Hexes and Hemlines (27 page)

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Look, Lily, my mom and dad just showed up. I can’t talk about this anymore.”

“They’re not . . . into the same thing you are?”

“They’re good churchgoing Catholics.”

“Really?”

“What can I tell you? I found my own path. Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t be there to help you with this. It sounds as though you should have a magical ally, just in case things ratchet up. Do you know anyone else who might be able to stand with you?”

My stomach clenched. I had relied on Bronwyn’s coven before, but clearly that wasn’t an option this time. Aidan was angry at me, and Hervé was out of town. Sailor wasn’t much help with this sort of thing.

But then something occurred to me. Sailor had mentioned he had someone who might be able to train me—had he been referring to his aunt, the Rom witch? It wouldn’t hurt to ask. Lately I could use all the friends I could get, especially friends who knew how to kick some supernatural butt.

I thanked Hervé, hung up, took a piece of three fingers root, a pinch of cemetery dust, and helped myself to some snake sheds and eggs from Hervé’s supplies. Just in case.

 

That night I found my way back to the little pond I had seen in the Presidio, not far from Mike Perkins’s office.

I had surrounded the suffering root with sulfur, as my Book of Shadows had instructed, and mixed in some of Hervé’s Goofer Dust while I was at it. Then I filled the tray with garlands of flowers and a wineskin full of a fine Napa Valley cabernet.

Now I stood at the edge of the water, barefoot, wearing a long white dress, wet to the knees and muddy with the sticky muck of the pond. Chanting, invoking, I pushed the tray—and all its contents—out into the pond. I called upon the water spirits to take the curse within their midst, where it could do no harm, and to take my offering in exchange.

As the tray floated out, I fell to my knees in the mud, lifting my hands to the skies. I felt the tingle of my powers, the rightness of my intent. I stayed like that until the candles had burned down to stubs, flickered, and died out.

I caught my reflection in the water: ethereal, otherworldly. It was one of those moments when I could stand outside myself and see how odd I seemed, as though I had been plucked from another time, another century. This was right, as it should be. I was a conduit for my spirit, a step in the never-ending cycle of nature, connected to all those witches who had gone before—powerful, persecuted, burned, and reviled. And loved.

Weary, as I often was after complicated spell casting, I made my way back down the dark path toward the entrance of the park, where I had left my car. Lucky for me, I had excellent night vision. There was little moonlight tonight, and I hadn’t brought any modern convenience like a flashlight, or even an ancient one, like the Hand of Glory, to light my way.

A snap sounded behind me. I whirled around. Searched the shadows.

Nothing.

I continued walking. But then came the muffled but unmistakable sound of a footfall on eucalyptus leaves and pine needles.

Someone was following me. I stopped and turned around, taking a stance on the path. A vague silhouette slipped behind the trunk of a large cypress.

“Who is it?” I called out, stroking my medicine bag.
Don’t jump to conclusions, Lily
.
It could be anyone.

No answer.

I turned and walked some more, then whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of someone wrapped in scarves, and a hat, and sunglasses despite the dark of night.

My breath caught in my throat. I walked faster. Then I ran.

I didn’t know this place, these woods. Many witches—my grandmother Graciela included—came to know their local forest or wild locale like the backs of their hands: every cave, hollowed-out log, clear-running creek. And along with it all, the forest folk. They fled to them for safety.

If only I had that familiarity now. I would be able to hide, and the elves and brownies might step in, help me to escape. But here and now, they were making themselves scarce. I hadn’t even seen signs of faeries since I moved to San Francisco, and everyone knew how curious
they
were.

The man chasing me managed to get in front of me. I had to turn back, farther into the woods. Toward the clearing I had noted when I walked here, the circle of stones.

I stopped short when I felt it: power emanating from behind the grove of trees, from the circle. I looked behind me, tried to quiet my harsh breathing. I was no longer being followed. Had I been chased here on purpose? Quietly I crept along the path, happy my sneakers were living up to their name, letting me sneak up without being heard. The otherwise still night air was filled with rhythmic chanting, the group intoning, calling on their spirits. I peeked out through the shrubs toward the circle of flickering torchlight. There were thirteen people forming the circle, their faces obscured by dark hooded robes.

Power surged along my skin, like ants marching. I tried to shake it off, stroking my medicine bag and mumbling my own charm to keep their magic from touching me.

I shouldn’t be so frightened to happen upon a coven meeting, I thought. I was a witch, for heaven’s sake. But I had seen Bronwyn’s Wiccan coven in action twice, and neither time had I felt this sort of power. This was strong, tangible . . . and malevolent. It was impossible to make out what was at the center of their circle.

Could I stop this coven from performing some sort of animal sacrifice? I thought of the black cat back at my apartment, feeling a surge of protectiveness. But whatever was here, within this group, was already dead. There was nothing to save, and even if I’d wanted to, the odds were not in my favor. Thirteen to one. Even
I
wasn’t that arrogant. I needed to get myself out of here before I was spotted. I could call 911 from the safety of a nearby restaurant.

Too late. I looked up to see the coven breaking the circle, disbanding. The participants were talking, excited by their spell casting. I heard a distinctive baby-doll voice. Doura?

Remaining very still and stepping off the path into the forest, I willed them to pass me by. To my great relief, they seemed to be gathering on the opposite side of the opening.

But I hadn’t counted on the watchers.

In the old days, covens had been forced underground. They began to employ sympathetic outsiders to keep watch for them while they were in the circle, absorbed in their casting. The watchers made sure the coven wasn’t surprised by interlopers.

Tonight, here, I was the interloper. And I had been spotted.

For the second time that night, I ran.

But unlike the earlier scarf-clad apparition that had trailed me, these were regular, unencumbered men. Men with longer legs than mine, who ran faster than I. One bald, the other dark-haired, they were gaining on me, coming inexorably closer.

The path forked up ahead. With no time to think, I veered to the left.

Wrong choice: There was a Cyclone fence in front of me, with a locked gate. I slipped into the woods, but the leaves and twigs made sound underfoot. And the fence made a forty-five-degree turn, trapping me. I was cornered.

I started chanting, murmuring under my breath, even though I knew full well that any protection spell I cast—without being able to brew and concentrate—wouldn’t be strong enough. This was why witches didn’t simply escape during the witch hunts. Most of us didn’t have that kind of power. We relied on time, and focus, and plenty of both.

The men reached the end of the path. One shone his flashlight into the woods to the right, the other did the same to the left. Toward me.

A twig snapped on the other side of the path. There was a quick flash of light. Both men whirled around toward it, searching. I had a reprieve, a few seconds while they were distracted.

Think
,
Lily.
Then I remembered an obscure spell I had come across in my Book of Shadows one lazy Sunday as I flipped through, just for fun: a Daphne glamour spell. When the god Apollo was in love with Daphne, he pursued her relentlessly; finally, she escaped by turning herself into a tree.

I felt a surge of confidence and regulated my breathing. Slowly and silently as I could, I backed up against the smooth trunk of a great eucalyptus tree. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember the words of the spell, but more important, their meaning: I was merging with the tree, feeling its energy, piggybacking on its life force. I subsumed myself to it, concentrating on creating a glamour, a temporary cloak of invisibility. I willed myself to assume the texture, the brown and gray tones of the bark.

Glamours were tricky. If I maintained it too long, it would stick.

The bald watcher turned back toward me, the beam of his flashlight passing over me as he searched the thick woods.

He was looking right at me. I had to stop my mumbling, but I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t hold the spell. The cure hadn’t set; I could feel it slipping away. I might blend in some, but the glamour was flickering, not whole.

The bald man squinted as he looked toward me, as though he had spotted something but wasn’t sure. I held on, unable to murmur a charm, feeling as though the bark were sinking into my skin. He cast his flashlight beam my way, peering as though he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He crept closer. . . .

Someone jumped him from behind. The men tussled briefly, both hitting the ground and rolling. The other watcher ran to help, but yet another man jumped out in front of him, swinging. Both watchers were subdued quickly.

Vaguely, I heard coven members screaming from afar.

I dropped the glamour and stepped away from the tree, but my energy had been sapped. I fell to the ground.

Arms reached for me.

“Are you all right?” Atticus was asking me. “Lily? Lily, are you hurt?”

I shook my head, trying to snap out of it.

“No, I’m . . . okay.” I felt dizzy, spent from the spell and the fear. But I wasn’t hurt. “What are you doing here?”

“They had Nichol,” he said, the look on his face grim. “She’s been drugged. These people are crazy. Sick. They’re like a . . . a bunch of witches or something.”

“Is she okay? Is Oliver here as well?”

“I don’t know where Oliver is. In fact, I was looking for him out here—some woman saw him here and contacted me. I know he takes up residence here in the woods from time to time, to get high in private. Ever since he used to work for Mike Perkins. That’s how he lost his job in the first place.”

“What woman?”

“What?” Atticus was distracted, worried.

“Who told you to come here? What did she look like?”

“Some woman called me. She sounded a lot like Minnie Mouse, like a little girl almost. Anyway, that’s how we came upon the . . . whatever it was. The devil worshippers, whatever they call themselves. And they had . . . they had Nichol. I don’t understand how, why. . . .” Even in the darkness I could see the look of barely contained rage on his face.

“She wasn’t hurt?”

“I think she’s fine, but I’m going to take her to the hospital—are you sure you’re okay? Why don’t we have you both checked out by the doctor?”

“No, I’m okay.”

Atticus looked worried, unsure, but anxious to get going—he wanted to tend to his sister.

“Go on, really,” I said. “Thank you for being here. For finding me, for intervening.”

He looked up at the other man, who nodded.

“Okay, if you’re sure. James here will help you get home.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

I recognized James as the young buff man who had met our car at the Huffman residence. He was pure muscle, for which I was grateful. I leaned on him so heavily I might as well have dropped the pretense of my walking for myself, and asked him to carry me back to my car.

“Are you certain you’ll be all right?” he said in a lowpitched voice when we arrived at the parking lot. “I’d feel better if you let me see you home.”

“I’m really fine,” I said. “I think I had a bit of an adrenaline drop, is all. I’ll be okay for driving once I catch my breath.”

I drove away, but only went a couple of blocks before I pulled over at a tavern that sat right outside one of the entrances to the Presidio. Liverpool Lil’s was crowded tonight, full of people in high spirits, watching a Giants game on the television.

I wove through the crowd and made my way into a tiny cramped hallway that led to the restrooms. I was sure Atticus had already called the police, but I used the pay phone to call 911 anyway. I wanted to be sure they checked the area for any sort of animal sacrifice, and to give my anonymous version of events. I didn’t want to talk to Carlos directly, because I would have to explain what I had seen, and more to the point, what I hadn’t: I had no idea who was involved. Except for a woman with a baby-doll voice and way too much permed blond hair.

Doura.

Goofer Balls and a coven. I still couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the idea that Aidan would be involved in this, much less orchestrating it, but finding Goofer Balls in Malachi’s place right after I told Aidan how to make them, and then stumbling across this evil coven when all the local witches were supposed to be under his jurisdiction . . . it was too much. I had been avoiding Aidan because I didn’t want to deal with his anger, and his power, but I felt the storm gathering in my own power spectrum. When my anger was focused, I was a force to be reckoned with.

It was well-nigh time to visit the Wax Museum.

The attraction was open late for the tourists tonight, so I blew past Clarinda in the ticket booth, charged up the stairs, and went directly to Aidan’s office. I threw open the door with my mind.

Empty.

But across the room, the door to the cloister was ajar. There was a soft glow of candlelight. I heard a scraping sound, harsh breathing.