A Cast-Off Coven Page 20

  I tried to keep an open mind, but all I could think about was yet another story I knew from childhood: The Emperor’s New Clothes.

  I ducked out of the reception early, not wanting to come up with one more polite way of not answering when people asked me what I thought of Ginny’s style.

  Besides, something else had occurred to me. Maya mentioned that Jerry Becker had been staying at the Fairmont Hotel, on Nob Hill. Since the murder investigation was still open, surely the room would still be intact?

  It was a long shot at best. If Inspectors Romero and Nordstrom had found something amongst Becker’s possessions that looked to be occult in any way, they would have asked me about it already, wouldn’t they? But that was presuming they would recognize it. Even I didn’t know what I was looking for. What might Becker have used to conjure a fiend?

  I drove to the top of Nob Hill and used my parking charm—one of the best things about being an urban witch—to secure a good spot right in front of the revered Fairmont Hotel. I took my athletic bag from the trunk of the car and then climbed into the backseat, going through what magical tools I had on hand. I suppose some nonwitchy women could talk their way into a sealed hotel room without using witchcraft, but I fell back on old reliable methods. I mixed a few ingredients together, said a quick chant, and completed a spell of truth telling and persuasion on a stitched paket kongo.

  I walked into the lobby and paused to take it all in. The interior of the historic Fairmont building, completed right after the great quake of 1906, was decorated in sumptuous shades of cream and gold. A white marble floor and massive gold-veined ionic columns set the tone. Soaring potted palms reached toward the ornate ceilings. A venerable building. I supposed that if people had to have obscene amounts of money, at least a place like this let them spend it in good taste.

  At the reception desk I asked to see the manager. He bustled out a moment later from a back office, a paunchy little fellow in his fifties, with male-patterned baldness, a round face, and an eager expression. His discreet gold name tag read LOU GARNER.

  “Call me Lou,” he said as he held out his hand to shake. I held it in mine and cupped it with my other hand. I fixed my eyes on his, focusing my intention. I could feel the paket hum in my pocket, echoing my purpose. I couldn’t sway folks just willy- nilly, but luckily Lou was already inclined to be helpful.

  “I need to see the room Jerry Becker was staying in,” I said.

  “Well now,” Lou said with a toothy smile, “normally that would have been the Penthouse Suite, of course, since that’s the best, but Mr. Becker had no need of three bedrooms, four baths, so he took the Tower Suite instead.”

  “Has it been closed off since the death?”

  “Oh, yes. The police asked us to keep everyone out. All we’ve done is change the sheets. But we even had to cancel a reservation for the room—moved them to a Deluxe King Tower Suite—so, as you can imagine—”

  “You’ll take me there now, won’t you?” I interrupted.

  “Of course.”

  Garner got a key card from behind the reception desk and met me back at the elevator, where I now suffered under the one unfortunate result of this spell that I never managed to eliminate: Once the target was doing what you asked of him, he felt compelled to tell you all his secrets. I really did not want to know that good old Lou had a mad crush on his wife’s sister, Patsy, or that there had been a skirmish amongst the personnel because someone had been stealing Veronica’s special yogurt from the communal refrigerator in the break room.

  I nodded, watching the lobby, only half listening while we waited for the elevator and Lou droned on.

  A tall man in motorcycle boots, a dark gray trench coat, and a generally bad attitude stormed through the main doors, paused, and looked straight at me. He then turned and scurried down the side hallway.

  Chapter 16

  What was Sailor doing at the Fairmont?

  “Wait for me here,” I told the manager.

  “Yes, ma’am. Happy to do it. Wait for you here.” Lou was a people pleaser.

  I hurried down the hallway after Sailor. Where had he gone? Out a side exit? Into the gift shop?

  There was one other alternative—the men’s room.

  I hesitated for a fraction of second before pushing open the heavy cherry door and stepping in.

  A large redheaded man standing at a urinal quickly covered up and fled, blatantly ignoring signs exhorting all to wash their hands for the sake of public decency.

  “You can’t just waltz in here,” Sailor said, indignant, as he stood over the sink, splashing water on his face.

  “I most certainly can. I just did.”

  “Is nothing sacred anymore? The last place on earth a man could escape for a little peace, and now you just make yourself at home.” He reached for one of the linen towels in a neat stack on the marble counter. “You women want it all, is that it? Even urinals?”

  I ignored his bluster, intent on taking in the rare scene before me. The only other time I’d been in a men’s bathroom was an emergency situation at a gas station in Arkansas, and in that case I was pretty sure those women’s and men’s rooms were just about the same level of disgusting. The Fairmont men’s room, in contrast, was as refined and dazzling as the lobby; it looked pretty much as I imagined the women’s room did, but for a line of urinals rather than a fainting couch or makeup mirrors.

  My attention shifted back to Sailor, and I realized he looked haggard under the restroom’s fluorescent lights. I hadn’t noticed it in the dimness of the bar the other night.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Washing my face.”

  “I mean at the Fairmont.”

  “Booking a room for my honeymoon.”

  “Really?”

  He gave me a disgusted look.

  “I do beg your pardon,” I said. “I’ll try harder to keep up with your sarcastic wit.”

  He gave a humorless bark of laughter, leaned back against the sink, and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked up at the bathroom door a moment before it opened and a gray-haired suit-clad businessman type entered.

  “Out,” Sailor commanded. The man stopped in his tracks, looked at me, then up at the sign on the men’s room door, and then ducked back out.

  “What do you know about possession?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Demon possession.”

  “Happens a lot when demons are a bit weaker; easier than manifesting whole. When coming out of conjuring, for example. On the other hand, some of them just enjoy it, since it freaks people out. They usually go after weaker personality types, folks with temptations and flaws.”

  “That sounds like all of us.”

  “Some are easier to convince than others.”

  I pondered that for a moment. “I reckon you’re here to look through Jerry Becker’s room?”

  He just looked at me, not answering.

  “Shall we go?” I asked.

  Sailor let out another exasperated breath, but he followed me out of the restroom. The businessman he had ordered out was standing to the side of the door, waiting.

  “It’s all yours,” Sailor said to him. “Enjoy.”

  I led the way back to Lou, who was bouncing up and down on his tiptoes at the elevator, apparently agitated.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re back. There’s a problem with a reservation, and I need to get back to the main desk. Have you heard of Akon? He’s a well- known rap star, and apparently there’s a mix-up. . . .”

  He trailed off as his watery blue gaze fell on Sailor. “And who’s this strapping fellow?”

  “My . . . fiancé.” I put my arm through Sailor’s. He looked down at me, aghast at the suggestion of intimacy.

  “Well, that’s some woman you’ve got there, young man,” Lou said with an ingratiating smile.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sailor said, yanking me closer to him, his hand digging into my side. “She’s a pistol.”

  “We jus
t need to check through poor uncle Jerry’s things,” I said, tugging away from Sailor’s too-tight grip. “We won’t be long.”

  “If you don’t mind, I won’t escort you up,” Lou said.

  “Here’s the key card, and you can let yourselves in. Just give me a buzz if there’s anything more I can do.”

  “That’s perfect,” I said, staring into his eyes. “We won’t be long. And we won’t be disturbed.”

  “You won’t be long,” Lou repeated with an energetic nod. “And you won’t be disturbed.”

  Lou reached into the elevator, hit the appropriate button, and stood back, holding up his hand in a wave. The elevator doors slid closed between us.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Sailor said, giving me a heavy-lidded once-over. “That some sort of Jedi mind control?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Like in Star Wars. These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

  “I never saw that movie.”

  “You never saw Star Wars?”

  I shook my head, watching the old-fashioned elevator dial tick off the floors.

  “What are you, some kind of an alien? How could any red-blooded American not see that movie?”

  I sighed. I was feeling a mite sensitive—this sort of thing was coming up a lot lately. “I think we have more important things to think about right at the moment, not the least of which is what in the sam hill you’re doing here at the Fairmont.”

  “I could ask you the very same thing.”

  “I’m investigating Jerry Becker’s death, whereas you claimed you wanted nothing to do with it.”

  “Yeah, well, we can’t always get what we want.”

  The elevator doors slid open with a muted ding and a refined swoosh. We walked down the hill to the room marked with an elegant brass plate: THE TOWER SUITE.

  I used the key card and swung the door open. Sailor and I hesitated in the threshold, taking a moment to feel for sensations before proceeding.

  The suite was made up of a parlor with a bedroom and bath. It was decorated in standard, ho- hum hotel chic—still in shades of cream and gold, but lacking either the charm or the grandeur of the lobby and main historic hotel. The only thing out of the ordinary was a telescope set up on a tripod in the main window, which opened onto an amazing view of Coit Tower and the bay.

  Sailor started right in tossing pillows, opening bureau drawers, and looking under the furniture in the sitting room.

  I headed for the bedroom and felt the sheets—you could usually pick up a lot from the sleeping area—but they had been changed since Jerry Becker slept here. His clothes still hung in the closet—a single suit, two shirts, one pair of shiny black dress shoes, one pair of athletic trainers. I tried holding each piece, but still picked up nothing distinct. Next, I tried the bathroom, riffling through Becker’s personal toiletries, sniffing at his shaving gel, poking through his bag, which contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small bottle of cologne, blood pressure pills, and a vial of Viagra.

  Housekeeping hadn’t been here—there was a dirty towel on the floor, his things scattered about. Still, I couldn’t get much of a read from his personal effects.

  Defeated, I sat on the bed. There were signs the police had been here; perhaps they had already confiscated anything of interest.

  “Anything?” Sailor asked from the doorway.

  I shook my head. My eyes alighted on a framed photo of a smiling Jerry Becker, surrounded by two young men—his sons, I assumed—and Andromeda. I felt a surge of grief for Becker, the father. He had traveled with this photograph, set beside his bed so it was the last thing he would see at night. I held it to my chest. Yes, it had been cherished.

  There was something else: a small collage on thick, hand-pressed paper. It was very well done, and featured hearts and roses. With love, from M. Marlene, I presumed. I was finding it hard to reconcile the beaming, seemingly content Marlene I had seen with Todd with the unfolding story: a woman in love with Jerry Becker. What could she have seen in him? Unless, of course, he was playing with a deck supernaturally stacked in his favor.

  Sailor slumped onto the bed beside me, leaning forward, elbows perched on thighs. With his coat and boots he reminded me of some European rock star, or a futuristic road warrior. This close, I could feel his exhaustion; could smell his subtle aroma of spice and perfume.

  “Sailor?”

  “Yup.”

  “What are you looking for in Jerry Becker’s hotel room? For real.”

  “Probably the same thing you are. I wanted to take a look at where Becker was staying while he was here. Looking for clues.”

  “Last time we talked, I had the distinct impression you weren’t going to pursue this.”

  “I don’t have much choice. Aidan contacted me.”

  “I heard he was out of town.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “What kind of control does Aidan have over you? Why don’t you just move away?”

  Sailor’s dark eyes rested back on me.

  “What kind of control does he have over you?”

  “I told you—he helped me out once. I owe him. And besides, this isn’t about Aidan anymore. I have to find out what’s going on at that school before things get any worse. First a murder, and now . . .”

  “What?”

  I shook my head.

  “I told you I can’t read your mind. Tell me what happened.”

  “Possible case of possession. Things are ratcheting up. I can feel it.”

  Sailor swore under his breath, blew out a breath, and fell backward onto the bed. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I was trying to avoid going to the school. Thought I could figure it out from here. But nothing has any of his vibrations.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. Cloaking of some sort?”

  “I’d say more serious than that. It’s as though the guy wasn’t even human.”

  “He was human enough to die when pushed down the stairs.”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  We sat together in surprisingly companionable silence. For some reason my thoughts turned to my familiar. I felt a bit betrayed by the little porker, even though I had known he was working with Aidan. Still, I couldn’t believe he lied to me about Aidan’s being out of town. I thought about Oscar blowing on the van window and drawing a pentagram on the fogged glass. . . .

  Something occurred to me.

  I went into the bathroom and breathed on the mirror.

  A drawing appeared. Almost crownlike, it was a big U topped with a straight line, then three crosses at the top, four small circles below the line, and one at the bottom of the U.

  “A sigil,” Sailor said from right behind me. “God damn it.”

  A sigil is a demon’s seal. Demons might have several names, varying appearances, or pronunciations that shift across geography, history, and cultures. But the sigil stays constant.

  “Do you know whose?”

  He shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean much. I only know a few of the most obvious. As I’m sure you know, there are thousands.”

  “Tens of thousands,” I muttered.

  “Shit,” Sailor swore again, and banged the door frame. He had a decidedly green-around-the-gills look on his face.

  “Why are you so surprised? I told you I suspected demonic activity.”

  “I assumed you were being histrionic.”

  “You hoped I was being histrionic.”

  He shrugged one big shoulder.

  “So how do we find out whom we’re dealing with?” I asked as I tried to commit the drawing to memory. I feared sketching it, as with my powers I could inadvertently call something up before I was ready to deal with it. That would be bad—really bad.

  Sailor shook his head. “Look up the sigil, I guess.”

  Even reading about demons made me nervous. They were so serious and so numerous. It was overwhelming—and frightening. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and
released it very slowly.

  Then I felt the large, comforting pressure of a hand on my head. I opened my eyes and saw Sailor in front of me. His dark eyes looked worried, and there was a surprisingly open, vulnerable look on his face. After the briefest of moments, the sardonic, cynical mien returned. He dropped his hand and turned away.

  “I thought you couldn’t read my mind,” I said to his back as he retreated out of the bedroom.

  “No need. Your face is like an open book.”

  I trailed him into the main room, unsure what to do now. I studied Sailor’s profile for a moment as he bent over to look through the telescope at the view. He had an elegant nose, pouty lips, long eyelashes, a distinctive chin. He was rugged, strong—and yet so unhappy.

  “Sailor, do you think Aidan is capable . . . Would he have helped Becker to conjure the demon?”

  Sailor turned to me and put a finger to his lips, gesturing for me to hush. He assumed a fighter’s stance, arms at his side with his fingers twitching ever so slightly. It was an unconsciously masculine pose that I had seen men all over the globe strike when under threat; it must have something to do with testosterone.

  He took me by the upper arm and urged me toward the door.

  “Let’s get out of here. We can talk elsewhere.”

  Out in the hall, two housekeepers were pushing a cart of clean towels and supplies past the door. The elevator was open and waiting.

  As we descended, I heard Sailor’s voice, low and grumbling.

  “Just my luck to get mixed up with a bunch of crazy witches.”

  “Be that as it may, you apparently owe Aidan. You need to help me figure this thing out.”

  He blew out an exasperated breath as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby.

  “Come on, Sailor, he’s obviously got you on a leash somehow. If you help me find out who—or what—I’m dealing with at the school, you’re off the hook.”

  “For the moment.”

  We proceeded out the front glass doors. Outside, the night was chilly; the damp air carried the scent of fog and the sea. I breathed deeply, relishing the freshness of the evening after the oppressive feeling in Becker’s room.