A Cast-Off Coven (5 page)

True, there was at least one supernatural entity lurking somewhere at the School of Fine Arts. But the mere presence of spirits didn’t mean they were guilty of anything. From what I knew of humans, they were much more likely than a ghost to exact that kind of revenge.

Fortunately, none of this was my problem. Inspectors Romero and Nordstrom were on the case, and they were welcome to it.

I sat at my small bistro table and chatted with Oscar while he ate his sandwich. For reasons known only to my familiar, he was determined to teach me the ins and outs of the rules of baseball, and though I’m a reasonably intelligent person, I was having trouble following. Afterward, I insisted he help clean up the kitchen, tucked him into his sleeping cubby above the refrigerator, took a long shower with handmade rosewater soap I bought at my favorite botanicals stand at last Thursday’s Civic Center farmers’ market, and climbed into my old brass bed.

Unbidden, my thoughts turned to the empty, open eyes of the recently deceased Jerry Becker . . . so I tried to distract myself by visualizing Max’s light gray gaze and the adorable, quizzical way he looked at me as though trying to see beyond the surface.

Just as I was dozing off, the mattress dipped as if someone had sat down on the other side of my double bed. I opened my eyes and slowly looked over my shoulder. There was nothing visible except a slight indentation on the otherwise-smooth comforter.

Great.

Uninvited spirits in my home. And in my bed.

I wasn’t afraid, exactly, but I sure wasn’t in the mood for this kind of harassment. I rose, grabbed a powerful amulet off my mirror, held it in my right hand, and walked the perimeter of the room in a clockwise direction, chanting:

Demons may spook me, but your standard nighttime mares I could handle.

Still, I lay awake for a long time, wondering who had sent them.

And why.

The next morning, I wrapped myself in the purple silk kimono I use as a robe and snuck down the back stairs from my second-floor apartment to Aunt Cora’s Closet to go “shopping” in my own store.

Oscar trotted along at my heels, his snout studded with crumbs from the fresh blueberry muffins we had made for breakfast. Oscar’s baking was as enthusiastic as his sandwich grilling, and the wonder was that after he finished “mixing” the ingredients, there was enough batter still in the bowl to make a dozen muffins.

I ate one and a half; Oscar polished off the rest.

Halfway down the stairs, as was his custom, my familiar assumed his disguise as a potbellied pig. Like most of his kind, he was adept at keeping his true identity a secret. I was grateful for this small favor: I had enough trouble explaining
myself
to my new friends, much less a shape-shifting critter like Oscar.

One of the best parts about being in the vintage clothing business was that each day began with a game of dress up. Surveying the many and varied outfits at my disposal, I felt like a kid raiding her mother’s closet—not that I had ever actually done such a thing. If memory served, my mother’s wardrobe held little more than cheap cotton housedresses, stained and shapeless, while there was nothing more exotic in my grandmother’s closet than the black lace mantilla she wore on special occasions and a half-dozen pairs of sensible lace-up shoes, size five narrow.

Happily, my fictional aunt Cora had a kick-ass wardrobe.

Housed in the first floor of an 1890 Victorian typical in this part of San Francisco, my store was jammed with vintage clothing I had procured from every source imaginable. A few gowns dated back as far as the end of the nineteenth century; these were kept in a special display behind the counter, their aged silk too delicate for repeated try-ons. A handful of frilly, fragile specimens adorned the walls in lieu of art, their gossamer skirts and hand-embroidered bodices lending the space an authentic closetlike feel.

Crowding the main floor were racks of everything from 1930s cotton slips to 1950s prom dresses to 1980s polyester jumpsuits. Due to space limitations, I carried only women’s clothes, but I interpreted this loosely. One whole alcove was dedicated to items that could be used for fantasy costumes: old uniforms, tuxedos, and cowgirl accoutrements. In the display cabinets at the register was enough glittery costume jewelry to please a magpie, along with my carved talismans. Next to the communal dressing room, stands teemed with hats of all sorts, from French berets to veiled church crowns; and plentiful shelves displayed white cotton gloves, alligator purses, a small collection of classic shoes, and even more hats.

In one rear corner of the shop floor was a little herbal stand belonging to my colleague, and new friend, Bronwyn Parrish. Bronwyn calls herself a witch and belongs to a friendly local coven, but as far as I can tell, her magic lies primarily in her open heart and loyal temperament. Bronwyn arrived in the Haight as a flower child-comelately in 1972. She missed the neighborhood’s hippie heyday by a couple of years, but she made up for lost time. By her second glass of wine, she’d start telling entertaining stories of interludes with famous rock musicians, social activists, and poets. Bronwyn was the first person I met when I arrived in San Francisco, and she had welcomed me with open arms—literally. She was a hugger.

I cherished my new friendships with her and with Maya, but I was still trying to get used to it all. . . . I had spent my life holding myself apart from people, and now for the first time I was establishing a home and becoming part of a community.

But now, also for the first time, I had something to lose.

My mind cast back to the events of last night. A chill ran through me at the visual I couldn’t shake: a dead man, his life’s blood seeping onto the hard stone. My uncomfortable fascination with the shimmering blood worried me—it was another sign of something amiss, an evil spirit at play within the walls of the school.

A suspicious death and supernatural entities. Never a good combo.

I tried to shake it off as I flipped through gauzy patterned summer dresses from the mid-fifties. Thinking of the changeable spring weather and my brunch date with Max, I decided upon one of my favorite styles: an early 1960s sleeveless dress with a pinch waist and wide skirt. The turquoise chintz was detailed with tiny white Xs in a wide embroidered band along the neckline, sleeves, and hem. A thin cloth-covered matching belt sat at the waist. I paired it with a cream- colored three-quarter sleeve cashmere cardigan, only one size too small.

For my feet, however, I chose sensible lavender Keds from my own closet. I adore vintage clothing but insist on shoes I can move in. As last night had demonstrated, you just never knew when you might have to outrun an out-of-control spirit or two.

I pulled my long, straight dark hair back into its customary ponytail, swiped a coat of mascara on my lashes, and applied a dab of lip gloss. Then I prepared to open Aunt Cora’s Closet the way I did every morning—by making sure the crowded racks were neat, putting cash in the register, and giving the display windows and the glass cabinet a quick swab with vinegar and newspaper.

But because I was a witch, my morning ritual included a little something extra. Chanting a simple cleansing spell, I sprinkled salt water around the edges of the shop, working in a widdershins, or counterclockwise, direction; then I used a sage bundle to purify, working clockwise. Finally, I lit a white hand-dipped beeswax candle and recited a quick incantation for protection. I flipped the door sign to OPEN just a few minutes before ten.

A thin young man sat on the curb outside the store, his pale face turned into the sunshine of the chilly, late-winter day.

“Good morning, Conrad,” I said as I picked up the local newspaper from the doorway.

“Duuuuuude,” Conrad said as he craned his neck backward to meet my eyes. His own were red and heavy lidded from what I could only suppose were illegal substances. “What up?”

“Not much,” I said, deciding against launching into tales of last night’s events. It was awfully early. “You?”

“Dude, same old same old.”

“The Con,” as he called himself, was one of hundreds—or was it thousands?—of young people who flocked to San Francisco in search of open- mindedness and a bohemian lifestyle, only to wind up on the streets begging for food and money. The Haight- Ashbury neighborhood abounded with them; they tended to refer to themselves as gutter punks, but I just thought of them as lost souls. In the immortal words of Janis Joplin, who once lived just a few blocks from here,
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

I knew that truth only too well.

Conrad slept in nearby Golden Gate Park and was accustomed to sitting outside my store a sizable portion of every day. Most mornings he performed a small task for me, such as sweeping the sidewalk or helping to carry in new merchandise, and I made sure he had some breakfast. I had repeatedly offered to help get him off whatever he was on, but he wasn’t ready yet. My magick was powerful, but so was the human spirit. External powers could only take a person so far without a genuine desire for lasting change.

I went back into the store, spread the
San Francisco Chronicle
on the display counter before me, and hitched one hip onto a tall stool behind the counter. Jerry Becker’s death had made the front page; apparently the Big Cheese rated the kind of press coverage rarely granted to more banal victims of gang violence and drug deals gone sour. The article gave more information on Becker’s financial clout, but otherwise repeated most of what I already knew. What caught my eye was the byline of a related article, an in-depth analysis of Becker’s business dealings, by Max Carmichael.

The Max who had called last night. The Max who was taking me out to brunch today. True, San Francisco was a small city, but what were the chances he would be investigating the man I happened to find dead last night?

The bell over the front door tinkled as it opened, and I jumped about two feet off my stool.

“Guilty much?” asked Maya with a smile.

“Sorry,” I said, gathering my wits. “Deep in thought.”

Maya came to stash her bag under the counter and took a gander at what I was reading. “Aah, no wonder. Wait—this article is by Max Carmichael—is that
your
Max?”

“He’s not
my
Max.” I blushed.

Some folklore contends that witches can’t blush, but I put a lie to that assertion. I had plenty of classic witch traits: I couldn’t cry, I floated on water, and I knew who was on the phone before I answered it. But I certainly could blush.

“Uh-huh,” Maya said, not believing me for a second.

We both looked up as the bell sounded again.

Andromeda.

I almost didn’t recognize her. Last night’s pink feathers had been replaced by jet- black hair gelled into a spiky do.

“Hey,” she said, lifting her chin in greeting.

Andromeda had learned her father had died just a few short hours ago and then . . . what? Went home to dye her hair? The last time
I
made a significant change to my hairstyle I was still in high school. On the other hand, everyone mourned in their own particular way. If personal grooming made Andromeda feel better about a loved one’s violent death, who was I to second-guess her?

“So you heard what happened last night?” Andromeda demanded.

Maya nodded. “We—we were the ones who found him.”

Maya cast a quick glance over at me. What had been a momentary trauma for us—seeing a body at the bottom of the stairs—was a family tragedy for Andromeda. Her father had been killed.

“I’m so sorry, Andromeda,” I said. “Is there anything we can do?”

Andromeda shook her head. “I just can’t believe it. The police asked me what I was doing there. They didn’t believe me about the ghost. Dad and I . . . We had a fight, just a few minutes before. Otherwise I would have been with him . . . and it would have gotten me, too.” She looked at me, big amber eyes confused, questioning, demanding. “I thought you said ghosts don’t hurt people.”

“They don’t, usually. We still don’t know—”

“I wanna kill it. Can you kill a ghost? Is there a version of that? Can you help me?”

“Help you?”

“Kill it.”

“Um . . .”

“Hurt it, then. I wanna hurt it, at least.” Tears came to her eyes; her voice fell, hushed. “He was my father. I gotta do
something
, for real; I’m so whack right now.”

Oscar trotted over at that moment, distracting her. Andromeda startled, but this time Oscar kept his distance, staying on the far end of the counter. He lay down and then rolled over onto his back, displaying his pale piggy belly in a newly perfected, adorable move.

“I guess the pig really is pretty cute,” she conceded. When Andromeda smiled, she was transformed into the young woman she was, complete with a charming dimple in one cheek.

I had to hand it to Oscar. He might be a clueless familiar when it came to things such as cooking, but like most pets, he was good at knowing who needed solace.

“Anyway, I figured if you could make magic necklaces, you’d know how to get at a ghost.”

“This really isn’t my specialty,” I said. “Besides, we certainly don’t know that any supernatural entity was responsible for your dad’s . . . for what happened last night. I hate to say it, but it’s much more likely to be a person than a spirit.”

“What, you’re saying
I
had something to do with it?”

“No, of course not. I . . .”

“I was like, practically the only person who cared about him,” she said, tears gathering in her big eyes. “A whole lotta people wanted him dead, ya know. But I . . . He was still my dad. And I want that ghost, or whoever did this, to suffer. If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”