Tarnished and Torn (18 page)

By the time I went back upstairs it was late afternoon. I did a purification spell, looked at the bloodied clothing, and suppressed a bubble of fear. I wasn’t usually afraid when I was brewing in the safety of my own home, a carefully guarded environment full of herbs and charms. But maybe there really was something to this witchy premonition thing. . . . If Zeke was beholden to a demon, I had to be dead certain to attend to every detail in the spell so as not to invite anyone in, much less allow them to exert power over me. I had faced a demon, a fellow named Sitri, only once and frankly it had scared the pants off me.

And there was always a tiny flicker of doubt that since our interaction meant Sitri and I were now bound together, that he was wise to my tricks and if I had to go up against him again I might not triumph.

Not that I had any reason to think Sitri had anything to do with what was going on now. After all, demons didn’t all know one another any more than we humans all knew one another. It was a big, wide, terrible demonic world out there.

And here and now, Zeke was my only tangible connection to what was going on.

I made myself another cup of tea to calm my nerves, then focused once again on the bloody garments. Blood is special. It shimmers with our energy. The Aztecs knew this, along with so many other cultures that sacrificed life—sometimes even human life—as a vital offering to the gods. Practitioners know this. too, and some use sacrifice to contact their ancestors and invoke their abilities to alter reality. As a matter of principle I avoided blood sacrifice, but this time it had quite literally dropped into my lap. I would be foolish to ignore this boon.

I set a clean white cloth on the kitchen counter and laid out my jewel-encrusted athame, trying not to think of the one that had killed Griselda. Had she refused to talk? Had her torturers gotten what they came for and decided to silence her for good?

I shook off such thoughts. One of the most salient aspects of spell casting is concentration. I chanted and stroked my medicine bag to achieve the right frame of mind. I consulted my Book of Shadows, an old red leather-bound volume handed down to me by my grandmother. A piece of sacred rope; herbs such as sorcerer’s violet and magical vinca. As I brewed, I dropped small squares of the bloodied clothing into the bubbling cauldron. Then cemetery dust and marsh weeds, spider silk, and a sharp rock. Red dirt from home. Fresh and dried herbs.

I stirred deosil, or clockwise, and chanted steadily, until the concoction started swirling on its own. I allowed it to boil for about ten minutes, when a distinctive, rank odor signaled the brew was ready. I cut a tiny “x” in my palm with my athame and added two drops of my blood. Then I called upon my helping spirit to guide me . . . and to protect me while the connections were made.

The spell was cast well, and I could feel the portals opening, the power slipping through. Oscar watched silently from his perch atop the refrigerator, his mere presence making my casting easier, smoother.

Try as I might I couldn’t read the steam and divine who Zeke was, who he worked for, or what he wanted. What I
could
read was another’s influence over him. Since nothing in the world of magic was ever simple, it wasn’t as though I perceived a name or a face. But if I met the person, I would know him or her. I would recognize his or her vibrations just as one might recognize a distinctive face in a crowd, just as I might recognize the owner from feeling the clothes he or she had worn.

Zeke was held in sway by someone. Not just influenced by that person, but . . . held. As though a prisoner, Zeke didn’t have any choice in the matter.

And those vibrations reminded me of something else I had sensed recently. What was it? I thought of all the jewelry I had been studying or any recent acquisitions for the store. Finally I recognized it. I pulled out the little drawer by the sink, where I had placed the gold cuff link I found at Griselda’s stand.

It felt as though it were burning in my palm—it hummed with the same vibrations I had read from the brew using Zeke’s blood. But I couldn’t imagine Zeke, or Clem, for that matter, wearing a solid gold cuff link. Besides the fact that they didn’t appear to have much money, they had been wearing dirty T-shirts both times I had seen them. They didn’t appear to be the types to don cuffs, much less cuff links.

It was much more likely that the cuff link belonged to my father, Declan Ivory. Which would mean . . . could my father be the one holding Zeke in sway? And since there were some definite demonic overtones to this vibration, could my father be more than a simple witch? That would help explain the memory loss when I met him—demon encounters were known for such a thing.

Like I didn’t have enough issues. A rogue witch for a father was one thing, but a demonic dad? Quite another.

I wondered what the paramedics had determined about Zeke, whether he was going to make it. He wasn’t far from a good hospital, the San Francisco Medical Center. I hoped for his sake he had gotten help in time. Would he be conscious and able to talk to me?

And then I wondered whether his little brother would be showing up for visiting hours. Clem was scared, but kin was kin. He’d probably visit sooner or later. And I was willing to bet that with a little effort, I could get at least one of the Ballcap boys to speak to me.

The next morning I embraced my familiar, comforting routine of casting a protective spell over the store, going down to Coffee to the People, and eating breakfast with Conrad and Oscar—in his piggy form, of course.

When Maya came in for her shift that morning, she reminded me that she was interviewing Marisela’s
abuelita
today.

Carmen seemed to know a lot about legends of fire opals,
I thought to myself.

“Would you mind if I join you?”

Maya was gathering her things from her leather backpack. “Of course not. That would be great. You might well come in handy with the Spanish—Marisela agreed to translate, but just in case. I feel like such an idiot not knowing Spanish. I should take a class.”

“In all your spare time, between art school and working here and running the Web site and doing oral histories . . . and now fire dancing?”

She smiled. “What can I say? When it comes to life I have ADHD.”

“I’d say it’s more like a passion to live life to the fullest,” said Bronwyn. “Never apologize for that. And yes, Lily, I’m happy to watch over the store in the meantime.”

“I see you’ve anticipated me. Becoming a mind reader?”

“Oh, good goddess, I
hope
so,” said Bronwyn, who was cradling piggy Oscar in her arms. “Wouldn’t
that
be something?”

“Sounds a little scary to me,” I said.

“Ditto,” said Maya.

“Oh, by the way, if I’m going to work the afternoon shift, would you mind if the coven meets here? Just a partial meeting; we won’t be forming a circle or calling upon the Lord and Lady. Just a few bureaucratic issues we need to discuss.”

“Not at all,” I said, grateful I wouldn’t be here for such a meeting. I had witnessed one once . . . it dragged on for
hours
. Bronwyn’s coven was committed to a nonhierarchical, communal decision-making process. In theory I applauded their efforts; in reality, it meant even the smallest decision was subject to endless debate and ceaseless tinkering. Yet another reason I was a solo act. I didn’t have the patience for group process.

On the way over to Marisela’s house that afternoon, I asked Maya to be sure to ask Carmen about the legend of the fire opals that she had alluded to on her trip to Aunt Cora’s Closet.

“Sure . . . are you looking for any information in particular?”

“Just anything she might know,” I said. “I think those guys who were following me were looking for a fire opal ring they thought I might have gotten at the gem show.”

“I don’t remember seeing a ring like that.”

“No, I don’t have it, at least nowhere I know about. But that’s why I was hoping you could talk to Carmen and see . . . Maybe she could shed a little light on the subject.”

“With an old legend?”

“Hate to break it to you, my friend, but old made-up legends often have a grain or two of truth. It’s worth a shot.”

Marisela lived in a house in the Sunset, a part of San Francisco that looks out over the Pacific Ocean and, ironically, rarely saw the sun setting because it was so often beset by thick banks of fog off the sea. The area was developed later than much of the city, in the 1940s, and featured long rows of stucco homes built for working-class families.

Maya and I were buzzed through an iron gate, then entered into a little courtyard to the right of the garage, then up a full staircase to the living area, which was located on the second floor.

Marisela and Metzli, Rosa, and Carmen were joined by another half dozen young women and one adolescent boy. They were all sitting around the living room, on couches and chairs and the floor, making party favors out of little squares of pink tulle wrapped around chocolates and key chains marked with the date, and tied off with wire twists decorated with tiny silk flowers. Two fans hummed while they kept the air circulating, a radio played Motown oldies in the background, and the sounds of children playing outside drifted in through the open window.

“Sorry about all this,” Rosa said as she stood to greet us. “I thought we’d be done by now, but . . . it’s getting a little down to the wire.”

“No problem,” said Maya. “I really appreciate your mother’s willingness to talk to me, and Marisela’s offer to translate.”

“My daughter speaks better Spanish than I do—she studied it in school. Terrible, isn’t it? I mostly know how to talk about food.”

“I feel like that with a lot of languages,” I said with a smile. Food brought people together and linked the generations; cuisine-based traditions were almost always among the most persistent. “I’d be happy to help with making favors while Maya conducts the interview.”

“Really? I won’t say no—we could use all the help we can get.”

I plopped myself down on the floor next to the boy—overcoming the family’s protests that I should be given a chair—and he patiently explained to me how to make the little purses, including tucking in Hershey’s Kisses. They reminded me of witch’s charm bags, and in a way they were: small tokens made with love, meant to imbue their new owners with memories and connection to the energy of the event.

Maya, meanwhile, set up her tiny recorder, took out her notebook, and sat near Carmen
,
with Marisela in between. She started off with lots of factual information about where and when the older woman was born and raised, when she came to the United States and why. How long she’d lived in San Francisco—almost sixty years now. And, very delicately, Maya asked Carmen why she’d never learned to speak English.

Rosa broke in to say that though
Abuelita
first came to this country decades ago, she often returned to Mexico and stayed for years at a time. She was from a small village in the state of Jalisco, where she enjoyed her little home as well as the admiration of her neighbors. She was the source, apparently, of all sorts of local history and lore. When she was in the United States, she rarely ventured outside of her home for fear of violence in the streets.

“She doesn’t live here with us,” said Rosa. “She insists on staying in her own place in the Bayview, and it’s not a great neighborhood.”

Just then a knock sounded at the door. The boy jumped up and buzzed the person in; a few moments later Shawnelle appeared at the top of the stairs. We all said our hellos like it was old-home week.

“Wow. They’ve got you making favors? How’s that working out for you?” Shawnelle asked me.

I smiled. “Joel and I are racing to see who can make them fastest.” I nudged the boy, who had returned to sit next to me, with my elbow. “Care to join the competition?”

“I don’t suppose I have much choice,” she said, taking a seat and picking up scissors and a length of cloth.

At a significant glance from me, Maya asked if Carmen could expound on the subject of the fire opal, or
Ojo del Fuego
, that she had mentioned the other day at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Carmen smiled and started speaking. I understood most of it, but was glad for Marisela’s translation, just in case I missed anything.

Marisela began, “This character Xolotl, like I was saying before, was the god of disease and bad luck . . .”

“And fire,” said Shawnelle with a smile. “Mustn’t forget the fire.”

“Right. Disease, bad luck, and fire.
Anyway
, Xolotl was twin brother of Quetzalcoatl. You must’ve heard of him.”

Shawnelle shook her head.

“Quetzalcoatl was the feathered serpent,” I answered. “Most revered god of the Aztecs.”

“Right,” said Marisela. “He was the head honcho, the one they made human sacrifices for. In fact, when Cortés arrived, a blond on horseback—they had never seen horses before, much less light hair—the Aztecs thought maybe he was the embodiment of Quetzalcoatl, so they didn’t realize what a danger he was. Oops, sorry. That was
me
talking, not
Abuelita
.”

The grandmother, meanwhile, had paused in her story and was waiting patiently, accustomed to the translation drill. At a nod from Marisela she started telling her story once again.

“But, anyway, long before that, Xolotl and Quetzalcoatl were twin brothers who stole fire from the underworld and brought it to the human world. So,
Abuelita
says the
Ojo del Fuego
stone was unearthed from the very heart of the Earth, and right away the priests knew it was special, so they made a special silver setting to hold it. At dawn and midnight, the opal shows its color best. Any
curandero
who wore it could use it for miraculous healing, even regenerating limbs—like the salamander I was telling you about, the axolotl.”

In European folklore, the fire elemental was associated with salamanders as well. I remembered how my grandmother laughed and said maybe they got it wrong, that in the old days when people threw logs on the fire they often saw salamanders emerge, shiny and wet, almost glowing, appearing as though sparks were coming off their skin. This led to the belief they were impervious to the fire, a living creature containing the energy of an elemental being.

“But then Xolotl arose, bringing disease and bad luck with him. The people tried to placate him with fire dances and sacrifices, but nothing worked. Then a powerful
curandera
wore the ring; when she performed the proper ceremony and twisted the ring so the stone faced her palm, it emitted lights and a kind of magical fire, and she was able to send him back to the underworld.”

“So the
Ojo del Fuego
was the only thing that worked against Xolotl?” asked Shawnelle, apparently interested in spite of herself.

Marisela asked Carmen the question in Spanish, then translated her answer with a nod.

“Yes, ever since then not just Xolotl per se, but any of his minions that are occasionally unleashed, the ones that arise from the elements, from the earth and air and fire itself.”

“Way cool,” said Shawnelle. Then she held up her small pile of favors. “And look. I’m totally beating you guys.”

The conversation moved on. Maya clarified a few points with Carmen and Marisela, and Rosa discussed a cousin’s new baby with a couple of the other women in the circle. The murmur of voices, the circle of women and one boy made me think of sewing circles, quilting circles, scrapbooking circles . . . all those moments throughout history when women and children come together to share tasks, making of them opportunities for socializing and community building.

Joel sneezed. “
Salud
,” sounded a chorus of voices.

“Gesundheit,” I said, using the German word without thinking. Then something dawned on me.

“Shawnelle, I don’t suppose you have any way of getting in touch with Johannes, that guy from the Gem Faire?”

“The cute German guy?”

I nodded.

Shawnelle and Marisela locked eyes and giggled.

“Yeah, we had sort of, like, a date the other night.”

“When was this?”

“Tuesday, I guess. He was kind of sick, though. But he was still cute.”

“What did you do on your date?”

“We went and did touristy things. He’s never been here before, so he was totally into it. It was actually kind of awesome. I’ve lived here my whole life, but the only time we do stuff like the cable cars is when people are visiting from out of town. Ya know? So it was kind of cool. Why? What’s up?”

“I’ve been looking for him, that’s all. I think he might have . . .”
the sacred ring called
Ojo del Fuego
, meant to combat a fierce elemental demon.
“I’d just like to talk with him. Any idea where he’s staying?”

She shook her head. “He was at a youth hostel for a night or two, but I guess he found another place. He doesn’t, like, have much money, I guess. Besides, he says he doesn’t like to stay put.”

That was interesting. Trying to keep one step ahead of the police or a demon or . . . ?

“Does he have a cell phone? Do you have any way of getting ahold of him?”

“No, he doesn’t have an international phone. But he’ll probably be in touch. . . . He’s supposed to be my escort to the
quinceañera
next Saturday. Are you coming?”

I hated these awkward moments. I hadn’t been invited, and it seemed a little much to presume, since the extent of our interactions so far were me selling them clothes and listening to a legend about a fire opal.

Besides, I was a creature of my childhood—I remembered too well the crushing feeling of not being invited to the party that all the other kids in town were going to. Drinking tea with Graciela in her hut on the outskirts of town, acting like nothing was wrong.

But this wasn’t Jarod, Texas. And I wasn’t a kid. And if Johannes was going to show up, I’d love to have a little chat with him.

“Oh, yes! You should both come!” said Marisela. “Right, Mom?”

“Of course! The more the merrier. And you’re altering those dresses in such a hurry for us, we really appreciate it.”

“I can’t take any credit for the alterations on the dresses—that’s all on Maya’s mom, Lucille. But . . . if you really don’t mind, I would love to come. I wouldn’t ruin your seating for the dinner, but I’d love to drop by and see the decorations and the dresses, and, of course, the full court.” Metzli beamed. “Maya, shall we go?”

“I’d love to,” she said, gathering up her recording equipment and loading her backpack. “I’ve only been to one a long time ago. A friend from high school.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Rosa. “Wonderful. Joel, stop eating all the kisses.”

•   •   •

As Maya and I drove home I pondered what I’d learned.

If Johannes was involved in the murder and/or the hiding of the ring, why would he agree to show up to a
quinceañera
? For that matter, why was he hanging around Shawnelle at all? She couldn’t be more than seventeen, eighteen at the most, and he looked like he was in his twenties. Alone in a strange country, his boss killed . . . wouldn’t he have more pressing concerns?

And that story of the
Ojo del Fuego
was still ringing in my ears. What was I thinking—that Griselda had arrived in town with a ring with which to face down a demon? And, if so, why hadn’t the demon shown itself? What was the connection to the legendary Xolotl in San Francisco? Gene was hanging around at the Gem Faire and then at the dancing in the park . . . when fires broke out on both occasions. Could he be Xolotl’s human underling?