Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery Read online

  Much more powerful than I was.

  But when I suggested the demon might have taken human form, Oscar had laughed at the idea. I certainly hoped that meant Gene was just as human as I was. I had gone up against a demon once before, at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts, and in the end had vanquished it. But that demon hadn’t been at full strength, and I had had a lot of help. As Graciela had drummed into me, “You have supernatural powers, m’hija. But you are not superhuman.”

  I heard the crowd laughing and tuned back in to what Gene was saying. “. . . help us keep the fire in the pots! So please remain still, and do not take pictures. Distractions might cause the dancers to stumble . . . and it’s dangerous to play with fire. And please, when the hat comes around, won’t you give, and give generously?”

  One by one, with great drama and flourish, he held his lighter to the dancers’ pots and torches.

  The drumbeats swelled, louder and more insistent, and the dancing began. The drummers were wholly focused on their drums, and for a moment I watched the frenetic movement of hands fluttering on taut skins stretched over the gourds.

  One beautiful young woman with long blond hair and a lithe, half-dressed body wore a belt with spokes that looked like torches sticking out. Gene lit each one in turn, and she started spinning so fast it looked as though she was surrounded by a hoop of fire. Another young woman held what looked like the head of a rake in each hand. When these were lit, she waved her arms and the rakes turned into flaming butterfly wings. A bare-chested young man bounded across the knoll and knelt as Gene lit a series of pots on strings, then did the same for several other women and a few men. Each of them started swinging their pots, this way and that, appearing to be calm and in control though surrounded by arcs and circles of fire. The speed of the dancers’ movements against the dark night air gave the fire the appearance of moving of its own accord, forming shapes and arches, sweeps and bends with the sinewy nature of a serpent.

  The woman with the butterfly wings lowered herself to the ground in a backbend, bringing the flames high above her head. The blonde with the hoop of fire danced around her, hopping over her, all the while spinning the pots of fire.

  I tore my eyes away and scanned the crowd standing mesmerized in the darkness. The park’s street lamps were not shining, and a sliver of a crescent moon cast a weak light over the scene.

  “Maya,” I whispered so as not to distract the dancers. “Do you know any of the troupe personally? I’d like to speak to them.”

  She didn’t answer, watching the dancers without blinking.

  “Maya?”

  She moved not at all, her eyes wide and her mouth agape, while the fire pots spun. The performance was hypnotic, and I realized the crowd, like Maya, was going into something akin to a trance.

  I looked around, scanning the crowd. It was dark now. The sun was fully set, only the sliver of the moon shone, and the park lamps remained out.

  All around us faces were eager yet placid. The red-haired guy, the steampunk girl, the one in purple. All of them enthralled, unreachable now by words or touch. A few had started twirling their bodies in a frenzied whirl.

  I wasn’t overly alarmed or even surprised. Spinning was a traditional method for entering a trance, the centerpiece of numerous religious ceremonies. Whirling helped to separate thought from mind and achieve an altered state.

  The purple girl, spinning wildly, lost control and stumbled into the woman with the fiery butterfly wings, who lay outstretched on the ground, undulating. The spinning girl’s purple yoga pants caught on fire.

  The onlookers started to laugh and cheer.

  For a moment I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—no one moved to help the girl whose clothes were now on fire, and she didn’t stop dancing.

  I had to act. Grabbing the sweater from my backpack, I ran to her, wrestling her to the grass and smothering the flames with the sweater.

  “Somebody call 9-1-1!” I shouted, but no one, not even Maya, responded.

  As I searched the crowd for help, my eyes lit on Gene, lurking in the shadows. Not panicking, not even moving. Just smiling and staring. At me.

  I scowled at him and turned my attention back to the young woman. Gingerly, I checked her leg for injury; the fire had scorched the outermost layer of cloth, but hadn’t reached her skin.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, and she nodded, a beatific but vacant expression on her face. “Want me to call 9-1-1?”

  She looked at me blankly. Guess not, I thought. As I looked closer at her shin, I realized it was covered in some sort of waxy substance. Was that some kind of fire protectant, the kind Hollywood stuntmen used? Maybe Maya was right. Maybe Gene really was a safety-first kind of guy.

  So how come I didn’t believe it?

  I left the young woman writhing happily on the ground and headed for the nearest lamppost. I chanted a spell, focused, then touched the lamppost and watched it spark to life, illuminating the knoll. I’m good with electricity. I don’t really understand it, but I’m good with it. Without the contrast of light against dark, the fire dancing was much less hypnotic.

  Then I began to dance myself, spinning, chanting, throwing my powers up against whatever spell had been cast over the crowd. I felt something push back, a palpable sensation of magic, and focused harder. I know my witchy limitations—but I also know my supernatural strengths. Whoever was fighting me was no match for my magic.

  One by one, the spectators seemed to awaken. They began milling about, murmuring excitedly, many rushing to speak with the dancers who now stood around, relaxing and breathing deeply. I pushed my way through the throng, heading for Gene, but he had disappeared. The people in the crowd jostled one another, laughing and dancing, apparently without a care in the world. Not appearing to realize they’d just been manipulated.

  I needed to find out what Gene was doing and why. Especially if Maya was serious about pursuing her new hobby.

  As if my current to-do list wasn’t long enough—what with worrying about finding a piece of jewelry worth killing for, the two yahoos following me and breaking into my store, and working out what my father was up to—I now added figuring out the machinations of a well-dressed man who loved jelly beans and, in his spare time, quite literally played with fire and mesmerized crowds in Golden Gate Park.

  “Maya!” I called out, then spotted her chatting with a drummer. She was excited, and had I not known better I would have assumed she was drunk or high on something. Her eyes shone and her mien was unfocused, a state not at all characteristic for her.

  “Let’s go,” I said firmly, and she obediently turned and followed me. I escorted her the several blocks to her home, a Victorian typical of the neighborhood. The house had some historic charm but was rather run-down, with peeling paint, a few broken windows, and a weed-choked yard. Maya’s four housemates were students, very sweet and fun but chronically short on cash and time—and space. The house had only three bedrooms. Two shared the largest room, Maya and another girl had their own small bedrooms, and the fifth slept in what used to be the dining room, which the students had roped off with a couple of Indian blankets.

  “Thank you for walking me home,” Maya said as she unlocked the Victorian’s front door. “Wasn’t that amazing?”

  “It was . . . something,” I said.

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “It wasn’t that. It’s just . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “Something was . . . wrong.”

  Maya looked surprised. “What are you talking about? It was incredible, just like last time. Just like it always is.”

  “There was something unnatural about the dancing, Maya. Didn’t you feel it?”

  “I didn’t feel anything but joy and unity—and your cynicism, frankly. Lily . . . the last thing I want to do is to hurt your feelings . . .”

  “But . . . ?”

  “You need to be more trusting. You know, let your hair down. Go with the flow.”

  Uptight, serious Maya wa
s telling me to let my hair down? Go with the flow? I could scarcely believe my ears.

  “Please don’t go back to the fire dances, Maya. Not just yet, anyway.” I needed time to figure out what had transpired tonight, and to find out more about whom—or what—Gene was.

  Maya laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Maya . . . could you just trust me on this? As someone who’s older and who wants the best for you?”

  Maya rolled her eyes like a teenager listening to a thoroughly unhip parent.

  “At least promise me you won’t go back without me. Will you do that much?”

  “Lily. . . .”

  “Please?”

  “I . . . sure. Okay, you can come. But I am going. The next one’s on Saturday, I think.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there. Oh, and Maya—what’s Gene’s last name?”

  “Gene doesn’t have a last name, silly,” Maya said with a laugh. “He doesn’t need one.”

  • • •

  After letting myself in to Aunt Cora’s Closet, I turned on an Edith Piaf CD and took yet another look at all the jewelry that might have been in the box Griselda had sold me. Feeling like a pirate looting my own store, I gathered up the rings, necklaces, and other assorted items. I held the medallion with the fire opal and concentrated on the sound of Edith’s crooning filling the store, but try as I might I felt nothing. There were several more lapis pieces, and a few beltlike items that looked North African. I looked through all the rings, trying to sense anything suspicious. The rings, as before, included two school rings, a silver band, a cameo, and a big fake engagement ring diamond in a gold leaf setting. Several pendants were Southwestern-style turquoise in pounded silver settings, which seemed funny, since they came from Germany. But a collection of “junk” like this could have accumulated over the years and might have originated from anywhere.

  I felt no vibrations, no history, nothing. But that was no surprise.

  Once again, I studied the fire opal in the medallion I’d taken to wearing. It was surrounded by blue-green opals, and it was a pretty setting, so it might sell for up to a couple hundred dollars. There was nothing about it that would be worth killing over, unless it had awesome magical powers. But if so, it sure was good at playing possum.

  Marisela’s mother and grandmother had mentioned fire opals were found in Mexico, while most opals come from Australia. The native peoples of Mexico had mined for gold and silver; it was no stretch that they would have mined for precious stones as well. The Maya were ancient and had resided in the area long before the Aztecs, who were an invading tribe of nomads from the north.

  Could the Aztecs have gathered fire opals from the Maya, and their conjurers used them for spells or incantations over human sacrifices that imbued them with power . . . for what purpose? And how would this connect to me in any way? Watching Maya dancing with fire tonight . . . it all seemed too coincidental. The fires at the Cow Palace. The discussion of fire opals. The fire dancing, and seeing Gene there.

  Clem and Zeke had been looking for a fire opal ring. Hans had mentioned sensing a ring as well, and that special amulet rings could be used to exorcise demons. I had been through every piece of new jewelry from the Gem Faire and hadn’t found any suspicious rings, though. It was very possible I had no such item in my possession. Clem and Zeke were probably tracking down multiple leads, and could have seen me interacting with Griselda at the fair.

  Could those two have been responsible for her death? They seemed more wretched than calculating, but Zeke appeared to have a bit of a mean streak. And if someone had ordered them to press Griselda, for example, they might well have done it wrong, adding too much weight and killing her without actually intending to. And before she had told them about the location of the ring.

  But then . . . why would someone have stabbed her with the athame? Had she told her interrogators where the ring was, so they simply stabbed her? And yet Clem and Zeke were still searching for it.

  Most important: Who were the Ballcap boys working for?

  The Piaf CD came to an end. Suddenly I realized how shadowy the shop floor was. I was sitting in a pool of light in an otherwise dark shop, examining jewelry and so absorbed in my thoughts that I was oblivious to anything else. If someone were watching me with evil intent, I could hardly be an easier target. The memory of Zeke and Clem’s visit last night put me on edge.

  I double-checked all the locks, turned off the lights, and climbed the back stairs to my apartment.

  Where a garrulous, grumbling gobgoyle awaited me.

  Chapter 11

  Oscar and I sat on opposite ends of the couch, our feet on the steamer trunk–turned–coffee table and books in our laps. On top of the steamer trunk sat a late-night snack of toast with butter and homemade raspberry preserves, and a pot of honey-sweetened peppermint tea. My familiar crunched his toast loudly, spewing crumbs this way and that and cackling as he read.

  I swear, we were becoming like an old married couple.

  Since Oscar was often home alone while I ran around town on business, witchy and retail, I had taught him how to use the DVD player. I hated the idea of him getting bored and lonely—for his sake, as well as mine. A gobgoyle with too much time on his hands is a recipe for trouble. What I hadn’t anticipated was Oscar becoming such a movie fan—especially a scary movie fan—that before long he’d seen everything worth watching, plus a whole lot that wasn’t. The films’ gruesomeness factor kept ratcheting up, and after a weekend-long I Know What You Did Last Summer film festival in my living room, I snapped.

  “No more screaming,” I had announced. “No more shrieking, no more knives, no more bloodbaths.” From here on out, we would spend our free time reading.

  Oscar had acquiesced, reluctantly, and although he liked Little Women well enough, he soon insisted on something more thrilling. And so I brought home a stack of classic mystery novels from the San Francisco Public Library, hoping they would satisfy his strange bloodlust while teaching him a thing or two. On the whole, the experiment had been a huge success.

  At the moment my familiar was working his way through Agatha Christie’s finest. Oscar read with his mouth agape, eyes wide, and insisted on sharing the juiciest parts. “Mistress! Just listen to this . . .” was now a regular refrain of my evening.

  For my part, I was currently doing a little light reading, too, but in my case the topic was demonology. I was disconcerted to learn that not only were there more demons than I had ever imagined, but there were all manner of fire demons, each more terrifying than the one before.

  Some of the lesser demons, I read, could be harnessed and their powers put to the benefit of those seeking knowledge and pursuing the arts. Artists, for example, were often said to be inspired by muses, which were demons by another name. The trick was to keep these lesser demons under control, because when they took over trouble ensued.

  Dealing with a demon was always dangerous, however. Exorcising a demon bound his powers and stopped him from using his portal to plague humans, but he would never go away entirely. Demons were as ancient as the Earth—some said much older—and they weren’t about to be defeated by a mere human witch, no matter how talented she might be at brewing.

  A lot of people were bound to demons by choice. Greed, ambition, and a lust for power were the usual reasons, and a combination of all three was not uncommon. Such fools typically made a pact with a demon, thinking they would be able to keep the upper hand. It almost always turned out badly.

  Elemental demons were particularly interesting, and were defined as “spirits embodying one of the elements of antiquity.” The earth elemental was a gnome, water was a nymph, air was a sylph, and fire elemental was represented by a salamander.

  A fire elemental’s minions, I read, were known to have a sweet tooth and, like the salamander, to shun the light.

  A fondness for sweets—like jelly beans?

  I had just opened a chapter on amulets of control and exorcism—with an emphasis on magical rings—w
hen Oscar leaped up as though he’d found the Holy Grail.

  “Mistress! I have it!”

  “Have what?”

  “The answer!”

  I closed my book, glad to take a break from my grim studies. “What was the question?”

  “The solution to your search!”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “We hire Miss Marple!”

  “Miss Marple?”

  He held up Agatha Christie’s The Mirror Crack’d.

  “She doesn’t miss a trick, this lady. No offense, mistress, but she could give you a serious run for your money, and she’s just a cowan.”

  “Hate to break it to you, little guy,” I grumbled as I got up to put on the kettle for more tea. “But Miss Marple is fictional.”

  “Come again?” Oscar said, suddenly standing right behind me.

  “She’s not real, Oscar. She’s a fictional character.” The expression on his face was blank, as though what I was saying did not register. “She was invented by the book’s author, Agatha Christie. That’s what writers do.”

  “They lie? Agatha Christie lied?”

  “Well, it’s not a lie, exactly. It’s pretend. Make-believe.”

  He looked skeptical. “What about this French guy, then? Hercules somethin’-or-other? He was on the Orient Express train and figured out a real humdinger of a mystery. Boy, that was a tough one. We can hire him!”

  “Hercule Poirot? He’s like Miss Marple; he’s a made-up person. It’s all pretend.” I shredded dried peppermint leaves and crushed cloves and a few rose hips harvested from my garden, mixed them together, and put them into a metal tea bob.

  “You’re saying these are all a bunch of . . . falsehoods?” His jaw dropped. “Why would Agatha Christie do something like that?”

  “Because they’re stories, meant to entertain. Just like movies.”

  He gave me a skeptical side eye. “That can’t be true, mistress.”

  “And why is that?” I asked, amused at his refusal to accept the existence of narrative fiction.