Tarnished and Torn (22 page)

“I was once entrusted with a very important magical ring. Because of something that happened with your father, I wasn’t able to keep it. I wasn’t strong enough at the time. So I gave it for safekeeping to a powerful witch I knew.”

“Carlotta Hummel?”

He looked at me, startled. “How did you know?”

“I have my sources,” I said, feeling inordinately proud of myself for getting the jump on him for once. It was the sort of thing he was always doing to me.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Carlotta. I had to get the ring to someone powerful enough and who had no obvious connection to me. She was able to hide it for many years, but recently she was forced to forfeit it.”

“Along with her life.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know where it is now?” I wasn’t ready to tell him the truth about how much I knew. I still didn’t trust him.

He shook his head. “Part of the ability of the ring is to keep itself hidden. There is no feeling its hum, its vibrations, unless it wants you to. In a very real sense, it is alive. Too many practitioners have poured in a bit of their abilities for it to be otherwise. And if Carlotta gave up her life keeping it secret, it very likely holds a good deal of her powers as well now. It grows stronger, which is a very good thing. Because the . . . entity that it controls does as well.”

We were talking about demons. A lot of us powerful folk can’t speak the names for fear of invoking them, particularly if we share a bond. Demons are diabolically clever and have wicked good memories. Once you used spells and incantations to control them or escape from their clutches, they remembered. The next time you met up, if you were so unfortunate as to see them again, you had to have a whole new arsenal of tricks.

“And what makes you think this ring is here in San Francisco?”

“Carlotta’s sister, Griselda, arrived a few days ago. As did your father.”

“And you think he’s looking for it?”

“I would assume so. I believe Carlotta must have tried to send the ring to me. I am not sure how, or who she might have trusted for the job besides her sister. Unfortunately, my own investigation has been stymied by my need to go underground.”

“Why are you so sure my father’s looking for the ring? Maybe he came here to visit his daughter. You never know.”

His blue eyes sparkled as they looked into mine. I remembered only too well, however, the time I had walked in on him unexpectedly and seen him without the glamour he used to hide his scars. I wondered if he still had nightmares about the flames of that demon’s fire.

“You went up against this demon together. Didn’t you? Is it . . .” I hesitated to say the name Xolotl, just in case. “The X-man, the Aztec fellow?”

“Sounds like you know plenty.”

“Not enough. Tell me what happened. You told me you and my father used to work together.”

He nodded. “We did, some time ago. But then . . . we went up against a powerful foe. Everything went wrong. I . . . your father . . .”

“He betrayed you?”

“It wasn’t that. Declan thought he could gain control . . . that he could utilize the entity. And then I . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I made a mistake. A crucial mistake.”

“You’re saying he’s beholden to a demon and it’s somehow your fault?”

Aidan looked back at the children playing among the trees, their high-pitched young voices reminding us of joy and life. Dwelling on demons tended to suck that kind of thing out of a person.

“I owe him; let’s leave it at that. I think he’s here in pursuit of the ring.”

“To use it to free himself?”

“That’s the most benign explanation. It’s possible, though, he’s intent on destroying it
for
the demon.”

“Why would he willingly stay beholden?”

“He would gain great powers, beyond anything a regular human could ever hope to attain. And your father is a very ambitious man.”

Food for thought. “So where do we go from here?”

“We find the ring first. Besides stopping a good deal of carnage, we could use it to free your father from the entity’s clutches.”

“Easier said than done. I’ve been looking for it since the Gem Faire.”

“You’re very sure Griselda didn’t give you anything?”

“I bought a box of junk jewelry from her, but it was long before anything happened, and it seemed so random . . .”

“It’s probably with her other things. I had people search her inventory and her room, but we weren’t the first ones there. They’d already been gone through.”

I nodded. “I asked Carlos Romero about looking through whatever evidence they gathered from her stand.”

“Good. I had my man on the inside check it out, but it couldn’t hurt to have you look as well. Still, it’s more likely she hid it somewhere . . . or got it to an accomplice. Which brings me to my main reason for coming to see you: I’d like you to go speak with Renna Sandino.”

“I was already planning to. But . . . I have the feeling she’s angry with me.”

“I have the feeling she’s
furious
with you, but I guarantee you she’s even less pleased with
me
. Just be careful—a Rom witch is not a good person to cross.”

I glared at him. “I had no intention of crossing her. It’s all your fault.”

He gave me a sad smile. “You’ll work it out. Anyway, I want you to find out if Griselda made contact with her before . . . before her unfortunate demise. Meanwhile, I’m touching base with a few other local practitioners whom she might have reached out to.”

“Zeke had a notebook with a list of names. You, Renna, and I were on that list, along with several others I didn’t recognize.”

“I believe I’m aware of all the possible candidates, but show me the names just in case. Wouldn’t want to miss anyone.”

I nodded and we headed back to Aunt Cora’s Closet.

“Lily, I shouldn’t have to remind you that this is a very delicate affair. When you speak to Renna, don’t volunteer any information. Wait for her to give you a sign of how much she knows.”

Witchy politics were intricate, the traditions and sleights and requirements labyrinthine and largely beyond my ken. I would imagine with a powerful ring like this at stake, it was even worse than normal.

“And think of it this way,” Aidan said as we turned and started meandering back to the shop. “You can always ask her if she’s heard from Sailor. Perhaps he really did leave a forwarding address.”

Renna Sandino lived in a bubblegum-pink house in the Oakland hills with her husband, Eric, who had charmed me when we met by playing the accordion and singing a flamenco song.

Over the front door a sign read F
ORTUNES
T
OLD;
L
OVE
L
IVES
S
ET
R
IGHT.
The pink house put all the staid beige and putty-colored houses on the street to shame, at least in my mind. I guess the neighbors weren’t fond of the place, but that was their problem.

The man next door had been trimming his hedges, but he shook his head in disgust when he saw me turn into the drive, and ostentatiously went into his house and slammed the door. Across the street a woman was playing in her front yard with two children; she looked away when I glanced in her direction.

The big black wrought-iron gate was open, so I drove on through, grateful I could try to explain myself and my reason for coming in person, rather than having to deal with the static-prone intercom. Pulling around the circular driveway to the front yard, I started to note disturbing details: a charm of animal fur and flowers was nailed to the wooden post of the mailbox, there were rowan hoops on the rail leading up the front steps, and the front door was ajar. Plus, the neat line of salt Renna always kept on her threshold was scattered.

Carefully I climbed out of my car, looking and listening. No barking dog greeted me, no sounds of flamenco music, no welcome, but, thankfully, also no screams.

Then I smelled . . . fire?

I watched the house for a moment, and sure enough . . . smoke floated out of the kitchen window.

I don’t carry a cell phone, so I shouted to the neighbor, “Call 911!”

I ran in carefully, mindful of smoke and fire.

“Renna?” I shouted “
Renna
!”

Symbols of protection were smoldering on the tile in the foyer, and the living room rug was afire. As I watched, flames started to march up the floor-length paisley curtains that covered large windows.

And through the opening to the kitchen, on the floor, a pair of shoes peeked out from behind the counter.

No, not shoes.
Feet
. Men’s feet. I ran into the kitchen to find Eric sprawled on the kitchen floor. His shirt was open, and on his bare chest, as though burned into flesh with hot metal, was a sigil. Xolotl’s sign.

I knelt beside him, put my hand to the side of his neck. The vibrations were still strong. He was still alive.

I grabbed his arms and used all my strength to pull him out the front door, where I left him on the stoop, praying emergency workers would arrive any moment. But for now I had to find Renna. I prayed she wasn’t here, but if she was . . .

Wetting a dish towel under the faucet, I wrapped it around my nose and mouth to shield my lungs from some of the smoke. The house was filling with the acrid scent as the small flames grew. In the living room the curtains burst into flame, and a pile of newspapers blazed in one corner. Large black pieces of ash, lined in burning red, floated on air and landed around the room, spreading the sparks.

“
Renna
! Can you hear me? Are you here?” I yelled. Fire was louder than I had ever expected. The whooshing sound of flames and the crackle of whatever burned resounded through the house. “
Renna
?”

I ran down the hall to Renna’s bedroom, where she had once read her tarot cards for me, back when we worked together to cast a spell that defeated a powerful witch. Though strangers to each other’s methods and magic, we had felt a sense of mutual respect, if not kinship.

The bedroom had been destroyed, the drawers emptied and clothes strewn everywhere. Lamps lay broken on the floor, the bookshelf was turned over, and the mattress upended. Her tiger-striped bedspread lay in a heap with her tarot cards scattered over it, but the Queen of Swords was pinned to the wall with Renna’s jeweled athame.

The flames hadn’t reached the bedroom yet, but the smoke was thickening. I was about to search the rest of the house when I decided to check the bathroom and closet, just in case.

I opened what I thought was a closet door, but it led instead to a small writing nook that Renna apparently had used as her private altar.

And hanging from the ceiling was Renna, her arms tied and yanked up behind her. Her shoulders were probably dislocated. I recognized the torturous method as
strapatto
. Yet another traditional technique for extracting information from witches.

“Renna! Can you speak to me?”

She made a raspy, croaking sound deep in her throat; her eyes rolled back in their sockets. She seemed barely alive.

I yanked the athame from the wall. Holding Renna up as best I could with my left arm to relieve the tension, I started sawing through the rough rope tethering her to the beam. She was deadweight, too weak and injured to help me. I heard the faint sound of sirens approaching, and thanked the goddesses that the neighbor must have called 911, as I’d asked.

The cutting seemed to take forever. One strand snapped at a time, with hundreds to go. My muscles burned with the strain of holding Renna in my left arm and with the staccato motion of the sawing back and forth with my right. The stench of smoke assailed my nostrils, despite the wet rag that was still over the lower half of my face.

Finally the rope snapped. We both fell onto the floor, our combined weight hitting with a solid
thud
. The fire was growing quickly in the outside bedroom; already in one corner of the room smoke was filling the chamber and moving our way. I climbed out from under Renna and threw a small stool to break the glass of the window, which led to a narrow side yard. To avoid pulling on her injured arms, I grabbed her by her waist and dragged her, but she had a good twenty or so pounds on me. After much heaving and tugging we were finally next to the window. I took the dishcloth from my face, wound it around my hand for protection, and cleaned the glass shards off the windowsill. Thrusting my head out, I could see emergency vehicles in front of the house and firefighters running to connect their hose. I tried to call to them, but no one heard me over the noise of the truck, the fire, and the shouting.

Renna’s candles, amulets, and small prayer tokens scattered around the room like confetti as I grabbed the heavy cloth off the altar and threw it over the shards of glass on the sill. I used my last reserves of strength to hoist Renna up, draping her body facedown over the sill. I then climbed out around her, and while breathing in great breaths of blessed fresh air, pulled her the rest of the way out of the building, trying to break her fall with my own body.

I laid her down as gently as I could on the sparse, crackly yellow-brown grass of the yard, and ran for the emergency workers in front of the house.

“This way
! An injured woman. Quickly, please,” I said as I found a uniformed EMT and grabbed him by the hand. He gestured to a few others and they all ran down the side yard toward Renna.

Then I stood, gulping fresh air, indecisive and stunned. Paramedics were loading Eric onto a stretcher, his sooty face obscured by an oxygen mask. It took three men to control a strong blast of water from a huge hose they had aimed at the upstairs windows.

Just then a hand touched my shoulder from behind. I whirled and let out a blast of energy that threw the poor emergency worker down on her butt.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed. “Let me help you up.”

The woman looked confused, as did most people who received a blast from me. They didn’t usually connect it with me; they simply didn’t understand what had just happened.

She got up, still looking perplexed, and I let her lead me to the open back doors of an ambulance. She wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and started asking me a number of questions. Only then did I realize that my arms and hands were wounded, covered in soot and small scratches, and some bigger, from the glass.

She started cleaning me up, wiping off the soot and blood, then applying antibiotic cream and wrapping my wounds in gauze. Vaguely I thought it was a shame I didn’t have any mugwort salve handy, as it was good for burns. But then I saw the stretcher coming. They had hooked Renna up to an IV and oxygen and were rushing her into the back of an ambulance. The doors were slammed shut behind her, and it sped down the street. As I watched its flashing lights grow smaller in the distance and the siren came on when they neared the intersection, I thought to myself,
Someone has to tell Sailor
. He wasn’t close to his aunt and butted heads with her. But it was a family tragedy. Surely it would draw him home?

I felt a surge of sick pain in my gut. Nausea swept over me as I thought of Eric lying there on the floor, and Renna hanging from her arms in
strapatto
.

I lost my lunch, right there on the neighbor’s nicely trimmed hedge.

•   •   •

The acrid scent of smoke does not wash out of hair easily. This I know from experience, unfortunately. I soaped myself up twice with lemon verbena soap and washed my hair three times, but it still lingered.

Despite my own sooty stench I had fallen into a fitful sleep just after one in the morning, but awoke, groggily, a while later. Visions of fire and smoke, Eric lying prone; Renna hanging . . . They attacked my senses so I felt like a castle under siege.

I heard the cuckoo clock in the hall sound:
cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo
. Three in the morning. Renna had been taken to Summit Medical Center and, when I had called last night, was said to be in serious but stable condition. They wouldn’t give me more details over the phone, even though I immediately lied and said I was her sister.

In a way it was true. All of us witches are sisters under the skin.

Now I struggled with what to do next. Should I call the hospital and try for an update? Would they talk to me at three in the morning? I let out a little sigh upon the realization that I spent way too much of my time and energy trying to get hospital personnel to share private medical information with me. How was it that I knew so many people who ended up hurt and hospitalized? Was it me?

But finally I realized something else had awakened me. Not my cuckoo clock—I was used to its chiming and found it comforting. No, there was something more. . . .

Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around.

Sailor
.

I smiled, reveling in the dream. I had had similar ones before. Repeatedly since Sailor had left town. Dreams in which Sailor came back to me.

He was sitting in the armchair by my bed. Strong arms crossed over his broad chest. Unshaven, unkempt; eyes as dark and intense as always. Brooding. Sexy. Delicious.

“What the hell happened?” he growled.

Well,
that
was new.

“Lily?”

And just that fast, the scene went from dreamy fantasy to cold reality.

“Sailor?”

“I haven’t been gone
that
long. You don’t recognize me?”