A Cast-Off Coven (6 page)

She whirled around and stalked toward the door, just as Aidan Rhodes, male witch, walked in.

Andromeda stopped short and stared at him. Women—and not a few men—react this way to Aidan. It was only in part because he was gorgeous, with periwinkle blue eyes and perfectly golden hair that curled ever so slightly at the nape of his strong, muscled neck. He also just happened to be a powerful sorcerer. His aura glittered so brightly that even people who never sensed auras were able to sense his.

“Hello,” Aidan finally said, returning her gaze and holding it for a long moment, a slight, crooked smile on his beautiful mouth.

Andromeda mumbled something I didn’t catch and hurried out of the store.

Aidan’s eyes tracked the young woman for a moment before turning back to me.

“
Good
morning, Lily.”

“A little early to be scaring customers away, isn’t it?” I said as I folded the newspaper.

He chuckled and patted Oscar, who was running in manic circles around his legs, begging for attention.

“Morning, Maya.”

She smiled. “Hi, Aidan. I was about to run for coffee. Could I get you anything?”

“Thank you; I’d love a cappuccino.” He reached into his pocket.

“My treat,” I said, handing Maya a bill from the Cuban cigar box that doubled as a petty cash till. “A mocha for me, thanks, Maya. And would you get Conrad whatever he wants? Food, preferably. Something with a lot of calories.”

“Will do. Be back in a few,” she said as she headed out to our favorite local throwback to San Francisco’s Summer of Love, a funky café down the block named, appropriately enough, Coffee to the People.

Aidan waited until Maya left to turn back to me, his bright blue gaze running down my body, then back to meet my eyes.

“You look lovely this morning, Lily. That dress is perfect on you.”

“Thank you. What do you want?”

I had no desire to make idle chitchat with this particular male witch. Aidan Rhodes made me nervous. I had been run out of my hometown at a tender age, never joined a coven, didn’t know many witches, and no matter where I wandered on the globe, I pretty much avoided getting involved in any kind of local witchy politics.

But not long ago, Aidan had done me a favor, and now I owed him—big-time. Still, I sure as shootin’ didn’t trust him. So far he hadn’t asked me for much in return other than a few love potions and prosperity brews, but I was waiting with bated breath for him to demand much more.

Across the room, I heard the bolt on the front door click into the locked position, and the Closed sign in the window flipped over. Aidan hadn’t touched a thing. He didn’t need to.

“Jerry Becker was a client of mine,” Aidan said.

“Jerry Becker?” I repeated, as though he wasn’t already on my mind. My distrust of Aidan led me to give up as little information as possible. Normally it wouldn’t be easy to veil one’s feelings around such a powerful witch, but Aidan and I were both skilled at hiding. “As in the man who was killed . . . ?”

He nodded.

“Did you know the gal who was here when you arrived?”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“No reason. Who killed Becker?” I asked.

“That’s what I’d like you to find out.”

“Me? Why me?”

“I can’t be seen to be directly involved.”

“What kind of client was he?”

“The paying kind.”

“No, I mean, what kind of help was he asking for?”

“Frankly, Lily, that’s none of your business. You know that.”

I’d never been a witch-for-hire, so I was fuzzy on the ethical details of selling one’s paranormal services. Apparently we were like magical versions of lawyers or doctors: We couldn’t be compelled to spill confidential details.

“Isn’t it enough that I’m asking for your help?” Aidan continued.

He was being polite. As we both knew, he held my marker. I was bound.

“Of course,” I conceded. “Do you have any information at all on what went on last night?”

“No idea.”

“There are rumors of a ghost in the building.”

He nodded. “Supposedly the bell tower’s inhabited. But you know as well as I do that it would be unusual for a resident ghost to suddenly take someone out. They rarely manifest in order to murder, especially years after death.”

Our eyes held for a long moment.

“So you think it was the act of a human?” I asked.

“Or some other entity?”

“That’s what I’d like you to find out. What did you feel at the school last night?”

“How do you know I was there?”

He gave me a pained look. Aidan knew things.

“I felt . . . something,” I said. “But I don’t know what it was, much less what it wanted. You know how I am with spirits.”

“I’ve got someone who can help you with that. Goes by the name of Sailor.” Aidan reached into his breast pocket and took out a sleek silver case from which he extracted one of his fine ivory business cards. He turned it over and wrote on the back with a bold, black stroke.

“Sailor, as in ‘Ahoy there, matie’?” I asked.

“Maybe it’s a last name.” He handed me the card. The word “Cerulean” and an address on Romolo Place were below the name “Sailor.”

“Could you be a little more cryptic?” I asked.

“Cerulean’s a club on Romolo, right off Broadway near Columbus. Sailor’s a psychic. Very talented. You can find him there.”

“He owns this club?”

“Not exactly. He just hangs out there.”

“Uh-huh. I couldn’t just call him up and ask for an appointment rather than tracking him down in a bar?”

“He’s not in the business. Likes to keep a low profile, powers-wise, not unlike you.”

“But he’ll help me?”

“Oh, he’ll help you.”

“Why do I get the feeling that it will be against his will?”

Aidan just smiled and changed the subject. “How’s my mandragora coming along?”

“Fine. He’ll be ready in another twenty days.”

Not long ago Aidan asked me to make him a mandragora, a kind of household elf made from the root of a mandrake plant. I was surprised he didn’t just make it himself, but witchcraft is an enormous field of knowledge, and just as in any other profession, different witches excel in distinct areas. I’m a whiz at all things botanical, but a complete bust in the “foreseeing the future” or “talking to the dead” departments; my ornate crystal ball sat, generally unused and virtually useless, on a shelf in my bedroom.

It struck me as odd that Aidan wanted a mandragora. He claimed to be lonely. I knew there was more to it than that—probably something as simple as his selling off the imp to the highest bidder—but I still owed him.

“Wonderful.” He checked his watch. The Open sign flipped back over, and the lock clicked open. “Well, I’d best be going. Lovely to see you, Lily, as always.”

“Aidan,” I said to his back as he moved toward the door, “would you happen to know anything about mares visiting me?”

He looked back at me, eyebrows raised in surprise. He smiled and fixed me with a quizzical look. “Nocturnal mares?”

“You know the kind I mean.”

Night mares, or more specifically, incubi, are night spirits thought to sit on the chests of sleeping victims, causing fear, shortness of breath, and paralysis. Incubi have a decidedly lascivious nature, whereas mares might be underlings sent by more powerful spirits, although they, too, tend toward the bawdy and libidinous.

“Mares usually come to women sleeping alone,” Aidan said.

I wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer.

“Perhaps you should take a lover,” he continued.

“Perhaps you should mind your own danged business.”

“You asked my opinion. You and I both know the night spirits often appear in a lonely woman’s bed, when her thoughts turn to . . . love.” His eyes ran over the length of me. He chuckled and stroked a nearby satin and lace nightgown the color of new violets. “There’s something unnatural about a witch without a lover.”

I rolled my eyes.

Aidan cocked his head as though trying to understand me. “You could mesmerize any man you want, have him at your beck and call. Don’t tell me you need my help.”

“For cryin’ out loud, I don’t want to
enchant
someone to make them like me, thank you very much.” I could hear that I protesteth too much. The hard truth was that I had been fighting the urge to cast a love spell over Max Carmichael since the day I met him.

“You want natural love, then?” Aidan considered me.

“Hmm. A tall order for someone like you.”

“Gee, thanks so much.”

“You’re . . . different, Lily, as you well know. You should stick with your own kind. Come out on the town with me tonight. We’ll see about those pesky mares.”

Unbidden, my mind flashed on what it would be like to share a bed with someone like Aidan Rhodes. Probably pretty incredible. I bit my lower lip, then looked up to see Aidan’s sparkling blue eyes looking at me as though he were reading my thoughts. His warm hand closed over mine on the counter. The chemistry was undeniable, almost like an electric charge. It was enticing. But as sexy as he was, I wasn’t looking for a quick fling. And at a deep, undeniable level Aidan scared me.

He had told me himself that he used to work with my father. The little I knew about my father was all bad.

Besides that, I had a date with Max. I slid my hand out from under Aidan’s and started folding a bunch of silk scarves I had scored at an auction in Alameda last week. Yesterday I had hand- laundered the delicate material in a mixture of mild low-alkaline soap flakes and rosewater, then dried them overnight in the moonlight on my second-floor terrace, where I grow my herbs. Now they carried the faint scents of rosemary and lavender, and hummed with the comforting energy of the moon and their former owners.

After a long moment of silence I peeked back up at Aidan, who hadn’t budged.

He smiled. I amused him—on a number of levels. “It just so happens,” I said, seemingly unable to stop myself from talking, “that I have a date for brunch today. And I didn’t have to compel the man to ask me, either.”

A pained expression passed over Aidan’s face. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and leaned back against the counter. When he spoke, his voice dripped with disdain. “Don’t tell me. It’s that guy from the other night. The human.”

“You say that as if it were an insult. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re human, too, Aidan. As am I.”

“Not in the same way. So, about this Mark character . . .”

“Max,” I corrected him.

“Right. Max. This whole situation doesn’t seem just a little
Bewitched
for you?”

“No
.
”
My voice sounded defensive, even to my own ears. Old
Bewitched
reruns, highlighting the antics of Samantha, the natural witch, and Darrin, her nonmagical husband, had been a favorite staple of my youth. Certain similarities had, in fact, occurred to me. But I wasn’t about to admit that to this particular male witch.

My scarf folding took on a certain frenetic quality. Aidan continued. “Let’s see. Talented witch gets together with ludicrous human who insists she deny her powers. . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ll just start calling him Darrin.”

Oscar snorted and hopped around happily at Aidan’s feet, pink piggy eyes bright and interested.

“Stop it now, both of you,” I snapped.

The cheery little bell on my shop door chimed. All three of us swung around to look at the door, almost guiltily.

“Speak of the devil, and the devil appears,” Aidan murmured.

Oscar ran to his pillow and feigned sleep.

“Good morning, Max,” I said.

Max was a handsome man in the classical sense: Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a rugged, masculine face; light gray, sad eyes; shaggy, finger-combed dark hair; and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He was not model gorgeous, but there was something about him . . . especially that voice.

“Hello, Lily.” His eyes shifted to Aidan.

The two men sized up each other. Aidan wore a mien of amused boredom; Max a quizzical, assessing look.

“Max, this is Aidan. Aidan, Max,” I introduced them. They shook hands, their eyes locked.

“Nice to meet you,” said Max.

“Mack,” Aidan said with a nod.

“It’s Max,” Max responded, correcting him.

“Right. That’s what I said.”

The ensuing silence was broken by the bell on the front door as Maya entered with our coffees.

“Ah, look, here’s your cappuccino, Aidan,” I said.

“Just in time. Since you were just leaving. As are Max and I.”

A couple of young women, Maya’s age, came in and started to poke through my small collection of vintage-band T-shirts. I left the store in Maya’s capable hands; Bronwyn would be in soon after eleven to keep her company.

Aidan, Max, and I walked out onto the sidewalk, an awkward trio.

“Good-
bye
, Aidan,” I said when he began walking in the same direction as Max and I.

“You’ll let me know what you find out?”

“Of course.”

He turned to Max, who inclined his head.

“Good to meet you, Mike.”

“Max.”

“Right. That’s what I said.”

With one more wink at me, Aidan strode off down the street.

If only he’d been wearing a cape, it would have been a picture-perfect ending.

“So, you want to tell me about this guy?” Max queried after the waiter poured us each a flute of sparkling champagne.

I had been expecting a simple croissant and a coffee, so imagine my surprise when Max insisted on taking me to champagne brunch at the Cliff House, a restaurant overlooking Seal Rock, the Pacific Ocean, and the ruins of the old Sutro Baths. When I asked where we were headed as we drove across town, Max responded, “I told you I’d take you somewhere with tablecloths.” Our first impromptu “date” had been at a taqueria in the Mission District, which was great by me. But there was no denying that white tablecloths, flutes of champagne, and a view of the ocean were slightly more romantic than orange vinyl booths and beer from the bottle.