a witchcraft mystery 08 - a toxic trousseau (6 page)

Next we went outside to see if the neighbors could provide any information. On one side was a bank, and on the other a cupcake bakery; both were shuttered for the night. The businesses across the street were similarly dark, so we gave up and returned to Vintage Visions Glad Rags.

“The hospital must have a procedure for finding relatives,” I said. “Right?”

Maya nodded and put Autumn’s cell phone back where she’d found it. Jamie hadn’t called in the time we’d been looking around.

“I suppose we’ve done all we can. So, I guess we should lock up for now and hope Autumn’s feeling better in the morning. I’ll leave her a note and also call the hospital to let her know I have her dog and her keys.”

The key ring jangled when I picked it up, and at the sound Loretta roused herself from her bed, shook vigorously, wagged her tail, and trotted to the front door.

“Well, I guess we know how to get her moving,” said Maya. “Want to go for a ride in the car, sweetie pie?”

“In the past year I’ve brought home a cat, a baby, and a teenage witch,” I mused, letting out a sigh as I gazed down at the dog. “I fear my pig might disown me
for good if I bring home Loretta. Any chance you’d be willing . . . ?”

Maya was scratching Loretta behind her big floppy ears. “I would if I could. She reminds me of a dog we had when I was growing up. She could stay at my parents’ house, maybe, but now that Mom’s busy at the sewing shop every day, and I’m going to school and working at Aunt Cora’s Closet . . .”

“What if you brought her to the store during the day?” I said, hoping to talk her into keeping the dog until other arrangements could be made. As Maya had pointed out, we couldn’t leave Loretta here by herself, and Oscar might just decide to be another witch’s familiar if I brought her home. “She’s clearly not aggressive, so she won’t frighten the customers. And Autumn will probably be home soon, so it would just be a day or two.”

“Didn’t you tell the paramedics
you
were the dog sitter?”

“I’m working on learning to ask for help, remember?”

Maya chuckled. “Okay, sure, why not? My folks will get a kick out of her; they’ve been talking about getting another dog. You want to come home with me, Loretta?”

The dog’s adorable, chocolate brown eyes gazed up at Maya and she wagged her tail languidly.

“I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

*   *   *

When I entered my apartment, I was greeted by the sound of gobgoyle snores emanating from Oscar’s cubby over the refrigerator.

It was a much-needed, homey sound since I was still shaken by the encounter with Autumn. She had seemed so small, so wild-eyed and frightened. The paramedics hadn’t given us any clue what she might be suffering
from. Based upon her appearance, I would guess her to be in her forties or early fifties, possibly younger. What could be wrong?

Next, I called UCSF hospital, but I couldn’t get any information other than that Autumn was in the ICU, which didn’t sound promising.

After putting on the kettle for a cup of tea, I reached up to a high shelf and pulled down my huge Book of Shadows, splaying it open on the counter. My grandmother Graciela had gifted it to me, and it was one of the few possessions I had taken when I fled my hometown. The precious tome was so old that the pages felt more like soft fabric than stiff paper under my fingertips; simply flipping through it helped connect me to Graciela and the line of powerful women who had come before us, throughout eternity. Half scrapbook, half witchcraft manual, my Book of Shadows was filled with recipes and spells and quotes and photos and articles cut out of the newspaper, reminding me of many things I would rather forget but that I must remember.

I poured steaming water over a tea ball in my favorite mug and turned the pages. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but often the book would help me, flipping open to a particularly significant entry or something entirely new that I’d never seen before.

Not this time, however. I noticed a new recipe for sprite dust, which could come in handy, but I had no idea for what. But nothing that referenced Autumn’s symptoms of confusion and paranoia, her paleness and perspiration.

After some more fruitless page turning, I slammed the book closed, placed it back on its shelf, and then showered with handmade lemongrass and rosemary
soap. I dressed in a fresh black skirt and blouse. Before I’d fled my hometown at the tender age of seventeen, my grandmother had taught me many things about life and about magics. Chief among the latter was this: “Wear all black or all white when spellcasting. Colors may confuse and alter one’s intentions.”

It was hard to say how much of what Graciela taught me came from her knowledge and experience as a practitioner and how much was based on old wives’ tales, but in the end I had decided it didn’t matter. What was crucial was that I be able to focus my intent. Besides, a lot of those old wives’ tales were spot-on.

Aidan’s leather satchel remained where I’d left it, sitting on top of the old trunk I used as a coffee table in the living room. Before I left earlier I had done as Oscar suggested and encircled it with salt and with stones of ocean jasper, eye agate, and labradorite at the perimeter for protection.

Why was Oscar so worried about the bag being here in my possession? Aidan hadn’t indicated there was anything to be concerned about, and I hadn’t sensed any warning vibrations.

Still . . . Aidan was a master manipulator, adept at casting magical glamours to mask the truth.

Warily, I sat on the floor in front of the coffee table and studied the bag: It was worn butter soft, a deep, rich brown leather. The black ribbon tied around it appeared to be satin, shiny but fraying slightly at the edges.

I took a moment to intone a grounding spell, stroked my medicine bag, and then finally opened the satchel. The contents appeared just as before. I took out a set of keys, the business card with what appeared to be the mayor’s personal number scribbled on the back, and a
folder with multiple copies of the legal statute covering fortune-telling licensure in the county of San Francisco, along with some application forms.

But what really interested me were the dozens of pieces of parchment paper. I drew one out: On it, in a typed font as though from an old-fashioned typewriter, was
Travis R. Pfost, 2704 Potrero, Apt. 217
. Travis’s name was signed in an illegible scrawl. I took out another:
Kelli Vilaria, 1872 Divisadero (at Golden Gate).
Kelli’s signature was loopy and she dotted her
i
’s with little hearts.

There was something about those scraps . . .

Placing my finger on Kelli’s signature, I felt it: a shimmer, a quickening. The unmistakable energy of blood magic.

I took out another piece of parchment, and another. All had names and addresses; all had been signed in blood.

Well, now, didn’t that just take the rag off the bush?

Were these markers of some kind? People who owed Aidan favors? If so, they must be very important favors to have been signed in blood. The magical community exchanged minor favors all the time; one’s word of honor was usually sufficient. Markers memorialized in print and signed in blood were reserved for serious magic. I had always thought of Aidan as the godfather of the Bay Area’s magical community, so perhaps he was living up to his name in great Hollywood tradition: Maybe he was making offers folks couldn’t refuse and then forcing them to do as he willed in return.

I sat back, hugged myself, and glared at the satchel.

It was one thing to join forces with Aidan to keep Selena safe and to go up against whatever magical threat
might be looming over San Francisco. Quite another to be part of a magical shakedown.

So . . . what was I going to do about it?

Exhaustion washed over me. It had been one heck of a day.

I was putting the markers back in the satchel when one escaped from the pile and slowly drifted to the floor. It was signed with a particularly elaborate signature:

Autumn Jennings.

Damn.

Chapter 4

First thing the next morning I called the hospital again but learned only that Autumn Jennings was no longer in the ICU.

Bronwyn wouldn’t be in until late, and Maya had a sketch group, so I was alone in the shop. It was quiet, with only one or two customers at a time, so I sorted through business-related paperwork while Oscar snored on his special purple silk pillow. Maya had called to say her mother had taken Loretta to her sewing loft this morning, so I didn’t have to worry about her.

I had tried—and failed—to get Oscar to tell me more about the satchel, or to divulge Aidan’s location, or at least how to get in touch with him. But Oscar either didn’t know, or—more likely—wasn’t talking. One of the more disturbing aspects of my relationship to my familiar was that he filled me in only on a need-to-know basis, and his interpretation of my needing to know was often quite different from mine. That was one of the problems of having a familiar who wasn’t a real familiar.
A
real
witch’s familiar, I grumbled to myself, would do as its mistress said.

Oscar was more like a . . . sidekick. A recalcitrant, garrulous, hungry, stubborn sidekick.

I stashed Aidan’s satchel under the counter and promised myself that I’d try to work up the energy to look through it soon, hoping to figure out its significance.

But for now I sipped my coffee, looked around Aunt Cora’s Closet, and willed myself to relax.

My shop gave me a deep sense of satisfaction. I felt the welcoming hum of the clothes, breathed in the scents of clean laundry and herbal sachets, and appreciated all the way to the very marrow of my bones just how lucky I was. I had been alone and lonely for so long, but now I had my health, a wonderful job, good friends to confide in and watch my back, Oscar to make me laugh—and occasionally save my life—and Sailor to woo my heart and hold me in his arms. Oscar and Sailor were occasionally infuriating to the point of madness, but still. I honestly had no idea what I’d done to deserve so much.

The memory of Autumn’s apartment highlighted my good fortune. Despite the opulence of her store and its wares, her living space had seemed so dreary and depressing and . . .
depressed
.

The bell over the shop door tinkled.

“You Lily Ivory?” demanded a thirtysomething woman, wearing a sort of hippie-chic outfit that included scarves and leather boots. Trailing her into the store was a woman of similar age, dressed like a Goth, in all black.

Not another process server,
I thought.
Who did Oscar head-butt
this
time?

“Yes,” I said. “And you are . . . ?”

“I’m Ebony Trevil,” said the one dressed in black. “Aidan said we were supposed to bring our issues to you.”

“Ah,” I began. “Listen, I—”

“I’m Isadora,” said the first. “One name. Like Madonna.”

Ebony rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, Lily, maybe you could tell the wannabe Madonna here to keep her nose out of my client list?”

“I can’t help it if your
former
clients come flocking to me,” responded Isadora with a shrug. “Cheaper prices, better service. This is a capitalist system we live in, more’s the pity, and that’s how capitalism works.”

“Pardon me, I really don’t—,” I began, but they weren’t listening.

“Are you even licensed?” Ebony demanded.

Isadora made a face.

“That’s what I thought! You’re not even licensed! If I wasn’t such a team player I would have reported you to the authorities already. You have to be licensed. Tell her, Lily.”

Oscar snorted awake, startling both women. As was usually the case for anyone who spotted Oscar in his piggy guise, their surprise turned to laughter.

“It’s a pig!”

“So cute! Here, piggy piggy pig . . .”

The brief respite gave me a chance to gather my wits. The women’s squabbling was obviously the sort of thing Aidan had asked me to take care of. How hard could it be? I could handle it. I adapted one of the techniques Bronwyn’s coven used during group discussions, grabbed a Brazilian rain stick, and held it up high.

“This is the talking stick,” I said solemnly, enjoying the sound of the rice inside the stick cascading down,
like a torrential rain. “Only she who holds the stick may speak. Am I clear?”

The women nodded.

I handed the stick to the first woman who had walked in. “Ebony, tell me your side of the story, slowly and clearly. You have until the sound of rain stops.”

“But—,” she said, shaking her head.

“You’re wasting your talking time,” I warned.

Ebony finally settled down enough to tell me her complaint. “Okay, here’s the deal. Isadora used to be my apprentice. She didn’t complete her training but opened her own shop nevertheless.”

Isadora jumped in: “I don’t have to—”

“Do
not
disrespect the talking stick,” I ordered, ignoring a snort of laughter from Oscar.

Isadora fell silent.

“Continue,” I said.

“I sell love charms and prosperity spells, only for good, never for evil! Isadora’s been making up these stupid do-it-yourself kits, which cost half what I charge, and I’m losing business because of it. It’s not fair—” The stick fell silent, and so did Ebony.

I took the stick, turned it over, and handed it to Isadora. “Now you.”

“My kits aren’t stupid!” she said. “They contain herbs and stones, whatever is required for the spell or charm. I have as much right as Ebony to sell whatever I want to whoever I want, thank you very much.” She handed the stick back.

Both women looked at me expectantly.

“Hmmmm,”
I said, wishing I had a long gray beard to stroke to make me look wiser. “Isadora, do you explain to your clients the concept of a witch’s ability to
influence reality? That it is the concentration of
intent
that is crucial, not the specific items in a kit?”

“Sure,” she said.

I raised one eyebrow.

“Well, I mean, kind of. I mean, I try, but they don’t always understand.”