“Going somewhere?” she asked.
“I… uh…”
“Want some company?”
Not long ago I would have refused. But lately, little by little, I was coming to trust and value the assistance of my friends.
“I’d love it.”
As we headed across the Bay Bridge, I told Bronwyn about what had happened at the ball—all except my fears that Miriam’s soul was trapped in the mirrors. That kind of information was best kept to myself.
“And how can you help?”
“I have no idea. But I want to see her, make sure she’s all right.”
“Is this what Carlos was talking to you about earlier?”
“No, actually. That was about another young woman, a Wiccan named Tarragon Dark Moon? Have you heard of her? Her birth name is Tanya Kolchek… not sure why she changed it.”
“A lot of us change our names.”
“Why?”
“To reflect our new belief system.”
“Is it like… a born-again situation?” I asked, relating it to the kind of religion I had been raised with in rural West Texas.
“No, not like that. But it’s not always easy to embrace Wicca or any other kind of pagan faith. Many of us are raised with other beliefs, so turning to the worship of nature can feel like a betrayal to our families. Taking on a new name isn’t so much a rejection of the past as an embracing of our new selves, our inner selves, our true selves.”
The Wiccans in Bronwyn’s coven, the only one I knew well, were usually so friendly and happy and lighthearted that it never occurred to me that this had been an important, difficult decision for many of them.
We fell silent for a moment, our thoughts accompanied by the rhythmic thump thump thump of the wheels running over the joints between each segment of the bridge. I liked the sound; it reminded me of a heartbeat.
“The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I’m not placing it,” Bronwyn said. “You might ask Wendy—she’s been working on a witch directory, kind of like a witchy yellow pages. She calls it Moonstruck Madness.”
“Cute.”
“Want me to make a few calls and see if I can track down your mystery woman? Oh, I know who to call! My friend Bliss knows just about everyone. The name’s Tarragon Dark Moon?”
I nodded. “Originally Tanya Kolchek. I’d really appreciate it, thanks.”
We exited the freeway and made our unfamiliar way to Summit Medical Center, which, as its name suggested, sat atop a hill and was surrounded by acres of doctors’ offices, labs, pharmacies, and health consultancies. Even the grand old homes on this hill had been turned into medical offices and clinics.
We parked at a meter and headed toward the hospital.
Before entering the building, I girded my defenses, stroking my medicine bag and mumbling a quick incantation. As difficult as it can be for normal people to go into hospitals, it’s much harder for someone like me. I can’t see ghosts, but I can feel their shivery presence. And there are a lot of them wandering the halls of medical centers. In addition, every surface I touched telegraphed anxiety and pain. And with my sensitivity to textiles, hospital gowns were especially harrowing.
The only exception is the maternity ward. There is pain there, too, but it’s tempered with joy and celebration. In some parts of the world there are special maternity hospitals, which makes sense to me. I find perplexing the custom of mixing the happy arrival of life with the anguish of trauma and loss in a single setting.
We approached the information desk and I asked an elderly woman wearing a HOSPITAL VOLUNTEER badge if a Miriam had been admitted last night.
“Last name?” she asked.
“I don’t know her last name.”
“I’m afraid we can’t help you without more information,” she said in an oddly satisfied tone.
“She fell ill at the Art Deco Ball, at the Paramount Theater? She was brought in by ambulance last night around nine thirty?”
“Are you family?” the volunteer asked.
“If I were family, I’d know her last name.”
“Can’t help you, then.”
I felt my blood pressure spike, but before I could say something I would regret—or make something crash—Bronwyn intervened. “Could you point us toward the emergency room?”
As the volunteer placed a xeroxed copy of the hospital’s floor plan on the counter and circled the ER with a bright red Sharpie, a man hurrying past caught my eye: Miriam’s escort at the ball.
He was dressed casually today, his finery replaced by worn jeans and a plaid shirt buttoned over a white tee, a stubbly beard shadowing his ruddy cheeks… . and he carried a baby on his hip, with a diaper bag on the opposite shoulder. The child looked to be about a year old, with bright red cheeks and the soft golden curls unique to the very young. But she was frowning, and her face was tearstained. From the dark circles under the man’s eyes, I would wager he hadn’t slept a wink.
I tugged on Bronwyn’s arm and gestured with my head.
“Thank you!” Bronwyn grabbed the map.
“Come again!” the volunteer chirped.
We followed the man through the twists and turns of the hospital corridors, dodging medical personnel and gurneys, until we reached the Intensive Care Unit. We paused outside, watching through the windows as he entered a curtained area.
“Go on in,” Bronwyn whispered, glancing at the nurses’ station a few yards away. “I’ll be your lookout.”
“Do you think that’s really necessary?”
“If you hear the signal—the hoot of an owl—cheese it.”
Bronwyn had a dramatic streak. I went with it.
“Okay, I’m going in. Cover me.”
“Got your back, sister.”
I slipped into the ICU quietly, not wanting to disrupt the patients, and halted next to the curtains where Miriam’s escort had gone. Through the parted drapes I glimpsed him gazing down at the figure in the bed, holding the fussing baby out to her and murmuring softly. I paused, eavesdropping for a moment.
Chapter 6
“Miriam Rose, your baby needs you. Luna needs you, honey. You need to wake up. I’m trying my best here, sweetheart, but she needs her mother.��
There were tears in his voice. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together.
“Excuse me?” I said softly as I approached.
He looked up, a questioning look on his face.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” I said. “I… I was at the ball last night. Do you remember? I called in the paramedics when I realized something was wrong with Miriam.”
He ran his hand through his disheveled salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh, yeah. I’m Duke. Duke Demeter.”
“I’m Lily. How is she?”
“I don’t know—nobody knows. The docs can’t figure out what happened to her. They’re still running tests.”
Miriam lay absolutely still, an IV dripping slowly into one arm, wires connecting electronic sensors to her chest and finger. With her silky gold hair fanning out around her on the pillow and the remnants of last night’s makeup on her eyes and lips, she looked like a character in a fairy tale, waiting to be awakened by a kiss.
“They suggested I bring in Luna and some familiar things to remind her of home…” Duke said as he pulled items from the diaper bag and placed them on the nightstand: a hairbrush, a couple of small pots of lotions and salve, a book of fairy tales. “Don’t see how they can help, but… I guess they can’t hurt.”
“Has Miriam been sick recently?”
He shook his head. “She hasn’t been feeling herself for the past week or so. I knew that. She looked tired. Miriam was always such a bundle of energy… . I could tell there was something wrong. But she told me she was fine.”
The baby fussed, and Duke patted her awkwardly. He stared at the heart monitor, which showed a steady blipping line. The machine’s monotonous sound was strangely comforting, each regular bleat a sign that Miriam’s heart was still active, keeping her al
ive.
“She’s a single mother,” Duke continued. “I thought maybe she was just overwhelmed taking care of little Luna, here. And then her boyfriend turned out to be a scumbag, so I offered to accompany her to the dance. She’d been looking forward to it, even altered her own dress. I don’t… I just don’t know what to do. Her mother passed away years ago. It’s just been her and me, and now little Luna.”
“You’re her father, then?” I asked.
He nodded. “You a friend of hers?”
“We met last night, at the dance… .” I trailed off as his eyes slewed back toward his daughter, as though he could barely pay attention to my words. “Duke, where did Miriam get the corsage she was wearing last night?”
“It was delivered.” He shrugged. “I guess it was an apology from her so-called boyfriend.”
“What’s his name?”
“Why—you think he had something to do with this?” His gaze turned back to me, a thousand questions burning in his tired hazel eyes. “Don’t get me wrong. Guy’s an ass—’scuze me, a grade-A jerk. Still, I don’t think he’d hurt her.” As if the oddness of my presence finally registered, he asked, “Why are you so interested?”
“When I met Miriam last night, well… I don’t know. I just really liked her. I wanted to see if there’s anything I could do to help. Would you mind if I talked to the boyfriend, see if I can figure out anything about what’s going on?”
He looked unsure and didn’t answer. I don’t cast casually, but in this case I felt the need to expedite things. I placed my hand on his arm and felt his vibrations. Duke had no guard up—in fact, quite the opposite. He was desperate to help his daughter recover from this crisis. I would just give him a nudge to accept my offer of help. I looked into his eyes and concentrated.
“You can trust me.”
He stared at me, as though in a mini-trance. After a long moment, he shrugged.
“Why not? His name’s Jonathan Penn. He runs a gaming shop called MJ’s—sells collectible cards, memorabilia, that sort of thing.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “Like that’s a job for a grown man. Downtown Oakland, on the corner of Washington and Ninth.”
I made a mental note of his name and the location of his store.
“Was Miriam on any kind of medication, any pills?”
“Not that I know of.”
Above the electronic boops and beeps of the hospital, I heard an owl hoot.
Seconds later, a nurse came in and bustled about, checking Miriam’s IV bag and the various electronic monitors and entering some notes into a handheld device. Her eyes raked over us, disapproval writ upon her features.
“Visitors are restricted in the ICU. She needs her rest. You can come back later. One at a time, please.”
Duke nodded, gave his daughter one last look, and we stepped into the corridor, where Bronwyn was waiting. The baby kicked and pushed away from Duke’s chest, whimpering, her distress ratcheting up as though she was working up to a good cry. Duke passed his free hand through his hair one more time, looking harassed and defeated.
Bronwyn placed her hand on his shoulder. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Duke’s expression remained blank. “What?”
“Food. Have you eaten?”
He shook his head. “No time.”
Bronwyn glanced at me. “How about this? Lily will stay with Miriam while you and I and the baby go down to the cafeteria and get you something to eat.”
“I don’t know…”
“You need fuel,” Bronwyn said. She might not be gifted in the way I was, but when it came to making people feel safe and cared for, the woman was pure magic. “You can’t help Miriam if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“I’ll stay until you get back, in case she wakes up,” I said.
“Um… who are you two, again?” Duke asked.
“We’re friends,” I said, once again placing my hand on his arm. “We just want to help.”
After an awkward moment, he nodded and allowed Bronwyn to lead him away.
The nurse gave me a dirty look when I returned to Miriam’s bedside, but I ignored her. Miriam needed me. The doctors clearly had no clue what was wrong. I was relieved that her vital signs were strong; still, I didn’t have to be a witch to know that her spirit had flown her earthbound body.
The moment the nurse left, I opened the small wooden cabinet next to the bed and found a plastic storage bag holding personal effects marked DEMETER, MIRIAM. I riffled through it: There were the dress from last night, undergarments, and a small purse with a driver’s license, compact, cell phone, and lipstick. I looked through the other two drawers. No corsage.
Clearly Miriam wouldn’t be able to drink my brew, which was unfortunate. It could have helped her. But I placed the mason jar full of liquid on the bedside table, alongside the few personal objects Duke had left there. I noticed that the book’s cover featured a full-color old-fashioned illustration of Sleeping Beauty. How ironic, I thought.
As I slipped a protective talisman under the mattress, I spotted something. Reaching in farther, I pulled out a handful of small wax conjure balls, about the size of marbles. They were deep red, the color of life. The wax had been rolled while still warm and filled with herbs and powders and little Mexican milagro trinkets of hearts and heads.
I recognized the vibrations: Aidan had been here. I had taught him how to make conjure balls not long ago. In my mind’s eye I could practically see him rolling the soft, hot wax between his palms, chanting and mumbling.
Aidan was protecting Miriam now but had warned me off when we were at the theater. Why? What was going on?
I replaced the conjure balls, hoping the sight of these and the talisman didn’t frighten the poor housekeeping staff when they came in to change the sheets. Then again, I decided, they’d probably seen worse.
On the bedside table I laid out three stones I had washed in the brew: one clear crystal, one amethyst, one tiger’s-eye. Normally I would have lit a white candle, but with all this oxygen around… suffice it to say that chemistry was never my strong suit. The magic of the candle wasn’t important enough to risk blowing things up. What mattered most, as always, was a witch’s intent. I whispered a protective incantation over Miriam, concentrating. Since her spirit had fled her earthly body, she would not heal, could not respond to my powers. But the protective spell would at least help keep her body from additional harm.
Finally, I laid my hands upon her—one on her brow, the other on her chest over her heart. I felt a pang of self-doubt and wished my grandmother were here. She was a master healer while I was still a novice in comparison.
I breathed deeply, trying to filter out the harsh fluorescent lighting of the ICU, the muted beeping of various machines, the faraway sounds of telephones from the nurses’ station, the hustle of medical personnel hurrying past in the hallway. I cast my powers, reaching out to my ancestors, to the helping spirit that came to me when I brewed, appearing to me and opening the conduits to my magic.
I had a vision… or was it a memory? Miriam stumbling in to me, her pale face swimming before my eyes, a smile hovering, then fading as she reached out for her baby. She called out to me, wanting, yearning. She held a bouquet of roses, but pricked herself on a thorn, bleeding… . I felt bereft, empty, yet compelled to reach out to her in return… .
“What are you doing?” demanded Duke from the corridor.
“I’m sorry,” I said, stepping away from the bed. I tend to lose track of time when I spell cast. It was difficult to explain in a public setting. “I—”
“Who are you people, anyway?” He looked from me to Bronwyn, then back again. “I mean, to each their own, but I don’t go in for that crystal-gazing garbage.”
I glanced at Bronwyn, who shrugged and gave me a resigned look. “Duke and I had a… discussion about the possibility of Miriam’s affliction having a nonphysical origin.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d like you to go now,” said Duke. “
It’s been one hell of a couple of days. I’m going out of my mind.”
Luna let out a little screech and reared back so quickly that Duke barely caught her before she flipped out of his arms. He squeezed the baby to his chest, but that seemed to make her even angrier.
“Duke, has Luna been this fussy for a while?”
“For the past week or so. I don’t know what’s got into her,” the weary grandfather muttered.
“Poor little love’s probably colicky. Want me to hold her for a while?” Bronwyn asked. “I love babies.”
Duke hesitated, then passed Luna to Bronwyn. I had seen my friend work her earth-mother magic more than once in Aunt Cora’s Closet: She would cradle a fretting child in her strong arms, against her ample bosom, and the baby, accurately sensing it was safe, would settle right in.
Not this time. Little Luna continued to struggle, frowning and scrunching up her darling little face into an ugly scowl.
“She doesn’t seem right to me,” said Duke. “I asked Miriam about it, but she wasn’t doing that well either. I thought maybe… I don’t know what I thought, maybe that they both had some kind of virus, something like that.”
“And is she getting any better, or worse?”
“About the same, I think.” Alarm entered his eyes. “Do you think Miriam could have something contagious, maybe passed it on to the baby?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “If it’s not too pushy, could I suggest you take the baby to the pediatrician, explain what happened with Miriam? Just in case it is contagious.” I was almost positive what troubled Miriam didn’t have an organic cause, but it didn’t hurt to be sure.
“I’ll take her in tomorrow.” Duke searched my face, his gaze perceptive. He was clearly an intelligent, focused man. “But you think it’s something else?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, sizing me up. I was accustomed to scrutiny, if not outright disdain. But Duke was looking at me with something else… skepticism, yes, but also something that looked like hope. Perhaps it was the spell I had cast—he was cynical, but felt he could trust me.
In A Witch's Wardrobe Page 6
