In A Witch's Wardrobe Page 23

  “And you? Were you okay with Tarra being with both of you?”

  We had arrived at the parking lot, and in the light of the streetlamps I could see a muscle move in his cheek, as though he were clenching his teeth.

  “I was… working on it. I wanted her to leave him, and she said she would. But she was devoted to the idea of loving freely.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “Like I said, I was working on it. Life is a journey made of single steps.”

  I unlocked my car and opened the back for Oscar to climb in. He was rather clumsy in his porcine guise, so I was in the ignominious position of hoisting him from the rear.

  “Let me do that,” Wolfgang said, ever the gentleman.

  “Thanks.” I stood back and let him help Oscar. When he was done, I held out my hand to shake, wanting the skin-on-skin contact.

  I was surprised to feel that his guard was up. But it was more: Wolfgang was being protected by something, or someone, stronger than himself.

  When I pulled out of the parking lot, I looked back to see him standing and watching me go, his hands upon his hips. His bare torso gleamed, his long hair and black tattoos lending him an exotic air.

  On the way home, Oscar filled me in on what he knew about the Unspoken coven. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything beyond what Wendy had told me, except that Oscar added his own commentary and thoughts, which made the description of ecstatic worship much spicier.

  Along the entire route, something tugged at the edges of my consciousness. Finally, just as I was pulling up to a rare parking spot right outside Aunt Cora’s Closet, it dawned on me.

  When I had looked back at Wolfgang, standing in the light from the halogen parking lot lamps, I had seen some of Aidan’s distinctive shimmer. Just as I had seen it on his Jaguar after leaving Cerulean Bar.

  First he was protecting Miriam, now Wolfgang. The man was getting around lately. Plus, he had some nerve asking me to dig into Tarra’s death and yet not telling me how deeply he was involved.

  I was loath to give up such a good parking spot, but I needed to talk with Aidan again. I had one or two questions about Calypso and about why he was meddling in something he had claimed he couldn’t get involved in. Last time he did something like that, there turned out to be a kind of paranormal conspiracy it would have been helpful to know about ahead of time.

  “Where we going?” Oscar asked as I started to pull away from the curb.

  “To talk to Aidan.”

  “But I’m hungry,” he whined.

  “Why don’t you hop out, then, go on upstairs and fix yourself something?”

  Oscar hesitated, clearly weighing whether he could cajole me into cooking for him.

  “I know what let’s do,” he said. “We could get take-out on the way to Aidan’s! Chinese? Sushi?”

  “No, sorry. I’m not in the mood, Oscar. Stay here, eat some leftover étouffée, and watch the end of your movie. I’ve got business to attend to.”

  “Yes, mistress,” he grumbled, shifting into his piggy guise.

  When we got out of the car, I noticed Conrad sitting on the curb.

  “Hi there. You’re here late,” I said.

  “Dude, just watching over things,” he said, tipping back his head to look at the stars. “Beautiful night, right?”

  “Yes, it is. Just stopped by to drop off my pig.” I let Oscar into the store, locked the door behind him, and headed back to the car. “I appreciate you keeping an eye on the place, Conrad, but I didn’t mean you had to be a full-time guard. You should go enjoy your evening.”

  “Dude.”

  Talking with Conrad was a little like talking with Oscar. Sometimes it was best not to push the conversational envelope.

  I made it to the Wax Museum in twenty minutes. I no longer dealt with the young woman in the ticket booth, Clarinda, who maintained an inexplicable animosity toward me. Still, I did get a perverse pleasure out of hearing her yell at me while I walked straight into the museum without paying, then proceeded up the central stairs, past the macabre Chamber of Horrors, and to Aidan’s dark walnut door situated behind the seldom-visited European Explorers exhibit.

  Aidan opened the door just as I was about to knock.

  “Lily. What an unexpected pleasure. Twice in as many days… I’m honored.” He stepped back and made a sweeping gesture, inviting me in.

  Aidan’s inner sanctum seemed almost like a stereotype of what a witch’s chamber should look like: heavy Victorian-era furnishings, plush upholstered chairs, velvet drapes. Bookcases lining one wall were crammed with musty tomes full of esoteric, arcane knowledge. His familiar, a long-haired white cat named Noctemus, glared at me from a high shelf of the bookcase. The cat and I don’t much care for each other.

  I flopped down in a soft leather chair, while Aidan hitched one leg up on the desk and clasped his hands together, as though eager to hear what I had to say.

  “Why are you protecting Miriam and Wolfgang?”

  “You asked me to look after Miriam, remember?”

  “That’s true. But”—what was I thinking?—“I think you have more of a connection to her than you’re admitting. I think that’s why you ditched me at the ball.”

  “I didn’t ditch you, Lily.”

  “You most certainly did. And I didn’t appreciate it. But what I want to talk about now is: What is Miriam to you? How is she related to the ‘friend’ you let down? And is that friend Calypso Cafaro?”

  Aidan got up and strolled over to the bookcases, reaching up to scratch Noctemus behind the ears.

  “Calypso and I… used to be friends. More than friends, to tell the truth. Because of her involvement with me, she suffered. I owe her.”

  “I’m going to assume you don’t want to share the intimate details with me.” Frankly, I was glad. “But… how does your debt to her involve Miriam or Wolfgang?”

  “Stay out of that.”

  “You just told me to look into it.”

  “Not with Wolfgang. He’s not involved in this.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “All right… you’re correct that he knows some of the players.”

  “He was Tarra’s lover.”

  “But he’s not the one who killed her. “

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Very. He was with me when the poisoning occurred. Unfortunately, using me as an alibi to the police is just slightly worse than saying you were home alone watching TV.”

  “And why did you place an active protection charm over him? Is he in danger himself?”

  “Not directly, but I’m not taking any chances. He… he’s a natural intuitive.”

  “A psychic?”

  “Not exactly. But he’s smart, and with proper training, might be able to grow his abilities. I’ve been working with him a little. Suffice it to say that he’s under my watch. You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Okay… so back to Miriam and Tarra. Let me ask you directly: Do you know who assaulted them?”

  “No.”

  “But… ?”

  “But I’m afraid it has to do with Calypso somehow. I recognized her hand that night at the ball, in the corsage.”

  “You’re saying she made the corsage?”

  “No. But she grew the flowers.”

  “Anise admitted to me that she made the corsage with flowers from Calypso’s garden, but I’m sure the needles and thread—the curse—must have been added later. There was even a tiny spindle…” I remembered Miriam had a Band-Aid on her finger. Had she been pricked by a spindle, just like Sleeping Beauty?

  “A Sleeping Beauty curse isn’t an easy one to pull off,” said Aidan, as though reading my thoughts.

  “Maybe… maybe it wasn’t meant to be a full sleeping curse. Tarra was killed, Miriam put in a coma, and Anise seems half awake… . What if whoever cast the spells isn’t aware of his or her own strength? What if they aren’t really in control?”

  “Remind you of anyone?�
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  “I might not know my own strength when it comes to things like coven circles, but I’m measured when I cast. What about… Calypso says she’s not a witch, but clearly she’s powerful. Could she have inadvertently—”

  “No.”

  “O-kaaay,” I said, drawing out the word. I got the distinct impression that Aidan’s perspective might be a little out of whack where Calypso was concerned. I remembered the photograph I saw of the two of them together; Aidan’s expression was open and happy, guileless. I had never seen him that way. Perhaps he and Calypso shared something much deeper than I had first assumed. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that notion.

  “Listen,” said Aidan, sounding impatient. “It’s very important that Calypso isn’t publicly seen to be involved in any of this. She’s been through enough because of me—I owe her my protection and my discretion, at the very least. But if I muck around in this directly… well, she’ll know it, and that’s the last thing she wants. Do this for me, Lily. Figure out who did this and why, and lay this to rest before Calypso gets tarred with the same brush.”

  Yeah, no problem. Because I was so clear on how to do that.

  * * *

  I was distracted, still pondering Aidan’s words as I parked my car around the corner from Aunt Cora’s Closet. As I walked toward the store, an uneasy sensation started to grow.

  Something is wrong.

  Unease blossomed into fear. I ran the rest of the block until coming to stand before Aunt Cora’s Closet. My home. My refuge. My haven.

  Desecrated.

  The front door was ajar, its glass pane shattered and lying in ugly shards upon the mosaic entry. One of the large display windows had been smashed as well, pieces glinting amid the jumble of merchandise inside.

  Clothes had been yanked off of hangers and scattered everywhere, entire rods knocked over. Hats, gloves, parasols, and purses were tossed willy-nilly. Satins, silks, and cotton pooled on the floor. In one corner were the torn and shattered one-of-a-kind silk pieces I had found last weekend at the Oakland Museum white elephant sale; beside them were a few military uniforms I had salvaged from “big trash pickup day” in Daly City. The beautiful walnut antique jewelry cabinet had been tipped on its side, and the main display counter bashed in, its velvet trays full of costume jewelry and talismans thrown to the floor. Every single spirit bottle had been smashed, their contents lying in wet puddles.

  And scrawled in ugly red spray paint on the back wall, right over the hanging antique dresses on display: Suffer Not a Witch to Live.

  I had heard the ugly phrase before, many times. Its hateful, vicious tone always made me cringe.

  My heart wept at the violation. Bad juju. Bad energy. Whatever you wanted to call it, it now permeated this place. This place I had called home, a haven from the world, from destructive forces. The trespassers had pierced my peaceful bubble. It was ironic—I had been careful about being at the labyrinths at night, but never gave much thought to anyone coming for me here.

  The muted sound of explosions drifted down from overhead. The television.

  Oscar.

  I ran, noting as I went that the back room was intact, the table still set with a china teapot and two delicate eggshell porcelain teacups, evidence of Bronwyn’s afternoon chamomile tea break.

  Before reaching the top of the stairs, I could see that my wreath of stinging nettles, superb guardian plants, was untouched. The protective charm I had put on the door was intact. I couldn’t use such a strong spell on the shop because it would keep everyone out unless I escorted them, a major flaw in the retail business.

  “Mistress?” Oscar opened the door and came out onto the landing.

  I felt a wave of relief so strong that I sank onto the top step, scooping Oscar into my arms.

  “You’re okay?” I asked, though I could see that he was.

  “Sure. Why?” He pulled away. He wasn’t much of one for overt physical displays of affection. Normally, neither was I.

  “Someone ransacked the place. The store’s a disaster.”

  “Really?”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  He shook his head. “I was watching Terminator 2. The governor’s in it!”

  “Ex-governor.”

  “Whatever. It was sort of loud.” He peered over my shoulder, down the stairs. “So, what happened?”

  “Come on; see if you can tell me anything.”

  I led the way down the stairs.

  “I told you cowans were no good,” hissed Oscar when we emerged from the back room.

  “This isn’t the work of cowans in general,” I said. “Just one or two really awful ones.”

  Cowan was a derogatory word for non-witchy folk, handed down from the burning times. I understood the anger behind the word—perhaps never better than today—but in general I disapproved of its use. There was never any point to ascribing to a group the actions of a few.

  Crouching, I gathered together random pieces that had been ripped and shredded—they had been handled by the perpetrators. I held to my cheek the softest cottons, scratchy wools, crinkly crinolines. I felt anger, rage, fear… and an out-of-control defensiveness.

  “Whoever did this was disturbed,” I said. “They’re dangerous.”

  As the words were coming out of my mouth, I heard an odd sound. Was that a moan? Was someone here?

  I started flinging clothes around, digging through the rubble.

  Then I heard it again: another moan. And… a giggle?

  Conrad.

  I found him in the dressing room, eyes closed, his head cradled on a fluffy white petticoat.

  I fell to my knees beside him. When I laid hands upon him I sensed the same strange vibration I had when I felt the clothes. There was something… not natural. Could the DOM group have magic? That was crazy, though, wasn’t it? They were dead set against magic.

  “Conrad, can you hear me?”

  There was a crashing noise from the front of the store.

  I surged up, full of rage. I thrust out my hand and sent a blast of energy that hurled the newcomer back against the door.

  “Lily, stop! It’s me!”

  I caught myself. It was Sailor.

  “Great balls of fire! You like to scare me half to death! Did I hurt you?”

  He shook his head, though he rubbed at his chest with one large hand. A smile hovered on his lips. “Did you just say ‘great balls of fire’?”

  “I don’t recall. I guess.”

  “People say that? For real?”

  “What would you prefer? That I adopt the regional tendency to use the ‘F’ word every time I turn around?”

  “Somebody’s grumpy this evening,” he said.

  “In case it escaped your notice, my store was ransacked. And you just scared the living you-know-what out of me.” My hand still on my chest, I willed my heart to slow. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t suffer from susto tomorrow.”

  “That’s a Mexican folk illness, right? It’s not real, is it?”

  “Real enough to those who suffer from it. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I need your help.”

  “What happened?” The amusement left his face as he saw Conrad on the floor. He rushed down the clothes-strewn aisle to join us. “Is he hurt?”

  “Whoever broke in here… I don’t know. Help me get him upstairs.”

  “Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?”

  Just then Conrad started laughing and burst out singing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. I don’t think so. He’s got a bump on his head, but…”

  “Looks more drunk than hurt,” Sailor said, picking up a half-empty bottle of vodka and handing it to me. I sniffed the contents, relieved to smell nothing more sinister than the alcohol itself.

  Sailor crouched down next to Conrad and gently shook his shoulder. “Hey, bud. C’mon, now. Tell us what happened. Are you hurt?”

  “Duuude, they totally overpowered the Con.” He laughed again. “
But they brought gifts! Enough to share.” With much effort he pulled a couple of dime bags and pills out of his pants and gestured to the vodka.

  “Who were they? Did you recognize them?”

  “Nah, dude. They were, like, wearing robes with hoods. Like your people, Lily.” He frowned, as though the thought was hurting his brain. “But you never wear a robe. How come?”

  I ignored his question, feeling unreasonably angry toward him for putting himself in harm’s way and then giving in to his addictions.

  “You said ‘they.’ How many were there?”

  “Couple, at least,” he said, gesturing to the vodka bottle. “Have a drink. It’ s time to party!”

  “How about you?” I asked Sailor. “Do you sense anything? Can you tell me anything about what happened?”

  He shrugged, looking around at the mess. “As you know, this psychic business isn’t like calling up an article on the Internet. Things are vague, unfocused images or flashes of insight.”

  He hesitated.

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “You were about to say something more.”

  “You the psychic now?”

  “Just perceptive. What is it?”

  “There’s something else. Something… magical, for lack of a better word. But off-kilter. Similar to what was present at the theater. You don’t feel it?”

  I tried to calm myself, center myself, call on exterior forces. I shook my head.

  “You’re not a scryer, right?”

  “Aidan tell you that?”

  He nodded. “Maybe that’s it. These things run along planes; maybe you aren’t tuned in to this one.”

  Conrad started singing again, and I felt like smacking him. Sailor looked at me with some amusement.

  “What do you want me to do with our friend here?”

  “Can you help me get him upstairs? I’ll make a draft for him for his head and the inevitable aftereffects of whatever he’s on. I think… I think he’s high as well as drunk. Maybe he’ll be able to tell us more when he’s sober.”

  We pulled Conrad to his feet.

  “Good thing he’s skinny,” said Sailor. He flung the young man over his shoulder in a fireman’s clutch, hoisted him up the stairs and into my apartment, then laid him down on the couch.