A Cast-Off Coven (29 page)

Several students stood by the front entrance, avidly taking in the scene of firefighters plucking Walker from atop the high hedge. The flashing lights of a multitude of emergency vehicles gave the night a strange blue-white-red strobe-light effect.

“Could I borrow your phone?” I asked a young man with a backpack. He jumped at the sound of my voice behind him.

“Oh, uh, sure,” he said.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“S’okay,” he said as he handed me a sleek, lime green phone. “Did you see what happened? Some guy jumped. A real genius, he fell into the bushes.”

I just nodded but didn’t respond. I didn’t feel up to making small talk, to pretending things were anything close to normal.

I called Carlos Romero.

“It’s Lily Ivory. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m at the School of Fine Arts—”

“I already got the call. I’m on my way to the scene. Wait for me there,” Romero answered in a clipped tone.

“I—I can’t,” I said. “I have to check something out first.”

I was spooked. I felt out of my league. I needed more information before I had an in-depth discussion with police officials.

“Lily—” Romero began, and then stopped, as though intending to try talking me out of it but then reconsidering. “All right. Call me back in an hour. I want to talk to you about this, in person.”

I agreed. Before giving back the phone, I made one more phone call, to Max, asking him to get his brother from the school and take him home. I told him I couldn’t give him an explanation but asked him to trust me. He agreed with obvious reluctance.

Then I headed to the San Francisco Wax Museum, located at Fisherman’s Wharf.

 

Aidan Rhodes had gotten me into this mess; he was refusing to help me, and I wanted to know why. Even if he really was out of town, maybe I could snoop around his office, see if I turned up anything telling.

In the ticket kiosk of the Wax Museum sat a bored young woman, very Queen of the Dead in her Goth outfit of dyed black hair, heavy kohl eyeliner, and multiple piercings. She grudgingly put down the worn paperback romance novel she was reading when I approached.

“One adult?” she asked with a sigh, leaning her head in her hand as though she could barely stay awake.

“Not for the museum, but is Aidan Rhodes here?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Nuh-uh.”

Did I really want to risk going through Aidan’s office without his permission? I had a moment of self- doubt. What did I think I was, a one- woman crusade able to hold off powerful witches? But as I was thinking, it dawned on me that I couldn’t tell whether the young woman in the ticket booth was lying or not; I couldn’t get a read on her aura at all. That was odd. I assessed her. She didn’t have powers . . . unless the booth was enchanted. I placed my hand on the metal railing and perceived a faint hum. Clever; Aidan didn’t want her giving anything away.

“I don’t suppose you’ll come out here and talk to me?” I said.

She screwed up her forehead as if I had suggested she eat nails. “Say what? Could you step aside? There’s other customers.”

I waited while she served a large multigenerational family speaking some sort of eastern European language. The children were teasing one another, ratcheting up their titillation about visiting the Chamber of Horrors. I was right there with them. The whole Wax Museum put me on edge. There were too many possibilities for transfiguration. Wax figures in the form of humans, otherwise known as poppets, are used too often for destruction, in my experience.

As the family hustled up the main stairwell, I followed them.

“Hey!” I heard the booth attendant yell at me.

I figured given her level of investment in this job and her probable minimum wage paycheck, she wouldn’t care enough to make it out of the booth. She didn’t.

I moved quickly past the entrance to the Chamber of Horrors, and slipped behind a small display of European explorers next to a heavy walnut door.

I banged on it. No answer.

“Aidan?” I called.

Nothing.

I banged some more. Then I spotted Aidan’s familiar: The elegant, white long-haired cat sat on a small ledge near the corner, absolutely still, as though made of wax itself. I looked into its intelligent eyes. It was acting as guardian. If I tried anything, I reckoned I’d be dealing with cat scratch fever.

But it also meant that Aidan was
not
out of town. Graciela had always told me I had more power than I knew. It was time to stop screwing around.

I focused my rage—and I had plenty—on the door, and flung it open with my mind.

Aidan Rhodes, male witch, sat behind his large walnut desk.

“What in tarnation’s going on?” I demanded as I stormed in.

Aidan’s eyes shifted to the chair in front of his desk.

“I apologize for my friend’s intrusion, Garrett,” Aidan said. “We’ll finish this up later.”

Only then did I realize Aidan was not alone. I turned to see a man in a well-cut, expensive-looking charcoal gray suit that was now covered in a generous helping of white cat hair. With a jolt, I realized I had seen him earlier at Ginny’s art opening. Garrett Jones, the mayor of San Francisco, sprang out of his seat, looking ashen.

“I’m sorry, I—” I began, but the damage was done.

The mayor scurried by me, frightened. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile as he scooted out of the office. I cringed inwardly, feeling chagrined at my impulsive behavior.

“Don’t stop now, Lily,” Aidan said to me, looking simultaneously amused, bemused, and irritated. “Come on in, by all means. My door is, evidently, always open to you.”

I shut the door behind me and took the seat the mayor had just left.

“Tell me what Jerry Becker wanted you to do for him,” I demanded.

“I can’t do that.”

“He wanted something . . . wrong from you, didn’t he? Wanted the strength of a demon at his beck and call, something like that?”

“Why don’t you calm down and tell me what’s happened before you start accusing the most powerful witch in California with dabbling in the dark arts.”

Aidan sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. He always acted so laid back and relaxed, the ultimate West Coast witch. But I had seen him in action and had felt the tingle of his power. He was warning me off, and with good reason. I stroked my medicine bag and got a grip on my emotions. It wasn’t like me—and it was profoundly unwise around someone like Aidan Rhodes—to lose my temper.

I looked into his apparently guileless eyes for a long moment before responding.

“If it’s any consolation, I would never accuse you of dabbling,” I said. “I imagine that anything you do, you do expertly. Besides, I thought
I
was the most powerful witch in California.”

He grinned. “Let’s call it a draw. I doubt either of us would come out well should we put it to the test.”

Aidan’s snow-white familiar jumped into my lap, and I leaned away from her. I love the beauty and grace of cats, but I’m allergic. I imagined whatever witchy gods and goddesses there might be would enjoy the idea of making a natural witch feline-phobic.

“What’s going on, Lily? Why are you so upset?”

“There’s a demon at the School of Fine Arts.”

“You’re sure?”

“Darned sure. Someone summoned it.”

“Do you have the demon’s name, characteristics?”

Having failed to get the proper attention from me, the cat jumped onto the desk, sauntered across the expanse of gleaming walnut, and leapt into her master’s waiting arms. Aidan stroked her long, white hair with his graceful fingers.

“Not really. But he’s out of control.” I described tonight’s incident to him.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Jerry Becker thought it was some kind of demon. That’s why he came to me.”

“To try to harness the demon’s power?”

“Get your mind out of the spiritual gutter, there, missy. I won’t tell you the details, but Becker came to me for help.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Because you’re a cynic when it comes to men? Powerful men, in particular?”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I . . . It doesn’t sound as though Becker was a very nice man.”

“No, he wasn’t. But that doesn’t justify a death sentence.”

True. “So how can we tell how much of a danger this demon poses for the school community?”

“Most demons are more about mischief than actual violence. Unless, of course, he killed Becker. Have you ruled out the human factor?”

“Not really, but Sailor doesn’t think it was the demon.”

“Sailor should know.”

“So you’re saying Jerry Becker didn’t strike some sort of deal with the demon, back in the sixties when he was hanging around the school? His success—”

Aidan laughed. “I can guarantee you that Becker’s success had much more to do with the drive of a man trying to escape death, rather than embracing it.”

“From what I’ve put together, it seems the demon’s been conjured, then bound, twice: once back with the group of nuns in the closet, and then in the sixties—after John Daniels was killed. Who conjured it this time?”

“I have no idea. Does it really matter? Clearly, whoever conjured the demon did not have the skill, or the intention, to bind it. So you’ll need to do the honors. And make sure it stays that way, this time. How difficult that task will be depends on who he or she is.”

Aidan stood, placed the cat gently atop the desk, and studied the books on the shelf, his brow wrinkled in concentration. I watched, wondering what to make of him. I didn’t trust this male witch, but I did feel a certain kinship. As much as I loved my new friends, someone like Aidan understood me in a way that Bronwyn never could, much less Maya or Susan or any of the gang, coven members or no. He was my kind. It was as simple . . . and as complicated . . . as that.

If Aidan really was what he said he was, just a wickedly talented witch working for the side of good, then I was prejudiced unfairly against him because of his talents, which was something I had always accused the world of doing to me.

On the other hand, Aidan had told me himself that he knew my father. Even if I believed him in all the other realms, that knowledge alone was enough to put me off. Still, I went out with Max, who didn’t really believe in magick despite what he had witnessed in my presence. So what did that make me? WasIaself-hating witch?

“Lily?” Aidan was asking me something.

“I’m sorry? I drifted off there for a minute.”

“Are you still having trouble sleeping? Those pesky mares at it again?”

“They wouldn’t have anything to do with the demon at the school, would they?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me, is Matt having troubles as well?”

“You know very well his name is Max.”

“Right, Max. That’s what I said.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m just waiting for the right witch to come along and ‘corrige’ me,” he said with a crooked smile.

He pulled a huge parchment-covered tome off a cherry bookcase, handing the heavy volume to me. On the front cover the title was written in a bold, Gothic script:
Pseudomonarchia daemonum
, by Johann Wier, 1583. And down came another tome,
Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis
, or
The Lesser Key of Solomon
. Aidan tapped on the second one.

“The Lesser Key of Solomon is an anonymous seventeenth-century grimoire containing detailed descriptions of spirits, as well as the conjurations needed to invoke and oblige them to do the will of the conjurer, or exorcist. That would be you, in case you weren’t clear.” He smiled. “It details the protective signs and rituals to be performed, the actions necessary to prevent the spirits from gaining control, the preparations prior to the evocations, and instructions on how to make the necessary instruments for the execution of those rituals.”

Aidan placed the books in my arms and gently but firmly pushed me toward the door.

“Look up your demon and figure out what you’re dealing with. This is what I’m paying you for.”

“You’re not paying me anything.”

“Okay, this is what I’m canceling your debt for.”

“But—”

“A minute ago you were bragging about your powers. Now, live up to your inflated image of yourself and figure this thing out. I’m busy.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Aidan. I need help.”

“You’ve got plenty of help. You’ve got Oscar, and Sailor, and a whole coven behind you, if I’m not mistaken.”

“They’re a peace-and-nature-loving neo-pagan Wiccan coven. They like to thank the Goddesses and eat baked goods. They don’t usually deal with this kind of thing.”

“Time they started.”

“Aidan, I was never trained for this. I’m . . . scared.”

Aidan let out an exasperated breath. “Did anything actually hurt you?”

“No, I guess not,” I conceded. “It was mostly a lot of noise and visual tricks. Disgusting visuals. It kissed me, though.”

Aidan’s eyebrows rose, and he gave me a crooked smile. “It
kissed
you?”

I nodded.

“What guise was it under when it kissed you?”

“Luc Carmichael, a teacher at the school.”

“Cute.”

“It wasn’t cute. It was . . . weird. Very weird.”

“Do you like this Luc fellow?”

“I do. He’s Max’s brother, among other things.”

Aidan let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s a good one. This demon sounds like a real character. Does Max know about you and his brother?”

“There’s nothing to ‘know.’ And no, I don’t plan on mentioning it.”

Aidan was still grinning. “You see? He’s playing with your mind. You know how these demons are—they’re mischief-makers mostly, only ratcheting up toward violence over time. They don’t normally cause so much havoc up-front that people call in experts and exorcise them, that’s the last thing they want. They want to stay and play. Besides, if he was only recently conjured, he’s probably not strong enough to do much real harm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”