His face shifted just the tiniest amount. I doubt most people would have noticed. His blue eyes widened a tad, the more innocent to appear.
“La who?”
“I thought you sort of ran things around here, or wish you did. You mean to tell me La Llorona is running around unsanctioned?”
“I don’t know where you got the impression that I’m in charge of every two-bit demon in town.” He allowed a tinge of annoyance into his voice. “How’s Oscar working out for you?”
“He’s fine. So you know nothing about La Llorona’s being in town?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug.
“She may be the one responsible for Frances’s death.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“You said the victim was found within a pentagram? La Llorona wouldn’t cross the circle, much less leave the victim there. Besides, she doesn’t enter houses. . . . As far as I know, she can’t enter buildings.”
Well, duh. La Llorona left her adult victims on the shore of the water as warnings, and took the children down into the depths with her.
Aidan pulled a fat green gilt-edged book from a high shelf and placed in on the desk in front of me, tapping it.
“You need to bone up on your demonology.”
“True,” I said as I looked at the title: Demons from A to Zed. “Could I borrow this? I don’t have much of a library, since I’ve been moving around so much.”
“Be my guest.”
“A child went missing right after Frances and I heard La Llorona’s cry. It seems a strange coincidence, Frances dying right on the heels of a child disappearing.” I thought for a moment. “Presuming La Llorona grabbed the child, is there any way to get her back?”
He blew out a breath and shook his head. “That’s a tough one. Even if you got her back she might be . . . different. Altered.”
I nodded. “I was afraid of that. I guess time is of the essence.”
“The only way I know of is to trade souls.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. A soul for a soul.”
“That’s the only way?”
“So far as I know. Would you like me to make some inquiries?”
“What will it cost me?”
“For you, not a penny.”
“Uh-huh.” I looked into the depths of his blue eyes. “I’d rather not be in your debt.”
He smiled. It was a slow, sexy smile, making me tingle down somewhere deep. I knew the pull was probably due to his magic, that he looked at everyone—make that every woman—this way. But it reminded me, with sudden clarity, of how long it had been since I had had a man in my life. Unless you counted Oscar. Speaking of whom . . .
“How did you know I call him Oscar?”
“Mmm?” Aidan murmured as he stood and moved over to the sideboard, where he poured two glasses of wine. “I know what you could do for me. Are you familiar with the properties of mandrake?”
“Yes, I am. But to stay on subject for just a moment: I didn’t tell you I named my new familiar Oscar,” I said. “How did you know?”
“Witch’s intuition.”
“Is he reporting to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He handed me a glass of wine and hitched one hip on the desk, very close to where I was sitting. His energy was palpable as he looked down at me. “Is it true the mandrake root screams when you take it out of the ground?”
I nodded. “You have to approach it properly, obtain its permission. Then it’s usually pretty docile.”
“I have need of a mandragora. I don’t suppose you could help me out?”
“A mandragora . . . as in a household imp?” A mandragora is a kind of familiar elf, made from the root of a mandrake plant. Though poisonous, the plant is associated with love, sex, and fertility. The mandragora is often kept in a closet or cupboard at home and helps in wish fulfillment and future-telling.
He nodded.
“Why would you need a mandragora?”
Aidan shrugged and smiled. “Just lonely, I guess.”
“Can’t you make your own?”
“I’m not particularly gifted with brews and herbs. My skills lie . . . elsewhere.” He fixed me with a provocative gaze. “That’s one reason I’m so sure our magical talents would cleave. We complement each other.”
I had to smile. “Sounds like a pickup line at a coven meeting.”
When he laughed he threw his head back slightly, and his blue eyes sparkled. “You’re a powerful woman, Lily. We haven’t had anyone of your abilities around here for years.”
“What do you know of me and my abilities?”
“I told you, I knew your father. It’s clear you take after his side of the family. You and I, we understand each other.”
I took a sip of the wine—a full-bodied red, of course. Its robust flavors curled around my tongue, warming me from the inside. I could feel myself melting toward Aidan just a tad. There was something enticing about the idea of not having to hide my abilities, of being around someone who knew exactly who—and what—I was. Most of the men I’ve known in my life have been afraid of me. Most of the women, too, for that matter.
“Have dinner with me. We have a lot to talk about,” he said, taking my hand in his. Sparks flew as we touched.
My eyes met his, and I could feel the seductive tug of his magic. I pulled away, managing to spill a little wine down the front of my dress. Aidan yanked out a monogrammed handkerchief and started to dab at the stain. My hormones shifted into overdrive.
“Thanks,” I said, pushing the chair away and grabbing the hankie from his hand to dab at the wine myself. “But I’d really like to stay out of politics. I’m a solo act.”
He watched me for a long moment, eyes assessing me, up and down, before nodding and inclining his head.
“I’ll make some inquiries on your behalf. And please don’t forget about my mandragora.”
“Thank you,” I said as I stood, wondering if I should shake his hand. The traitorous appendage tingled just thinking about it. Best to keep the physical contact to a minimum. I placed his stained hankie on the desk, turned toward the door, and let myself out.
Out in the corridor, I hurried by the figures of European explorers and passed the Chamber of Horrors, slowing my pace as I noticed a pair of tourists standing near the entrance to the exhibit. They were frozen in midstep, unmoving, just as still as the wax figures surrounding us.
A frisson ran up my back. Looking behind me, I thought it seemed like Elvira had moved toward me ever so slightly, lifting her slender arms. I took another step and looked back. . . . The arms were reaching out toward me. . . .
My heart pounded. The power was tangible, running up and down my spine like an army of ants. I hated poppets. I looked back to see Aidan standing in his doorway, his bright blue eyes holding mine, a grin splitting his handsome face.
“Very funny,” I said.
He laughed. “Come back anytime, Lily. For you, my door is always open.”
Trade a soul. A soul for a soul.
Aidan’s parting antics aside, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he had told me about getting Jessica back from the demon.
The thought made me shiver. Even before he said it, I had known that would be the answer, could hear Graciela’s voice in my head as clear as though she were sitting next to me in the passenger seat of my classic Mustang, big floral scarf covering the braided bun of her long gray hair and tied in a tight knot under her stubborn chin. “Es la única manera, m’hija.” The only way.
But making that kind of decision—holding the balance of souls in one’s hands—was beyond anything I could imagine.
As I stopped and started in the thick traffic that strangled the Fisherman’s Wharf tourist area, I studied the people around me. Were any of them worthy of such a fate? I watched a drunken man staggering down the sidewalk with a huge tear in the seat of his pants; surely he was already mostly gone, his essence in the hands of oblivion. Or perh
aps I could find an evil stock trader who was happy to drive elderly women into poverty for the sake of his own luxurious comfort. Or some despicable criminal—like the person responsible for killing Frances, for instance, or a child abuser—wouldn’t that be justice? Could I rationalize forfeiting the soul of such a person to save that of a child?
No. Not even for the sake of a beautiful young girl with a huge, winning smile.
One of the fundamental principles my grandmother had hammered into me, from the very beginning, was to be wary of the “God syndrome.” As the receptacle of truly astonishing abilities, a natural witch could start imagining herself to be in charge of things. But that path, sometimes called the left-hand or dark way, led to the corruption of one’s powers and to evil deeds. Down that path lay spiritual and ethical ruin.
And on top of everything else, I wasn’t even one hundred percent positive that La Llorona had snatched Jessica. There was still a possibility that it was mere coincidence. How could I find out? Would I hear back from Aidan? How would he find out? I really needed a sit-down with the old gal, but now that La Llorona knew I was here, she wouldn’t come near me. It had been stupid to try to reach out to her when I was too psychically spent to hold her. A serious tactical error.
I had always been impulsive and overly confident in my own abilities, and now I feared Jessica was the one paying the price.
The fading evening light took on a pinky violet cast as I looked out beyond the Bay Bridge that led to Oakland and Berkeley. Rush-hour traffic was heavy as thousands of workers spilled out of San Francisco’s financial district and flocked to their far-flung homes in places called Hercules, Pleasanton, and Livermore. I still didn’t know the Bay Area well and looked forward to discovering the surrounding towns and wild spaces, especially the famed redwood groves and rugged northern California coast. I had hoped to make the Bay Area my home and stay here for years, not mere months, giving myself time to really settle in and explore.
But now I felt that familiar restlessness in the pit of my stomach, urging me to just cut and run. That was what I had always done before when things looked dangerous.
But if I ran away this time, would I ever stop?
You’re staying, Lily; that’s final, I told myself. San Francisco was my home now, and selling vintage clothes my calling. It might seem silly, but I felt as if I were making a contribution by working with my antique inventory, tending the store, adding to the crazy, one-of-a-kind Haight-Ashbury community. And I loved it. For the first time, I felt as if I were becoming accepted for who I was, rather than reviled for my special abilities.
So I was staying, come hell or high water. All I had to do now was figure out who had taken Jessica and get her back, then discover who killed Frances and help the police bring that person to justice. How hard could that be? I’m a witch, after all.
I pondered the events of the last twenty-four hours: Frances and I heard La Llorona’s wail while we stood in the basement. It was nothing new for me to hear a demon’s cry, but it was a harbinger of death for Frances. Why had La Llorona singled her out? Then, moments later, Jessica disappeared. She could have been snatched by any number of people—I shouldn’t rush to assume it was La Llorona. Then Frances had died despite my protective spell. Who could have killed her?
A human, no doubt. I had not protected her from humans, concentrating only on demons. Stupid. After all my experiences, how could I have underestimated the capacity for human evil?
And now the police suspected me.
That was the part that really spooked me. I remembered too well what had happened back in my hometown. And seeing the Malleus Maleficarum at Sandra’s place made me feel as though I were being warned of a witch-hunt to come. Most people thought we witches were no longer in mortal danger, but I wasn’t quite so sanguine. If I stuck around long enough, I feared I might find myself standing upon the modern version of the proverbial flaming pyre.
The pastel hue of the evening sky over the bay reminded me that Easter was just around the corner. I had a sudden, vivid memory of Jessica hopping down the shadowy hallway like a bunny—or no, make that a kangaroo. She wouldn’t be going on any Easter egg hunts this year, or receiving any chocolate rabbits or candy eggs.
If I were going to go down in flames, at the very least I should save Jessica. It might be my final redeeming act.
Chapter 9
I wasn’t sure I would remember exactly which of the nearly identical buildings was Jessica’s home, but I needn’t have worried.
Already a makeshift shrine had been set up on the sidewalk outside the duplex. Garish helium-filled balloons bobbed in the breeze off the bay, flames flickered on dozens of tall votive candles decorated with Catholic saints, and bright pink ribbons adorned fluffy teddy bears and stuffed animals. One sees these offerings by the road from time to time, memorials to lives lost in traffic accidents or by stray bullets in intense urban battle zones. Usually I was careful not to open myself up to their agonized sensations, but in this case I felt the sorrow resonate in me.
I mounted the stained concrete steps to the small stoop and rang the doorbell. A thin young man, probably a year or two shy of twenty, opened the door a crack. Dark eyes flickered over me with no change in expression.
“¿Qué quieres?” He asked what I wanted.
I hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of the wine stain on my inappropriate, brightly colored vintage dress. Through the opening of the door I could hear the sounds of a telenovela on the TV and smell the aroma of beans and masa, or corn flour. The scent made me think of Graciela on tamale-making day—she always wound up with a bit of corn flour on her nose. The memory gave me confidence.
“Estoy aquí hablar de Jessica,” I said. “No soy reportera.”
My Spanish isn’t great, but it was enough to get me in the door and to make it clear I wasn’t a reporter. The young man stood back and let me in.
I paused for a moment in the doorway and took in the scene. The cramped living room of the apartment was lined with three twin beds that doubled as couches. A small linoleum kitchen table was surrounded by six vinyl chairs, and a single incandescent bulb in an overhead lamp provided the sole source of light. A television with rabbit-ear antennae was tuned in to a dramatic Spanish-language soap opera, its top adorned with items from a botánica, or herbal shop. There was a little Bud dha in a Plexiglas pyramid, several pictures of the Virgin of Guadalupe, multicolored candles, and even a tall aerosol can of something that promised peace and harmony in the home. There were similar charms and icons scattered on every horizontal surface in the apartment, plus small sachet charms hung over every doorway.
Thumbtacked to the wall was a large colorful calendar from a local bakery featuring a handsome Aztec warrior holding a swooning woman in his arms, the glorious capital city of Tenochtitlán laid out behind them. We humans love to create mythical pasts. Interesting to think that this family could live in cramped, poverty-level conditions yet find solace in romanticizing the fierce, empire-building Aztecs as paragons of romance and justice.
“Please, have a seat,” said a young woman with blond streaks in her otherwise loose, long black hair. She grabbed a chair from the small kitchen table and brought it into the living room for me.
Aside from the young man who answered the door, several people crowded the dim living room: An elderly man drank coffee at the kitchen table, five women of varying ages sat on the beds, and a half dozen children darted in and out of the adjoining bedroom. The adults had the red-ringed eyes and haggard expressions common to long, sleepless nights full of tears.
“Thank you for speaking with me,” I addressed the group. What does one say, in any language, to people so recently touched by tragedy? Words were simply not enough. I concentrated on emanating empathy. “I know it’s difficult, but I was hoping you could tell me what happened with Jessica last night. I think I may be able to help find her and bring her home.”
“How?” asked the young man who had answered the door.
“I know some things,” I said, keeping my words vague. “You can trust me.”
“I’ll go get my mother,” said the streaky-haired woman before disappearing into the bedroom.
A young boy, a little older than Jessica, brought me a cup of instant coffee with sugar, and set it on the scuffed coffee table along with a jar of Coffee-mate and a spoon. He crawled onto a plump, short-haired woman’s lap. Then they all stared at me. The soap opera played softly in the background.
I sipped my coffee and allowed the silence to continue, letting everyone get used to my presence.
A few moments later Jessica’s mother emerged from the bedroom and perched on the edge of one of the mattresses near me without meeting my eyes. The defeated slope of her shoulders and her blotchy skin told me all I needed to know. She couldn’t have been more than fifty, given her young children, but she looked much older. Her black hair, drawn back in a disheveled ponytail, had only a few streaks of gray, but her face was etched with the trials of a hard life.
She told me her name was Felipa. Looking at her relatives rather than at me, she began to speak in broken English, talking as though she had recited the words before.
“First my son Juan, he died in an accident five years ago, right after he brought me up from Mexico. And now, m’hija, my daughter Jessica . . . Why has this happened? How has this happened to my baby?” She started to weep again and covered her face with a tissue, shaking her head. “You think you could find her?”
“My mother works for a housecleaning agency,” interrupted the young man. “She always makes sure we learn English so we can do well here. And now . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We thought we had left La Llorona behind—”
The young woman with the streaked hair made a sound between a hiss and a tsk, and glared at him.
“My brother don’t mean nothing by it,” she said with a shrug. “Superstitions.”
“I understand,” I said. “I know about La Llorona. I believe she may have been here.”
Again they looked at me without speaking, their dark eyes assessing.
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