Bewitched and Betrothed Page 9

  “Don’t mind them. They’re supersticiosas,” said Graciela with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Superstitious.”

  “No photos, Calypso,” I said. “It’s a thing for some witches.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Calypso. “How silly of me. I didn’t even think . . .”

  According to Calypso, she “used to be” a witch. I was not sure how she had pulled that off; I always thought once a witch, always a witch. Calypso had helped to heal Aidan when he first arrived, gravely injured, in San Francisco, and for a brief time the two had ruled the Bay Area magical community together. When it came to plants, Calypso was without peer, but she was even more lacking in standard occult training than I was. It would never occur to me to take someone’s photo without first asking their permission, in case they feared for their soul.

  “Now, just never you mind them, Calypso,” said Iris. “Betty and I love to have our picture taken, don’t we, Betty?”

  “That’s because we’re what’s called ‘photogenic,’ unlike some people I could mention. I want a photo of me in my new jacket!” said Betty, pulling on a rainbow-colored explosion of a waistcoat. Betty was a petite woman, who, with her cotton-top hair and bright red–rimmed glasses on a chain, looked as if she had been sent from central casting to play the role of an “eccentric little old lady.”

  Darlene posed with Iris and Betty, and Calypso captured their image on her smartphone, with the wonderfully witchy display behind them. Then we stood around the table, holding hands, and Graciela led a prayer of thanks that I remembered from childhood:

  Grain and plant, milk and meat,

  upon the table plates are heap’d.

  Earthly bounty, gifts of life

  sustenance and strength are rife.

  We thank the mother and honor her seat.

  May her heart forever beat.

  We sat down to pizza and pitchers of lavender lemonade, which some of the women spiked with vodka. I imbibed a tad, nervous about the prospect of being read for after dinner.

  The meal was long and leisurely, the conversation lively, but I couldn’t join in fully—in vodka or conversation—without worrying about what my grandmother had said, and what lay in store. Plus my concern over Elena’s fate and my own looming wedding.

  At the moment, I was one big ball of nerves.

  Dessert was Calypso’s freshly made mint and melon ice, and an assortment of iced spice cakes the grandmas had baked. Oscar still hadn’t shown up, so I made sure to set aside a piggy bag of baked goods; I would never hear the end of it if he missed out on cake. Calypso brewed a pot of sweet-and-spicy tea from various fruit peels, pink peppercorns, and fresh herbs, and I made a mental note to ask if she would be willing to share her recipe with Bronwyn tomorrow. Some of us were fiends for coffee; Bronwyn was a tea fanatic. She could make a fortune selling a tea like this.

  I was still pondering whether I could dissuade the coven from reading for me when Pepper nabbed the delicate porcelain cup I had been drinking from and passed it down to Rosa on the other end of the table. Each woman held on to it in her hands for a moment, singing a soft chant before passing it on. When the cup finally landed in front of Rosa, she made a great show of turning it upside down onto her saucer, turning it thrice. The porcelain made a scraping scritch with each turn.

  I held my breath, and waited.

  At that moment I spotted the mandragora I had made—a kind of house elf carved from the root of the mandrake bush—sitting on a nearby shelf, a piece of pizza in his lap. Calypso had named him Finall. He didn’t move yet seemed to meet my gaze, intelligence in his eyes, as though he understood.

  Meanwhile, the gaggle of women was watching Rosa, who had to borrow Calypso’s reading glasses. They were too small for her and sat perched on her prominent beak like a bird on a tree branch.

  She hummed and nodded, then spoke.

  “She’s blocked by the struggle of the duality. There are two spirits, the Ashen Witch and the other.”

  Until very recently whenever I brewed, my guiding spirit would appear, her amorphous face showing itself in the plume of steam rising above my cauldron. For the longest time I had not known who she was, but have since learned that she was a magical woman called the Ashen Witch, who had walked this earth a long time ago. I then went up against a creature named Deliverance Corydon—the Ashen Witch’s nemesis—and apparently had not adequately protected myself, because a part of Deliverance had taken up residence somewhere within me, and the two spirits were fighting.

  “That does it, then,” announced Graciela. “We’ll need to perform the sundering/fastening ceremony on the full moon. Lily, you are excused.”

  “But wait—can you see anything about my friend Elena? She’s the one who was kidnapped.”

  Rosa shook her head. “Sorry, dear, it doesn’t work like that.”

  “But—,” I began.

  “We need to confer, m’ija, as a coven,” said Graciela. “Solas. In private.”

  I felt a little annoyed, but reminded myself that I was not, in fact, a member of their coven. Far from it. I might have friends, colleagues, even a familiar. But when it came to witchcraft, I was a solo act.

  “We must be properly prepared,” continued Graciela. “Besides, Lily will need the time to carry out the separation spell before attempting any kind of demonic exorcism. Also, we’re going to the Japanese garden and the de Young Museum tomorrow; we’ve got tickets for the new Pre-Raphaelite show; and the day after that we’re going to the Exploratorium.”

  “But . . .” I protested, feeling like a whiny little girl. Was I regressing in the company of my mother, grandmother, and magical aunties? “A friend of mine was kidnapped today, and another friend might be troubled by a demon. Couldn’t y’all do the touristy things at a later date?”

  “We’ve never been to San Francisco, dear,” said Winona.

  “I wanna see Chinatown,” said MariaGracia, and others chimed in with their requests. Lunch at a dim sum restaurant met with widespread approval.

  “Is there anything y’all could do tonight to help Lily?” my mother persisted. “I don’t want her to have to wait until the full moon.”

  I looked at her with a rush of gratitude. It was the first time I could remember Maggie standing up for me.

  “We could draw down the moon,” suggested Pepper.

  “We could certainly do that,” said Caroline. “We’ll stand together, link our strength with yours. It might help.”

  “It will help,” said Agatha.

  Drawing down the moon with an experienced coven was a special event for someone like me. Bronwyn’s coven had cast with me before and lent me their strength, which had been wonderful. But Graciela’s coven was in a different league entirely. If Bronwyn’s coven was a top-ranked college football team, Graciela’s coven was the Super Bowl champ. There was no comparison.

  Calypso and my mother waited on the porch swing while the coven and I convened in the meadow behind the house. The evening was fresh, the trees and flowers scenting the air with their fragrance. The sky was clear, a waxing gibbous moon glowing overhead. Crickets and frogs chirped, and an occasional bat dived and swooped by.

  The coven came together with the well-choreographed movements of thirteen women who had known one another and worshipped together for decades. They chanted softly in unison; I couldn’t make out the words but I felt their intent. It was loving, warm, and strong. I could feel myself letting go, letting down my guard as we shared the chalice, calling to the Lord and the Lady of the forest, to the great mother, to the moon. The walls I had built to shield myself—to prevent others from understanding my magic, from knowing I was a witch, an outcast, a weirdo to be culled from the herd—began to tremble. Slowly at first, then faster, the barriers I had so carefully erected between me and the rest of the world started to tumble.

  Safe. The word reverberat
ed through me.

  Was this what it felt like, I wondered? To relax, to feel at ease, to be free of constantly second-guessing oneself? To allow others to judge, yet not run in fear of being rejected?

  I soaked in the warm, strong hum. The profound sense of humor. The wisdom of the aged, and the light that had fallen on generations of strong women.

  Together, we drew down the moon.

  Afterward, a contented, silvery silence enveloped us like a cloak.

  “It’s going to take more than that for you to triumph, m’ija,” said Graciela, breaking the spell with her usual matter-of-factness. “But it’s a start.”

  * * *

  • • •

  When it was time to go home, I couldn’t find Oscar anywhere. I called and called, but there was no response.

  “I’m sure he’s fine, dear,” said Calypso, walking me to my car and handing me a bag containing leftovers for Oscar along with a decorative blue mason jar of local clover honey, complete with honeycomb. “These things take time. He’s welcome to spend the night here when he comes out of the woods, but as you know, he’ll probably make his own way home.”

  Oscar remained in his piggy guise around Calypso, but she knew he was a shape-shifter. She was the one who had told me about his hidden wings, which enabled me to rescue him when he’d gone missing before.

  His last disappearance had terrified me. But in all likelihood, Calypso was right—Oscar was just hanging out with the fairies. How many times had he told me that time passed differently in the fairy realm, so that a few minutes there might be an hour aboveground? Oscar would return on his own time, and in his own way.

  He’d better return. I needed him, I loved him, and had no reserves left to cope with missing him.

  Driving home alone, I was in a definite funk. Despite the profound magical contentment from drawing down the moon with the coven, I felt angst in the pit of my stomach resurface as I brooded about my upcoming nuptials, Elena, Renna—and now Oscar. Oh, and I mustn’t forget to add Renee-the-cupcake-lady to the mix.

  As soon as I got home I would start the clock on the five-day MoonWish spell. I had been relatively green the last time I’d tried to go up against a demon, which was why I was now in a predicament, with two guiding spirits warring within me.

  As I drove south across the Golden Gate Bridge I couldn’t keep from looking over at Alcatraz and the placid waters of the bay, remembering last night’s mare. Would it visit me again tonight?

  Most of the city seemed to be asleep as I passed through the Presidio, skirted Golden Gate Park, and continued along the Panhandle. I parked my car in the driveway I rented around the corner from my store, off Haight Street, which was still lively with folks pouring out of bars.

  As I approached Aunt Cora’s Closet, I spied a man lingering in my doorway, hat in hands.

  My heart pounded. Carlos. I hurried to join him.

  “Is . . . did you find Elena?” I asked.

  He shook his head and glowered at an inebriated group of young people across the street, stumbling along and laughing loudly. “Could we talk inside?”

  “Of course.”

  I let us in, and Carlos declined my offer of tea or something stronger as we took our seats at the jade green linoleum table in the workroom. Only then did I realize that the hat in his hands had a band with a shiny acorn on it: It was part of a National Park Service uniform.

  “It’s Elena’s spare. Bethany said she wore it just a few days ago.”

  “This is helpful, Carlos. Patience is coming by tomorrow, so I’ll see if she can pick anything up from it. In the meantime, have you found anything?”

  “Still no sign of Elena. But there was a body found out on Alcatraz.”

  “Who is it? Is it related to Elena’s kidnapping?”

  Carlos gazed at me intently. “Have you told me everything you know, Lily?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “Why did you suggest we search Alcatraz?”

  “Well . . . Just because of the timing, with the prisoner’s shirt turning up, and then Elena’s connection to Alcatraz, and where the van was dumped.”

  “That’s all? Nothing occult, a premonition or anything along those lines?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing specific. I did have a nightmare. I was swimming in the bay—or floating, really, I don’t actually know how to swim—anyway, I was trying not to drown, and I could see San Francisco in the distance. A dark island was close behind me. It scared me.”

  Silence reigned for a beat. “That’s it?”

  “Well, Selena’s been drawing calla lilies, and Sailor saw one, too, and my grandmother told me ‘alcatraz’ means ‘calla lily’ in Spanish.”

  “I thought ‘alcatraz’ meant a ‘gannet.’”

  “What’s a gannet?”

  “A seabird of some kind.”

  “I also heard it meant ‘pelican.’”

  “Sorry to be rude, but who gives a damn what it means?”

  I wasn’t the only one in a bad mood lately.

  “I have no idea, Carlos. You asked me whether I’d had any sort of premonition, and while I don’t usually dream premonitions, I don’t usually have nightmares, either. So I thought they might be connected. As you know, I rely on intuition more than hard-and-fast facts.”

  He inclined his head as though ceding my point.

  “Can you tell me who was killed?” I asked again.

  “The medical examiner is still working on an official identification, and the crime scene’s being processed. I’m only discussing this with you because it looks like he was killed in a ritual of some sort.”

  “What kind of ritual?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping you could tell us. I just have to figure out how to get you out there to look at it. Since the crime scene is on Alcatraz, it’s a federal case; I have no jurisdiction.”

  “Then what can you tell me about it?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. But Forrest said it looked ‘satanic.’”

  “By which he means . . . ?”

  “It’s anybody’s guess. You know how it is—a few candles, some herbs. Could be unrelated, could be nothing. These days, if there’s anything even slightly out of the ordinary, somebody thinks it’s satanic. But . . .” He hesitated. “Apparently most of the blood was drained from the victim.”

  “That’s not good,” I said.

  “That’s why I’d like your input. I’m going to see if the FBI will allow us to go out and take a look. You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “I will.” The idea of setting foot on that island scared me more and more, but was also looking increasingly essential. “Too bad you don’t have an ID on the body. That might tell us something.”

  “Like I said, there’s no official ID.” He paused, as though debating whether to say more. “But the preliminary fingerprint results suggest that he’s a man named Cole Albright, aged eighty-seven.”

  “Cole Albright? Wait, isn’t that the name of a man who supposedly escaped from Alcatraz, back in the early 1960s?”

  “The very one.”

  “He was presumed drowned.”

  “Apparently word of his demise was exaggerated.”

  “But if he escaped, why would he go back to Alcatraz, especially after all these years?”

  “Excellent question. And that’s not the weirdest part.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “The man was wearing a light blue, long-sleeved shirt that appears to have been part of a prisoner’s uniform.”

  “He was wearing his original prison uniform?”

  Carlos shook his head. “Not according to the prison logs. This shirt was stamped with the number 258. It belonged to a man named Ray Perry. Escaped from Alcatraz and presumed drowned in 1937.”

  My heart dropped. The shirt with
disturbing vibrations, whose binding strings had been ripped off and dropped in the gutter. The shirt I had last seen when I wrapped it up and handed it to Elena.

  The cursed shirt.

  Chapter 10

  “So what we have so far,” said Carlos, “is one kidnapping and one murder. You think the murder of Albright might be a ritual of some kind?”

  “I really can’t tell you anything without taking a look at the scene.”

  “Like I said, it’s an FBI matter. Let me make a few phone calls, see if I can call in some favors, let them know we might have some local information that would help with the case.”

  “I tried to go to Alcatraz earlier today. Did you know you have to wait for months to get tickets?”

  “Why did you try to go?”

  “To poke around.”

  “Uh-huh. No ‘poking around’ Alcatraz without informing me, understand? Don’t even think about hiring a boat or something equally foolish.”

  “You’re the second man who’s told me that today. Do I look like the kind of woman who would so easily break the law?”

  “Truthfully? I think you would move heaven and earth to protect an innocent from harm,” Carlos said softly. “Which I happen to admire about you, actually, except for one thing: That’s my job. I have a badge and everything.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “But since I’m under no illusions that you’ll do as I say, let me just say this: Be careful, look before you leap, and if at all possible don’t go in without backup. That’s me.”

  I nodded. “One more thing? I know this is a strange question, but I feel like I have to ask it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I barely know Elena. She wouldn’t . . . you don’t think she would be involved in this somehow, do you?”

  “Involved how?”

  “This sort of thing, the occult, good and bad, can be very . . . seductive. Sometimes people get in over their heads . . . Elena might not have understood what she was doing, or the risk she was running, and found herself caught up in something she couldn’t control.”