A Cast-Off Coven Read online

  “We could make it so. We could alter things.”

  “I’m not willing to do that, or have you do that. It would be wrong. It’s dangerous.”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Would you be willing to come here? You could have the bedroom—it’s a really nice place,” I asked, hope in my voice but not in my heart. I knew she’d refuse. Like many powerful women, she was connected to the land, to her patch of dirt. She had worked her garden for decades, as had her mother before her. There was magick in the red earth.

  “I don’t fly on airplanes.”

  “I could meet you outside of Jarod and drive you from there to San Francisco.”

  “I don’t ride that far.”

  “You could. For me.”

  There was shuffling on the other side of the line. After a moment, I heard her say, “Find a man named Aidan Rhodes.”

  “I already know him. How do you know him?”

  There was a pause. “Era amigo de tu papa.” He was a friend of your father’s.

  Graciela always reverted to Spanish when she was being discreet, as though her phone were tapped, and as if half the world didn’t already speak Spanish.

  “Yes, he told me that himself,” I replied. “Is he . . . Can he be trusted?”

  “Only as far as you trust your father. Con poca confianza.”

  Not really. Super.

  “But he’s very skilled,” Graciela continued. “Very powerful. Very well trained, by tu papa.”

  “Aidan was trained by my father?”

  “Basta ya. That’s all I will say on the subject.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “One more thing: Never forget, m’hija, the difference between evocation and invocation.”

  And with that she hung up. Graciela didn’t like the phone any better than I did.

  I continued to grasp the receiver, as though still connected to Graciela, and pondered her final words. When we invoke energy or spirits, we create a personal connection to them, which, in the case of destructive energy, can be terribly dangerous. Invocations invite energy to build up within one’s soul. The energy is discharged through one’s aura, creating a strong link to the target—in this case, the demon. This is what had happened with Ginny, Luc, and Walker. Each had invoked Sitri simply by not knowing how to avoid him. Demons are tricky that way.

  I sighed, wishing Graciela were here. I wanted to sit at her feet and place my head on her knees. I loved California and was happy to make my life here. I had found a home in San Francisco, in the Haight; a like- mindedness, if not with regard to witchcraft or magick per se, at least in terms of openness and respect for others and for beliefs that differed from one’s own.

  But there was a place in my heart for the hard-packed red dirt of my hometown, from which I had coaxed my first plants as a young child; for the hot, humid air that wrapped around my arms and legs like a damp blanket, caressing my skin; for the stern voices of my grandmother, and even my mother.

  Time to cook Cajun again—just as soon as I brewed up a little exorcism tonic, packed a few haunted dresses into the van, and trapped me a nasty demon.

  Eleanor Roosevelt once said, Women are like tea bags. We don’t know how strong we are until we’re in hot water.

  I saw that quote as I flipped through my Book of Shadows. I had copied it down years ago when I read her biography. It seemed like the perfect sentiment for the night ahead of us.

  After all, the water of my life was boiling, without a doubt.

  I didn’t question my abilities. I had found out not too long ago that I was made of stronger stuff than I would have imagined. Especially with the coven, and Graciela, and Oscar all on my side, working as backup.

  But Sitri knew my father. That gave me serious pause. Was it just a coincidence that I had become involved in this whole mess? Could Sitri have somehow orchestrated this, to bring me in, to tempt me? Had he known I would come? Those were his mares that had been harassing us at night, I was now convinced. Any of us mucking around in the school’s business seemed to be afflicted.

  Oscar helped me load the van with the clothing from the closet, the music box, a shovel, and my cauldron.

  Then I packed my special supplies: I decanted the brew I had prepared earlier into three jars, then pulled together various herbs, resins, salts, and sacred rope. Suddenly I realized I was out of cinnamon. Despite the urgency of the situation, I had to smile. Wouldn’t it be something to blow an exorcism of this import because of a common baking supply?

  I brought my backpack downstairs to the main shop floor and looked through Bronwyn’s botanical stand, finding a whole jar of fragrant, curling cinnamon bark.

  “Don’t go.”

  I had been so absorbed in my task that I didn’t even hear the bell tinkle on the door. I whirled around to see Max standing just inside the shop.

  “Max. When did you get here?”

  “I’m serious, Lily. We’re not just talking your safety here, but your sanity.”

  “I take it someone filled you in on what’s going on?”

  “I got it out of Bronwyn.”

  I sighed. “Great.”

  “Don’t blame her—I’m a trained journalist, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. Wait,” I said, suddenly alarmed. “Where’s Luc?”

  “He’s fine. He’s with my dad in Mill Valley. I hid the car keys.”

  “I’d feel much better if you were actually there with him. Physically.”

  “I’m headed there now, while you’re headed for, what, an exorcism? This whole thing is crazy, Lily; don’t you see that? Don’t do this, I beg you.”

  My heart sank. I had been dreading this conversation, hoping fate would cut me a break. Max Carmichael did not believe in—nor approve of—witches. If I acted like a witch—if I was true to myself—I risked losing him.

  “You seem to think I have a choice.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “This is what I am, Max. I’ve tried to explain that to you. There aren’t many of us around, you know. If I abdicate my responsibilities . . . it’s not as though there’s anyone to step in and take my place.”

  Max started to say something but stopped when Sailor opened the front door and poked his head in. The men exchanged glares but said nothing.

  “You ready?” Sailor asked me.

  “I am.” I nodded, not too surprised to see the reluctant psychic at my door. Aidan must have sent Sailor in his stead. Nice to have minions to do your bidding. I packed the last few items in my bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Sailor, would you wait for me outside for two seconds, please?”

  Sailor gave me a curt nod and left, the door swinging shut behind him.

  I turned to Max and tried to harden my heart. “I understand if you decide to walk away from this, Max. And away from me. I know this is a lot to ask of you. But . . . I hope you can accept it. Accept me.”

  Max’s face softened. “Last night . . .”

  “Last night was amazing. And it was. . . . I mean that sort of thing—it’s rare for me.”

  He nodded. Our gazes held for a long moment.

  I heard a tap on the window, and saw Sailor signaling “Come on already” with a hand gesture.

  “I have to go now, Max. We’ll talk later . . . or we won’t.”

  As I turned to close the door behind me, I couldn’t help myself. I looked back at Max.

  He stood as still as a statue, desperate, miserable . . . and cold. I couldn’t shake the sensation that Lily Ivory, little old magical me, had made him that way.

  “Maybe Max is right. Maybe I’m crazy to be doing this,” I muttered as Sailor drove the van across town to the School of Fine Arts. Oscar, seemingly stricken by celebrity awe in the company of Sailor, rode in the back in his porcine guise, not making a peep.

  “What’s the alternative—to end up all bitter and twisted like me?” Sailor scoffed. “Of course you have to do it.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. />
  “Besides, you’ll be okay,” he said in a surprisingly sincere voice.

  “I thought you couldn’t tell the future.”

  “I’m making an exception in this case,” he said as he pulled up to the school. “Now get in there and kick some demon butt.”

  That’s me all right, the demon butt-kicker.

  Wendy, Bronwyn, Starr, and a half-dozen other excited, black-clad coven members met us at the loading dock and helped to unload the tools, the trunk, the clothes, and the music box from the van.

  “Hey, Lily,” Sailor called out.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “You already said that.”

  His dark gaze held mine with a rare earnestness. “I’m serious.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be out here in the van if you need me.”

  I nodded and turned to go.

  “Do me a favor,” Sailor grumbled. “Don’t need me.” I smiled at him, then joined the coven members.

  “It breaks my heart to think we have to burn all of these beautiful Victorian items,” Bronwyn said as we toted bags of clothes to the school’s main courtyard. I noted with relief that the police, or fear, or . . . something , had finally managed to clear the building of its human denizens.

  “I know,” I said, “but it’s necessary. It’s the only direct connection we have. I don’t want to risk going back into that closet. Not yet, anyway. Oh and by the way, it turns out I was wrong. The clothes aren’t Victorian era—they’re Edwardian. The Victorian era ended with Queen Victoria’s death in 1901. I can’t believe I made such a rookie mistake.”

  Bronwyn looked at me, puzzled, then started laughing. The rest of the coven joined in.

  “What?” I asked. “What’d I say?”

  “You,” Bronwyn chuckled. “Worrying about vintage clothing at a time like this.”

  I smiled. “I’m just saying, is all. Can’t very well go around calling myself a professional without knowing the basics, now can I?”

  We piled the items in the center of the courtyard, atop the old stones that had kept the convent safe from the 1906 fire. On top of them Wendy placed pieces of old, dry lumber.

  “That looks like a real pyre,” I said, impressed.

  “Girl Scouts. Four years. Fire-building badge.”

  “Awesome,” said Starr.

  “Shall we get started?” said Bronwyn, anxiety beginning to show on her face.

  As she spoke, a thick layer of fog blanketed the moon, and the courtyard, lit only by a few sconces along the building, dimmed.

  I nodded. It was time.

  The coven gathered and cast their circle. The last time I had witnessed this ceremony, I had been part of it. But not now. I remained apart, Oscar sitting quietly at my side, watching, making sure that the demon would duel with me, not with the innocent Wiccans. The circle called on the powers of the moon, of the goddess Artemis, and shared a goblet of the brew I had prepared. Wendy, acting as high priestess, approached the pyre and lit the fire.

  The beautiful old clothes ignited with a whoosh, as though soaked in gasoline. Flames popped and sparks flew, but they could not leave the circle created by the women. The fire burned so bright and hot that the coven members backed away, but still they did not break the circle. They continued to chant, to call upon the powers of the moon and the goddesses, until the fire began to slowly die out, finally extinguishing itself. It took less than half an hour for everything to be reduced to a pile of ashes.

  At a nod from Wendy, the circle opened, and I used the shovel to transfer the smoldering ashes into the iron cauldron. Carrying the heavy cauldron by myself would be a strain, but I didn’t want anyone else to risk going into the building.

  “You all stay here,” I said to the Wiccans. “Whatever happens, whatever you hear or see—do not come into the building. Promise me.”

  “Are you sure, Lily?” Bronwyn asked quietly, her large eyes worried.

  I smiled to reassure her. “I’m not looking to be a martyr, believe me. But it has to be this way.”

  I looked down at Oscar. “That goes for you, too, pal.”

  I lugged the iron cauldron up the bell tower stairs, stone step by stone step, pausing occasionally to rest my burning muscles. The ghost of John Daniels was eerily silent tonight. I almost missed his breathy moans. When a ghost was spooked, it was time to worry.

  At last, sweating and panting, and gasping for air as I chanted, I made it to the third floor, and slowly set the cauldron down. The door at the landing shimmered, beckoning, warning. I reached for the handle, which was hot to the touch. I flinched, but grasped and turned it anyway, and stepped into the hallway.

  A misty blue light poured through the hole in the closet door, bouncing off the walls of the empty third-floor hallway. I braced myself as I heard a soft voice from behind the door, calling to me.

  Chapter 23

  “Lily . . .”

  Graciela?

  “Come, chica, come give your abuela a kiss. . . .” Not Graciela. Of course not. Demons like to play.

  I burst through the door, flinging it open with my mind as much as with my foot.

  The room was empty Or so it seemed. Lit in an odd blue light.

  I hauled the cauldron inside, positioned it in the center of the tiny room, and scattered the ashes from the fire. As I dragged the mirror over to position it next to the cauldron, I noticed a letter on top of the bureau. Yellowed with age, it was written in French. And with it was a note written in collage materials, proclaiming never-ending love, and declaring the anguish of betrayal. A suicide note. And candles and herbs and a drawing of Sitri’s sigil. Someone had tried to call the demon with those papers.

  I took the jar of potion I’d brewed at home and started to cast a circle, but before the first drop had touched the floor, a mass of flies swarmed around me, filling the room. Soon they were joined by wasps and hornets, buzzing around me angrily.

  Ignore them, Lily, I told myself, and concentrated on chanting. They’re just cheap demonic parlor tricks.

  The brew turned to steam the instant it struck the floorboards, filling the room with mist. Just as I completed the circle, I heard the sound again: air rustling through reeds, morphing into a cry of human anguish.

  Still chanting, I drew a triangle within the circle and sketched the demon’s sigil, a crown topped with four crosses, in the ashes on the floor.

  “With the strength of my ancestors, I am the power. I command you to show yourself,” I called to Sitri, my athame, or ceremonial dagger, in my right hand. “With the strength of my ancestors, I am the power. I command you to show yourself.”

  The mirror shattered, sending pieces of glass bouncing off the invisible walls of the circle, peppering me with tiny, stinging shards. To confuse the evil and dispel the bad luck, I jumped up and spun around, thrice, in a counterclockwise direction. I thought I heard a far-off giggling, followed by crying.

  “With the strength of my ancestors, I am the power. I command you to show yourself,” I repeated. My helping spirit became the conduit of my ancestors, and I channeled all the witches who had gone before me. Their power became my power as I tapped into the stream of spirit that united us all.

  I pointed my athame at the sigil. My arms and the palms of my hand were covered with tiny droplets of blood from the bits of glass, making the blade sticky. The blood shimmered with power.

  The mist began to swirl, reeking of must and sulfur.

  Wrong. It’s wrong.

  I felt my pulse speed up, my heart pound. I was doing it wrong, all wrong. It was a mistake to come here; I wasn’t strong enough. I felt that now; I knew it. I should have stayed at the shop as Max asked me to. I should never have endangered the women of the coven, or my familiar. I should—

  I heard them scream—Bronwyn, Wendy, Oscar. . . .

  No! It was the demon at play.

  A surge of fury and renewed determination coursed through me. Sitri was playing with
my mind, making me doubt myself. But I refused to stop summoning him, and as I watched, the sigil shifted, starting to glow, becoming refined, beautiful, seductive.

  And then, Sitri showed himself: He appeareth at first with a leopard’s head and the wings of a gryphon, but after he putteth on human shape, and that very beautiful.

  He was massive, and though restricted to the triangle, he seemed to fill the entire space. Rising over me, he flapped those terrible wings.

  And smiled. A sly, mocking smile.

  “Lily,” a soft voice said from behind me, and I turned to confront this new menace.

  It was my father. Not as he had been the last time I had seen him—badly scarred—but as he was when he left me and my mother. I shouldn’t have been able to remember the day, for I was still a toddler. But I did remember. He had been handsome and younger than I am now, and I wanted to go with him. A wave of anger at Graciela and my mother for refusing to allow it swept over me. I should have gone with him, learned, and trained with him. Perhaps I would have been able to save him . . . if only . . .

  My power flickered, beginning to seep from me.

  “You’re not real,” I said, and mustering my strength, I turned my back on the chimera. I heard him cry out, begging me to save him. Telling me he loved me. It broke my heart.

  “How sweet . . .” hissed the demon. I felt tears burning at the back of my eyes, and a wave of nausea and regret enveloped me. The temptation to change the past swirled around me; all I had to do was reach out for it. . . .

  I shook myself, angry. I knew I must not react in anger, but I could use it, use its power, to center myself. Pointing my athame at the sigil once more, I started to recite the lines of the exorcism.

  “I do here license thee to depart unto thy proper place; without causing harm or danger unto man or beast . . . I compel thee.”

  “Lily!” Luc called to me from the door.

  This was no magical creation, but the man.

  “Luc, leave, now!” I yelled.

  He did not move, concern and fear in his eyes. I realized I had never seen such a beautiful person; somehow I knew he would love me, care for me, and I yearned to go to him, to be with him—forever.