In A Witch's Wardrobe Page 7

  His eyes flashed over me and the talisman in my hands. “You’re some kind of faith healer?”

  “Not exactly… more like a… um…”

  “Naturopath,” said Bronwyn, bouncing and swaying to please the baby, who was not at all pleased. “Lily is a whiz with herbs and teas and the like.”

  “Miriam’s into that sort of thing too. Always has been. I brought some of her special stuff here.” He gestured toward the lotion and lip balm in pretty pots with hand-drawn labels. “I always thought it was a bunch of hooey, but… You really believe in this sort of thing?”

  “Sometimes when Western medicine fails, traditional methods work,” I said. “Scientists still don’t know that much about patients when they’re comatose—they might even hear us talking around them or be aware of loved ones nearby.”

  Duke nodded. “The doctor told me to bring Luna to see Miriam, said Miriam might respond to having her baby near. And that’s why I brought her favorite book from when she was a girl. Listen, I guess… If you want to leave that stuff for Miriam, that’d be okay. It couldn’t hurt, right?”

  I nodded and muttered a brief incantation as I tucked the talisman under her pillow.

  “If the pediatrician can’t find anything further, I’m happy to help if I can… .” I handed him my card. “I’m in the Haight—but I could come to you, if that’s better.”

  His gaze had returned to his daughter, weariness coming off him in waves. “Thanks.”

  “Please don’t hesitate, if there’s anything at all I can do.” I put a hand over his, which rested on the snowy white sheet. He seemed to ease, just slightly, his big shoulders relaxing.

  “And if you need any help with this little angel,” Bronwyn said, “I love babies.”

  As Bronwyn came over to pass Luna back to her grandfather, the most astonishing thing happened. Luna held out her chubby little arms… to me.

  “She wants you, Lily,” said Bronwyn.

  “I don’t know anything about babies,” I said. But what could I do? I held my arms out, and the tot practically jumped into them. She hiccupped, let out a little sigh, and laid her head on my chest.

  “Would you look at that?” Bronwyn smiled. “Sometimes you don’t have to know a thing about babies—sometimes babies know about you.”

  We had been ready to go, but now that the child was so content in my arms, we lingered.

  Duke took a seat in the only chair and started to read the legend of Sleeping Beauty to Miriam. His voice was deep and sonorous, his reading almost poetic.

  I held little Luna, rocking slightly, softly crooning a song that I hadn’t even realized I remembered from my childhood. Despite the baby’s odd vibrations, she smelled of talcum powder and new life, bright green like the first blades of grass in the spring. I couldn’t bear to think that she might be ill, might fall sick like her mother.

  When Duke finished the story, I passed Luna back to him.

  “I’d better get her home and feed her,” Duke said.

  “We have to go as well,” I said. “Please call us if anything… Well, just call us anytime.”

  Bronwyn and I walked silently through the nicely decorated hospital hallways, painted in soothing hues of pink and mauve. The last time I had been in a hospital I remembered everything being a starkly sterile white.

  Outside, the day was sunny and warm. Medical professionals bustled to and fro, wearing lanyards and scrubs. Cars circled the lots, searching for parking, shuttles picked up people in wheelchairs, and we heard the vivacious calls and laughter of children playing at a nearby child care center. A bustling group of workers swarmed over a large construction site, which promised to be a new branch of the medical center. Apparently the health business was booming.

  “Hey, look,” Bronwyn said, gesturing toward a brown shingle Arts and Crafts–era home that had been converted into offices and a supply store. “Nightingale Scrubs. The sign says they sell lab coats and stethoscopes!”

  “Did you become a doctor while I wasn’t looking?”

  “Silly. I’m thinking of Halloween, of course.” She turned to me, excitement shining in her eyes. Bronwyn loved a party. And a celebration that demanded costumes? Even better. “They have the real thing here. You never know when someone might be in need of something like this for an authentic outfit.”

  I smiled. “I think I could put together a costume from the offerings at Aunt Cora’s Closet. Don’t you?”

  “We don’t have much along these lines.”

  “True.”

  “And after today, our inventory’s down, of costumey-things besides everything else. You might need to go out clothes hunting soon.”

  “Already planning to,” I said as I unlocked the car and we both climbed in. “Now that Maya’s out of school for the summer and available for more hours at the store, I’ll dedicate some more time to scouting.” The world of vintage clothing was highly competitive and getting more so all the time now that people realized there was so much money to be made in cast-off clothing.

  “So, tell me: What did you learn from Miriam’s father?” I asked as we headed toward the freeway entrance.

  “Not much. He’s a widower. Lives in Bernal Heights, in the same house where he and his late wife raised Miriam. And he’s a fisherman.”

  “You mean, for a living? Really?” In the Bay Area—where almost everyone I met seemed to work in some aspect of the computer industry—such a traditional, hands-on occupation seemed exotic.

  She nodded. “Like his father before him. He has one of the few slots for actual fishing boats down at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “Seems ironic, doesn’t it? That Fisherman’s Wharf would have so little room for fishermen anymore.”

  “I’m sure the irony isn’t lost on him—he’s a pretty sharp guy. He’s also a poet. He told me he works the tourist trade some, taking folks sightseeing on the Bay. But he calls himself a fisherman, and he’s got the calluses to prove it.”

  “He seems like a nice guy. Do you think he’ll really let me help?”

  “That’s hard to say.” Bronwyn was a wide-open, goddess-loving earth-mother type. It wasn’t like her to be cynical, but recently she’d gone through something of a trauma and seemed rather more circumspect about her beliefs than she used to be. “I’m not sure how he might react to your attempts to help his daughter if they’re any more… invasive than talismans and crystals.”

  “I don’t even know if I can do anything for her. It surely would help if I had the faintest idea what is wrong with her. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  I still hesitated to tell Bronwyn about the apparition in the mirrors of the Paramount Theater. Not that she wouldn’t believe me, but… there was something undeniably creepy about it, as though Miriam now belonged to another realm. I didn’t want to burden Bronwyn with such disturbing thoughts. She would want to help, but as far as I could tell there was nothing useful she could do.

  But this much was clear: I had to go back to the theater, this time with someone who could make contact with Miriam’s spirit. Figuring out what was ailing Miriam was the only way to help her and her daughter. I needed Sailor, the reluctant psychic who, at the moment, was a bit annoyed with me. I sighed. So what else was new?

  “I can’t believe Aidan ditched you at the dance last night,” Bronwyn said as I forked over a five-dollar bill to the woman in a tollbooth at the base of the bridge.

  News travels fast.

  “He didn’t ditch me, exactly,” I said as I stomped on the gas to get up to speed as we ascended onto the bridge.

  “Of course not,” Bronwyn said.

  “Okay, he ditched me. But it wasn’t like I couldn’t find my own way home.”

  “Of course not,” Bronwyn repeated.

  I cast her a reproachful look, but before Bronwyn could say anything more her cell phone rang with the Wicked Witch music from The Wizard of Oz. I’d never seen the movie—another gap in my upbringing—but I knew the tune. The kids in my homet
own used to sing it whenever I walked by. One of these days, I vowed, I was going to lighten up enough to find it funny.

  Bronwyn chatted for a few moments, then snapped the phone closed.

  “That was my friend Bliss, of the Welcome coven over in Berkeley. I called her while you were in with Miriam,” Bronwyn said. “I told you, Bliss knows everyone. She says Tarragon Dark Moon is with the Unspoken coven. They’re a closed group, but they’re holding open recruitment meetings this month at the Cherry Creek Design Center in Berkeley.”

  “The coven meets at a design center?”

  “It’s an old converted factory building; I think they meet in a yoga studio.”

  “Ah.” I was old-school; I expected covens to meet in the thick of the forest under the full moon, or at the very least in an old, abandoned building. Then again, Bronwyn’s coven had met several times at Aunt Cora’s Closet and combined their worship of the Lord and Lady with a shopping party. As I was coming to learn, we all showed devotion in our own ways.

  “I don’t think they always meet there—it might just be for the public meetings. Anyway, their open gatherings are on Sundays—that’s tonight!”

  “Oh goodie,” I mumbled. Even though I’m a witch—or perhaps because I’m a witch—I don’t feel all that comfortable around covens. I’m not much of a joiner, and don’t really understand group process. In addition… I don’t know what my magic will do when combined with the strength of a coven, and I hate not being in complete control.

  Besides, after our hospital visit I felt jumpy and sore, as though my skin had been rubbed raw by a psychic grater of some kind. I wanted to rest, recharge my energies by being at home amid my things, absorbing their serene vibrations and warm energy.

  Bronwyn glanced at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Covens make me nervous.”

  “You’re a witch, Lily.”

  “I know, but… I’ve never been part of a coven.”

  “What about my group?”

  “I’m lucky to count them as friends, but I’m nowhere near being a sister. Would you come with me tonight?”

  “Wish I could, but I promised to sit with my grandkids. Rebecca and Gregory have a hot date.” Bronwyn smiled and wiggled her eyebrows. Not long ago she—and I—had been instrumental in bringing her daughter, Rebecca, closer to her husband, Gregory. Bronwyn took this as proof positive that she was, indeed, meant to be a matchmaker. I feared I was her next project.

  I tried to think of someone else who might go with me. Maya shied away from such things, and I didn’t know Bronwyn’s other coven sisters well enough to ask them at the last minute. I was tempted to skip it altogether, but felt obligated to provide Carlos some information about poor Tarra.

  “I don’t suppose there might be another time?” I asked.

  “This is the last Sunday of the month.” Noting my hesitation, Bronwyn reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Be brave, Lily. Go draw down the moon and enjoy yourself.”

  “Any advice?”

  “Bring a chalice for grog. Oh, and cookies to share. And most important: relax. They’ll be glad to have you with them.”

  I wished I could be so sure.

  Chapter 7

  “Don’t be nervous,” said Oscar in the car that evening as we sat in the parking lot of the Cherry Creek Design Center.

  It was the fourth time since we’d left San Francisco for Berkeley that he’d suggested I not be nervous. It was making me nervous.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, all evidence to the contrary. I noticed a suspicious number of crumbs on his snout. “And stop with the lemon bars already. Those are for me to bring to the meeting. You already ate half of them in batter form, and another five fresh out of the oven.”

  I wished I could have asked Aidan for advice before attending this coven meeting. For that matter, I wished he would tell me if he’d found anything out about Miriam. There was no use trying to call him; if he had a phone number, I had no idea what it was. I had dropped by the Wax Museum earlier but had no luck. Not only had he not answered my shouted calls and knocks, but he had put a glamour on his office door so even a witch like me could barely see it.

  “Oscar, why would Aidan have left the ball so suddenly last night? Do you know where he is?”

  “When he goes dark, it’s best to leave him be.”

  “I’d like to try to see him anyway.”

  Huge eyes stared at me, his muzzle clamped shut.

  “Oscar, do it. That’s a direct order.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever it is you do to get in touch with Aidan. Let him know I want to speak with him.”

  In the past when I wanted to see Aidan, all I had to do was mention it to Oscar, and—voilà—eventually Aidan would appear, though usually at the most awkward moment possible.

  “That’s not a good idea, mistress.”

  “Oscar, you’re my familiar. You have to do what I say.” Most familiars don’t have to be reminded of this.

  He sighed and harrumphed.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, ma’am.’” To sweeten the deal, I held out the platter of lemon bars. There weren’t many sure things in my life, but this I knew: Oscar’s pout couldn’t withstand homemade baked goods.

  My gaze slewed back to the Cherry Creek Design Center. It was a two-story brick structure with the huge, multipaned windows common to historic factories. Faded paint high on the wall facing the street identified the building as the Simpsons’ Chair Factory.

  Munching, my familiar stared at me with a surprising level of understanding. “They’re a group of witches, and you’re a witch, ain’tcha?”

  “It’s just… I don’t hang out with witches much. I know it sounds strange… .”

  “Nah. You’re just weird. For you that’s kinda normal.”

  This from the creature with scaly gray-green skin.

  “’Sides,” Oscar continued, suddenly the philosopher, “you’ll be the most powerful witch there. So if they’re mean to you, just zap ’em.”

  “There will be no ‘zapping.’ Even if I could do such a thing, which I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t. Hell’s bells. What must you think of me?”

  Oscar shrugged and picked at his talonlike toenails. “Master Aidan says most local covens are bogus. Buncha… whaddayacall ’em? Wiccans.”

  “Wiccans aren’t bogus. They’re… Wiccans. The ones I’ve met have been wonderful. Besides, you like Bronwyn, and she’s Wiccan.”

  “Oooh, the laaady. I like the lady.” Bronwyn babied Oscar, cradling him to her chest and carrying him around while he was in his miniature potbellied pig form. She called him her “Oscaroo.”

  “Anyway, curl up and get some sleep. I don’t know how long this will take.”

  “Awww-ah,” he whined. “Can’t I explore the neighborhood or something?”

  I hesitated. Oscar wasn’t a typical familiar and could take good care of himself—had, in fact, managed to survive for centuries. I glanced around the neighborhood: The brick design center building had a grassy park on one side, but otherwise was surrounded by quiet, residential streets lined with trim bungalows and lush, flower-filled gardens. Several yards showed signs of children: tricycles, swing sets, and strollers.

  “I doubt there are any gargoyles around here… but all right. Just be careful. And don’t go too far—if history’s any indication, I’ll be kicked out before they cast the circle.”

  I had scarcely finished the sentence before Oscar was out of the car and trotting down the street. I looked to be sure no one was watching. But, like most of our kind, he was good at hiding his true self from strangers.

  I took a deep breath, climbed out of my Mustang, and grabbed my chalice. The lemon bars that had been so neatly arranged on the blue Delft platter I found in a junk store last week now had conspicuous gaps. I rearranged the bars to fill in the holes, licking the sweetly tart filling from my fingers.

  Mmm. Made from
fresh lemons with my mother’s old recipe. Delicious, if I did say so myself. No wonder Oscar was so tempted.

  Since it was evening, most of the offices in the building were closed. A wooden directory outside the front door indicated the yoga studio was on the second floor. I followed a pair of women clad in flowing garments up an outdoor wooden staircase.

  By the time I opened the door at the top of the stairs to reveal an interior hallway, the women had disappeared. I poked my head in the first open doorway and found a group of men, led by a shirtless fellow with—I couldn’t help but notice—a well-muscled torso. Smooth olive skin, a dark tribal tattoo wrapping around one ample biceps. Fit, but more like a medieval knight than a ripped Bay Area gym rat. He had long dark hair that fell past his shoulders, was clean shaven, wore black drawstring pants and no shoes. Large, graceful hands caressed a set of bongo drums clenched between his knees.

  He looked up at me and smiled.

  “I’m… uh…” I stammered, suave as always.

  “You’re looking for the open coven meeting? They’re right down the hall, Suite 117.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This is Apollo’s circle—we’re the men’s affiliate to the coven. I’m Wolfgang, tonight’s leader.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Lily. I’m sorry to disturb.”

  “No problem.”

  Our eyes held for a beat before I turned away.

  I proceeded down the corridor to Suite 117 and paused in the doorway, taking it all in. Whoever had remodeled this old factory had taken full advantage of the broad-plank floors, high ceilings, and massive multipaned windows to create a warm and airy interior space. Along one exposed redbrick wall were large mirrors, and by the back wall were stacks of purple and green yoga mats. A low table in the center of the room held a statue of a woods goddess and Pan, bunches of flowers, several crystals and stones, and an open Crock-Pot filled with fragrant, steaming cider. In the four corners of the room the coven had arranged shrines to different goddesses, none of whom I recognized.