Tarnished and Torn: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 21

  “You’re giving me romantic advice now? Seems to me you’ve done your level best to run off any such possibilities in my life.”

  He scoffed. “Any man worth his salt wouldn’t be that easily run off. Besides, that journalist you liked—what was his name? Max?—was a train wreck.”

  “And Sailor?”

  “Sailor is . . .” He suppressed it quickly, but I knew the thought of Sailor and me together still stuck in his craw. “Sailor is trouble, no two ways about it.”

  We paused for the light at Cole Street. Aidan reached out to tuck a strand of my dark hair behind my ear.

  “Besides . . .” he said in a low voice. “We both know there’s someone else so much better suited to you. One of these days, maybe you’ll stop fighting it.”

  The mere touch of his fingers caused a searing tingle of heat to race through me, but I had already braced myself for it. There was no denying there was chemistry between us. The only question was what to do about it. We had kissed once, and our combined magic spun out of control. I had the feeling that Aidan’s romantic track record wasn’t much better than mine; we both seemed to leave a trail of battered lives in our wake.

  But for the moment, at least, I was putting that at the very top of the list of things I didn’t want to think, much less talk, about.

  We crossed Stanyon to enter Golden Gate Park.

  “What has your father said to you?”

  I studied the side of his face as he looked straight ahead at a group of children playing hide-and-seek in a eucalyptus grove. I wasn’t going to bother to ask how he knew my father was back in town—Aidan had more scouts and spies than I could fathom.

  “Nothing.”

  “He hasn’t asked you for anything?”

  I shook my head.

  We walked farther into the park in silence. Aidan wasn’t one prone to fabricating long pauses for dramatic effect. He was choosing his words carefully.

  “You haven’t been contacted in any way?” He searched my face. “No unusual characters in your life lately—anything like that?”

  “Someone was sent to follow me.”

  “Who? How?”

  “Couple of look-alike guys in a big mint green Ford Scout. Not exactly subtle. Named Zeke and Clem. They’re pretty incompetent—came into the store, then tried to mug me.”

  “Mugged you?” Alarm in those beautiful blue eyes. Maybe he really did care about me. “Did they take anything from you, a piece of jewelry?”

  Or . . . maybe not. He was worried about them finding the ring, not the health and welfare of yours truly.

  I shook my head.

  “This is very important, Lily: Was anything given to you? A gift or present of some kind?”

  “What kind of present?” I played ignorant, seeing what he’d say.

  “A ring.”

  “No,” I said, relieved not to have to lie to Aidan. Though we couldn’t read each other’s thoughts, it was usually pretty evident when the other was lying.

  As we followed a bend in the path to a small meadow, we saw a couple of young women in halter tops and cutoffs, swinging pots on ropes, dancing and swaying.

  “Are they practicing fire dancing?” Aidan asked with a frown.

  “I think so, yes.”

  He swore under his breath. “Since when has this been going on?”

  “First time I heard about it was Sunday. You’ve been out of touch. Shouldn’t you be on top of this sort of thing?”

  “Fire dancing is a great art, actually, but in this case . . . it’s not good. Not good at all. Listen. With regards to your father: Don’t trust him.”

  I snorted. “Like I need you to tell me that?”

  Again with the searching of my face. It was starting to make me nervous. Aidan was clearly trying to figure out how much information to share with me and how much to hold back. It was rare for him. I almost never saw him unsure.

  “I was once entrusted with a very important magical ring. Because of something that happened with your father, I wasn’t able to keep it. I wasn’t strong enough at the time. So I gave it for safekeeping to a powerful witch I knew.”

  “Carlotta Hummel?”

  He looked at me, startled. “How did you know?”

  “I have my sources,” I said, feeling inordinately proud of myself for getting the jump on him for once. It was the sort of thing he was always doing to me.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Carlotta. I had to get the ring to someone powerful enough and who had no obvious connection to me. She was able to hide it for many years, but recently she was forced to forfeit it.”

  “Along with her life.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t know where it is now?” I wasn’t ready to tell him the truth about how much I knew. I still didn’t trust him.

  He shook his head. “Part of the ability of the ring is to keep itself hidden. There is no feeling its hum, its vibrations, unless it wants you to. In a very real sense, it is alive. Too many practitioners have poured in a bit of their abilities for it to be otherwise. And if Carlotta gave up her life keeping it secret, it very likely holds a good deal of her powers as well now. It grows stronger, which is a very good thing. Because the . . . entity that it controls does as well.”

  We were talking about demons. A lot of us powerful folk can’t speak the names for fear of invoking them, particularly if we share a bond. Demons are diabolically clever and have wicked good memories. Once you used spells and incantations to control them or escape from their clutches, they remembered. The next time you met up, if you were so unfortunate as to see them again, you had to have a whole new arsenal of tricks.

  “And what makes you think this ring is here in San Francisco?”

  “Carlotta’s sister, Griselda, arrived a few days ago. As did your father.”

  “And you think he’s looking for it?”

  “I would assume so. I believe Carlotta must have tried to send the ring to me. I am not sure how, or who she might have trusted for the job besides her sister. Unfortunately, my own investigation has been stymied by my need to go underground.”

  “Why are you so sure my father’s looking for the ring? Maybe he came here to visit his daughter. You never know.”

  His blue eyes sparkled as they looked into mine. I remembered only too well, however, the time I had walked in on him unexpectedly and seen him without the glamour he used to hide his scars. I wondered if he still had nightmares about the flames of that demon’s fire.

  “You went up against this demon together. Didn’t you? Is it . . .” I hesitated to say the name Xolotl, just in case. “The X-man, the Aztec fellow?”

  “Sounds like you know plenty.”

  “Not enough. Tell me what happened. You told me you and my father used to work together.”

  He nodded. “We did, some time ago. But then . . . we went up against a powerful foe. Everything went wrong. I . . . your father . . .”

  “He betrayed you?”

  “It wasn’t that. Declan thought he could gain control . . . that he could utilize the entity. And then I . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I made a mistake. A crucial mistake.”

  “You’re saying he’s beholden to a demon and it’s somehow your fault?”

  Aidan looked back at the children playing among the trees, their high-pitched young voices reminding us of joy and life. Dwelling on demons tended to suck that kind of thing out of a person.

  “I owe him; let’s leave it at that. I think he’s here in pursuit of the ring.”

  “To use it to free himself?”

  “That’s the most benign explanation. It’s possible, though, he’s intent on destroying it for the demon.”

  “Why would he willingly stay beholden?”

  “He would gain great powers, beyond anything a regular human could ever hope to attain. And your father is a very ambitious man.”

  Food for thought. “So where do we go from here?”

  “We find the ring first.
Besides stopping a good deal of carnage, we could use it to free your father from the entity’s clutches.”

  “Easier said than done. I’ve been looking for it since the Gem Faire.”

  “You’re very sure Griselda didn’t give you anything?”

  “I bought a box of junk jewelry from her, but it was long before anything happened, and it seemed so random . . .”

  “It’s probably with her other things. I had people search her inventory and her room, but we weren’t the first ones there. They’d already been gone through.”

  I nodded. “I asked Carlos Romero about looking through whatever evidence they gathered from her stand.”

  “Good. I had my man on the inside check it out, but it couldn’t hurt to have you look as well. Still, it’s more likely she hid it somewhere . . . or got it to an accomplice. Which brings me to my main reason for coming to see you: I’d like you to go speak with Renna Sandino.”

  “I was already planning to. But . . . I have the feeling she’s angry with me.”

  “I have the feeling she’s furious with you, but I guarantee you she’s even less pleased with me. Just be careful—a Rom witch is not a good person to cross.”

  I glared at him. “I had no intention of crossing her. It’s all your fault.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “You’ll work it out. Anyway, I want you to find out if Griselda made contact with her before . . . before her unfortunate demise. Meanwhile, I’m touching base with a few other local practitioners whom she might have reached out to.”

  “Zeke had a notebook with a list of names. You, Renna, and I were on that list, along with several others I didn’t recognize.”

  “I believe I’m aware of all the possible candidates, but show me the names just in case. Wouldn’t want to miss anyone.”

  I nodded and we headed back to Aunt Cora’s Closet.

  “Lily, I shouldn’t have to remind you that this is a very delicate affair. When you speak to Renna, don’t volunteer any information. Wait for her to give you a sign of how much she knows.”

  Witchy politics were intricate, the traditions and sleights and requirements labyrinthine and largely beyond my ken. I would imagine with a powerful ring like this at stake, it was even worse than normal.

  “And think of it this way,” Aidan said as we turned and started meandering back to the shop. “You can always ask her if she’s heard from Sailor. Perhaps he really did leave a forwarding address.”

  Chapter 18

  Renna Sandino lived in a bubblegum-pink house in the Oakland hills with her husband, Eric, who had charmed me when we met by playing the accordion and singing a flamenco song.

  Over the front door a sign read FORTUNES TOLD; LOVE LIVES SET RIGHT. The pink house put all the staid beige and putty-colored houses on the street to shame, at least in my mind. I guess the neighbors weren’t fond of the place, but that was their problem.

  The man next door had been trimming his hedges, but he shook his head in disgust when he saw me turn into the drive, and ostentatiously went into his house and slammed the door. Across the street a woman was playing in her front yard with two children; she looked away when I glanced in her direction.

  The big black wrought-iron gate was open, so I drove on through, grateful I could try to explain myself and my reason for coming in person, rather than having to deal with the static-prone intercom. Pulling around the circular driveway to the front yard, I started to note disturbing details: a charm of animal fur and flowers was nailed to the wooden post of the mailbox, there were rowan hoops on the rail leading up the front steps, and the front door was ajar. Plus, the neat line of salt Renna always kept on her threshold was scattered.

  Carefully I climbed out of my car, looking and listening. No barking dog greeted me, no sounds of flamenco music, no welcome, but, thankfully, also no screams.

  Then I smelled . . . fire?

  I watched the house for a moment, and sure enough . . . smoke floated out of the kitchen window.

  I don’t carry a cell phone, so I shouted to the neighbor, “Call 911!”

  I ran in carefully, mindful of smoke and fire.

  “Renna?” I shouted “Renna!”

  Symbols of protection were smoldering on the tile in the foyer, and the living room rug was afire. As I watched, flames started to march up the floor-length paisley curtains that covered large windows.

  And through the opening to the kitchen, on the floor, a pair of shoes peeked out from behind the counter.

  No, not shoes. Feet. Men’s feet. I ran into the kitchen to find Eric sprawled on the kitchen floor. His shirt was open, and on his bare chest, as though burned into flesh with hot metal, was a sigil. Xolotl’s sign.

  I knelt beside him, put my hand to the side of his neck. The vibrations were still strong. He was still alive.

  I grabbed his arms and used all my strength to pull him out the front door, where I left him on the stoop, praying emergency workers would arrive any moment. But for now I had to find Renna. I prayed she wasn’t here, but if she was . . .

  Wetting a dish towel under the faucet, I wrapped it around my nose and mouth to shield my lungs from some of the smoke. The house was filling with the acrid scent as the small flames grew. In the living room the curtains burst into flame, and a pile of newspapers blazed in one corner. Large black pieces of ash, lined in burning red, floated on air and landed around the room, spreading the sparks.

  “Renna! Can you hear me? Are you here?” I yelled. Fire was louder than I had ever expected. The whooshing sound of flames and the crackle of whatever burned resounded through the house. “Renna?”

  I ran down the hall to Renna’s bedroom, where she had once read her tarot cards for me, back when we worked together to cast a spell that defeated a powerful witch. Though strangers to each other’s methods and magic, we had felt a sense of mutual respect, if not kinship.

  The bedroom had been destroyed, the drawers emptied and clothes strewn everywhere. Lamps lay broken on the floor, the bookshelf was turned over, and the mattress upended. Her tiger-striped bedspread lay in a heap with her tarot cards scattered over it, but the Queen of Swords was pinned to the wall with Renna’s jeweled athame.

  The flames hadn’t reached the bedroom yet, but the smoke was thickening. I was about to search the rest of the house when I decided to check the bathroom and closet, just in case.

  I opened what I thought was a closet door, but it led instead to a small writing nook that Renna apparently had used as her private altar.

  And hanging from the ceiling was Renna, her arms tied and yanked up behind her. Her shoulders were probably dislocated. I recognized the torturous method as strapatto. Yet another traditional technique for extracting information from witches.

  “Renna! Can you speak to me?”

  She made a raspy, croaking sound deep in her throat; her eyes rolled back in their sockets. She seemed barely alive.

  I yanked the athame from the wall. Holding Renna up as best I could with my left arm to relieve the tension, I started sawing through the rough rope tethering her to the beam. She was deadweight, too weak and injured to help me. I heard the faint sound of sirens approaching, and thanked the goddesses that the neighbor must have called 911, as I’d asked.

  The cutting seemed to take forever. One strand snapped at a time, with hundreds to go. My muscles burned with the strain of holding Renna in my left arm and with the staccato motion of the sawing back and forth with my right. The stench of smoke assailed my nostrils, despite the wet rag that was still over the lower half of my face.

  Finally the rope snapped. We both fell onto the floor, our combined weight hitting with a solid thud. The fire was growing quickly in the outside bedroom; already in one corner of the room smoke was filling the chamber and moving our way. I climbed out from under Renna and threw a small stool to break the glass of the window, which led to a narrow side yard. To avoid pulling on her injured arms, I grabbed her by her waist and dragged her, but she had a good twenty or so pounds on
me. After much heaving and tugging we were finally next to the window. I took the dishcloth from my face, wound it around my hand for protection, and cleaned the glass shards off the windowsill. Thrusting my head out, I could see emergency vehicles in front of the house and firefighters running to connect their hose. I tried to call to them, but no one heard me over the noise of the truck, the fire, and the shouting.

  Renna’s candles, amulets, and small prayer tokens scattered around the room like confetti as I grabbed the heavy cloth off the altar and threw it over the shards of glass on the sill. I used my last reserves of strength to hoist Renna up, draping her body facedown over the sill. I then climbed out around her, and while breathing in great breaths of blessed fresh air, pulled her the rest of the way out of the building, trying to break her fall with my own body.

  I laid her down as gently as I could on the sparse, crackly yellow-brown grass of the yard, and ran for the emergency workers in front of the house.

  “This way! An injured woman. Quickly, please,” I said as I found a uniformed EMT and grabbed him by the hand. He gestured to a few others and they all ran down the side yard toward Renna.

  Then I stood, gulping fresh air, indecisive and stunned. Paramedics were loading Eric onto a stretcher, his sooty face obscured by an oxygen mask. It took three men to control a strong blast of water from a huge hose they had aimed at the upstairs windows.

  Just then a hand touched my shoulder from behind. I whirled and let out a blast of energy that threw the poor emergency worker down on her butt.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed. “Let me help you up.”

  The woman looked confused, as did most people who received a blast from me. They didn’t usually connect it with me; they simply didn’t understand what had just happened.

  She got up, still looking perplexed, and I let her lead me to the open back doors of an ambulance. She wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and started asking me a number of questions. Only then did I realize that my arms and hands were wounded, covered in soot and small scratches, and some bigger, from the glass.