Hexes and Hemlines (5 page)

“My grandmother didn’t believe me, either.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Lily. It’s . . . unusual for such a powerful witch not to be able to read, that’s all. Come on, I’ll help guide you.”

I followed him into the cloister, though I remained doubtful. I had been trying to unlock the secrets of algebra lately, with my friend Bronwyn’s help, and hadn’t made much progress. If I couldn’t master an eighth-grade skill like solving for the
x
, how was I going to learn the art of “seeing” what is not shown?

Black mirrors hung on each of the five walls. A multitude of charms dangled from the ceiling—mostly silk bags hanging on braided cords—and symbols were drawn in a red, black, and ochre border at the top of the walls. Shallow shelves were adorned with stones. The room carried a powerful scent of sage.

I’m no claustrophobe, but when Aidan shut the door the walls of the little room, lit only by candles in four sconces—one for each direction—seemed to close in on us. I breathed deeply and tried to allow the evident magnetic forces to flow through me, rather than blocking them.

As we said back in Texas, I was as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rockers. Being here made me realize how much I rely on the calming sanctuary of my home, my cauldron, my mortar and pestle and herbs and roots. Maybe I was like Graciela; I would get to the point where I could never relocate, even if I wanted to.

“Bend your head,” Aidan said, reaching out for me.

I pulled back.

“Look, Lily,” he said in that oh-so-reasonable voice that indicated he was angry, “I know you don’t trust me. But this magus-apprentice relationship will be limited until you start to believe. Now, will you at least let me feel your energy?”

I took another deep breath, and nodded.

He put his hands on either side of my face, then bent his head down to mine. Forehead to forehead. Eyes closed. Bodies close, almost touching.

A long moment passed. I could feel him reaching out to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to let my guard down. Still, the sense of him was overwhelming.

When he wasn’t trying to force me into something or patronizing me, Aidan could be mesmerizing, and not only as a witch . . . but as a man. From the first moment I met him I had felt a strong attraction to him, as though a wire were stretched too taut between us, humming and alive with the tension. Did he and I share something profound, or was this a mere illusion?

Guarded or no, a connection was made.

Moods shifted. Breath caught. His hands upon my cheeks felt electric, charged.

Aidan lifted his head, looked into my eyes.

“Lily. . . .”

From outside I could hear a cat yowl, and Oscar squeal. One after another, the candles fell. Their pewter sconces melted into misshapen blobs.

Aidan let go, grabbed a flashlight, and doused the still-burning candles.

“What in the Sam Hill just happened?” I asked.

He took a deep breath. I was rather gratified to notice it was shaky. “I knew from the start we had a connection.”

“What kind of connection? Did we melt the sconces?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I’ll need to look into it further. In the meantime . . .” He flashed me a crooked grin. “I’d say you and I fooling around is out of the question.”

He was referring to sex magic. It could open portals, which, if controlled, were extremely powerful. When not properly handled, though, such magic could result in a lot of collateral damage. If Aidan touching me could melt pewter, I didn’t want to think about what else might happen.

“One more time,” Aidan said as he relit the candles and placed them on the shelves alongside the stones. “Concentrate not on me, but on the black mirror. Concentrate without thought, on seeing what cannot be seen. I know you can do it. You just showed me you could.”

I faced the mirror. This time I could feel Aidan’s energy wrapping around me, helping me to concentrate while separating my mind from rational thought. . . .

At first, nothing but blackness. But then, finally, I saw something that looked like an orange cloud, and then pink, then green. Ephemeral, barely there. As I continued to watch, to disconnect from my waking mind, I started to see a white radiance peeking through the colored mist, like the sun breaking through the clouds. Just a bit at first, then bursting through in a bright flash.

And in the flash was a wobbly, miragelike vision of Malachi Zazi, very much alive, a sparrow flitting about his head. In his arms he carried a huge old-fashioned hourglass, with the sand almost finished falling. He set down the hourglass, wrapped his neck in snakes as though they were scarves, turned his back, and walked away.

I yanked back. I was freezing cold.

“What is it?” Aidan stood right behind me. His arms wrapped around me and I leaned into them, relishing his heat. “What did you see?”

“A man I know to be dead.”

“Dead how long?”

“Only a day or two.”

“So he could still be present. Did he speak?”

I shook my head.

“You were staring for several minutes.”

“It felt like only a second.”

“Time is relative. Einstein wasn’t the first to figure that one out.”

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” I said. The vision of Malachi frightened me. I didn’t know how to interpret it, what to think. And I couldn’t get warm.

“All right,” Aidan interrupted my thoughts. “Let’s play to your strengths for the moment. Did you bring the supplies to make conjure balls?”

Conjure balls are magical amulets made with wax, herbs, and charms.

I sighed with relief. This was my area of expertise.

On a large worktable under the window I laid out the supplies I had packed this morning: a large assortment of herbs and oils, wax, brimstone, four thieves’ vinegar, small charms, and clabber milk. Then I brought out my Book of Shadows. Though I had long ago memorized most of the spells, I still read through the recipe before beginning to cast; it was part of my ritual, part of preparing myself to become a conduit for the forces of the universe and beyond.

It may seem counterintuitive that while I was seeking knowledge through Aidan he was having me make all sorts of talismans, brews, and charms. Part of me wondered if he was trying to learn my secrets, but I didn’t really believe in keeping my knowledge to myself. I was discreet with my powers for two reasons: First, I was raised to hide my Craft from those around me out of fear; and second, most people did not have the ability to invoke powers, or worse, to control whatever it was they managed to call up.

In Aidan’s case, as a witch fully in control of his abilities, I was happy to share what I knew . . . up to a point.

“I prefer beeswax for malleability, but paraffin or any other candles can be melted and used if you’re after particular colors,” I explained as I set up a little flame under a beaker. “The best wax I’ve found actually comes from those individually wrapped cheeses coated in red wax. If you knead it long enough with warm hands it becomes supple and malleable.”

Since I didn’t have any such cheese wax at hand, I hacked up a red candle and put the pieces in the beaker to melt. I shaved some tin onto a small plate, and arranged my charms: a small metal heart, a promise ring, some gold glitter. I then started stripping herbs—lemongrass, Devil’s Shoestring, lavender, Queen Elizabeth root. I crushed and blended them with the ancient mortar and pestle Graciela had given me when I left home—the one that reminded me of the timeless chain of
curanderos
, or Mexican witch-healers, of which I was now a link.

As I prepared my herbs I noticed Zazi’s black cat sitting near the doorway, watching my movements. What secrets might be locked in that feline brain? Or was its steady green gaze pondering something distinctly banal, like lunch?

Aidan’s white cat, Noctemus, meowed and jumped onto the table. I sneezed.

A quiet “Gesundheit” emanated from under the table.

“Aidan, do you know why cats are associated with witches? And why people are scared of them?”

“You know the way cats will suddenly look in a particular direction as though they see something?” Aidan asked, stroking his beautiful cat and gazing at her with affection. “Even nonfamiliars are able to see things normal humans have no access to. In Europe they came to be feared, but in other parts of the world, most obviously in Egypt, that talent was precisely why felines were revered. Anything powerful evokes both respect and fear, as two sides of the same coin.”

I pondered that as I rolled my conjure balls, sprinkling in the prepared herbs and roots. I decided to make love amulets, and started working with the wax, infusing it with my thoughts. Pouring some more hot wax into the palm of my hand, I felt the slight burn, between pain and pleasure.

“In addition,” Aidan continued, “felines, just like the night and the moon, are associated with the female.”

“Why would that be frightening?”

He grinned. “I suspect you want a measured response to that one, rather than the obvious.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I imagine it is because females bring forth life amidst blood. As I said, fear and reverence are often two sides to the same coin. Males cannot create life. Some of them will spend their karmic energies trying to control what it is that women accomplish naturally. And if they can’t control it, they denigrate it.”

“Which translates into . . .”

“Witch burnings, paternalism, sexism . . .” He shrugged. “Basically, men acting like jerks.”

I thought about the men I knew. I tried not to tar them all with the same brush, but it was true that my experiences hadn’t been particularly positive. My father abandoned me as an infant, the men from my hometown ran me out on a rail, and even the fellow I’d been sort of seeing lately, Max Carmichael, was having a hard time dealing with my special abilities.

“Speaking of bitter men,” I said, “what’s the deal with Sailor?”

“The ‘deal’?”

“Why is he so beholden to you, yet so reluctant to use his powers?”

Aidan shrugged and refilled the beaker with more chunks of red wax. “He’s not a natural psychic. Wasn’t born with his current abilities, I mean. He’s had a hard time adjusting.”

“How did he become psychic, then?”

“I helped him out.”

“You can do that?”

“Lily, when will you stop underestimating me? Don’t you know by now that I can do anything?”

“Somehow I find that a little hard to believe.”

He chuckled.

“Anyway,” I said. “How does that work, exactly? Could you make
me
psychic?”

“This from the woman who already can barely deal with her natural talents? You want to become
psychic
?”

“When you put it that way, I guess not. I just thought maybe it would help me catch a clue. So you’re honestly telling me you
made
Sailor psychic? How? Why?”

“I said no such thing. You inferred.”

“Did I infer correctly?”

“Your tin shavings are starting to hum,” he pointed out. I looked down to see the tiny metal pieces vibrating madly. “What now?”

“Love balls include love herbs and other talismans, such as a wedding ring, a lock of a loved one’s hair, or a scrap of clothing. Luck balls might include dice, magnetic horseshoes, and herbs that attract good fortune, such as Little John and Master of the Woods. Oils of frankincense and rosemary boost the energy as well. I roll them anywhere from the size of a small marble to a big gumball; I usually make it large enough to accommodate the charms without looking all whomperjawed.”

“‘Whomperjawed’? I take it that’s a Texas expression?”

“Sort of lopsided, not fitting properly. Ugly as homemade soap.” I smiled. “You might even say cattywhompus.”

“What about Goofer Balls?”

I went still. Despite their rather silly-sounding name, Goofer Balls are nothing to fool around with. They’re hexes, evil charms made of black wax, and include nail clippings, hair cuttings, pieces of the enemy’s clothing, whatever you can get of that person. They often include snake powder made from shed skins. Goofer Balls are typically placed in the yard of the intended victim, or tossed into corners in the house.

I glanced down at my Book of Shadows, splayed atop the large worktable. It lay open to a gruesome illustrated page describing the recipe for, and potential of, Goofer Balls.

Aidan had flipped through it.

Which meant two things: Aidan was overstepping his bounds—
no one
looked through a witch’s private journal/spell book/diary—and my Book of Shadows, which was imbued with much more power than a standard tome, had allowed him to do so. It would have hidden the page otherwise.

Unlike the Wiccans I was hanging out with lately—my friend Bronwyn and her good-natured coven—I don’t shy away from hexcraft. Just last week Bronwyn had challenged me on this, asking:
Don’t you believe in karma, or some sort of final judgment?
Good question. But to tell the truth, I didn’t think much about it. I knew my powers were drawn from a continuum of good and evil, and I tried to keep on the positive side of things. But there were times when an enemy needed to be stopped in its tracks, or sent back to nothingness, or banished, or even bound. But any practitioner of the dark arts must share in the damage she or he causes.

“If you want to cast hexes, Aidan, you’ll have to figure it out yourself. I’m focusing on a love conjure at the moment. And as you know, there’s no place for wandering minds in spell casting.”

I started to intone my love charm. I always recite as Graciela had taught me, in a kind of Spanglish with a smattering of Nahuatl, her native language. I didn’t speak Spanish particularly well, much less Nahuatl, but the spells were as natural and automatic as breathing to me. They linked me to my ancestors, and to my spirit guide.