesome!”

  “Are you drunk?” I gasped as I set him down on the landing, trying to catch my breath.

  “Of course I drink! Everybody drinks!”

  “Everybody . . . ?”

  “Water! Gobgoyles are ninety-eight percent water! Get it?” Oscar roared, as if this were the funniest joke in the world.

  “Oscar, be serious. You know what I mean. Did you drink alcohol?”

  More cackling. “Duuuude” was his only response.

  “Now you sound like Conrad.” A terrible thought occurred to me. “Oscar, you didn’t take something of Conrad’s, did you? Some . . . pills, or anything?”

  Oscar sat up and looked at me intently.

  “Oscar . . . ?”

  “I’ve got the munchies,” he said, and made a beeline into the kitchen.

  “So what else is new?” I muttered as I followed him.

  Once in the kitchen, he paused and looked at me with a blank, confused expression on his face. “Wait. Hold on.”

  “What is it?”

  “What were we talking about, again?”

  “Oscar, what is wrong with you?”

  “Dude!”

  He laughed again, waving his oversized hand in my direction as though I were saying something hysterical. He flung open the refrigerator and practically climbed in, emerging with a white carton of leftover pad Thai.

  “This here’s my huckleberry!” he said, and jumped up to perch on the counter, where he started eating pad Thai noodles with his fingers.

  “Oscar, I told you I don’t like it when you stand on the counter. This is a kitchen, not a pigsty.”

  He slurped more noodles, and sniggered. “Pigsty, fit for a pig! ’Cept I’m not a pig, so that there’s an example of irony! Get it?”

  “Off!”

  “Geesh,” he said as he leapt gracefully to the floor, then somersaulted in slow motion, a surprised look on his face.

  “Okay, this is ridiculous. You’d better stay here in your cubby until this passes. Whatever this is.”

  “Can I have something to drink first?”

  “Of course. What do you want?”

  “A Singapore sling! With an umbrella, please.”

  “No. There�
�s water or— Did you just stick your tongue out at me?”

  “Of course not, mistress,” he said, puffing up his chest. “That would be beneath my dignity as a gobgoyle. Say, could you bring me some more cupcakes?”

  “What do you mean, more cupcakes?”

  “One thing I’ll say for that mistress of the dark: she can bake a mean cupcake.”

  “Oscar . . .”

  He yawned, a huge yawn like a lion’s, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m sleepy.”

  “Don’t go to sleep!” I said, suddenly afraid of what might happen. What had Renee dosed the batch with? Conrad didn’t seem to be showing any ill effects. But no matter what it was . . . I was going to assume that a gobgoyle’s metabolism was different from a human’s. And knowing Oscar, he had probably eaten the whole dozen. I fought panic at the idea that Oscar could be ailing.

  “Come with me,” I said, grabbing my extra set of car keys. “We’re going to see Aidan.”

  Chapter 18

  “Master Aidan?” Oscar’s eyes grew huge. “I, um, I don’t think that’s a good idea, mistress. Let’s just hang out here and watch a movie. We can make popcorn! With butter!”

  “We’re going. Aidan will know what to do.”

  At least I hoped so.

  Oscar put up a bit of a struggle, but though he’s normally much stronger than his physical size would suggest, whatever was in the cupcakes had made him uncoordinated and weak as a puppy. I was able to hoist him up and slog him down the stairs again, though for the first time since I’d met him, he had to be reminded to transform into his piggy guise.

  “What’s wrong?” Bronwyn asked as we came through the shop floor. “What’s the matter with my little Oscaroo?”

  “Something he ate doesn’t agree with him,” I said. “I think I need to take him to . . . the vet. Did you see how he got into the cupcakes? Did Renee send more over?”

  “How do you know he ate cupcakes?” Maya asked.

  “He had blue frosting on his muzzle,” I improvised.

  “Really?” Bronwyn asked. “I can’t imagine where he got them from. Unless . . . he did go out into the alley at one point.”

  “He raided the Dumpster?” I said, outraged, as though a pig ransacking a Dumpster were out of the realm of possibility.

  “Sorry, Lily,” Bronwyn said. “It didn’t occur to me that he’d be able to do such a thing. How would such a little tiny piggy get up into the Dumpster in the first place?”

  “Pigs are pretty smart,” Maya said.

  “Maybe it’s something else,” I said, worried. “Anyway, I’m going to get him checked out. I’m sure he’ll be fine. In the meantime, would it be possible for someone to go pick up my car? I had to leave it in Chinatown. Long story. I’ll take the shop van.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” said Maya, holding her hand out for the spare key.

  I told her where the car was parked. “And can the rest of you hang out here together? I don’t want anyone to be alone.”

  “Actually, we were just talking about that. We were thinking we’d order Indian food to be delivered and have an informal picnic on the shop floor,” said Bronwyn. “We’re hoping you will join us. Bombay biryani, aloo gobhi, and garlic naan, your favorite.”

  “Thank you. I’ll get back as soon as I can. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so don’t wait on my account. If there are any leftovers, I’m sure I’ll make short work of them,” I said, realizing I was starving. I wished I had eaten more of Patience’s calamari.

  Through the shop windows, I could see the fog had rolled in. I grabbed my cocoa brown wool coat and rushed out the door, a laughing pig in my arms.

  * * *

  • • •

  “You can’t take a pig into the museum!” shouted the ever-suffering Clarinda from her post inside the ticket booth.

  Oscar snickered loudly.

  “Take it up with Aidan.” I barreled past her as fast as I could, given that I was still lugging my hefty familiar. I was panting and my arms ached. “He asked me to bring the pig.”

  “He did?” she asked while picking up the phone.

  “Loves pigs,” I called over my shoulder, already mounting the stairs. “Can’t get enough of ’em.”

  Aidan stood in the open door of his office, waiting for us.

  “Clarinda wants me to remind you that livestock is not permitted in the museum,” he said. He did not seem overly pleased to see us.

  “Then it’s lucky he’s not actually a pig,” I said, depositing said creature at Aidan’s feet. Oscar rolled onto his back, waved his little hooves in the air, and snickered.

  Aidan stared at Oscar. “Is something wrong with him?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. He’s . . . I think he ate some of Renee’s cupcakes and now he’s acting like this. I think she might have poisoned him!” I couldn’t keep the desperation out of my voice.

  “I’m not a vet, Lily,” Aidan said.

  “Please? See if you can tell what’s wrong?”

  With obvious reluctance, Aidan stood back and gestured with his hand to enter his office. He shut the door, and we were plunged into the soft lights and hushed atmosphere of his Victorian fantasy world.

  Oscar transformed into his natural state, jumped onto a chair, and said:

  “Hey! You know what I just found out? ’Pumpernickel’ means ‘goblin fart’! Or maybe ‘fart goblin’ . . . not sure.” He dissolved into peals of cackles. “Could I have that grilled cheese on pumpernickel, please?”

  Aidan opened an elaborately carved box and brought out a clear pale green crystal.

  “Be still,” he commanded, and to my surprise Oscar obeyed. Aidan placed the crystal on top of Oscar’s muzzle, laid his hands on either side of his face, and concentrated for a long moment.

  He picked up the crystal, took it to his desk, and studied it with a magnifying glass.

  “He wasn’t poisoned,” he declared after a long moment.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “What a relief,” I said, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “Then what’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s high.”

  “High? What do you mean?”

  “Stoned. Baked. Wasted. Stewed. Tanked. Shall I go on?”

  “Got it. But . . . is this something he does? Oscar gets high?”

  “You tell me. He’s your familiar, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “He’s never done it before, at least not since he’s been with me. What is he high on?”

  “Must have gotten into someone’s pot stash.”

  “Pot?”

  Aidan gave me a slow, thoughtful smile. “I know you’ve led an unconventional life, my dear Lily, and you’re remarkably innocent in some ways. But are you telling me you don’t know what pot is?”

  “I know what it is,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I just haven’t ever tried it.”

  “Never snuck off behind the gym in high school?”

  “My abbreviated time in high school wasn’t like that, as you very well know. Besides, I wouldn’t have dared—my grandmother would have killed me.”

  “She was strict?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We had enough going on just trying to stay alive in Jarod. We didn’t need drugs complicating matters.”

  Oscar let out a loud snort, jumped off the chair, and declared: “I have something very important to tell you!”

  Aidan and I gave him our attention.

  There was a long pause. I was about to ask Oscar if he’d forgotten what he was going to say when he drew himself up to his full three and a half feet, puffed out his chest, and declared: “I’m thinking very seriously about getting a pet. A baby bat, maybe. Or a duck. A duckling! I’m gonna name it Pumpernickel!”

  And then he fell back on
to his butt and sniggered.

  Aidan met my eyes, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and inclined his head. “There you have it. Shall I put on some Bob Marley?”

  “So he’ll be all right, then?”

  “He’ll be fine. Let him sleep it off.”

  “What a relief. Thank you.”

  There was an awkward pause. “Lily, I don’t wish to be inhospitable, but I have some work to do, and if I’m not mistaken, you have a boyfriend to exonerate, despite the fact that several eyewitnesses put him at the scene.”

  “You heard about that?” Of course he’d heard about that. As Oscar would say if he hadn’t been currently snoozing in the corner, Aidan knew things.

  “I know he’s not your favorite person,” I continued, “but I may have to ask you for help. Sailor didn’t kill Tristan Dupree.”

  “Of course he didn’t.”

  “You believe that?” I searched Aidan’s face for indications that he was being ironic, but he looked sincere. Then again, with Aidan, one never knew.

  Aidan looked impatient. “If you’re asking me if I think Sailor is capable of killing someone, then my answer is ‘Yes, he is.’ If you’re asking me if I think Sailor killed this particular someone, then my answer is ‘No, he did not.’ Satisfied?”

  “But the question is, how do I convince the SFPD of that?”

  “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

  “Does that mean you won’t help me?”

  “If I help you, what do I get in return?”

  This was the response I’d anticipated. Aidan’s assistance always came with strings attached. “That depends. What do you want?”

  “Sailor. Or Oscar. Your choice.”

  “What?”

  “Both of them used to work for me, if you recall. Before you managed to wrest them from my . . . influence.”

  “Aidan—”

  “Nothing in this life comes free, Lily. Haven’t you learned that by now? There’s always a price. And my terms are not unreasonable—I’m just asking Sailor to work for me. I’ll pay him handsomely, and help him to increase his natural talents. Surely he would prefer that over rotting in prison.”

  “Um . . . I can’t speak for Sailor. Or Oscar, for that matter.”