A Cast-Off Coven

Table of Contents

 

 

 

“An excellent blend of mystery, paranormal, and light humor, creating a cozy that is a must-read for anyone with an interest in literature with paranormal elements.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

 

“It’s a fun story, with romance possibilities with a couple hunky men, terrific vintage clothing, and the enchanting Oscar. But there is so much more to this book. It has serious depth.”

—
The Herald News
(MA)

 

“Lily Ivory is a twenty-first-century Samantha Stevens, minus the nose wriggling. The story combines fun and seriousness for an entertaining read.”

—
Romantic Times

 

“Juliet Blackwell provides a terrific urban fantasy with the opening of the Witchcraft Mystery series.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

 

 

 

“Lind deftly combines a smart and witty sleuth with entertaining characters who are all engaged in a fascinating new adventure.”

—
Romantic Times

 

“If you enjoy Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum books, Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy series, or Ian Pears’s art history mysteries . . . then you will enjoy
Shooting Gallery
.”

—Gumshoe

 

“An artfully crafted new mystery series!”

—Tim Myers, Agatha Award-nominated author of
A Mold for Murder

 

“The art world is murder in this witty and entertaining mystery!”

—Cleo Coyle, national bestselling author of
Holiday Grind

 

 

“Annie Kincaid is a wonderful cozy heroine. . . . It’s a rollicking good read.”

—
Mystery News

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, June 2010

Copyright © Julie Goodson-Lawes, 2010

All rights reserved

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-18798-2

Thanks as always to my wonderful agent, Kristin Lindstrom, and my great editor, Kerry Donovan. It is a privilege to work with you both.

To Sophie Littlefield, Steve Hockensmith, James Calder, Cornelia Read, and Tim Maleeny for all the writer talk. It sure is nice to know I’m not the only crazy one. And to Mario Acevedo for encouraging my witchy ways. To the Pensfatales for all the support and inspiration. Who knew a grog could be such fun?

To all the witches and wiccans who welcomed me and shared their beliefs and knowledge with pride and humor. Thanks to Karen Thompson and Peter Simoni for keeping my mind on art in addition to writing. And to my family—Jane, Bob, Susan, and Carolyn; to the whole Mira Vista Social Club; and to Oscar—who won’t leave me alone.

We writers ask a lot of the people around us—friends and family alike. So special thanks to everyone for putting up with me, and to Jace and Sergio, especially. You two make this home a place of magic.

—SARAH MORGAN BRYANT PIATT

“I need something to guard against ghosts . . .” whispered the young woman slouching at the counter. She cast a nervous glance around my shop floor, empty but for racks upon racks of vintage clothes, cases of costume jewelry, and shelves lined with hats. “A protective . . . thingamajig.”

“A talisman?” I asked.

“That’s it.”

“Talismans don’t really guard against ghosts, per se—”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “It’s better than nothing.”

Her feathery bright pink hair put me in mind of a silly children’s toy, the kind one might win after stuffing ten dollars’ worth of quarters into the mechanical contraption at the Escape from New York Pizza parlor a few blocks down Haight Street from the store. But from the jaded look in her heavy-lidded amber eyes and the multiple piercings that marched along her left eyebrow, I suspected the overall effect she was after was “aggressively alienated youth” rather than “cuddly stuffed animal.”

“You’re a student at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts?” I guessed as I opened the back of the glass display case and pulled out the black velvet-covered tray that held my rapidly diminishing collection of hand-carved wooden medallions. There had been a run on them lately.

“How did you know that?” Her eyes flew up to meet mine.
“Can you read minds?”

“No.” I shook my head and stifled a smile. “My assistant, Maya, goes to the School of Fine Arts. We’ve had a lot of students stop by in the past week or so asking for protection.”

“Did I hear my name?” Maya emerged through the classic brocade curtains that separated the back room from the shop floor. Petite with delicate, unadorned features, she wore her hair twisted into thick locks, ending in a series of beads that clacked pleasantly against the silver rings and cuffs embellishing each ear. “Oh, hey, Andromeda.”

“Um, hey,” the customer said to Maya with a nearly imperceptible lift of her chin. Pink feathers swayed as she tilted her head in question. “Where do I know you from again?”

“Sculpture class,” Maya answered. “We’ve met a few times.”

“Oh, right—my bad. So, you’ve told her about the ghosts at the school?” Andromeda asked Maya. “The footsteps out in the hallways, the heavy breathing, doors opening and closing . . . ?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“It turns out that the main building”—Andromeda leaned across the counter toward Maya and me, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper—“
was built on top of an old cemetery.
”

“That’s mostly a movie device,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t actually mean there are ghosts lingering.”

“I’ve heard something, too, though, Lily, along with half the school,” Maya put in.

The trepidation in my assistant’s serious dark eyes gave me pause. Maya rarely asked for—or needed—anyone’s help, and she retained a healthy dose of cynicism about the world of the paranormal. So I had been more than a little surprised a few days before when she asked me for a protective talisman, and even more so when she brokered an unusual deal with the school’s provost, Dr. Marlene Mueller: If I could calm the students’ fears of ghosts running amok in the campus hallways, I could help myself to the contents of a recently discovered storage room chock- full of Victorian-era gowns and frilly unmentionables.

As a purveyor of vintage clothing, I leapt at the chance.

There was only one fly in this supernatural ointment: I didn’t know much about ghosts.

I’m a witch, not a necromancer. Few outside the world of magick appreciate the difference, but trust me: The two vocations don’t necessarily involve the same skill set. My energy attracts spirits like flies to honey, but I can’t understand a cotton-pickin’ word they say. Interdimensional frustration is what I call it.

One thing I
do
know is that all of us walk over interred corpses all the time. People are born; they live; they die. It’s been the same story throughout the millennia, and the physical remnants of our earthly sojourns—our bodies—have to go somewhere. If simply walking across a grave incurred a curse from beyond, none of us would live long enough to graduate from kindergarten, much less college.

“We’re supposed to meet Dr. Mueller’s daughter, Ginny, at the school tonight to take a look around,” Maya told Andromeda.

“You’re trying to see ghosts
on purpose
?” Andromeda gaped at both of us for a moment, then shivered as though a goose had just walked over her grave. “With Ginny Mueller. Huh. It figures. I hate that bi—” She stopped herself and looked up at me. “Never mind.”

Looking down at the selection of talismans on the counter, she picked up a medallion, weighing the cool wooden disk in her hand. Each full moon, I make the talismans from the branch of a fruit tree, carving ancient symbols of protection and consecrating them in a ceremony of rebirth. However, just as in the natural world, there are few absolutes in the realm of the supernatural. The medallions are powerful sources of spiritual support, but they can’t stop a determined force of evil on their own. I liken it to having a big dog at home: It might not chase off
every
ne’er-do-well, but your average mischief-makers go elsewhere.