At least twenty women milled about, chatting. Most were clad in gauzy outfits or Indonesian batik or African mud cloths, though a few wore black hooded robes. I smoothed my hands over my vintage 1950s wool skirt suit and silk blouse. Out of place, as usual. I should have thought to borrow something from Bronwyn.
Bells on bracelets and metal pieces sewn onto clothing tinkled merrily as the women moved about the room. Their hair was long and flowing, or short and spiky, and they ranged in age from late teens to sixty-something. Many wore flowers in their hair, and all had kicked off their shoes upon entering the room. I followed suit, leaving my canvas sneakers next to a jumble of leather Birkenstock sandals, multicolored espadrilles, and sensible walking shoes.
I took a deep breath and crossed over to a long, thin table that had been pushed against one wall. It was crowded with plates of homemade cookies and cakes, to which I added the Delft platter of lemon bars.
“Welcome!” declared a young woman as she rushed up to me. She must have been in her early twenties, with long red hair and naturally rosy, full lips. In her romantic, gauzy gown she looked like the kind of fairy-tale princess that had peopled my childhood fantasy books.
“I’m Jonquil, apprentice priestess,” the woman said, her voice breathy. “I’ll be leading tonight’s circle for the very first time. I’m so excited! What’s your name?”
“Lily Iv—”
Jonquil took my hand and turned to face the crowd. “Everyone, we have a new coven visitor! Lily Ivy.”
The women responded with a chorus of “Welcome!” “Blessed be” and “Merry met.”
“Ivory,” I said. “Not Ivy.”
“Pardon?”
“Iv— Never mind. Thank you for the warm welcome. It’s good to be here.”
Two minutes with the coven and already I felt like a fraud: I wasn’t here to learn more about the mystical world or the Unspoken coven. I was here for information about a crime. It dawned on me that this was why I could never be as open and wonderful as Bronwyn: When it came to dealing with others, I too often had ulterior motives.
“Oooh, lemon bars!” someone exclaimed, and the women began to introduce themselves to me.
Morocca was in her forties, calm and serene and exceedingly welcoming. Sienna reminded me of Maya, with her serious air, black hair in dreadlocks, and small, stylish black-rimmed glasses. Anise was boyish, her hair cropped short, wearing faded jeans and a black hoodie sweatshirt. She had Celtic tattoos ringing her neck and a vague air, suggesting she was either a touch confused or stoned. Then came Wildflower, Thistle, and Elm… names I imagined the women had chosen, or perhaps it was the effect of living in Berkeley.
As someone named after a flower, at least on this score I fit in—for once.
There was a clutch of older women as well, dressed in flowing garb, their graying hair in long braids or piled on their heads. Several had flowers or ribbons twining through their locks. I felt a pang of longing for Bronwyn’s bright energy. One of the downsides of growing accustomed to having friends is that solo endeavors such as this became that much more uncomfortable.
“I’m so excited to be part of this.” Jonquil leaned in to me and spoke in a soft voice, as though confessing. Her vibrations were agitated and nervous, but that was no surprise, given that she was leading the coven tonight. “I’m only a level two witch!”
“What does ‘level two’ mean?”
“I’m still in training. Hey, do you live around here?”
I shook my head. “In San Francisco. I have a vintage clothing store at Haight and Ashbury.”
“Wow! That’s awesome. Anyway, I’m studying with Morocca and Fawn. They’re amazing.”
“Oh,” I said, and hesitated. Would it be better to ask about Tarra now, or afterward? When was the socializing portion of the evening? I wondered. I would feel better if I could leave before the circle was cast—
“If everyone would please gather together,” Jonquil called out, and stepped forward to proclaim herself one of the priestesses of the evening. She welcomed the newcomers and explained that there were several priestesses with the coven and that they took turns leading the chant and drawing down the moon.
She then urged us to form the circle, and I tried not to hyperventilate as I was enveloped by the crowd. I wasn’t sure what would happen when my powers combined with that of the sisters around me—whether or not they had supernatural powers, the concerted effort of a group of believers could be powerful. I should have asked Oscar to stand vigil outside the window; he was useful in helping me to measure my magic.
“Starting with me,” Jonquil said, looking straight at me, “we’ll go deosil, taking the hand of the sister next to you, one by one.”
“I—I don’t suppose I could just watch?” I stammered.
“The circle is sacred and inclusive,” said the priestess named Sienna. “There are no observers allowed. Please join us.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to center myself as the women joined hands, one by one, linking the chain as women had done throughout the ages.
My turn came, and I clasped the hand on my right and then on my left.
When the last hands linked, the circle closed and a shock ran through us.
I opened my eyes and could have sworn I saw actual arcs of light hopping from one woman to the next.
A chorus of “Ohs!” rippled around the room. Several women pulled their hands away in surprise, including the two holding mine. I read fear on their faces.
“What in the name of the goddess was that?” one woman asked.
“I’m… I think that was me.” I could feel my cheeks burning. “I’m sorry.”
It was Texas all over again. In the town where I grew up, variations on this scene had been repeated throughout my childhood. We didn’t have covens in Jarod—at least none that were out in the open—but any sort of group activity that I took part in, from games of duck-duck-goose to square dancing, had ended the same way. My power couldn’t be trusted in assemblies, especially those held in a circle. It always found a way to show itself.
I had to get away. I hurried out into the hall.
Wolfgang stood in front of the door to the exterior stairway. Blocking my way.
Chapter 8
I heard a voice behind me.
“Wait.” It was Jonquil. “Lily? Are you all right?”
Steeling myself, I turned around to face the music.
“I’m sorry. I—I’m so embarrassed.”
The other women streamed out of the room, crowding the corridor behind Jonquil and encircling me as Wolfgang disappeared. I felt hot, flushed. It was my own custom-made Lily-nightmare. Other people dreamed of showing up naked at school without their homework; I had anxiety dreams about things like this.
“Why would you be embarrassed?” asked one of the coven members, a silver-haired woman with a kind expression.
“I… I’m not used to this sort of thing.”
“You’ve never been to a coven meeting?” asked Morocca.
“I… well, sort of.” Every instinct told me to lie, to say I didn’t feel well, anything to get out of here. But I was trying to be better than that, trying to be brave and open. “To tell you the truth… I came here looking for information.”
“But, Lily, that’s perfectly all right,” said Jonquil. “That’s why we hold these circles open to the public. So people can learn about us.”
“No, not information about your coven, but about a member. Tarragon Dark Moon?”
“Tarra?” Morocca said in a shaky whisper.
Several of the women gasped or shook their heads.
Jonquil’s big amber eyes filled with tears. “It was such a loss. I’m trying hard not to be sad, but I can’t…”
“Wait. What’s going on?” The young woman named Anise came up behind Jonquil and rubbed her shoulders. She looked bemused as she took in the scene. “Don’t cry, Jonquil.”
In a clear, strong voice, Sienna said: “Be of ch
eer, everyone. Surely the gods called Tarra to the celestial plane for some reason we can’t fathom. And she will return, perhaps has already returned.”
“How do you know Tarra?” Jonquil asked me. “Were you studying botanicals as well?”
“Botanicals?”
“Tarra and Anise and I were in the same botanicals group.”
“I didn’t really know Tarra,” I said. “I’m… friends with someone who is looking into what happened. He’s afraid there might be something suspicious about her death… .”
I trailed off at the look of horror dawning on their faces. But I figured since I’d come this far… “Is there anything you can tell me about Tarra? Was there anything going on, anything that seemed unusual at all?”
Morocca stepped up. “The police already came to speak with us. If you are here as their representative, you should have declared yourself, should never have taken part in our sacred circle. We value honesty and transparency above all. I think you should leave.”
I looked around but saw only suspicion and coldness in their eyes. Jonquil’s friendly face was now wet with tears, while several of her coven sisters comforted her. Chagrined, I turned to leave. Until something else occurred to me.
“What about Miriam Demeter? Do you know her?”
Anise nodded. “Miriam’s in our botanicals group. She’s a coven sis—” She cut herself off at a sharp look from Sienna.
“Do you think I could speak with whoever leads the botanicals group?”
“As I was saying,” said Morocca, “I think you should leave.”
“But—”
“Please go,” said Sienna. “Now.”
I hesitated another moment… . There was so much to learn, if only I could convince them to trust me. But finessing social interactions had never been my strong suit.
“I’m very sorry. For everything.”
I turned, slinked through the doors, and headed down the stairs.
Halfway to my car I stopped, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply of the damp evening air. I felt bruised, my eyes prickly with tears I couldn’t shed. Back in the day, when I was strictly a solo act, I kept my guard up and others at arm’s length, so I wasn’t particularly hurt by rejection or even outright hostility. These days, it was tougher. I wanted to be home, surrounded by my things. Or… I could use the healing vibrations of my plants right now. Yes. This would be a perfect night to attend to my garden. My plants needed feeding and—
“You okay?” asked a masculine voice behind me.
I turned to see Wolfgang at the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”
There was a question in his eyes. “They’re usually pretty friendly. Did they kick you out?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’ll see you to your car.”
“There’s no need—”
“Please, allow me.”
Either his mama had raised Wolfgang with old-fashioned courtliness, or he was making sure I left. I nodded and together we walked the short distance to the Mustang.
I glanced at Wolfgang’s inscrutable face. What the heck? I had already alienated the rest of the coven.
“Wolfgang, did you know Tarragon Dark Moon? Tarra?”
He nodded. Swallowing hard, he looked up at the stars, took a deep breath in through his nostrils and released it slowly.
“We believe that death is another step in our journey, that one’s passing should be a moment of celebration, not sadness.” He cleared his throat, and in the dim light from a nearby streetlamp I saw tears shining in his eyes. “But it’s still hard to say good-bye.”
I nodded. “Were you and she… ?”
“We were friends. She was my coven sister.”
“Do you know if she had a boyfriend, anyone important in her life?”
There was a long pause. I fixed him with my gaze and urged him to tell me, playing on our almost palpable connection. There was something about him…
“Yeah, guy named Rex Theroux.”
“Do you know where I could find him?”
“He works at Randi’s Café in San Francisco, near the ballpark.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you… ? Why are you asking about Tarra?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
He gazed at me again. I felt little whispery fingers of thought reaching out: He was trying to read my mind. Was he a psychic, or just highly intuitive? I wasn’t worried about him gaining access to my thoughts—even Sailor, powerful as he was, couldn’t read me. But it was worthy of note.
“Could you tell me anything else about Tarra?”
“She smelled like violets.”
“Violets?”
“Yeah, she— Wait. Am I seeing things, or is that a pig walking down the street?”
I turned to see Oscar trotting toward us.
“It’s a pig. He’s mine. My, uh… pet. Guess he got out of the car. So you were saying? About Tarra?”
Wolfgang glanced up at the top of the stairs. I followed his gaze to where several women in flowing robes were watching us in silence, their forms outlined by the light behind them.
He shook his head. “It just seemed too soon, her passing.”
“Wolf?” one of the women called out.
“I’d better go,” he said.
I nodded. “Thanks for talking with me.”
I hustled Oscar into the car, then climbed into the driver’s seat and backed out of the lot. The women at the top of the stairs, Wolfgang with his hands on his hips… everyone seemed to be waiting, and watching me go.
“Who the heck was he?” Oscar demanded as I pulled up to the light at University Avenue and signaled for a left turn. “Take a right.”
“His name’s Wolfgang. He’s a coven member… . sort of. And the freeway’s to the left.”
“Take a right. What do you mean, he’s sort of a member?”
“He runs a men’s group. Why do you want me to turn right?”
“They call this town ‘Berzerkley.’” He turned the full force of his big glass-green eyes on me. “I hear tell the Normandy Village on Spruce Street has gargoyles. Please?”
Oscar was searching for his mother. It seemed like a long shot that she would be found somewhere in the Bay Area, but as Oscar pointed out, gargoyles lived a very, very long time. She could be anywhere.
I was spent. But how could I turn down a gobgoyle looking for his mother?
I turned right.
“Thank you, mistress,” he singsonged. “What’s a men’s group do?”
“Get together and be manly, I guess.”
“Why?”
“Not sure. Maybe it’s a guy’s version of a sewing bee or a coffee klatch.” I thought about the various women’s groups my mother had belonged to, the kinds that until recently I had never been part of. “Maybe they gossip and talk about their feelings.”
“Why’s he half naked?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Maybe we should bring him a shirt from the shop.”
“Maybe we should.” I laughed. “Maybe we should, at that.”
* * *
The gargoyle search was a bust, though it was wonderful to explore the grounds of Normandy Village, a fanciful apartment complex built in medieval style back in the 1920s, right off Berkeley’s historic University of California campus. Unfortunately for Oscar, the only “gargoyles” we found there were whimsical creatures carved from wood. None of them smacked of kin to my dear gobgoyle.
By the time we headed west across the Bay Bridge, it was late. I was exhausted. But… I still needed Sailor. I couldn’t think of any other way to communicate with Miriam’s spirit. And I couldn’t get the thought of her daughter out of my mind. Miriam, according to what I had just learned, was in the same botanicals group and coven as Tarra, who had died a couple days ago. Was someone systematically eliminating witches, like the group that Carlos had mentioned? Or could it be a simple coincidence… ?
Sailor wasn’t always easy to find, but at this hour I was pretty sure I knew where to look: his favorite watering hole.
The Cerulean Bar was one of those insiders-only places with no sign. Only the glow of blue neon lights and the thumping of the bass alerted a keen-eyed hipster to its presence. It was up a steep side street, near the lively Italian neighborhood of North Beach. It was also only half a block from the city’s famous strip of “gentlemen’s” clubs and girlie shows.
I found a parking place outside the Lusty Lady and admonished Oscar to stay in the car, in his piggy guise. He stared out the window, goggle-eyed, as a few of the eponymous lusty ladies strutted outside the club.
I climbed up the steep street and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Cerulean Bar. The joint was jammed, as usual, with a young, vibrant, chic clientele. I wasn’t much older than many and was younger than some. But their bubbly, untroubled energy made me feel very old indeed.
Sailor sat in his regular booth, slouched down against the far end, one long jeans-clad leg stretched out on the vinyl seat.
The moment he caught sight of me he muttered under his breath and turned away. I couldn’t hear what he said over the crushing boom boom boom of the DJ’s spinning, but I felt safe in assuming he was swearing and bemoaning his fate. I had that effect on the man.
I forced my way up to the bar, ordered a shot of Laphroaig, an expensive scotch, and then made my way over to Sailor’s booth. I took a seat on the opposite side of the table and placed the drink in front of him, next to a couple of empty shot glasses.
I waited. Sailor pretended I wasn’t there, his attention on a dim corner of the bar behind me.
“Back in my hometown, empty liquor glasses left on the table were referred to as dead soldiers,” I said.
Sailor avoided my eyes and remained mute.
So much for small talk. “I need your help.”
“What else is new?” he said with a snort and an eye roll. “Ever occur to you to come see me when you don’t need something?”
That took me aback. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”
In A Witch's Wardrobe Page 8
