Hexes and Hemlines (16 page)

“I don’t just go around reading minds on a whim, you know. It takes work. It takes energy. And it’s kind of . . . creepy.”

“‘Creepy’?”

“Makes me feel like a stalker.” Sailor seemed almost embarrassed. “There are privacy issues, for crissakes.”

I blew out a frustrated breath. Super. A reluctant psychic with an overdeveloped sense of ethics.

Two sets of eyes were riveted on us. Oscar and the cat had inhaled their snacks and were now attempting porcine and feline mind control, respectively, trying through sheer force of will to compel Sailor and me to drop our food.

“We’re not far from the Richmond District, are we?” I asked.

“What do you need in the Richmond?”

“I’m going to the Devil’s House. The black abode. Whatever it’s called.”

“You can’t just go over there.”

“Why not? Do you know the ‘prince’?”

“No, of course I don’t know him. No one in their right mind would associate with a man like that.”

“Do you even believe in that sort of thing? That devil stuff?”

“No, but . . . I believe that he believes. In a way it’s worse. At least when you’re dealing with an actual demon there are clearly established rules of the game.”

“I guess you’re right at that. Anyway, that’s where I’m headed. Suppose Aidan will mind?”

Sailor looked at me, startled, guilt in his dark eyes.

“Come on, Sailor, we both know that Aidan sent you.”

“He did not.”

“Did too. I don’t have to be a psychic to figure out that much. What does he want?”

He shrugged.

“Did you really expect me to buy the idea that you just wanted to ‘hang out’ with someone like me?”

“You’re not that bad.”

“From you, I’ll take that as high praise. So what did Aidan tell you to do? What are you looking for?”

“Dunno exactly. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you.”

“Keep ‘tabs’ on me?”

“That’s what the man said.”

“What does that consist of, exactly?”

“I’m sort of playing this by the seat of my pants here,” Sailor said with a shrug. “With most folks, I can track them from afar. Since I can’t read your mind, that wasn’t an option. So here I am. Like a very poorly paid private eye following an unfaithful spouse.”

“And then what? You tell Aidan where I’ve been?”

“Something like that. It appears that his other sources haven’t been all that reliable.”

He shot a glance toward Oscar, who snorted, ducked down, and became suddenly fascinated by the cat.

“Well, I’m headed to the black abode,” I said as I stood and started to gather our trash. “Want me to drop you off somewhere on the way?”

Sailor let out a long-suffering sigh. “No, I’ll go with you.”

My reluctant stalker.

The Devil’s House was pretty easy to spot.

A run-down Victorian on a busy street, it was painted a solid black that might once have been shocking, but which now had faded to a matte dark gray. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the front yard: a patch of tall dry grass strewn with papers, plastic bags, a couple of smashed wooden chairs, a bureau missing half its drawers, and a soiled mattress. In the driveway sat a generic-looking silver Honda Civic, its everyday blandness making the stark house seem even stranger.

Glancing at the perfectly normal Victorians on either side, prettily painted in shades of white, gold, and yellow, I couldn’t help but wonder what the neighbors must think.

“Looks like the Addams family home the day after a frat party,” Sailor said as I pulled into a parking space at the curb not far from the house. “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?”

“I just want to talk with him.”

“I can’t go in there with you. There are reasons. . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he just said, “Aidan wouldn’t allow it.”

“Stay here with the animals, then. That’s best anyway.”

He held my eyes for a long moment.

“Screw Aidan. If you need me, I’ll come with you.”

“No, Sailor, really. I’m more likely to learn something useful if I speak to him one-on-one, in any case.”

“If you need me, shout. Loudly.”

“Literally, or psychically?”

He smiled. “Psychically should do it. Just let me know you need me, put some of your considerable power behind it, and I’ll come.”

“Thanks.”

As I walked to the gate, I told myself that however underwhelming the black abode might seem at first glance, it was best to take it seriously. Evil can lurk behind the most mundane façades: the quaint tile-roofed adobes that dotted the town of my youth; a bucolic thatched-roof hut in Botswana where I barely escaped a pointed finger and a whispered accusation of “witch”; the fairy-tale houses of a remote Bavarian town where I finally tracked my father, and found so much more than I’d bargained for, so many years ago.

Anyone who would name his home after the devil, whether it was just a ploy to make money or a sincere belief, was to be treated carefully.

I was reaching out for the gate when a man’s voice came from behind me.

“Lily.”

It was a voice I knew well. Max Carmichael.

“
Max
, what in the world are you doing here?”

I glanced back at the van, hoping Sailor had the sense to quite literally lie low. The last time Max spotted Sailor he hauled off and socked him in the eye. Not over me, mind you, but still. Things were feeling a little unpredictable at the moment. The last thing I needed was boys fighting in front of the black abode. Talk about a frat party.

“I called the store. Bronwyn told me you were working on a case involving her son-in-law. Then Nigel told me you were asking about the father of the victim, and the location of his charming house.”

“So you figured I’d come here.”

He smiled. “Hard to believe you’d talk to this guy alone, but then again . . . it made a certain kind of sense, in Lily-land.”

I noted a coffee stain on his white T-shirt and a few crumbs on his jeans. He appeared haggard, his gray eyes weary. And yet, somehow, he looked great.

“You mean you sat in your car, just waiting for me? How long?”

He shrugged. “I had lunch. Good a place as any.”

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“I thought I might need to rescue you.”

“Rescue
me
?”

“After a fashion.”

“From?”

“That man’s a nutcase.”

“I have no need of being rescued. Much less a desire to be rescued. If there’s any rescuing to be done I’ll do it myself, thank you very much.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flutter of drapes. Someone was looking down at us from a second-story window. I raised a hand in greeting. A buzzer sounded, and I unlatched the gate.

Max stayed close on my heels. Apparently I had swapped one bodyguard for another.

The gate clanged shut behind us.

The cement walkway was cracked and studded with weeds; the wooden porch steps were rotting, the boards sagging and creaking under today’s pink Keds–clad feet. An improvised beam of wood lying atop two ladders seemed to be holding up the roof of the front portico. I was getting the distinct sense that business wasn’t great these days.

A moment later I heard voices coming from behind the door. Again, like the house itself, they seemed less frightening than mundane, everyday voices squabbling over who should answer the door. Two female, one male.

Finally, the door swung inward. Creaking. Just like a haunted house. I rolled my eyes. But I was brought up short, the laughter dying in my throat at the woman standing in front of me.

It was the woman I had seen in the store. The timebender, Doura. She smiled, one bloodred-tipped hand clutching the edge of the door as though ready to slam it shut. A mass of blond curls hung down to her ample breasts, much of which were on display above a sweetheart neckline. Her eyes were outlined with heavy black liner, accented by bright blue eye shadow.

“I wondered when you would show up,” she said with her jarringly baby-doll voice, malevolence in her blue-green heavy-lidded eyes.

“How nice to see you again,” I lied, hoping—but not expecting—to win her over with exaggerated good manners, as my mama would do.

“Who’s
this
?” she asked, giving Max a blatant once-over and a sexy smile.

“I’m her bodyguard,” Max said. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

“Easier said than done, handsome,” Doura said.

“I was hoping to find Prince High Zazi at home?” I interrupted.

“Prince High? Oh, Prince High!” she called over her shoulder, still studying me, smiling.

Descending the shadowy stairs was the goateed man who had accompanied Doura when first I saw her. He moved slowly, one gaunt hand gripping the banister, the other holding a cane for support. He was a lanky man, and must have been taller, I thought, before the ravages of age. His hair and goatee were dyed that sooty black. His eyebrows formed dramatic, upside-down vees over his eyes.

“Prince High?” I asked.

Doura laughed again.

“It’s the
High
Prince!” said the man. His voice betrayed none of the frailty of his physical form—it was deep, mellow. I thought of what Nigel said, that this man had once been a magnetic, charismatic leader. “How many times do I have to tell you people?
High Prince of Hell.
Not Prince High. It’s as though people mangle it on purpose.”

Demons refer to themselves as “high princes.” I might be unsure about a lot of things lately, but this much was clear: The old man before me was no demon.

“My name’s Lily Ivory,” I said. “We sort of met the other day . . . I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your son.”

“My son.” He leaned back, appearing more thoughtful than sad. “My son has passed.”

“I know that, sir. I’m sorry for your loss—”

“And who’s the stiff?”

“Max Carmichael,” said Max. I noticed that neither man put his hand out to shake. Once again Doura’s heated gaze raked over him, and she quite literally licked her lips.

“You’re with the paper,” said the Prince. “You enjoy exposing frauds, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Among other things,” Max said and nodded.

“I’m no fraud.”

“Then there’s no problem.”

“Do you think we could sit, talk perhaps?” I interjected. I didn’t want this discussion to be taken over by allegations of fraud. I had my own questions.

“She’s a witch,” Doura said to the Prince. “Don’t you remember? The one from the thrift store.”

“A witch?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You don’t look much like a witch.”

“You don’t look much like a prince of darkness.”

He smiled. “What kind of witchcraft do you practice?”

I took a deep breath. I still wasn’t accustomed to just coming out and talking about things that were such deep, dark secrets not long ago. And I was acutely aware of Max’s presence right behind me. “Root work, botanicals, mostly.”

“Do you believe in sacrifice? Blood sacrifice?”

“When necessary.”

His face split into a grin. An unsettling grin.

“Excellent. Most excellent. Shall we retire to the living room, where we can be more comfortable?”

“Surely, thank you,” I said as I trailed his limping form through the dim foyer, into a living room dominated by a huge orange velour sectional sofa. Bookshelves and artwork covered just about every inch of wall space.

As we walked, he gestured behind him with one hand. “I believe you’ve met my high consort, Doura. And this,” he said as the short-haired redhead joined us, “is another priestess, Tracy.”

The Prince sank into the middle of his huge sectional, and the women sat on either side, sandwiching him.

“Nice to meet you both, officially,” I said. Too nervous to join them on the sofa, I looked around at the objects in the room. Max leaned up against one wall, arms crossed over his chest, much as Sailor had earlier.

I noticed a large carved chair—almost a throne—with a small brass plaque identifying it as having once belonged to Rasputin. A vintage Tyrone Power
Nightmare Alley
movie poster adorned one wall, and a bright red cape with devil horns was draped across the shoulders of a mannequin, like an ornate grown-up Halloween costume. Human skulls, a shrunken head, and a Venus flytrap sat on one high shelf. Beside a vintage gramophone sat a small bed of nails.

A stuffed and mounted wolf guarded one corner, and as I walked toward it I smelled the unmistakable scent of reptiles. On the shelf behind the wolf were a number of aquariums, a fat snake in each. And near them, close enough for all of them to smell one another, a small brown sparrow trapped in an elaborate gilt cage.

“What’s with the bird?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t lunch.

“Don’t you like pets?”

“It just seems . . . it’s so close to the snakes, I would imagine it’s frightened.”

“Life is a frightening endeavor. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I wasn’t about to get into a philosophical discussion with this poser. “Still, would y’all mind if I moved it?”

Zazi poked Doura in the ribs. She, in turn, gave Tracy a look. Tracy rolled her eyes but came over and helped me move the cage about ten feet to one side of the snakes. I imagined they would move it back the second I left.

I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that my mission didn’t have to do with animal cruelty, but with ascertaining what Prince High had to do with his son’s death.

On a nearby bookshelf were several tomes attributed to the High Prince Zazi:
Devilish Rituals
,
The Devil’s Bible
,
The Devil’s Workshop
,
The Devil’s Business.

“
New York Times
bestsellers, almost every one of them,” he told me proudly. “You know, others tried to establish their own, similar churches, but none came close to my success. I am the high priest and magister, the Magus of the Devil’s Church. I even went on the
Phil Donahue Show
—there’s a signed picture with him, right over there near the fireplace.”