A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (23 page)

My athame in one hand, my medicine bag in the other, I entered the circle and began the chant. The women joined in, and I allowed myself to dance to the beat with a building abandon that ended in a crescendo of chanting.

Then, while still in a semi-trance, I donned the cloak.

And just that fast, I was thrust back to that other time. This time there was no fuzziness, no difficulty in hearing or seeing. Everything was crystal clear, as though I had stepped through a portal in time. I was in a village made of humble houses. The road was lined with animal pens, and my feet sank into the muddy road.

People were running past me, shouting. They were afraid, angry.

Harlot! Wicked woman! Witch!

I followed the direction of the crowd, arriving at a clearing by the ocean. A bonfire had been set up. A woman was atop it all, tied to a post.

It was a horrifying scene.

I looked around at the faces in the crowd: shouting, anticipating, afraid and angry.

I stood up to try to defend her, to try to stop it. She just looked at me and smiled. And then I realized, she was chanting.

Chanting is power. Witches were sometimes called mumblers because of their incessant recitations, the words that, repeated, help to open the portals and establish the connections with the ancestors, with our sources of power. She was timing her words to the croaking of a frog. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it.

A man stood and declared his name to be Jonathan Woolsey. White with fear, he read the proclamation condemning Deliverance Corydon to death by fire.

“Stop,”
I heard myself saying.

But then I realized . . . I wasn’t trying to stop her death. On the contrary, I had been pursuing Deliverance Corydon myself and had been on the verge of destroying her. This was no witch; she was something more, something evil. She had to be gotten rid of the right way, not by fire. The flames would only add to her strength.

I tried to stop it, but I couldn’t. I was reviled, shouted at. Two men held me, one on either side.

And they lit the pyre.

All I could do was watch. Deliverance’s strange smile eventually ceded to screams. The shrieks seemed to enter my body, my mind. I wondered if I would ever get rid of them.

Afterward, I gathered the ashes. I put them in a box
with special markings to keep Deliverance at peace, inside. It had to be disposed of properly: by lightning. It was the only way. I singed my hands, burned my fingertips as I grabbed at the ashes, but I didn’t care. Time was of the essence. I had to dispose of her ashes properly. I . . . I had to hide my cape before . . .

The anger and fear of the townspeople turned on me. The next thing I knew, I was being brought to my own gallows. The noose was placed around my neck. It was scratchy, heavy. It felt like death. The floor dropped out from under my feet. . . .

I awoke.

As before, I was flat on my back on the wooden floor. This time, instead of a gnarled gobgoyle face over mine, however, was a ring of worried women.

“I think maybe we should call an ambulance,” I heard one woman say.

“She’s been out almost twenty minutes,” said another.

“Lily?” Bronwyn asked, as though from far away. “Lily, can you hear me?”

“Let’s call someone—”

“No, no, I’m all right,” I said with a croak. “Thanks.”

“Here. Have some cider,” said Starr.

“I’m just . . . I had a really strange vision,” I began, sipping the warm cider. The sweet tang helped bring me back to reality. “Did I say anything?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “You twitched a lot, but you didn’t say anything intelligible. Were you able to see where Oscar is?”

“No. No, not really. But . . . I have an idea. I have a better idea than I did before.”

* * *

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night in Texas, I made a rare phone call to the woman who had raised me from the age of eight. The woman who had tried her best to train me not only in witchcraft, but in
life. The woman who had also raised my father but lost him to raw ambition and greed.

My grandmother Graciela.

“
M’ija
, I was expecting your call. What is going on?” Graciela didn’t spend a lot of time on niceties. Like me, she wasn’t at her best over wires. I wrote her old-fashioned letters and cards from time to time—and sent her a monthly check—which she much preferred to the phone. Besides, I didn’t like to call because just the sound of her voice filled me with strange, mixed-up feelings of longing and regret and homesickness and guilt.

She knew that if I was calling, there was a problem. An urgent problem.

I gave her the rundown of what had happened. She made a few grunts in response, but mostly just listened. One thing about Graciela: She was never fazed by anything. I do believe I could tell her a flotilla of dragons was invading San Francisco Bay, and she’d start to talk me through the appropriate magical response.

“As I’m sure you know,” she said when I wrapped up the tale as I knew it, “the curse cast by a dying witch is the most powerful curse of all. Perhaps she used herself as the sacrifice; and of course, blood sacrifice is
lo mas importante
—it is the key.”

“She . . . I mean, it’s hard to say because it’s not as though I was very near her. But Deliverance seemed truly wicked. Not a witch. Something else.”

“Witches can be as evil as anyone else. You’ve always had a hard time accepting that.”

“I just . . . I don’t understand how you can feel the connection to the ancestors and not take the responsibility seriously. I mean, I understand how easily power can corrupt, but to actually set out to do evil . . . ?”

“Silver will blacken and tarnish when an evil witch is near—keep a piece in your shoe or around your neck.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, tamping down my impatience.
I loved and respected my grandmother, but her little quirky superstitions—spin around three times and spit if you fear the devil is near; put slices of onions in your shoes to get rid of warts—had always driven me a little crazy. It was hard to tease out the real from the silly.

And right at the moment, after having seen—and
felt
—Deliverance Corydon, I didn’t think a piece of silver was going to do the trick. I decided to try a different angle.

“I would like to help out Bart Woolsey, but frankly, ridding him of his curse is not my top priority. I just want to get Oscar back, and I want to make sure that tree doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“Brew page three eleven or twelve, I forget. I am getting forgetful in my old age.”

Forgetful,
she called herself. Graciela was in her late seventies, and she hadn’t seen the Book of Shadows since I left town when I was seventeen. And yet she remembered the location, give or take a page, of a specific spell. She was a wonder.

Cradling the phone with my shoulder, I flipped through the aged Book of Shadows, looking for the spell she mentioned. When I got to the page, my heart sank.

“It says . . . it says I need a part of him. I don’t suppose . . . I mean, I have his blankets?”

She mumbled a dismissive phrase in Spanish.

“I don’t have any nail clippings . . . and he has no hair. I don’t . . . I can’t think of anything else.”

“If he is trying to get to you, too, the energy will be there. You might have enough power, but not without a tangible connection. You need part of his being, his
anima. . . .
”

“DNA.”

“Whatever you call it. Our people knew what it was long before science came up with a picture and a name.”

“All I can think of is . . . there is someone who might have his wings.”

“Use those. But you will have to destroy the wings in order to save your creature.
Es una lástima
. It’s a shame.” I could practically see her shrugging. “But
asi es la vida
.”

Such is life.
It was one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings, and she meant it. I wondered whether I would ever reach that level of acceptance, her ability to calmly deal with whatever came her way.

“Isn’t there any other way?”

“No. Who has them?”

“Aidan Rhodes. He might be holding them, like a marker.”

I heard a little sigh on Graciela’s end of the line. “And you say Oscar’s mother was one of the cursed gargoyles? If I were you, I would look for wings with the appearance of stone. That would be fitting, and easy enough for someone like Rhodes. But
cuidado, m’ija
—you will be making an enemy of Aidan Rhodes.”

“Yeah . . . I’m afraid that might be unavoidable.”

“
Está bien
. If you cast properly, when you take the wings into the circle, they will shift from stone to feathers, but they will have the consistency of a butterfly’s wing. And you know what happens to a butterfly’s wing when you touch it?”

“It turns to powder?”

“
Así es
. Just so.”

“But then . . . will he ever be able to get them back?”

“No.”

“And this is really the only way?”

The only response was silence. Graciela didn’t believe in wasting her breath by answering silly questions. I tried again.

“Will he forgive me?”

Graciela laughed, a cackle truly suited to an elderly witch. “That’s the least of your worries,
m’ija
. You are proposing to go up against a witch strong enough to cast
through the ages, and you are worried about whether your familiar will be angry?”

I blew out a breath and accepted the inevitable.

“One more thing,” I added. “I’m not sure how much help I’m going to have on this end. Can you help me?”

There was a long pause, and I remembered why I hated the telephone. Was she thinking? Looking into her crystal ball? Playing solitaire? I reminded myself to be patient and closed my eyes, trying to call up her face in my mind: wrinkled and leathery, with near-black, intelligent eyes and a rare smile that made me glow when she graced me with it.

“I will call the coven together.”

“Really? Your local coven?” This was rare for her. Like me, she was usually a solo act.

“We will need the power of the thirteen. I will use your hair.”

I had left a braid behind with her when I fled Jarod, for just such an occasion. Still, it was jarring to hear she needed to use it now.

“Will it be enough?”

She cackled some more. “It will have to be,
m’ija
. It will have to be.”

I left Aunt Cora’s Closet to Bronwyn’s care and returned to the Ferry Building the next morning, just as soon as it opened for business. I pushed through the throngs of folks at the farmers’ market in front and the food trucks. Up the stairs, past the “security” guard to Aidan’s door.

I knocked. No answer.

I knocked again, expecting those smiling, sparkling, lying blue eyes to greet me.

“He’s out,” said the security guard.

“Any idea for how long?” I asked.

She shrugged, her attention already shifting back to the smartphone in her hands. “Said he was leaving town for a while.”

I’ll bet.
I fumed. How could I find out where Aidan lived?

But then I spotted Noctemus strutting down the hallway. If she was here, I was willing to bet her master wasn’t too far away. My anger helped me concentrate. I rarely did this sort of thing, especially not in front of potential witnesses, but I was in no mood for finesse. I put
my hands flat against the door, leaned into it, closed my eyes, and started chanting.

After several minutes, Aidan flung the door open.

“Enough already!”

“You don’t seem happy to see me.”

Aidan glared at me. This was rare for him; his happy-go-lucky, smiley facade was so much a part of him that it was disconcerting—and rather gratifying—to be able to make him lose his cool.

On guard, I watched him carefully as he took a seat behind his desk. I closed the door and faced him; only then did I realize that his glamour was shifting in and out. I could see his scars, terrible shiny, melted-looking burns.

I had once walked in on Aidan in his cloister at the Wax Museum, a tiny room with five walls that was devised to increase the magical vibrations. He hadn’t been expecting me, and I saw that he carried deep scars on one side of his face. These he kept hidden from public with a glamour spell, which kept him as beautiful as always in the eyes of others.

Watching now as he strained to maintain the subterfuge, I wondered whether Sailor was the only one who was struggling with his powers lately. Could it be that Sailor’s abilities were tied to Aidan and that Aidan himself was fighting to maintain control? And could this be related to Aidan’s inability—or unwillingness—to help me get Oscar back?

“I need Oscar’s wings,” I said without preamble. I glanced around the office, but there wasn’t much to see. No obvious gobgoyle wings—that’s for sure.

Aidan seemed to read my mind. “Be my guest. Look in the closet. I think you’ll be disappointed to see nothing but the accoutrements of a normal, everyday man.”

I accepted his invitation and peeked in. He was right; his “accoutrements” consisted of nothing more exciting
than a filing cabinet, a raincoat and umbrella, an extra suit jacket, shirt, and pants, and a pair of shined shoes.

“I’m serious. I want those wings.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you are. Who told you about them?”

“Just never you mind. I need them to get Oscar back.”

“Familiars are a dime a dozen, Lily.”

“Like you wouldn’t move heaven and earth to protect Noctemus.”

“You know Oscar’s not like a regular companion animal, don’t you? Maybe it’s time you graduate to a real witch’s familiar—you’re certainly developing well, power-wise. I have a nice crow. . . .”

“Stop it already with the replacements. Speaking of which, I want you to take your dog back.”

“He’s a loaner. Just for the interim. I’m not sure Sailor’s up to the job of protecting you at the moment.”

“Sailor’s none of your affair. And anyway, this discussion is about Oscar.”

“Lily, be reasonable. You aren’t even sure Oscar’s trapped in the oak tree. What if you’re wrong and he’s with the Good People? He might emerge at any time only to discover you have destroyed his wings. I guarantee you he’d latch on to the next little witch who would feed him. You seriously think he’s loyal to you?”

Aidan really knew how to push my buttons. I tried to swallow my fear and uncertainty. “Listen, Aidan. I want only two things from you. First, you were supposed to talk to the woodsfolk for me to be sure about Oscar. You know perfectly well they won’t talk to me. And second, give me Oscar’s gol-danged wings.”

“The only way a witch like you can save Oscar at this point would be to sacrifice his wings.”

“There’s no other way?” My grandmother wasn’t infallible, and I had held out hope there was another option.

He shrugged. “You think this stuff is easy or without
sacrifice? Come on, Lily. You know better than that. That’s just the way it is.”

“You said ‘a witch like me.’ Are you saying someone else could do it? Someone like you?”

He just stared at me, that slight smile hovering on his lips as usual. I felt something close to hatred for him in that moment.

“I will get Oscar back, Aidan. I don’t really care who I have to go up against to do so.”

“Well, that’s good, then. Because mark my words: You will have to sacrifice more than just Oscar’s wings if you carry this through. If you go up against Deliverance Corydon, she won’t cave in that easily.”

“I didn’t think it would be easy.”

“No, I know that. But I’m saying it could be something more.”

“Could we be a little less cryptic, please? I’ve had just about all I can take. I’m a fixin’ to have me a hissy fit.”

He chuckled. “Even when you’re beside yourself, you talk Texan?”

“I talk Texan all the more when I’m upset. It’s . . . well, it’s natural, is what. So what will I lose? Will my friends be at risk?”

“I don’t know exactly, Lily. But she won’t be vanquished without consequence.”

“Aidan, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that this witch—or whatever she is—who appears to have been able to curse through the centuries, to survive fire and take refuge in the core of a tree . . . she is one hell of a witch. Personally, I’d want to get her on my side, not go up against her.”

“Is that why you’re not helping me with this?”

“Just take my advice. I know about these things. You can use this situation, Lily, to add to your own powers. Leave her in the tree. With her power added to yours, it will be easy to protect it so it isn’t taken down—and she
can boost your powers enormously. And her familiar will work for you.”

“That witch took my pig.”

“Enough with Oscar! I won’t give you his wings, for your own sake.”

“That’s bullpucky. You won’t give them up because then he wouldn’t be beholden to you anymore.”

“Well, according to you, he’s about to be killed in a tree, so why would I care if he’s beholden to me or not? Be rational.”

A book flew across the room, barely missing Aidan but landing smack-dab on poor Noctemus’s tail. She yowled and flung herself at me, scratching the back of my hand.

“Ow!” I said, leaping back. As I held my bleeding hand to my chest, a lamp fell from the desk and crashed to the floor, the lightbulb smashing. “I’m sorry! It’s not intentional.”

Aidan grabbed his furiously spitting familiar. I backed away.

“I think you’d better go,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, I guess I’d just better.”

* * *

My hand was red and swollen even before I made it back to my place. A cat scratch is always nasty; an injury from a familiar is worse. I cleaned it out and applied a special mustard-and-honey poultice, then went back down to Aunt Cora’s Closet just as Carlos Romero walked in the front door.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Cat.”

“I thought you were allergic to cats.”

“I am.”

“Nasty.”

“Yup. So, was that ledger of any help to you?”

“No fingerprints—at all—and only undecipherable
symbols. The only thing that served as any kind of clue was the notation of Aunt Flora’s Closet and the connection to the Woolsey family. Could we talk in private?”

I led him to the back room. He refused my offer of something to drink, but sat at the jade-green linoleum table and traced invisible lines with his finger.

I was no mind reader, but I’d always felt an interesting kind of kinship with Carlos. I knew that right now, for instance, he felt as though he shouldn’t be talking to me about this case . . . but that he wanted to.

“I don’t think it’s either of the young women,” said Carlos. “Their alibis check out. And, frankly, I just don’t like them for this crime. It’s just too complicated a scheme—that they killed a man for trying to help their uncle find a spell to remove a love curse? Why not just kill Bart if they wanted to inherit? Now, if Bart had been poisoned, I might have bought it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Poisoning is a time-honored woman’s method of ridding themselves of folks, especially troublesome male relatives.”

“You’re saying poisoning’s a woman thing? Adding sexism to our list of faults now, are we?”

Carlos smiled. “The real reason I stopped by . . . I wanted to let you know the oak tree is scheduled to be razed tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I did what I could to delay it, but the crime-scene folks wanted to release the scene the day after the murder. I’ve kept it open for a few extra days, but I’m afraid that’s all I can do. SFPD doesn’t really have jurisdiction over the actions of the Parks Department unless there’s a crime committed.”

Can I get Conrad and his crew to stop it?
I felt as though I was grasping at straws. Anything I could come up with was temporary, at best.

“But I thought you might be interested to know that there’s someone who has been harassing the Parks Department to take it down. He’s the one who started them worrying about it; he threatened them with a lawsuit, claiming the tree was endangering the public.”

“Who?”

“One Bartholomew Woolsey.”

“Bart?” Dear, sweet, vague Bart?

“Apparently, according to what he told them, his family Bible has a note in it, claiming that tree holds ‘the remains of evil.’ Any idea what he’s talking about?”

“Maybe.”

Carlos rose. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Thank you for trying, Carlos.”

* * *

That evening, I cooked dinner for Boye and Sailor in my apartment. As I had for the past few days, I tried to ignore Oscar’s empty nest over the icebox.
Tonight is the last night I won’t know,
I thought to myself. After tonight, I would have Oscar back—or I would be without him forever. No matter what, I would have some answers.

As we were finishing up our enchiladas—both men ate several servings, making me realize that I needed to shop more just to keep us in food—I decided to try Boye once more.

“I spoke with Aidan today,” I said. Both men stopped chewing and looked at me. “Boye, do you know where Aidan keeps Oscar’s wings?”

“Ma’am?”

“You heard me.”

“You can reach Aidan during normal business hours, in his office at the Ferry Building.”

“Yes, thank you. You’ve already told me that.” This was reminding me of soldiers who were allowed to release only their name, rank, and serial number under
enemy interrogation. I fixed my gaze on Sailor. “Did you know this about Oscar, that Aidan kept his wings?”

Sailor shrugged. “Not about wings
per se
. But Aidan always keeps a marker. That’s how he makes things happen.”

“He doesn’t have one from me.”

“Doesn’t he?” he asked.

“What is he holding over
me
?”

“Oscar. Me. Your father. Any number of people he can get to whom you care about. Friends and family are dangerous to have while in Aidan’s orbit—they give him leverage. Oscar and I are loners, so he had to come up with something else.”

“Until now?”

He gazed at me a long moment; then his voice dropped as he said, “I think we both knew our relationship has made us vulnerable. Love is dangerous.”

“Okay . . .” I really couldn’t think about
that
at the moment. I had to keep focused. “So, how can I find out where Aidan lives?”

Both men gawked at me.

“Seriously, I have to find those wings,
tonight
. And you boys are going to help me.”

Sailor turned to Boye, who had red enchilada sauce on his chiseled, bewhiskered chin. “You know where Aidan lives?”

Boye shook his head, wide-eyed and speechless.

“Well, neither do I. What’s plan B?”

“There must be some way to find out.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. In fact, I’m not all that sure Aidan lives anywhere. Maybe he turns into a bat, or sleeps in a tomb somewhere.”

“He’s not Dracula. He’s a witch. A plain old mortal witch like yours truly. He has to sleep
sometime
.”

Sailor shrugged. “And anyway, what makes you think he’d keep precious items at his home?”

“I don’t know. . . . I guess just because that’s where I would keep something like that.”

“Aidan doesn’t think like normal people,” said Boye, before ducking his head and downing an entire glass of milk.

Sailor seemed as surprised by Boye’s contribution as I was. Not that it told us anything new, but it did put me in mind of something Calypso had said. That Aidan likes to hide things in plain sight. And Graciela said the wings might have the look and feel of stone when they were bewitched.

“Wait . . . maybe . . . Could Sebastian have kept things for Aidan at his antiques store?”

I thought back. Didn’t I see a pair of stone wings in the crowded shop, right next to a sculpture of Diana?

“Sailor . . .” I began.

“Uh-oh.”

“I need you to help me break in to Sebastian’s shop again.”