A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (22 page)

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.

“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.”

“True. So,” I began, trying to sound casual. “How have your, um, meetings been going? About the psychic stuff?”

“Is that what we call it now?”

“I’m not sure how to ask the question. But you seemed able to read the oak tree pretty easily. Are things feeling easier?”

“A bit.”

Clearly he wasn’t ready to talk to me about this. We arrived at Aunt Cora’s Closet, parked, and Sailor walked me to the front door. Boye was standing just on the other side of the glass, in canine form. He was shifting from one foot to another, appearing eager and happy to see us. I imagined he’d been waiting.

“I don’t think you should stay here tonight,” I told Sailor. “It feels sort of . . . I don’t know, funny, with Boye sleeping on the couch.”

“Just what a man likes to hear, that another man is sleeping in his girlfriend’s apartment.”

“It’s not like that. You know that.”

He smiled. “That’s fine. We both need rest anyway. And as strange as it sounds, I feel better knowing Boye’s keeping an eye on you.”

“Really?”

A muscle worked in Sailor’s jaw, and he let out a loud sigh. “Aidan is many things, but there’s no faulting him in this: He’s protective of you. Almost as much as I am.”

Our eyes held for a long moment. There wasn’t much to add to that.

* * *

The next day Aunt Cora’s Closet was, once again, humming with activity. Maya had found a permanent home for Miss Nelly—a customer had a small ranch in Petaluma with two goats and a small herd of sheep—and folks were still coming in and out of Missing Pig Central.

I knew I needed to put on that cape one more time to see what it was trying to tell me. But without Oscar by my side, my powers were lessened, my intent clouded, and my intuition dulled. And, quite frankly, I was afraid. Afraid of what I had seen and what I might see if I tried again. And that I might not be able to control the situation and come back to the here and now.

But it seemed the only real connection to that tree, and thus to Oscar.

“What’s wrong, Lily?” asked Bronwyn. “Is it Oscar?”

I nodded. I was glum, no two ways to see that.

“You know, I was thinking,” she said. “I know you can’t see anything in your crystal ball. But . . . what if you tried again, with the backing of the coven?”

“How so?”

“What if we formed the circle, called down the moon, and added our energy to yours? We’ve been able to help you before, a couple of times.”

That was true. Bronwyn’s friendly Welcome coven had surprised me more than once, and helped me realize that I had made unfounded assumptions about them.
Since they weren’t “real” witches—born with the kind of powers I had inherited—I tended to write them off. But that was foolish. Witches weren’t just born; they could be made. With enough study, practice, and concentrated intent, anyone could call on the powers of their ancestors and have an impact on the course of reality. And Bronwyn was right; the Welcome coven had saved this particular witch’s backside more than once.

Could they help me understand what the cape was trying to tell me?

“Bronwyn, you’re a genius. I think that would be just perfect. But I don’t need help reading my crystal ball; I need help with the cape.”

“The, um . . . the velvet cape from the other day?”

“The very one.”

We made plans to gather that evening. Bronwyn set about contacting the coven sisters, several of whom were checking in frequently with Oscar Watch. The only problem was finding an appropriate location. My apartment was too small, and Aunt Cora’s Closet too crowded, to accommodate the full coven—which in the Welcome coven’s case amounted to more than twenty women. There would be fewer tonight because of the late notice, but Bronwyn still expected at least the full thirteen to form a traditional coven. Wendy offered the use of Coffee to the People, but it was too exposed, too public. This needed to be private, a closed coven event, as anathema as that was to the usual philosophy of the Welcome coven, which, as its name implied, welcomed just about anybody of good intent.

Outside in the forest might have been perfect, but again I wanted to be able to control our situation and exposure to others. Just in case something untoward happened with the cape—after all, I couldn’t be sure what lurked within the fibers of that velvet.

Maya made a call and announced that we could meet at her mother’s workshop.

“You’re sure it’s okay with her?” I asked Maya. Lucille was a church-going Baptist; she was quiet about her faith, but no less devout for her discretion. “She understands that it’s . . . that we’re . . . that it’s a coven of witches?”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .” Maya trailed off with a laugh. “No, seriously. I told her what you’re up to. She lives in San Francisco, after all. The whole pagan thing isn’t exactly new to her, or unknown. She doesn’t go for it in terms of religion, but she knows you, and she has no problem with anything you might be up to.”

That was awfully trusting, I thought. Perhaps too trusting. After all, I wasn’t sure
I
didn’t have a problem with some of what we might be up to.

In the meantime, I called Carlos and talked to him about my suspicions with regard to Hannah and her uncle. He sounded noncommittal, but promised to check it out. I also filled him in on what Will had told me about Dathorne and the witch trials, as well as the love curse under which Bart supposedly suffered. As I heard myself say it out loud, I realized just how outrageous it all sounded.

One other thing had been bugging me, niggling at the back of my mind. It was Sebastian’s ledger. I had found it neatly stowed away, but someone had tracked the trunk to Aunt Flora’s Closet. So . . . they must have read it, right?

“Is there any way to tell what time Sebastian’s Antiques was broken into on the day of the murder?”

“Not an exact time. We have some basic parameters, and a clock fell over and broke; its hands stopped not long after you called in Sebastian’s shooting. But you’ve seen the state of that shop. There’s no reason to believe
the clock was telling the right time to begin with, so it might well have been a coincidence. Why?”

“The shop was a mess when I first saw it, true.” But it had been ransacked even more when I’d gone back there that evening with Sailor. “What if the murderer returned to the store after killing Sebastian, looking for something? Maybe Sebastian refused to tell his assailant where the trunk had gone? So . . . the killer might have gone back to the shop, searched for the ledger, looked up the transaction involving the trunk, and then . . .”

“Okay, this would be the part where I read you the riot act for interfering with a crime scene. Where exactly did you find this ledger?”

“Um . . . if I tell you, won’t that be incriminating myself?”

“How about if I promise not to arrest you until after this case is solved?”

“Oh wow. You’d do that for little ol’ me?”

“Just spill, already.”

“That’s what strikes me as odd. It was on a shelf, sandwiched between old novels.”

“So why wouldn’t he have just taken it with him?”

“Him or
her
,” I pointed out. I had a hard time imagining Hannah as a cold-blooded killer, but I’d been fooled before.

“Or her,” Carlos said. “Whoever it was, wouldn’t this person have just taken the damned book to peruse at his or her leisure? It’s not like anyone was going to notice it was gone.”

True. Except for Aidan Rhodes, who might well have noticed it was gone. Could the killer have known of Aidan Rhodes’s association with Sebastian? Was he—or she—afraid of taking the ledger, for fear that Aidan would be able to track it down? Maybe Aidan really did have some sort of witchy LoJack device, and the killer was afraid he’d find him—or her—out?

* * *

By late afternoon I retired to my apartment to prepare for the evening. Boye watched my every move, as silent as Oscar had been garrulous. His presence didn’t boost my powers or smooth the portals like a real familiar would. But given what had been happening, it felt good to have some company.

I brewed. Paramount tonight was the safety of the coven members. I didn’t want to bring anything back this time. I used the water with the ashes that had come back with me last time; I had saved it in a jar. It was a physical connection to the Ashen Witch. Incorporating it with my brew would allow me to maintain some semblance of control.

While the water was heating, I gathered herbs, centering myself by breathing deeply of the cool afternoon air. There would be a crescent moon tonight. I could see it already against the blue afternoon sky: a harbinger of struggle. I dressed carefully in the oldest clothes I had. A simple cotton shift covered with a long muslin overdress, old-fashioned-looking leather lace-up boots, and a cap.

I gathered several beeswax candles: brown for justice and stability, red for protection and luck, and purple for personal power. I “dressed” them by rubbing them with pure olive and almond oils while chanting. Finally, I packed smudge sticks and saltwater to be sure we left no residue of anything behind in Lucille’s workshop. On the contrary, if I knew the Welcome coven, they would leave only a trace of easy, warm energy, as they always did. This was the way they were winning over the community at large, even among those who still feared witches. They were so loving, so dedicated to good works, and so fun to be around that they knocked people’s objections out of the park.

Boye and I picked up Maya and drove to her mother’s new warehouse space, located on the second story of an old brick factory with big multipaned windows. The
other office spaces were occupied by edgy designers or scrappy up-and-coming fashion-related folk.

By the time we arrived, there were already a dozen women milling about, chatting excitedly. Some of these brave souls had helped me before, even at risk to their own safety. This time I felt less afraid of what would happen; though I was unsure of what portal the cloak was offering, I felt the risk was more for myself than for them. There was no demon on the loose, for example—at least, not that I knew of.

Or if there was, it was trapped in that tree.

Several counter-height worktables filled the space, many of which couldn’t be moved, but we would work around them. There were threads and scraps of material all over the broad plank floors and a row of sewing machines in front of the windows. The Wiccans had already set up a steaming Crock-Pot of cider, plates of homemade cookies, and more tofu dippers. Where these women found the time to cook as much as they did while working regular jobs and attending to their families, I would never know . . . but cook they did.

I wouldn’t allow Boye to enter the room. Instead, he guarded the door, brawny arms crossed over his brawny chest. The women were curious about him, and a few threw out flirtatious hellos, but he stared straight ahead.

“Hey, Lily, check out my new T-shirt,” said Starr. “I didn’t have a chance to go home and change, so I hope it’s okay.”

The T-shirt read:
UNLEASH THE FLY
ING MONKEYS!

“Get it?” Starr asked. “It’s from
The
Wizard of Oz
. . . . The Wicked Witch of the West says it when she’s had just about enough of Dorothy and her friends.”

I had been so tense, but now started to laugh.

“Oscar loved that part,” I said, biting my tongue as soon as I realized what I had let slip.

“Oscar the pig?” asked Starr. “Oh, that’s so sweet! He watches with you?”

“He’s
so
smart,” said Bronwyn. “He always watches with us, and I swear it’s like he’s understanding what’s going on! After watching
Cast Away,
he kept wanting coconut!”

The others laughed.

“I’m serious! Isn’t that true, Lily? Don’t you think he understands more than we think he does?”

“I think he might,” I said. “And, believe it or not, that pig really does love to watch movies.”

It was good to be reminded why I was doing this. It helped me focus. This was all for Oscar. I had to figure out what was going on, so I could get him back.

We began the ceremony by lighting the candles and forming the circle to draw down the moon. As the women clasped one another’s hands, then touched their hearts, each in turn, I let myself soak up the feminine energy. I had been spending so much time with men lately that I had forgotten the connectedness, the perfection of this sensation. The calm, soothing vibrations. Together we were daughter, mother, and crone: the sacred triad. We were sisters. We were a coven.