In A Witch's Wardrobe

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Anyway, what did you find?”

  “I—” he began, but cut himself off as a large group of children jostled past us.

  It dawned on me: Aidan hardly ever lingered outside. “Should we go talk in your office?”

  A thick blanket of fog was creeping toward us. It still hovered on the Pacific Ocean side of the Golden Gate Bridge, but soon enough it would push toward the wharf and today’s sunny midseventies would become a chilly midfifties with stunning speed.

  We magical folk love the fog. It clarifies things, evens out the light. I glanced at Aidan. Could he be troubled, causing the fog either inadvertently or on purpose?

  “Why are you out here?” I asked.

  “I like to get out from time to time, enjoy the sunshine. You know what they say about all work and no play. Wouldn’t want Aidan to be a dull boy.”

  “Uh-huh. I doubt dullness has ever been your problem.” I studied him. His nonchalance was a ruse. “Something in your office you don’t want me to see?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You standing out here eating shrimp cocktail amongst the tourists, that’s what.”

  In general I’m fond of tourists. They’re open to the world around them, excited by the newness and novelty. So normally I love coming to crowded Fisherman’s Wharf. But today I wasn’t in the mood.

  “I want to show you something,” he said as he tossed the near-empty cardboard container in a trash can and started strolling down the sidewalk.

  He steered me into the Musée Mécanique, located in a cavernous old wharf building. The museum was jammed with historic arcade games and machines of all types, from old “movies” consisting of flipping photos of the 1906 earthquake, to painstakingly detailed miniatures of towns that came alive when you dropped a quarter into the slot, the train running and the dance hall lights ablaze.

  Aidan paused beside a wooden box fitted with an intricate metal eyepiece and peered in. He had no need to drop a coin in the slot—it started as soon as he neared. He stepped back and let me look: Cards flipped rapidly to form a peep show of women in frilly Victorian attire slowly stripping off black stockings.

  “Cute,” I said.

  “Why don’t women dress like that anymore? Those black stockings drove men wild.”

  “Are you saying you’re old enough to remember such things?”

  Aidan looked to be in his late thirties. But recently I had learned that he was not at all what he seemed.

  He made a tsk-tsk noise. “Impolite to ask a man his age.”

  “And perhaps women don’t dress just to please you. Did that ever occur to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, it didn’t. But it does remind me that I haven’t complimented you on today’s outfit. You look like a breath of fresh air.”

  “Thank you.”

  I used to wear a lot of old jeans, and still do when I’m hunting for treasures by digging through musty attics and basements and moldy cardboard boxes. But otherwise I’d gotten used to using my vintage clothing store as a closet from which I could choose a new outfit every day. As Jonquil had pointed out, it was pretty amazing to have a whole inventory to choose from. Today’s dress was a formfitting aqua cotton with a square neck, embroidered with tiny white and yellow daises. My long dark hair was pulled up in its usual ponytail, tied with a patterned turquoise scarf. A little mascara and pale pink lipstick was the extent of my makeup regime.

  I told myself I looked hip, maybe even funky, though in times of self-doubt I still felt like a kid wearing dress-up clothes.

  “That color reminds me of a mountain stream in the Alps,” he said in a wistful voice. Aidan was never wistful.

  “Are you sure everything’s okay with you, Aidan?” I asked as we walked along one aisle.

  The machines started up as we passed them, one after the other, so as we walked we left a cacophonous wake. I checked in with my vibrations—I was a bit jangled, true, but I didn’t feel off-kilter enough to be causing all of this.

  “Of course.”

  Luna let out a screech at the noise surrounding us. She gurgled, flapped her arms, and kicked her chubby legs. Aidan smiled down at her, again cupping the child’s head in his large hand.

  “Did you find out anything about Miriam?” I asked. “I found the conjure balls you left under her bed.”

  “I understand Tarragon Dark Moon was killed the other night.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  “How do you know that?”

  He cocked one eyebrow.

  “Sorry. I forgot: You know everything.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know. Inspector Romero asked me to look into it since he kept hitting a brick wall with the coven sisters. I’m afraid I didn’t fare much better.”

  Aidan took a deep breath in through his nose, his mouth pressed together as though he was straining not to speak. A marionette in an elaborate mahogany box beside us started dancing maniacally, wooden arms waving and legs marching. Though Luna was enjoying the show, the tinny circus music put me in mind of the sound track to a hokey old horror movie—silly yet sinister.

  “Inspector Romero again? It really disturbs me that you’re so close to the SFPD.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m friendly with Carlos and his partner, Neil, but that’s about it.”

  “Just don’t get too close to Carlos.”

  “He’s not all that wild about my relationship to you, either.”

  “I’d like you to find out who did this to Tarra, what’s going on.”

  “I’m assuming Tarra’s death is connected to what happened to Miriam.” Aidan nodded. “The night of the ball, you told me to stay out of it.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Anyway, I am trying to find out what happened… . That’s why I came to you. I was hoping you could help.”

  He shook his head. “Things have changed and I need you to take this on. I’ll do what I can to support you, but I can’t be public about my involvement. Sailor can help you.”

  “Sailor’s not happy with me lately.”

  “Sailor’s never happy,” Aidan said.

  “True enough.”

  “Take him with you to the Paramount Theater and have him communicate with Miriam’s spirit.”

  “Did you overhear us talking the other night at the Cerulean Bar?”

  “My darling Lily, what are you accusing me of?” he asked with a slight smile.

  “After I left the bar I saw a champagne-colored Jaguar drive by. Complete with personalized license plate.”

  The grin broke out full force. “It’s those darned halogen bulbs they’re using these days in the streetlights. Something about the wavelength plays havoc with glamour spells. In the eyes of someone like you, anyway.”

  “You should have joined Sailor and me at the table,” I said. “I’d dearly love to get you two in the same room one of these days. We might be able to hash out a few things.”

  Aidan turned his attention to a glass-encased scenario from the Wild West, complete with blacksmith shop and a bordello. When he touched the metal coin slot, the little painted dolls in the saloon started to dance, a cowboy rode up on a black horse, and the blacksmith swung his mallet onto a tiny anvil.

  “Anyway, if you were eavesdropping, you must have heard him refuse to help me.”

  “I have the feeling he’ll be more amenable now.”

  “I take it you spoke with him?” I asked, but Aidan remained silent. “When are you going to talk to me about freeing him from his obligation to you?”

  “Never.”

  “I promised him—”

  “You should learn not to make promises you can’t keep. Do not meddle in my bond with Sailor, Lily. It’s not your place, and it’s futile.”

  “But—”

  “Enough.”

  I startled at the anger in his voice and the Old West scene jangled until it smoked, until an ugly crack ran along our side of the glass case. />
  Chapter 16

  Luna started to cry.

  “I apologize,” Aidan said. “I—”

  Just then three laughing boys jostled past us, coins jingling in their pockets, excitement shining in their eyes. Aidan stepped back to let their mothers pass, smiling; they smiled shyly in return, tittering among themselves. It was stunning how easily and quickly Aidan put up his façade around other people. With me, increasingly, he was showing another side. I wondered whether I should take it as a compliment that he felt free to show his true feelings around me… or as a danger sign that I was dancing ever nearer the hungry lion.

  After the people passed, Aidan continued. “I’m… frustrated. I should have intervened earlier in this matter, should have perceived what was going on. Unfortunately, now my hands are tied. I can make sure that Miriam’s body remains healthy, ready for her spirit to return. But as to the who, what, and how… you’ll have to handle it.”

  I nodded. I dearly wanted more of an explanation, but I knew, as a witch, that not everything could, or even should, be explained.

  Aidan squeezed the baby’s thigh. “She looks happy enough.”

  “She likes to be held. But she’s not well. I believe she’s got a mild case of whatever happened to her mother.”

  “She’ll be fine. You’ll make sure of it. Anyway, here’s what I can tell you: I let someone down. Now I owe her.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s a… well, let’s just say she’s an old friend.”

  “An ‘old friend’? Why do I think there’s more to that story?”

  Aidan graced me with his crooked grin, his blue eyes sparkling once again. “Because you are a very perceptive witch? I’ll tell you about it one day. Over wine, perhaps?”

  I took a deep breath and watched the folks milling around the arcade, dropping coins into slots and laughing at the historic machinations that still functioned, decades—even a century—after they had been created. There were ghosts in these machines. I thought of the video games for sale at MJ’s and wondered whether they would be functioning a century from now.

  Aidan handed Luna back to me, his hands brushing against my arms as he did so. I felt sparks between us shivering along my skin, as I increasingly did when he touched me. Or looked at me.

  The machines around us came to life all at once, and several children ran over to watch the spectacle, milling about us. Baby Luna kicked her legs and reached out, a drooly smile on her face. So now I knew the secret to keeping her happy—I should move into the arcade. I wasn’t sure our needs were compatible, however; my headache was blossoming from the cacophony.

  Over the tops of the children’s heads, Aidan held my gaze for a long moment, his blue eyes sad. But then he looked down at the children with a genuine smile on his face. Who would have guessed that Aidan was a sucker for kids? It made me wonder: Had he ever been married? Might he have children of his own? It dawned on me how little I really knew about the man and his past.

  Luna and I turned to watch the dancing girls in the Wild West scene for a moment. The glass had magically repaired itself, and other than a few wisps of smoke there was no sign that the machine had broken a few moments ago.

  Something else occurred to me.

  “Aidan, how can I get in touch with Calypso Caf—”

  He was gone.

  I searched the crowds but, with all these arcade games and people milling about, could see no trace of him.

  And I still carried his mandragora in my satchel.

  * * *

  After returning Luna to her grandfather, I stopped by my apartment to drop off Oscar—who was under strict orders to babysit the mandragora, despite his loud protestations—and to pick up a few supplies. Chief among them was my Hand of Glory, a gruesome artifact that worked like a magical skeleton key.

  Then I went in search of Sailor.

  First stop: the Cerulean Bar. No luck there, so I headed to my second—and last—stop, his apartment. Sailor’s regular hangouts, at least the ones I was privy to, made for a very short list.

  Calling him wasn’t an option. Like a lot of magical folk, Sailor didn’t carry a cell phone. I could probably send him a psychic SOS, but, Sailor being Sailor, he might just run in the opposite direction. Better to track him down in person.

  Sailor lived on Hang Ah Alley in Chinatown. As I walked down the narrow, brick-walled passageway, I enjoyed the subtle, ghostly whiffs of perfume. Hang Ah Alley had been the site of a perfumery years ago, and for the sensitive the scent still lingered. It clung to Sailor as well. Even though he often looked like he’d slept in his clothes, the man always managed to smell good.

  I found the small entrance to Sailor’s apartment building and tried the door. Locked.

  This was not the kind of building that had remote buzzers or indeed any obvious way to let its inhabitants know they had visitors. I glanced around for possible witnesses, but the alley was empty save for an orange tabby that watched me from a distance. I held out the Hand of Glory, muttered a quick incantation, heard a click, and opened the door. I glanced over my shoulder as I slipped in, but the cat had disappeared.

  The dark foyer and stairwell of Sailor’s apartment building reeked of cabbage, pine-scented disinfectant, and spices I could not name. As I mounted the old, dark wooden stairs, the sounds of television sets and the staccato rhythm of conversations held in Cantonese floated through the thin walls. At the landing in front of Sailor’s door I sensed a hopeless, desperate emotion, traces of energy left over from a long-ago murder over a gambling debt. Sailor claimed it didn’t bother him, but surely it couldn’t help his mood.

  I knocked. No response. Knocked again and called out to him. Nothing.

  I could use the Hand again to get in, but that seemed like too much. I sank down onto the top step to wait.

  And wait.

  I am not by nature a patient person, and mastering the waiting game had been one of my greatest challenges as a witch. Paciencia es una virtud, my grandmother Graciela used to lecture me. Patience is a virtue, especially where witchcraft is concerned. After much struggle, I had learned to remain serene while spell casting: There was no sense in trying to rush, since the methodical rhythm of the preparations played a role in getting me into the meditative frame of mind. Experience had taught me that an impatient witch was likely to conjure something she hadn’t intended, which could pose no small danger to herself and others. Not to mention break a lot of crockery.

  Still, except when it came to spell casting, I had a hard time being patient. As I waited, I tapped my foot and reviewed what I knew: Miriam had been sickened, and Tarra killed, presumably by the same person. Witchcraft was involved. Rex might have been jealous of Tarra and Wolfgang, but why would he have struck out against Miriam? Then there was Jonathan and Jonquil and Anise and the other coven sisters… and the elusive Calypso Cafaro.

  I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out the tiny black mirror I had started to carry around with the goal of practicing my scrying. A good scryer has the ability to see the future, or the answers to secrets, in a reflective surface, such as a crystal ball or a mirror. I didn’t like the idea of being locked out of an entire plane of perception, so I was determined to improve. A while back I was trying to train with Aidan, but certain events took place that made our working together… awkward. I needed to ask someone else for instruction. Maybe Sailor’s aunt, a witch in the Rom tradition, could train me. Then again, I still owed her from last time she helped me out. Hmm, I should probably follow up on that, the sooner, the better. If her grudges looked anything like my grandmother Graciela’s, I had some ’splainin’ to do.

  For the next half an hour I focused on blocking out the sounds and smells of the building, trying to concentrate yet not think. It was quite a trick, and I was no better at it than I was with eighth-grade algebra. More than anything right now, I wished I were a powerful seer. Apparently, that gene had skipped my generation.

  I was about to give up on my scrying homew
ork for the day when the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed up the stairwell, followed by heavy clomping of motorcycle boots upon the wooden stair treads.

  As he turned the corner on the landing below, Sailor spotted me and let out an audible sigh.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “I won’t go away.” I stood, blocking his path up the stairs. “I can’t. This is a young mother we’re talking about. She has a baby, a father, friends. She’s loved, and needed. You have to help me help her.”

  His dark eyes met mine. I stroked my medicine bag and tried to exert some control over him, though I knew it would be fruitless.

  “I have the Hand of Glory. I can get us into the theater, no problem. It’ll take us an hour, maybe an hour and a half, tops.”

  He sighed once more, turned, and started downstairs.

  “Is that a yes?” I asked as I hurried after him.

  “It’s not a no,” he replied.

  “Don’t you need your things? Séance things?”

  “I’ve got what I need. You brought the Mustang?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m driving.”

  * * *

  “How long is this gonna take?” Sailor growled in a low whisper an hour later.

  We were in a crowded storage nook behind a curtain at the Paramount. After using magic to let ourselves in a side door to the stage area, we had headed for the lobby, only to be forced into hiding by the sudden appearance of a security guard. Rather than making his rounds, the paunchy, asthmatic fellow had taken up residence in one of the plush red velvet theater seats, propped his feet on the back of the chair in front of him, whipped out a cell phone, and proceeded to complain bitterly about his mother-in-law to whoever was on the other end of the line.

  “How should I know?” I whispered, irrationally annoyed at the security guard for interfering in my plans for breaking and entering.

  “Can’t you speed this up?” Sailor asked.

  “How would you suggest I do that?”

  “You’re the witch. Figure it out.”