“No,” I said, thinking that while there might be a little trespassing going on, it was minor and, after all, he was on a rescue mission. “You’re just helping out a stranger you happened to notice as you passed by the store. Sebastian’s Antiques, near the corner of Gold and Balance Streets.”
“Okay. Is it dangerous?”
“No. He’s unarmed. In fact, he’s naked.”
“Naked?” The sounds of pages flipping intensified, and I could only imagine he was searching his handbook for extenuating circumstances.
“Sam?” I asked after another long moment of silence.
“Okay. I’m gonna have to charge you time and a half because of the hour. And there’s a surcharge for nakedness.”
“Seriously?”
“Says so right here in my book.”
“Just out of curiosity, would that nakedness surcharge hold if the person in question were a woman, or only for a man?”
“You want me to do the job or not?” Sam asked, sounding cranky. “I’m perfectly happy staying home and watching old movies. Last time I helped you out, I was nearly thrown over a balcony.”
“I think that’s exaggerating, just a tad. But anyway, yes, please. I will pay you if you go help this fellow out. He really does need to see a doctor.”
And then I took my sullen psychic home, hauled him up the stairs, cleaned up his wound, applied a poultice, brewed from my Book of Shadows, cast a salt circle on my living room floor, and stayed with him until he fell asleep.
And then I took stock. Oscar was missing. Sailor and Conrad were both out of commission. Even Sailor’s aunt was still down for the count. Aidan was, I supposed, an enemy, as was Boye.
I was running through magical allies like so many gorse blossoms.
All I could think to do, at this point, was brew.
Sailor slept on, drugged by the brew I had urged him to drink. This was good; the sleep would help his body to garner all its forces to mount an immune response to the injury. If I brewed well—and I almost always did—he should be up and around by later today, and within a week would have nothing but faint pink scars to show where he had been bitten. The poultice would heal from the outside, the brew from within.
It took me three trips to take all my supplies down to the van. It didn’t help that I was looking over my shoulder the whole time. Not only afraid that Aidan or one of his minions might be coming after me, but also aware that in the middle of the night on Haight Street, even under ordinary circumstances, it paid to be on guard.
I climbed into the back of the van and shut the doors, then began to light the candles. I could feel a heavy weariness settle over me like a mantle. I was physically exhausted from too little sleep and the night’s Herculean effort with the preternaturally heavy wings, then helping Sailor up to my apartment. Every muscle ached. Plus, my neck still hurt from the attack at the Academy of Sciences, my hand was still sore from the cat scratch, and I’d been casting so much lately, I feared my caster was all tuckered out.
As they said back in Jarod, I felt tore up from the floor up.
Unfortunately, feeling sorry for myself made it even harder than normal to get to the semi-trancelike state that was necessary to concentrate and focus my intent to cast an effective spell. But I forced myself to think about Oscar, and sure enough, within a short period of time, I could feel the wings aiding me. Helping me cast in order to attain their demise.
Guilt washed over me. And self-doubt. Was I doing the right thing? Was there any other way? I was destroying a part of Oscar, a part that he likely cherished.
While I was wondering this, and chanting, the wings began to transform. Graciela was accurate in her description: They looked leathery like bat wings but were made of individual feathers like a bird’s wing. And if she was completely correct, then they would disintegrate like a butterfly’s delicate wings if I touched them, and touch them I must in order to cast the spell properly.
But I had to save Oscar. The tree was slated for removal tomorrow.
This was the only way. I took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and let several drops of my own blood fall as a sacrifice.
I braced myself. A great cloud of vapor burst forth, streaming up to the ceiling, where it coalesced and took on the amorphous form of a face, looking down at me.
Looking into that face, I was now certain: The Ashen Witch was my helping spirit, my guide. I had always wondered about this guardian who appeared when I cast an important spell, when I brewed and added my own blood—it wasn’t any known relative, and Graciela had always told me not to push, that her identity would be revealed to me in time. It was the Ashen Witch. We were connected through the ages. Through time.
When the casting was over, a single feather remained. Leatherlike, it did not crumble like the rest.
Mourning Oscar’s wings and still plagued with self-doubt, I took the time to weave a delicate leather strap through and around the feather, threaded beads of orange, magenta, and cobalt blue onto the band, and consecrated the feather, soaking it in the brew while chanting a charm. As I completed each step, I hoped and prayed I would be placing it around his scaly neck soon. Aidan might be right; perhaps Oscar would never forgive me for destroying his wings. But even if he left me in anger, at least he would be alive—and free even from Aidan.
Then I hung the amulet around my own neck, packed my satchel with the wing powder and jars of brew, my sacred rope, and all the pertinent charms and herbs I could think of.
And prepared to go to the oak tree to get my gol-danged pig back.
And there I would give the Ashen Witch another shot—through me—at putting Deliverance Corydon to rest. For good.
Chapter 24
It was three in the morning when I proceeded on my rescue mission. The witching hour. This was the time between night and day when most are asleep and the spirits move most freely.
I brought my things to the clearing in Golden Gate Park, where Ms. Quercus stood.
I knew the crescent moon was above me somewhere, but it was not showing itself tonight. The clearing was lit only by the subtle gleam of a streetlight on the nearby road.
In fact, by the time I arrived at the tree, the wind was kicking up, and now gusts of rain were billowing through the trees. This never happened in July in San Francisco. Like the old song says, it don’t rain in California—almost never from May to October in this part of the state. Not even the occasional passing shower.
This rare storm, of course, was courtesy of a group of witches in Jarod, Texas. I imagined the thirteen were cranky as all get-out, since Graciela had roused them before dawn and insisted upon the coven meeting. At least Texas was a couple hours ahead of San Francisco. But if I knew them—if I knew most witches—their circle would end with sharing a lot of food, laughter, and fellowship. They would probably leave with hugs and promises to get together and cast more often. That’s the way these things went.
But other than the group of witches working from afar, I would cast alone. According to Graciela, it was woman to woman, a very private battle. This was the way it was; this was the way it had to be.
Luckily, there were no witnesses tonight. Only fools stood outside during a lightning storm, or ran under a tree already weakened by rot. Then again . . . I searched the clearing, trying to see through the rain-drenched darkness. I felt almost as though I was being watched.
The trees thrashed about, and raindrops pounded down, stinging my face. This was no gentle shower—it was a true storm, angry and violent. I tried to ignore the cold and discomfort as I drew my circle around the tree and set up the five points of the pentagram. I began chanting, keeping low as branches swiped at me.
The storm rose, more and more intense. I chanted louder, matching its fury. I brought out some of Oscar’s wing powder and began to strew it about, allowing the wind to catch it. It swirled around the base of the tree.
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The oak’s massive gnarled trunk seemed to contort, its broad, thick arms waving and shuddering in the wind. I heard a cracking sound and desperately hoped the branches weren’t going. There was no way to know exactly what part of the tree contained Oscar. What if he was in a branch that fell? Was he able to think in there, to realize what was going on? Surely if he was conscious . . . he must know that I would never give up on him, that I would move heaven and earth if I had to in order to secure his release.
I had done my best to move earth, and now it was time to move heaven.
For the spell to be complete, I needed lightning. I could hear thunder rolling, but it was still far away. Was the coven strong enough? I wondered. Were they too far away in Texas? Was the braid of my hair enough to make the connection?
The storm whipped up further and further. I started to feel a hum that went to the heart of me, that helped me to connect to the power of my ancestors through the centuries. Oscar wasn’t here to help me open the portals, but I felt him. He was near.
I needed to time things right. . . . I needed lightning to hit the tree.
Now or never. Without pausing in my chanting, I whirled the gold velvet cape around me and let it settle on my shoulders. I fastened the clasp at the throat.
The brew did its job. Rather than transporting me back through time, I brought the souls to me.
I could feel the Ashen Witch as if she were a part of me. But . . . there was something else, too. Someone else.
Lightning struck. Directly down through the branches to the heartwood.
I saw a white flash and felt a tremendous blast of energy. My hair stood on end, and I fell onto my backside in the muck at the base of the tree. My fingers and neck burned.
As though in slow motion, the tree split in two, the top of each branch bursting into flame. I scrambled up off the muddy ground and ran from the falling branches. They caught on themselves while falling, giving me precious seconds to escape.
When I turned back, I saw what looked like Oscar’s batlike ears sticking up out of the split center of the tree.
“Oscar!” I cried, trying to make myself heard over the sound of the storm.
Oscar’s head popped up, over the broken lip of the tree trunk. He was muddy and wet and covered in bark and seemed mighty riled. He tumbled out and scampered through the falling branches.
“Oscar!” I said again, opening my arms wide. He threw himself at me, tossing me back onto my butt, once again, into the mud. He glommed on, arms and legs wrapped around me so hard his scales dug into my flesh, and I could barely breathe.
“Mistress!”
“Oscar, are you all right?”
“Mistress!”
I started laughing. Oscar had one arm over my face and his hand grabbing my head so I couldn’t see a thing, but I could feel his heart thudding wildly against mine. Oscar was back.
“Um . . . mistress?”
The tone in his voice warned me. I pulled his arm down out of my line of sight. I was instantly sorry.
Something else was crawling out of the tree.
I felt it more than I saw it at first; something crawling along my skin like an army of ants, up my spine and down my arms.
It was a woman. Or something like a woman. She was covered in bark, leaves, and sap; her eyes were burning black, her mouth a huge vacant void.
Deliverance Corydon in the flesh, so to speak.
Her gnarled hands held the sides of the tree as she pulled herself out, stepping almost gingerly, as though unsure of her surroundings. Disturbingly, she started to smile, a hideous awakening, as though realizing she was released at long last.
She moved slowly, jerkily, with a seeking, yearning sensation I could feel.
She opened her mouth and a sound came out. This was no human sound I knew of, more like the screeching of an owl, something ancient and predatory.
Lance came on the scene from out of nowhere, throwing himself to his knees in front of his mistress. I noticed that his right arm was bandaged.
“I have followed you, mistress. I have remained loyal. I followed your ashes across the country. I watched as they buried you here. . . . I searched for a way to resurrect you, but I failed. I know that. Kill me if you must. I tried to kill the Lily witch for you, and I failed even in that. My only happiness is that you are released from your wooden prison.”
She kicked him as she stepped past him, still looking around at her surroundings, her movements strangely awkward, as though not used to her body. Finally, her finger rose and pointed directly at me.
“I accuse thee; thou hast bewitched me!” Deliverance cried, then started to laugh.
I felt strangely cowed by her words, as though we were still back in Dathorne, among the hateful crowd.
“Run, Oscar. Run,” I whispered, setting him down abruptly so I could face her.
I stood, stroking my medicine bag to center myself.
“Give me the pig!” she demanded.
“Deliverance, this is between you and me. Leave Oscar out of it.”
Her laugh was a rapacious, destructive shriek leaving her terrible mouth. It sent chills down my spine. Her eyes shifted, and I sidestepped to stand in her line of vision, determined to keep her attention away from Oscar. My familiar hadn’t obeyed me, of course, and remained by my side, growling a deep rumble I could barely hear above the storm.
“Deliv—” I began again.
“Stand back!” cried a man’s voice. I looked over my shoulder to see Will Chambers running toward us. He was smiling and excited, as though discovering some wonderful surprise. “Are you . . . ? You are Deliverance Corydon?”
She cast her terrible gaze upon him, cocking her head to the side in interest.
“I can’t believe this!” Will gushed.
“Will, what in the world . . . ?” I said.
“When I couldn’t find the cape, I gave her a sacrifice! That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? That’s her, right? Deliverance Corydon. I can’t believe this!”
“You called her?”
“I gave her Sebastian. His blood soaked into her roots. Just as the legend said it would. You knew, didn’t you? You came to me, asking all those questions. . . . I thought you knew. You helped bring her back by wearing that cape! I’ve been watching, and waiting, and hoping. Bart was trying to get this tree taken down, but he didn’t manage it in time. I knew if I couldn’t find that cape, a sacrifice was the next-best thing. . . .”
Deliverance came toward him, arms extended. Her gait was jerky, but she seemed sure and strong as she wrapped him in her embrace. At first Will smiled, but then he started screaming.
I began murmuring my spell words again and released the rest of Oscar’s wing powder, which swirled around wildly in the wind.
“Run, mistress!” Oscar yelled, pointing over my head.
I ran, as a huge, burning oak branch crashed down—right on top of the pair.
Deliverance crawled out, the sound of her terrible laughter rising above the storm.
Will’s leg was trapped. He cried out for help as the flames came near.
I was racked with indecision. Despite what Will had done, I couldn’t let him burn—I had to help him. But I didn’t want to go near Deliverance.
She extended an arm to point at me once again. “Harlot! Witch! I accuse thee!”
“Yes, I’m a witch,” I cried out. “A proud witch. And I don’t know what you are, but you are not welcome here.”
I started to chant in earnest, yelling to be heard over the storm. I stroked my medicine bag, envisioned my helping spirit, and called on the strength and magic of my ancestors.
After a moment, I could hear Graciela murmuring with me. Then another voice, and another. All those women’s voices—my grandmother’s coven and someone else . . . Was it the Ashen Witch?—coming together within me.
I could feel them under my skin, their energy reverberating through my veins: All of their courage, determination, and resilience supporting me, holding me up as I faced this terrible menace.
The storm swirled up around us. A deafening crack filled the air. I was blinded by a flash of light and knocked to the ground, flat on my back.
Dazed, I pushed myself back up and looked for Oscar, but my eyes were still adjusting: I couldn’t see.
But I could hear: Deliverance was screaming. The terrible sounds echoed through my head just as they had in my vision when she stood atop the burning pyre. They continued for several moments, finally fading away with a wretched sob.
“What happened?” I croaked. “Where is she?”
“There,” said Oscar, pointing to a pile of ash. “Struck by lightning. What were the chances?”
Will called for help again, and Oscar and I ran to pull Will out from under the branch. Thunder continued to boom, and lightning flashed around us, but the greatest ferocity of the storm seemed to have passed.
“What . . . what’s going on?” Will look stunned. “What’s happening?”
“Ashes to ashes,” I said quietly. I couldn’t believe that, after all of this, it was done that quickly and easily. “Will, do you have a cell phone?”
He handed it to me, apparently too stunned and hurt to think about the consequences of cooperating. I called Carlos Romero, told him where to find us and that Professor Will Chambers had confessed all. I hoped he would do the same for the police officers in a slightly more official setting.
Just as I was hanging up, a flurry of white caught my eye.
Dozens of white butterflies swirled around the base of the tree, their fragile wings batted about by the waning winds of the storm.
“What’s this, now?” I asked, afraid it was yet another incarnation of Deliverance Corydon. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. . . . I felt weak as a kitten.
“That’s a sign from the woodsfolk, mistress. Like the mushrooms—they were a clue that a frog belonged here. Anyway, I guess they like you, after all. They helped take down that wicked witch for you. Remember: Don’t say thank you. They’ll come to you for a favor in return when they’re good and ready.”
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 28
