PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR JULIET BLACKWELL AND THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERIES
“A smashingly fabulous tale.”
—New York Times bestselling author Victoria Laurie
“It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple of hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”
—The Herald News (MA)
“Blackwell has another winner . . . a great entry in a really great series.”
—RT Book Reviews
“I believe this is the best of this series I’ve read. . . . Juliet Blackwell is a master . . . but truly, reading the entire series is a pleasure.”
—Fresh Fiction
“[Blackwell] continues to blend magic, mystery, and romance in this sixth novel that shines with good humor and a great plot.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“This series gets better and better with each book. . . . A good mystery that quickly became a page-turner.”
—Dru’s Book Musings
“An enticing, engrossing read, a mystery that’s hard to put down, and wickedly fun.”
—MyShelf.com
“Sparkles with Blackwell’s outstanding storytelling skills.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“Funny and thoughtful . . . an easy read with an enjoyable heroine and a touch of witchy intuition.”
—The Mystery Reader
“A wonderful paranormal amateur sleuth tale. . . . Fans will enjoy Lily’s magical mystery tour of San Francisco.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Also by Juliet Blackwell
THE PARIS KEY
THE WITCHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES
Secondhand Spirits
A Cast-off Coven
Hexes and Hemlines
In a Witch’s Wardrobe
Tarnished and Torn
A Vision in Velvet
Spellcasting in Silk
THE HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION SERIES
If Walls Could Talk
Dead Bolt
Murder on the House
Home for the Haunting
Keeper of the Castle
Give Up the Ghost
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2016
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eBook ISBN 9781101635322
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To Chris and Casey, Bill and Brian
To the marriage of true minds let us not admit impediments
Contents
Praise for Juliet Blackwell and the Witchcraft Mysteries
Also by Juliet Blackwell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Excerpt from A Ghostly Light
About the Author
Chapter 1
Small business owners have their morning routines. Some people switch on the lights, brew a cup of coffee, and read the paper before engaging with the day. Some count out the money in the register and tidy up the merchandise. Some sweep and hose down the front walk.
Each morning before opening my vintage clothing store, Aunt Cora’s Closet, I sprinkle salt water widdershins, smudge sage deosil, and light a white candle while chanting a spell of protection.
Such spells can be powerful, and for a small business owner like me they serve an important purpose: to help customers maintain their composure in the face of fashion frustrations, keep evil intentions at bay, and discourage those with sticky fingers from rummaging through the feather boas, chiffon prom dresses, and silk evening gowns and then trying to shove said items into pockets or backpacks or under shirts.
But protection spells aren’t much good against litigation.
“Lily Ivory?” asked the petite, somber young woman who entered Aunt Cora’s Closet, a neon yellow motorcycle helmet under one arm. She had dark hair and eyes, and I imagined she would have been pretty had she smiled. But her expression was dour.
“Yes?” I asked, looking up from a list of receipts.
She held out a manila envelope. “You have been served.”
“Served?”
“You are hereby notified of a lawsuit against you, Aunt Cora’s Closet, and one errant pig, name unknown. By the by, not that it’s any of my business, but is it even legal to own livestock in the city?”
I cast a glare in the direction of said pig, my witch’s familiar, Oscar. At least, I tried to, but he’d disappeared. Only moments earlier Oscar had been snoozing on his hand-embroidered purple silk pillow, resting up for a busy day of trying to poke his snout under the dressing room curtains while customers tried on vintage cocktail dresses, fringed leather jackets, and Jackie O pillbox hats. Now only the slight rustling of a rack of 1980s spangled prom dresses revealed his location.
“My pig’s being served with legal papers?”
“Not so much your pig as you. Your property, your worry. At least, that’s how it works with dogs, so I assume . . .” The woman trailed off with an officious shrug as she headed for the front door with long strides, already pulling on her helmet. “But that isn’t any of my business; I just deliver the bad news. Have a nice day.”
“Wait—”
She didn’t pause. I followed her outside, where someone was revving the engine of a large black motorcycle. The woman jumped on the back and they zoomed off.
“Duuude,” said Conrad, the homeless young man who slept in nearby Golden Gate Park and spent the better part of his days “guarding” the curb o
utside of my store. In San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, many young homeless people lived this way, panhandling and scrounging and generally referring to themselves as “gutter punks.” Over the past year, Conrad—or as he liked to call himself, “The Con”—had become a friend and the unofficial guardian of Aunt Cora’s Closet. “You get served?”
“Apparently so,” I said, opening the envelope to find some scary-looking legal-sized documents filled with legalese, such as “party of the first part.”
My heart sank as I put two and two together. My friend Bronwyn, who rents space in my store for her herbal stand, had filled me in on an incident that took place a couple of weeks ago while I was out scouting garage sales for resalable treasure. It seems a woman came into the shop and started flicking through the merchandise, pronouncing it “unsuitable—too much of that dreadful ready-to-wear.” Bronwyn had explained to her that Aunt Cora’s Closet doesn’t deal in high-end vintage; our merchandise consists mostly of wearable clothes, with the occasional designer collectibles. The woman had then turned to my employee Maya and started grilling her about the ins and outs of the store, making none-too-subtle inquiries about where we obtained our specialty stock.
Oscar had started getting in the customer’s way, making a pest of himself and keeping her away from the clothes. Bronwyn had tried to call him off, but he’d kept at it, almost as though he’d been trying to herd her toward the exit. Finally the woman had picked a parasol off a nearby shelf and started whacking Oscar, and there had been a scuffle.
The woman had screamed and flailed, lost her balance, and fell back into a rack of colorful swing dresses. Maya and Bronwyn had hastily extricated her, made sure she was all right, and offered profuse apologies. The woman had seemed fine at the time, they both said, and she stomped out of the store in high dudgeon.
But if I was reading the legal papers correctly, the woman—named Autumn Jennings—was now claiming she had been “head-butted” by an “unrestrained pig,” had been injured in the “attack,” and was demanding compensation.
It was a mystery. Oscar had never herded—much less head-butted—anyone in Aunt Cora’s Closet before. He wasn’t the violent type. In fact, apart from a few occasions when he intervened to save my life, Oscar was more the “let’s eat grilled cheese and take a nap” type.
He was also my witch’s familiar, albeit an unusual one. Oscar was a shape-shifter who assumed the form of a miniature Vietnamese potbellied pig when around cowans—regular, nonmagical humans. Around me, his natural form was sort of a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle. A gobgoyle, for lack of a better word. His was a lineage about which I didn’t want to think too hard.
“Bad vibes, Dude,” Conrad said with a sage nod. “Been there. Dude, I hate being served.”
“You’ve been served?” I asked. Conrad was in his early twenties and lived such a vagabond existence it was hard to imagine why anyone would bother to sue him. I could easily imagine his being picked up by police in a sweep of the local homeless population, but how would a process server even know where to find Conrad to serve him papers?
He nodded. “Couple times. But at least yours arrived on a Ducati. That’s a nice bike.”
“What did you—” My question was cut off by the approach of none other than Aidan Rhodes, witchy godfather to San Francisco’s magical community. His golden hair gleamed in the sun, a beautifully tailored sports jacket hugged his tall frame, and a leather satchel was tucked under one strong arm. As he strolled down Haight Street with his signature graceful glide, strangers stopped to stare. Aidan’s aura glittered so brilliantly that even nonsensitive people noticed, though they didn’t realize what they were reacting to.
This is all I need.
I girded my witchy loins.
Things between Aidan and me were . . . complicated. Not long ago I’d stolen something from Aidan, and I still owed him. And when it comes to debts, we witches are a little like elephants, bookies, and the Internet: We never forget. Even worse, Aidan feared San Francisco was shaping up to be ground zero in some sort of big magical showdown, and he wanted me to stand with him for the forces of good. Or, at the very least, for the good of Aidan Rhodes. It was hard to say exactly what was going on—and exactly what role I was willing to play in it—since the threat was frustratingly nonspecific, and Aidan played his cards infuriatingly close to his chest.
“Good morning,” Aidan said as he joined us. “Conrad, it’s been too long. How have you been?”
Despite their vastly different circumstances and lifestyles, Aidan treated Conrad with the respect due a peer. His decency sort of ticked me off. My life would be simpler if I could dismiss Aidan as an arrogant, power-hungry witch beyond redemption. His kindness toward my friend was difficult to reconcile with that image.
The two men exchanged pleasantries, chatting about the beauty of Golden Gate Park when bathed in morning dew and sunshine, and whether the Giants had a shot at the pennant this year. And then Aidan turned his astonishing, periwinkle blue gaze on me, sweeping me from head to foot.
Suddenly self-conscious, I smoothed the full skirt of my sundress.
“And Lily . . . Stunning as always. I do like that color on you. It’s as joyful as the first rays of dawn.”
“Thank you,” I said, blushing and avoiding his eyes. The dress was an orangey-gold cotton with a pink embroidered neckline and hem, circa 1962, and I had chosen it this morning precisely because it reminded me of a sunrise. “Aren’t you just the sweet talker.”
“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” my mama used to tell me. Did this mean I was the fly and Aidan the fly catcher?
“Is everything all right?” Aidan asked. “Am I sensing trouble? Beyond the norm, I mean.”
“Dude, Lily just got served,” Conrad said.
“Served? I fear we aren’t speaking of breakfast.”
“A lawsuit,” I clarified.
“Ah. What a shame. Whatever happened?”
“Oscar head-butted a customer.”
“That’s . . . unusual.” Aidan had given me Oscar and knew him well. “Was this person badly injured?”
“I wasn’t there when it happened, but according to Bronwyn and Maya the customer seemed fine. But now she’s claiming she sustained ‘serious and debilitating neck and back injuries that hinder her in the completion of her work and significantly reduce her quality of life,’” I said, quoting from the document I still clutched tightly in my hand.
“That sounds most distressing. Might I offer my services in finding a resolution?”
“No. No, thank you.” The only thing worse than being slapped with a slip-and-fall lawsuit—the boogeyman of every small business owner—was being even more beholden to Aidan Rhodes than I already was. Besides . . . I wasn’t sure what he meant by “finding a resolution.” Aidan was one powerful witch. If he got involved, Autumn Jennings might very well wind up walking around looking like a frog.
“You’re sure?” Aidan asked. “These personal injury lawsuits can get nasty—and expensive, even if you win. As much as I hate to say it, you may have some liability here. Is it even legal to have a pig in the city limits?”
“Don’t worry about it; I’ve got it handled,” I said, not wishing to discuss the matter any further with him. “Was there some reason in particular you stopped by?”
Aidan grinned, sending sparkling rays of light dancing in the morning breeze. He really was the most astounding man.
“I was hoping we might have a moment to talk,” he said. “About business.”
My stomach clenched. Time to face the music. I did owe him, after all. “Of course. Come on in.”
The door to Aunt Cora’s Closet tinkled as we went inside, and Bronwyn fluttered out from the back room, cradling Oscar to her ample chest. She was dressed in billows of purple gauze, and a garland of wildflowers crowned her frizzy brown hair. Bronwyn wa
s a fifty-something Wiccan, and one of the first—and very best—friends I had made upon my arrival in the City by the Bay not so very long ago.
“Hello, Aidan! So wonderful to see you again!” she gushed.
“Bronwyn, you light up this shop like fireworks on the Fourth of July.”
“Oh, you do go on.” She waved her hand but gave him a flirtatious smile. “But, Lily! Our little Oscaroo is very upset, poor thing! Maybe it has something to do with the woman with the motorcycle helmet who was just here—what was that about?”
“She was serving Lily with legal papers,” said Aidan.
“Legal papers?” Bronwyn asked as Oscar hid his snout under her arm. “For what?”
“Remember when Oscar”—I cast about for the right word—“harassed a woman a couple of weeks ago?”
Oscar snorted.
“Of course, naughty little tiny piggy pig pig,” Bronwyn said in a crooning baby voice. “But I have to say she really was bothering all of us. But . . . she’s suing you? Seriously?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, now, that’s just bad karma,” Bronwyn said with a frown.
“You said she wasn’t hurt, though, right?”
“She was fine!” Bronwyn insisted. “She fell into the rack of swing dresses. You know how poofy those dresses are—there’s enough crinoline in the skirts to cushion an NFL linebacker, and she’s, what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? I saw her just the other day, when I brought her some of my special caramel-cherry-spice maté tea and homemade corn-cherry scones, and she seemed fine. As a matter of fact, when I arrived she was up on a ladder, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any back or neck injuries. She was a little under the weather, but it was a cold or the flu.”
“When was this?”
“Day before yesterday, I think . . . I thought I should make the effort, since you weren’t even here when it happened. I just wanted to tell her I was sorry.”
“How did you know where to find her?”
“She left her business card. . . .” Bronwyn trailed off as she peeked behind her herbal counter. “I have it around here somewhere. Turns out, she’s a rival vintage clothing store owner, which explains why she was so interested. Her place is called Vintage Visions Glad Rags, over off Buchanan.”
A Toxic Trousseau Page 1
