A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  I realized I hadn’t yet looked this up in my Book of Shadows, the tome that held spells, stories, and quotes, which my grandmother Graciela had passed down to me when I was still a child—a young, unskilled witch. I knew my Book of Shadows held a series of love spells, but love curses . . . ?

  “Love spells play on a person’s fantasies, simply attaching them to the desired object. But love curses are more complex: The hexed person can never find true love because of the crushing inability to truly care for themselves.”

  “But a lot of insecure people are married or in relationships.”

  “True, a lot of people are in fair, ho-hum relationships and they make them work, building a life together, raising children, supporting each other. But the cursed won’t settle for that. They’re not satisfied with anything but the ultimate, true, deep and abiding love.”

  “That sounds like a true curse,” said Sailor. “But would one of your kind be able to cast a curse strong enough to survive the ages? To pass on from one generation to the next? That seems like a bit much, even for you.”

  “I don’t think I would be capable of it, but I think we’re dealing with something beyond the common everyday witch here. I think Deliverance was much more than that—is much more than that. Besides, last words are powerful, no matter who you are. That’s why witches were often denied their last words when they were facing execution: for fear that they would curse their prosecutors. A curse cast by a dying witch is pretty tough to repeal.”

  “Unless you’re a pretty determined witch yourself,” Sailor said, his hand cupping my head.

  We arrived at Herve’s shop and set about finding a parking space. Not an easy feat in this part of town, especially in the evening. The neighborhood was hopping.

  Herve and Caterina Le Mansec ran a voodoo and spiritual supply store in the neighborhood of San Francisco referred to as the Mission. I loved this part of town; it had a decidedly Latin flair and was full of immigrants from Spanish-speaking countries, lately joined by young professionals seeking rents cheaper than downtown, along with the nightlife and good food that often accompanied immigrant areas. Tonight was no exception: Though it was still early, music blared from car radios and clubs, young people crowded the streets, and the shops were open late.

  I still closed Aunt Cora’s Closet at six, though lately I’d had some pressure to stay open later. It would be nice to accommodate people who work normal hours for a living, true, but I enjoyed having my evenings to myself. And being open evening hours also invited more trouble, what with people drinking and feeling rambunctious.

  We found Herve pulling small votive candles out of a large cardboard packing box and placing them on a shelf near the door.

  “Lily, how nice to see you,” he said as he greeted me.

  We hugged. “You know Sailor, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Hello, and welcome.” They shook hands, doing one of those manly, assessing handshakes.

  I said hello to Caterina, who was tallying receipts. She gave me a polite greeting, but I knew she wasn’t crazy about me. I feared she thought I led Herve into trouble, and she might be right. I know she associated me with the vandalism their shop fell victim to not long ago, when a local group lashed out in fear and anger at us magical types. I had helped Herve and Caterina clean up and get the shop back on its feet, but she still held a grudge.

  “Your supplies are ready,” she said, hauling a cardboard box out from behind the counter.

  “Thank you. The shop looks great. That whole shelving unit is new, isn’t it?”

  Herve nodded. “The insurance money came through, so I had an unemployed friend build a few items. Upgraded a bit. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

  “Very.” A couple of teenage girls came in to try out the essential oils. “Could we speak in private?”

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  The beaded curtain clacked as we passed through it. We continued down a short, narrow hallway to his office, a decidedly utilitarian space with featureless beige office furniture. The first time I’d seen it, I had been disappointed by the quotidian surroundings. One might as well be at the DMV for all the personality it showed. On the other hand, when a person lived in the kind of world Herve and I operated in, a little boring was sometimes a good thing.

  And speaking of boring . . . as soon as we were out of earshot of the other customers, Herve dropped his lilting Caribbean accent. He was born and raised in LA. The lovely accent was part of the show he put on for his clientele.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Did you hear about Sebastian Crowley?”

  He nodded.

  “Any idea what’s going on with that?”

  He shook his head again, a broad smile slowly spreading over his face. “You’ve taken it upon yourself to investigate?”

  “Well, I . . . not investigate per se . . .”

  I realized Sailor was nodding by my side.

  “You are awfully willing to insert yourself in such affairs, aren’t you?” Herve asked.

  Sailor nodded again. I was getting a little impatient with the “wow, she’s so crazy” model of dealing with Lily.

  “Once again, this is an issue that has implications for many people,” I insisted. “It’s not just finding justice for Sebastian. There’s a wicked tree, a love curse, an enchanted cape. . . .”

  Herve was grinning by now.

  “And most importantly, I’m missing my pet pig. So okay, here’s what I need to know,” I snapped, now thoroughly irritated. “Did Sebastian Crowley come to you for help with a client in overcoming a love curse?”

  “Of course.”

  “He did?”

  “Of course he did. Madame Decotier’s is the first place people turn when they need help lifting curses. You should know that by now. Especially since”—he paused, his eyes flickering over to Sailor’s. He nodded in recognition of the family—“since Sailor’s aunt was attacked. There are only so many of us in the area with that kind of power. How is Renna, by the way?”

  “She’s doing well, thank you. Almost fully recovered physically. Emotionally . . . well, that’s harder. But she’s a tough nut, and she’s got family around her. She’ll be fine.”

  “And your uncle?”

  “The same. Healing.”

  “Please give them my regards.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “So, back to Sebastian,” I urged

  “Yes. A couple of weeks ago . . .” He thumbed through an agenda on his desk. “On the thirteenth, Sebastian requested a private interview. He told me a client of his was suffering under a love curse passed down through generations and asked if I could help.”

  “And did you?”

  “As I’m sure you know, curses laid upon generations through time are very rare.”

  I nodded.

  “And it was Sebastian. . . .” He met Sailor’s eyes.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, looking from him to Sailor.

  “Sebastian had a way of exaggerating things,” said Sailor. “He wasn’t the most reliable of characters.”

  “There are a lot of people who wouldn’t have minded seeing Sebastian dead,” said Herve. “I’d say it’s much more likely his death was connected to a business deal gone sour rather than the result of some alleged love curse.”

  “Thanks for your advice. I’d really just like to know what you did for him.”

  Herve shrugged. “I sold him a kit to remove love curses.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Not in Sebastian’s hands it doesn’t. First I quoted him what I would charge to remove such a curse and told him I would have to deal directly with the client. He balked, of course. Cheap bastard. He insisted I sell him the ingredients to do it himself. But as you know very well, Lily, the success of any spell or curse has to do with the intent of
the practitioner. The materials, the incantations might be exactly the same in a blessing as in a curse, but the intention is what results in magic—or not. There aren’t that many people able to instill that kind of intention in a spell for a stranger.”

  True. But for a family member or someone we loved, it was more plausible. Perhaps if Sebastian passed the items on to Bart, the cursed man in his desperation would have had enough intent to work magic. It was known to have happened: the parents of a sick child, the enamored of her love.

  I glanced at Sailor again. He had asked me once if I had cast a love spell upon us both. Of course, I denied it. Yet what if I had done it by accident just because I wanted it so badly?

  Stop it, Lily, I told myself. As Graciela had taught me, there are no accidents when the practitioner is well trained, the spell is well cast, and one has faith in one’s helping spirit.

  “Could you tell me what you gave him?” Perhaps Sebastian had been killed before he could pass on the items to Bart, for a small fortune, of course. Much more than he had paid Herve.

  “Ti plant, Syrian rue, devil’s pod, eupatorium, galangal. Storm water from Hurricane Katrina, cemetery dust, vervain-infused beeswax for the poppet, straw from a fallow field, a suffering root.”

  “Sounds like quite a care package,” said Sailor.

  Herve smiled again. “Only the best from Madame Decotier’s. Oh, and the most important thing, of course: the words.”

  He took a large leather-bound tome from the shelf, flipped it open, and then handed it to me.

  “The ancestor who was cursed was a Christian, so I kept it in the faith.”

  It was the Book of Common Prayer.

  “Just prayers?”

  “That and the protective incantation against historical influences. But again . . .”

  “It’s all about the intent.”

  He nodded. “The only other thing was the blood sacrifice.”

  Sailor and I both froze as we looked up from the book.

  “Come on, Lily. Don’t look at me that way. This sort of thing doesn’t come easy, as you know only too well.” He smiled. “Nothing focuses intent quite like a blood sacrifice.”

  “Did you have anything particular in mind?” Sailor asked. “Are we talking about a drop of blood, or a chicken, or . . . ?”

  “Lily’s able to use a drop of her blood as a substitute, but most of us don’t have that kind of advantage. I don’t, and Sebastian certainly didn’t. Much less a civilian.”

  There was a momentary pause as we all pondered this one.

  “Anyway, it seems to me it’s a moot point,” said Herve. “Sebastian was killed before he could perform the spell, or before he gave the ingredients and instructions to the client, right?”

  “It seems so.” I realized I hadn’t specifically asked Bart about this.

  “So . . .” continued Herve. “Could the perpetrator have been trying to keep Sebastian from sharing the information with the cursed man?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “It seems like a weak motive for murder,” said Sailor. “Trying to keep an old man from finding true love?”

  “In my experience, it doesn’t take all that much for some people,” Herve said. “So who would find it in their interest to keep the curse upon Bart? Perhaps someone who is set to inherit an old man’s fortune, who didn’t want him finding happiness and sharing it with a wife?”

  That was certainly something to think about. I thought Bart had spent his fortune trying to dissolve the curse, but I could well be wrong. One man’s spare change was another man’s fortune.

  “Here’s one thing I don’t understand: Bart said he had looked everywhere for a cure. Why didn’t he come to you directly?”

  “He doesn’t share my faith. He didn’t know the questions to ask. Or he simply didn’t have the focus of intent.”

  “So you’re saying . . . ?”

  “Maybe he’s scared of voodoo. A lot of people are. Especially if he was raised in a Christian tradition, he might have been wary. Or I was just never in his scope of thought.”

  “Any idea why Sebastian would have been killed under an oak tree rather than in his shop?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.” Sailor and I rose to leave. “Thank you for your time, Herve. I appreciate it, as always.”

  “Except that particular oak tree has had more than its share of death at its roots.”

  That brought us up short.

  “What?”

  “I think if you look into the history of it, you’ll see it’s taken more than its fair share of souls over the years. There’s a ghost story about it. Like the traffic cop.”

  “The one who gives tickets?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve heard that one. But what about the tree?”

  “Just that a lot of people have died under its branches. Druggies, mostly, eating the mushrooms and inadvertently killing themselves.”

  “Are trees usually malevolent?”

  He smiled again. “Of course not. You going to believe that sort of nonsense?”

  “Then . . .”

  “But whatever’s inside the tree, that’s a different story entirely.”

  When Sailor and I left the shop, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Herve said about that tree. It had been on the tip of my tongue to ask him about Oscar, but Herve’s magical system was different from mine. I wasn’t sure to what extent Oscar was “out” to people. Sailor knew, of course, but I imagined that was through their work with Aidan. It didn’t seem my place to tell Oscar’s secrets.

  Outside on Valencia Street, the smell of spices, corn tortillas, and grilled meats wafted by on the warm evening air.

  “I’m starved,” said Sailor. “Let me buy you dinner. I know a great place for tacos.”

  It turned out to be the same place I’d come with an old boyfriend, what seemed like ages ago. Max Carmichael was a myth buster who had doubted me, then romanced me, on my first supernatural case in San Francisco. It was earlier this year, but it seemed like a decade for all the things I’d been through since then.

  The fling with Max hadn’t lasted long because I couldn’t stand being doubted and second-guessed. I realized now, though, glancing over at Sailor, that I couldn’t think of Max without a pang of longing for what I could never have: ordinariness. I simply wasn’t normal. And that was okay, I thought to myself. Normal wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, after all. Especially with Sailor by my side, I was happy to remain my true, weird self.

  After a beer and some food, I felt myself relax. Outside, the Mission neighborhood was as raucous and joyous as ever: people vying for parking spaces, folks selling jewelry and begging for change, a man pushing a little cart with Mexican fruit ice pops, another carrying a tall stick displaying fat bags of pink and blue cotton candy. Music—rap, salsa, and R & B—blared from cars and clubs.

  “So do you really think someone’s trying to keep Bart from finding true love?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve heard of crazier things.”

  “But Bart doesn’t have a fortune for anyone to inherit. At least I don’t think so.”

  “He owns that apartment, right? In that building on Broadway? You know real estate prices around here—that place might bring in close to a million bucks. That’s reason enough to kill somebody.”

  “You make me nervous when you say things like that.”

  He chuckled. “It’s not reason enough for sane people like you and me. But if you’re willing to kill for money, then that old man’s property would be plenty of motivation.”

  “You’re right. I guess that’s a real possibility. I guess Hannah would be the obvious suspect, then? Maybe she wants to give it all to her snakes.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hannah’s a snake lover.”

 
“Yet another reason not to trust her. And she was there at Cal Academy that night that you were chased through the basement, wasn’t she?”

  I nodded. And she had met with Sebastian the day before he was killed.

  Chapter 20

  “So, what now?” asked Sailor as we walked back to the car. “Might I suggest you go back to Aunt Cora’s Closet and keep Boye with you for protection while I try to track down some information on the heir apparent?”

  “No. If Hannah really is involved, it’s not up to us to bust her. I should call Carlos, fill him in on our suspicions. I owe him a call anyway—I was supposed to tell him what I found out during my talk with Will.”

  “Will?”

  “The professor from Berkeley—you met him briefly at Bart’s apartment that day.” I pulled out into traffic and headed home. “He’s the one who told me about the Ashen Witch and Deliverance Corydon.”

  “Does he know Bart’s nieces well? Maybe he’d have some insights for you.”

  That wasn’t a bad idea. Will had attended the cocktail party with Hannah and Nina; maybe he could shed some light on the family dynamics. But then I reminded myself, again, this wasn’t my role. I still wanted to know what was going on with the visions, and the tree, and I wanted my familiar back. But the murder part of this mystery? I would very happily hand that over to the professionals.

  “I’ll call Carlos as soon as I get back. I’ll tell them what you found on Lance, as well, and let them follow up on it all. Let’s just concentrate on getting Oscar back.”

  Sailor nodded.

  “You know, there’s something about Lance. . . . Tell me if this is crazy, but could he be . . . a familiar?”

  “A familiar?”

  “Yes, it occurred to me. This witch, Deliverance Corydon, was said to have a frog familiar.”

  “But Lance is a man.”

  “Maybe he’s a man like Boye’s a man. Would that be possible?”

  “At this point, anything’s possible. Though I’m not sure where that leaves us.”