Hexes and Hemlines (24 page)

“No. But why do you keep asking me this? I’m a psychic, remember, I don’t know about this sort of stuff. Besides, it’s not the same in my tradition.”

“Your ‘tradition’? You have a ‘tradition’?”

“Sort of.” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’m half Rom.”

“Rom? As in Romani, as in Gypsy?”

He gave a curt nod. “On my father’s side.”

“Really?”

“I don’t have much association with it. My father separated himself from it fairly early on. A lot of that stuff—it tends to be handed down by the women, and my mother’s Scots-Irish. I was raised just like any other ethnic mutt in this country.”

“You act as though your heritage is something to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I just don’t want to have to answer any damn fool questions.”

“Do you know any Rom witches or healers?”

“Questions such as that, for instance.” Sailor rolled his eyes. “You know what they say:
Ki shan I Romani, Adoi san’I chov’hani.”

“What does that mean?”

“Loosely translated, it means we’re loaded with
chov’hani
, or witches.”

“Is that a bad thing, or a good thing?”

“Depends on whether people are paying you for your services, or burning you alive, or herding you into Nazi concentration camps.”

Not to put too fine a point on it.

“So, are some of your family . . . ?”

He sighed. “My aunt is a Gypsy witch, yes. Is that what you want to know?”

“Wow. That’s fascinating. Is she local?”

“I’m not having this discussion. I just came by to make sure you hadn’t landed in jail. Now I’m going home.” He surprised me by kissing me on the forehead. “Be good. If I can’t get off this detail, I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.”

 

Up in my apartment, Oscar was still trying to decide on a name for the cat, and the cat was now totally uninterested in knowing him. Since I was allergic, it saved all of its affection for me. I sneezed repeatedly, which Oscar felt duty-bound to respond to with a series of “gesundheits.” I fixed them both something to eat, reminding myself, again, to stop and get some actual pet food soon. Oscar would find it offended his dignity to eat it, no doubt, but it would probably be best for the cat.

“Oscar, when we were at Malachi Zazi’s apartment the other day, you said something about gargoyles being practically family. What did you mean by that?”

He stared at me. Oscar was so talkative that when he went mute, it was significant.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” I asked.

He shrugged and started picking at his talonlike toes, refusing to make eye contact. “Oh, Mistress! I forgot to tell you. There’s a message on the phone. From that
man
, the cowan.”

“Don’t call him that, Oscar. It’s not nice.” I used it in my own mind from time to time, but tried not to say it aloud. “Cowan” is an archaic, derogatory word for a nonwitchy human.

“I don’t like cowans.”

“That’s not true. You like Bronwyn.”

“The lady, she’s nice,” he said in a dreamy voice. Bronwyn tended to slip Oscar snacks, and to cradle him in her arms and against her ample bosom.

“And Maya.”

“Maya . . . ,” he crooned. Maya sang to him when she thought no one was listening. And she also brought him doggie bags from lunch.

“And just about every customer that comes into the shop. Especially the female ones.”

“Female customers . . .”

I smiled and turned toward the message machine. But then I hesitated. Part of me was glad Max had called, but the other part wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what he had to say. Especially with Oscar watching me with those huge, intent eyes.

Saved by the phone.

“Lily, it’s me,” said Bronwyn. “I’m right outside. Could I come up and talk to you? It’s important.”

“Of course,” I said, going to open the front door of the apartment.

This was perfect. I loved the idea of having friends just dropping by—made me feel downright normal. Besides, I’d love to use her as a sounding board, not just for all the craziness surrounding Malachi Zazi, but also with regard to Max Carmichael. I was scared to listen to the message he’d left me. Who was the coward now?

But the moment I saw Bronwyn’s face, I knew it wasn’t going to be a girls’ gabfest kind of evening. She refused my offer of tea, and we took our seats on the sofa in my cozy living room.

“Bronwyn, is everything all right? Did something happen with Gregory?”

“No . . . sort of. Lily, I want you to stop what you’ve been doing. Rebecca has asked me to get you to stop looking into this . . . issue of Gregory’s.”

“Before, you and Rebecca both asked for my help.”

“I know that. But when I brought her the tonic you brewed, it set off an argument. She made some calls, talked to some people. She seems to think that Gregory will be exonerated soon anyway, and having people like us involved . . .”

“‘People like us’?”

She fixed me with a look, her soft brown eyes shiny with tears. “Witches. She doesn’t want my name, much less yours, connected with them, with . . . any of them.”

“Oh, I see.”

“She doesn’t mean anything by it,” Bronwyn said. “Or . . . I guess she does, doesn’t she? But still, I have to honor her wishes in this. This is my chance, Lily. I have to do what she’s asking of me. I failed Rainb—Rebecca—as a mother, but now I have to try to make it up to her. You need to let go of this.”

“How do you mean you failed her?”

“I was so young when I had my baby.” Bronwyn pushed some loose lavender around on the coffee table, absentmindedly making the shape of a pentacle—a symbol of safety. “I tried . . . I really believed that unlimited love would be enough. But now I see that structure and security are important, too. She lacked all of that. I didn’t give that to her. There were times . . . I even remember bringing her to parties—with all kinds of things going on. What kind of mother does something like that?”

Shame rolled off of her in waves. This was not the calm, confident woman I had come to love and depend on.

“Was she ever unsafe? Was she hurt?” I asked.

“No. But we were lucky.”

“I think you need to cut yourself a little slack. It might not have been the ideal situation, but you loved her, you took care of her. And it’s all in the past, anyway. She’s a healthy, accomplished woman.”

Bronwyn nodded, took a deep breath, and released it slowly. “I know. I know that. This whole thing has just been so hard. But you know the crazy part? In a way it’s brought us closer together—she’s looked to me for support. That’s why I want to respect Rebecca’s wishes in this. I want you to stop investigating.”

I thought of Carlos saying insulting things to me about witchcraft earlier in the day, and how strangely threatening Perkins had seemed. And how Aidan had reacted to my involvement, and the malevolent energy of Doura. . . . Who was Malachi Zazi to me, anyway, that I should spend such time and energy on him? True, it was bewildering that the apartment—and the corpse—had been cleansed before we arrived. But given the man’s unfortunate relations, it could have been done for any number of reasons. I wouldn’t put it past Prince High to have stolen his son’s body and conducted séances in the apartment—if he researched cleansing ceremonies, used the right ingredients, and truly believed, he could have managed to instill at least a temporary freeze.

And now Bronwyn, my dear friend, was asking me to butt out. I didn’t have much choice.

“All right,” I said softly. “If that’s what you want.”

I tried to spend an evening like a normal person. I didn’t brew, and I didn’t read about ancient Roman gods, or flip through my Book of Shadows in search of new recipes it might have miraculously added. I didn’t try in vain to scry in my useless crystal ball. I did my best to put all thoughts of Malachi Zazi and Prince High and the Huffmans and Gregory and Rebecca and Perkins out of my mind.

Finally I decided that if I was looking for distraction, Max Carmichael seemed the most likely candidate. We met at the pub not far down Haight Street from Aunt Cora’s Closet.

“How are you?” he asked as we settled into a small table in a secluded corner.

“Could we start with an easier question?”

“That bad?”

I shrugged. He ordered margaritas, adding, “Make them doubles.” A man after my own heart.

“How are things going with the Satanists?” he asked.

I had to smile. “I haven’t seen them since we were last there together.”

“Good.”

“Could you tell me anything about Prince High, or his so-called Church of the Devil?” I had promised Bronwyn to stop investigating, but I just wanted to clarify a few things in my own mind. That’s all. It would stop here.

“I don’t think they’ve got an actual hotline to hell, if that’s what you’re asking. As far as I can tell, the ‘Prince’ milked the ‘Church’ thing for as much money as he could. When times changed he lost the shock factor, and then he faded out of sight pretty fast.”

“Should I assume you don’t think he has any actual evil powers, then?” That was a silly question—Max Carmichael didn’t really believe in
my
powers, though he had witnessed them in action.

“I don’t think a person needs to connect with any supernatural evil in order to perpetrate crimes upon humanity, Lily. We’ve seen enough through human history to document that fact, haven’t we?”

I nodded and took a deep sip of my margarita. The broad glass was rimmed with salt, of course, and redolent of limes.

“I looked up Prince Zazi, or whatever it is he calls himself,” Max continued. “He has a long record of inquiries from Child Protective Services when Malachi was a boy, including several ER visits. Anyone who could hurt a child, or expose him to the sorts of things Malachi was exposed to—that signals a perfectly human evil, in my mind.”

“Speaking of natural evil, do you know anything about Mike Perkins?”

“The founder of Perkins Laboratories? A little. He’s not a person to be messed with. More money than the queen, and less of a sense of humor. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I spoke with him and he just . . . he gave me a pretty strange vibe, to tell you the truth.”

He chuckled. “Now you’re sounding more California than witchy. ‘Strange vibe’? Is that a technical term?”

I smiled and played with the frost on the outside of the margarita glass, drawing swirly lines.

“He’s not someone to be crossed, though, I’ll tell you that much,” Max said. “He didn’t get where he is now, as fast as he did, by being a nice guy. I wouldn’t put much past him. And a meddling witch like you . . . that could be a recipe for trouble.”

“Bronwyn wants me to step away from all this, to stop asking around.”

“And you, of course, refused, because you know what’s best for her.”

“It’s just—”

“You think you know better than she does. Than any of us do.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to deny it. But it was true. In this one very particular area, I
was
smarter
and
more able. I understood witchcraft, was able to alter reality and affect the future, simply by using the talents that ran in my blood and the accumulated knowledge of my training. I was more than happy to admit my lack of knowledge about almost everything else—I hadn’t even graduated high school. And my mathematical and interpersonal skills were decidedly challenged. But with witchcraft, yes, I was a star.

“I
am
better. More able. In the Craft.”

His lips pressed together, just a tad, and he stared at me with eyes the color of the gray sky over the sea. Those eyes killed me.

“You should stay away from this if Bronwyn asks you to, Lily. And I’m not saying this as someone who wants to keep you safe from people like Prince High and Mike Perkins. I’m saying it as a friend. She has reasons to ask you to back off, and as her friend you should respect those reasons.”

“I know that. I already told her I would drop it.”

“Then why are we talking about men with strange vibes?”

I smiled. “I just wanted your take on the subject, but that’s it. Case closed.”

“Good.” We looked at each other for a long moment.

“Speaking of vibes . . . I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching lately,” Max said, “as well as a lot of research into the world of the occult.”

“Really. And what does your research tell you?”

He shrugged. “That it’s a bunch of hooey, by and large. And yet I’ve seen too many unexplained things with my own eyes—always in your company. And . . . and I care for you, even though your entire being is invested in this idea of yourself as a witch. It leads me to believe that there has to be something to it.”

“And?”

“Look, as you know, I screwed up, royally, with my . . . late wife. She’s still with me, in a sense.”

“You mean your guilt’s still with you?”

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Maybe. Yes. I loved her. I wasn’t there for her when I should have been. I should have done more, should have done whatever I could. I think I still have ‘work’ to do in that area. I was hoping that for the moment, at least, you and I could be friends.”

“Just . . . friends?”

He nodded. “Good friends.”

“That was a very friendly kiss yesterday.”

“I know, I was out of line. I couldn’t help myself.”

“I don’t know, Max,” I said, slowly licking salt off my lips. “I’ve never tried to be friends with someone when I wanted to . . . you know.”

“What?”

I shrugged. “You know.”

“I . . . are you saying . . . ?” His voice sounded just a tad hoarse.

I just stared at him for another moment, shrugged again, and left him to pay the bill.

I might not know much about male-female relations, but I was a quick study. If the man wanted to play games, so be it.