Tarnished and Torn (14 page)

The cat meowed again. Not being an animal whisperer or a mind reader, I had no idea if this meant Noctemus would communicate to Aidan that I needed him, if she was telling me to go wherever a cat familiar might send someone if she could, or if it was just a random feline response to being spoken to.

Frustrated, I tried the door handle just in case. It was locked. I wondered whether I should try to break in. I was in the habit of taking liberties with Aidan, but he was a powerful witch, and one of these days I just might end up getting burned.

Speaking of getting burned . . . Aidan had told me himself that he used to work with my father, and had hinted at some kind of spell gone wrong. It made sense that they had both been burned in the same incident years ago. But that was all I knew about any shared past between them.

Frustrated, I kicked the door. The cat meowed in reproach.

“Well, that’s what he gets for not keeping in touch.”

Noctemus hissed at me and strolled away, her upright tail twitching.

I sighed and threaded my way back through the museum.

A crowd of children with matching yellow summer camp T-shirts were darting about, shrieking and tittering nervously in the Chamber of Horrors, which I studiously avoided. Personally, I much preferred the exhibit called the Palace of Living Art, which featured wax portrayals of famous paintings like the
Mona Lisa
, but also slightly more obscure works such as
American Gothic, Whistler’s Mother,
and the
Laughing Cavalier.
The figures of movie stars were pretty fun, and even the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz wasn’t so bad . . . though frankly all of these wax figures, fictional or not, gave me the willies.

Not far from Aidan’s apparently abandoned office was a new addition to the museum’s collection: Mary Ellen Pleasant. The plaque described her as T
HE
M
OTHER OF
C
IVIL
R
IGHTS IN
S
AN
F
RANCISCO.
Not so long ago I had agreed to have this sculpture made as payment to a voodoo priestess who had helped me out.

As I looked into the figure’s dark eyes I found it unsettling . . . but, then, I found all the wax figures disquieting. We people are so much more than our human form; I know that better than most. Nonetheless it is our living tissue that allows us to remain on this plane, to vibrate in such a way that we maintain our physical presence in this world. This is why so many magical systems use poppets as stand-ins for people, and even the pentagram features a star in the shape of a human: arms, legs, head.

Like all the wax figures, Mary Ellen Pleasant was dressed in authentic clothing. I wondered if the museum’s artists had selected items in the proper style for the period, or if Herve, voodoo priest and a party to the deal I had brokered to create Pleasant’s wax representation, had given the museum some of Pleasant’s real clothes. I tried to sense any vibrations from the clothing, but the figure was too far away and the room was too crowded with random vibrations from the museum’s visitors.

After glancing around to see if anyone was watching, I ducked under the velvet ropes meant to keep visitors at bay and felt the figure’s watered silk gown.

The dress was authentic, not a reproduction. This explained the fine, hand-tatted lace, which was unusual in even the most authentically re-created ensemble. The gown’s vibrations were brilliant, much stronger than normal in historic fibers; I picked up fierce determination, a pride mixed with fear and hate. I wasn’t surprised by the complexity of the vibrations. Pleasant had led a difficult but important life—born a slave before the Civil War, she had worked with the Underground Railroad, had for a time passed as white, was married several times, and had repeatedly challenged civic authorities and the courts over civil rights issues.

Hers was the sort of dress that, were it in my store, could be worn only by a select few. It would overwhelm most people.

“Hey, lady!” said a girl of about eight. She wore a yellow camp T-shirt, jeans, and a pink headband. “You’re not s’posed to go past the ropes! Not s’posed to touch the clothes. You could get it dirty!”

I blushed as other children ringed Mary Ellen Pleasant’s sculpture, watching me in disapproval. How embarrassing.

“You’re right,” I said, stepping behind the rope. “That was wrong of me. I apologize.”

The outrage on the little faces suggested my apology wasn’t enough. “I’m a, um . . . I’m a consultant for the museum. A fashion specialist.”

“Where’s your badge?” she asked.

“My what?”

“Your badge,” she explained impatiently. “All the museum workers have badges. That’s how you know they’re okay to talk to if you get lost.”

Busted.
The other children looked equally unconvinced. I stared at them, unsure what to do. Fortunately a teenage girl—one of the camp counselors, judging by her yellow T-shirt and jeans—appeared and announced it was time for lunch. I breathed a sigh of relief as they marched off.

Over the years I had gone up against all sorts of challenges, but the scathing disapproval of children? That, apparently, never got easier.

As I turned to leave, Mary Ellen Pleasant’s jewelry caught my eye. Around the sculpture’s neck hung strands of Mardi Gras beads and a near-black medallion that appeared to be made of twine. After confirming the children had indeed left the area, I reached out and made a discovery as I touched it: the medallion was made of hair, plaited and twisted so tightly that it resembled braided silk.

I looked longingly at Aidan’s nearly invisible door. I would bet my cauldron he knew whether the hair amulets were significant and why, or what the Ballcap boys were after. How ironic. Angry with him for banishing Sailor, I had been giving Aidan the cold shoulder for the past several weeks. Now that I needed him, he was nowhere to be found.

Feeling frustrated, I left the museum—calling out cheerfully to Clarinda as I passed the ticket booth—and drove back to the store. Bronwyn was helping a customer at the register, so I headed to the workroom to call Renna, the one Rom witch I knew. Her phone rang and rang until finally bumping me to voice mail. I left a message asking if I could stop by for a visit, and gave her my number so she could call me back.

As I sat with my hand on the telephone, pondering my next move, it dawned on me that Maya was hanging up clothes I hadn’t seen before.

“Are those from our thrift-store outing?” I asked, though I doubted they were. I almost always remember the clothing that has passed through my hands.

“No, they were left by the front door yesterday.”

“In the black plastic bag? I threw those away.”

An odd expression on her face, Maya continued to hang up piece after piece, smoothing their wrinkles with her hands. “Is that why they were out in the alley? I wondered.”

“You brought them back in?”

“They’re perfectly decent. And look: several are men’s, and we don’t have much of that.”

It was true that women’s fashions make up the bulk of vintage clothing. But as a norm, we draw the line at picking up clothes from the trash. And we certainly never put out clothing that hasn’t been laundered and mended.

“Why don’t you let me take care of those, Maya? You could start sorting through the clothes we bought yesterday at the thrift store.”

She shrugged and allowed herself to be led into the main shop floor of Aunt Cora’s Closet, where Bronwyn needed help at the register.

“Don’t forget, Lily,” Maya said. “The fire dance is tonight in Golden Gate Park, and all are welcome.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” I said as I ducked back into the workroom.

In fact, Maya’s involvement in the fire dancing was very much at the forefront of my mind.

I tried to assess the dubious clothes, but found nothing untoward—in fact, the most suspicious thing about them was their lack of vibrations. This wasn’t unknown for clothes of their age, however. If the vibrations of former owners weren’t that strong to begin with and then the items were tucked away in a drafty attic for several decades, they were sometimes devoid of all but the most subtle sensations.

Or . . . was it possible that the rowan really was working at damping down my sensations? I noted loops of rowan on two of the hangers. Maya probably found them in the bag, thought they were pretty, and used them to adorn the clothing. It was the sort of thing I did all the time—and these loops looked like something I would have made, like my sachets of rosemary and sage. She wouldn’t have known any better.

But it chilled me to think that Aunt Cora’s Closet could be accessed so easily by those with mal intent. Had Clem and Zeke left the bag in an attempt to dilute my powers?

I blew out a frustrated breath, shoved all of the clothes—and the rowan—into a new Hefty bag, and hauled it back out to the trash—
inside
the Dumpster. Surely Maya wouldn’t cross that line.

That evening I filled a backpack with precautionary supplies: herbs, a candle, amulets, a small jar of protective brew. Then I added a few more pedestrian items: a flashlight, a warm sweater. Even on the warmest San Francisco nights, a wall of fog could quickly engulf the city, causing the temperature to plummet within minutes.

When Maya and I arrived at the designated clearing in Golden Gate Park, the sun still hovered in the sky and soaring eucalyptus trees cast thick, stark shadows in the orangey light, their fragrant leaves pungent in the balmy summer air.

It was another unusually warm evening, and a damp but pleasant breeze from the ocean blew in. Locals called it earthquake weather and muttered about omens. I suspected it had more to do with the unfamiliarity than any geological phenomenon; typically San Francisco evenings were cool, no matter how hot the day might be. When people got too accustomed to predictable, pleasant weather, it didn’t take much to throw them off their game. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the sun to set, and the excitement was palpable. Tonight’s fire dancing might have been one of a thousand events held in this park: music festivals, potlucks, rallies for a variety of political and social causes. I spotted the fire dancers gathered on a slight knoll in the middle of a meadow. They were painting one another’s faces as people milled around greeting one another. A couple of men and women sat cross-legged on the grass, beating drums in an uncoordinated fashion as though they were still learning. Everywhere tanned and healthy young bodies were on display: many of the women wore halter or swimsuit tops, while the men were bare-chested. One pale redhead seemed determined to learn how to drum. Another girl was dressed in steampunk-goth clothing, and yet another was clad in purple, from her hair to her clothes. In addition to the face paint—and arm paint and chest paint—the women wore flowers and lots of jewelry. They looked like hip, modern versions of belly dancers, crossed with the street-kid chic that predominated in the Haight neighborhood.

“Isn’t this great?” asked Maya. “Wait until you see them dance. It’s spectacular.”

“Is your teacher here? The one you told me about?”

She shook her head. Her eyes scanned the crowd, as did mine. Though I’d seen plenty of young people, as well as a handful of tourists, nearby residents, and local merchants like me, I’d not seen a man in a suit, sharkskin or otherwise.

As the last orange rays of the sun faded, someone cried out “La, la, la,” in a loud, ululating cry that reminded me of the few weeks I spent in Morocco, years ago. The mournful call seemed to announce the disappearance of the sun.

A strange silence and calm descended as the fire dancers took their places on the grassy knoll. Their demeanor was surprisingly solemn; they seemed transformed from slightly goofy hippie kids to serious acolytes.

The drummers began a steady rhythm, as though responding to the first calls of the crickets and tree frogs.

And then in the dark I heard the click of a lighter. A flame shot up, illuminating a single face.

Gene. The man I had met at the Gem Faire’s refreshment counter. Once again dressed in his sharkskin suit and polished wingtips, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Thank you all for coming.” His deep voice carried easily in the still evening as he waved the lighter in an arc in front of him. “Tonight you will see an astonishing performance, demonstrating the play of life . . . with fire.”

He suddenly looked straight at me, over the heads of the crowd, and smiled.

I returned his gaze, unflinching. There was something about this guy, but I couldn’t get a fix on him. Was he a witch? Some other kind of practitioner? Something . . . more?

Demons did occasionally take human form, though usually for short periods of time. To possess a human continually, a demon would have to be incredibly powerful.

Much more powerful than I was.

But when I suggested the demon might have taken human form, Oscar had laughed at the idea. I certainly hoped that meant Gene was just as human as I was. I had gone up against a demon once before, at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts, and in the end had vanquished it. But that demon hadn’t been at full strength, and I had had a lot of help. As Graciela had drummed into me,
“You have supernatural powers, m’hija. But you are not superhuman.”

I heard the crowd laughing and tuned back in to what Gene was saying. “. . . help us keep the fire in the pots! So please remain still, and do not take pictures. Distractions might cause the dancers to stumble . . . and it’s dangerous to play with fire. And please, when the hat comes around, won’t you give, and give generously?”

One by one, with great drama and flourish, he held his lighter to the dancers’ pots and torches.

The drumbeats swelled, louder and more insistent, and the dancing began. The drummers were wholly focused on their drums, and for a moment I watched the frenetic movement of hands fluttering on taut skins stretched over the gourds.

One beautiful young woman with long blond hair and a lithe, half-dressed body wore a belt with spokes that looked like torches sticking out. Gene lit each one in turn, and she started spinning so fast it looked as though she was surrounded by a hoop of fire. Another young woman held what looked like the head of a rake in each hand. When these were lit, she waved her arms and the rakes turned into flaming butterfly wings. A bare-chested young man bounded across the knoll and knelt as Gene lit a series of pots on strings, then did the same for several other women and a few men. Each of them started swinging their pots, this way and that, appearing to be calm and in control though surrounded by arcs and circles of fire. The speed of the dancers’ movements against the dark night air gave the fire the appearance of moving of its own accord, forming shapes and arches, sweeps and bends with the sinewy nature of a serpent.

The woman with the butterfly wings lowered herself to the ground in a backbend, bringing the flames high above her head. The blonde with the hoop of fire danced around her, hopping over her, all the while spinning the pots of fire.

I tore my eyes away and scanned the crowd standing mesmerized in the darkness. The park’s street lamps were not shining, and a sliver of a crescent moon cast a weak light over the scene.

“Maya,” I whispered so as not to distract the dancers. “Do you know any of the troupe personally? I’d like to speak to them.”

She didn’t answer, watching the dancers without blinking.

“Maya?”

She moved not at all, her eyes wide and her mouth agape, while the fire pots spun. The performance was hypnotic, and I realized the crowd, like Maya, was going into something akin to a trance.

I looked around, scanning the crowd. It was dark now. The sun was fully set, only the sliver of the moon shone, and the park lamps remained out.

All around us faces were eager yet placid. The red-haired guy, the steampunk girl, the one in purple. All of them enthralled, unreachable now by words or touch. A few had started twirling their bodies in a frenzied whirl.

I wasn’t overly alarmed or even surprised. Spinning was a traditional method for entering a trance, the centerpiece of numerous religious ceremonies. Whirling helped to separate thought from mind and achieve an altered state.

The purple girl, spinning wildly, lost control and stumbled into the woman with the fiery butterfly wings, who lay outstretched on the ground, undulating. The spinning girl’s purple yoga pants caught on fire.

The onlookers started to laugh and cheer.

For a moment I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—no one moved to help the girl whose clothes were now on fire, and she didn’t stop dancing.

I had to act. Grabbing the sweater from my backpack, I ran to her, wrestling her to the grass and smothering the flames with the sweater.

“Somebody call 9-1-1!” I shouted, but no one, not even Maya, responded.

As I searched the crowd for help, my eyes lit on Gene, lurking in the shadows. Not panicking, not even moving. Just smiling and staring. At me.

I scowled at him and turned my attention back to the young woman. Gingerly, I checked her leg for injury; the fire had scorched the outermost layer of cloth, but hadn’t reached her skin.

“Are you all right?” I asked, and she nodded, a beatific but vacant expression on her face. “Want me to call 9-1-1?”

She looked at me blankly.
Guess not,
I thought. As I looked closer at her shin, I realized it was covered in some sort of waxy substance. Was that some kind of fire protectant, the kind Hollywood stuntmen used? Maybe Maya was right. Maybe Gene really was a safety-first kind of guy.

So how come I didn’t believe it?

I left the young woman writhing happily on the ground and headed for the nearest lamppost. I chanted a spell, focused, then touched the lamppost and watched it spark to life, illuminating the knoll. I’m good with electricity. I don’t really understand it, but I’m good with it. Without the contrast of light against dark, the fire dancing was much less hypnotic.

Then I began to dance myself, spinning, chanting, throwing my powers up against whatever spell had been cast over the crowd. I felt something push back, a palpable sensation of magic, and focused harder. I know my witchy limitations—but I also know my supernatural strengths. Whoever was fighting me was no match for my magic.

One by one, the spectators seemed to awaken. They began milling about, murmuring excitedly, many rushing to speak with the dancers who now stood around, relaxing and breathing deeply. I pushed my way through the throng, heading for Gene, but he had disappeared. The people in the crowd jostled one another, laughing and dancing, apparently without a care in the world. Not appearing to realize they’d just been manipulated.

I needed to find out what Gene was doing and why. Especially if Maya was serious about pursuing her new hobby.

As if my current to-do list wasn’t long enough—what with worrying about finding a piece of jewelry worth killing for, the two yahoos following me and breaking into my store, and working out what my father was up to—I now added figuring out the machinations of a well-dressed man who loved jelly beans and, in his spare time, quite literally played with fire and mesmerized crowds in Golden Gate Park.

“Maya!” I called out, then spotted her chatting with a drummer. She was excited, and had I not known better I would have assumed she was drunk or high on something. Her eyes shone and her mien was unfocused, a state not at all characteristic for her.

“Let’s go,” I said firmly, and she obediently turned and followed me. I escorted her the several blocks to her home, a Victorian typical of the neighborhood. The house had some historic charm but was rather run-down, with peeling paint, a few broken windows, and a weed-choked yard. Maya’s four housemates were students, very sweet and fun but chronically short on cash and time—and space. The house had only three bedrooms. Two shared the largest room, Maya and another girl had their own small bedrooms, and the fifth slept in what used to be the dining room, which the students had roped off with a couple of Indian blankets.

“Thank you for walking me home,” Maya said as she unlocked the Victorian’s front door. “Wasn’t that
amazing
?”

“It was . . . something,” I said.

“You didn’t like it?”

“It wasn’t that. It’s just . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “Something was . . . wrong.”

Maya looked surprised. “What are you talking about? It was incredible, just like last time. Just like it always is.”

“There was something unnatural about the dancing, Maya. Didn’t you feel it?”

“I didn’t feel anything but joy and unity—and your cynicism, frankly. Lily . . . the last thing I want to do is to hurt your feelings . . .”

“But . . . ?”

“You need to be more trusting. You know, let your hair down. Go with the flow.”

Uptight, serious Maya was telling me to let my hair down? Go with the flow? I could scarcely believe my ears.

“Please don’t go back to the fire dances, Maya. Not just yet, anyway.” I needed time to figure out what had transpired tonight, and to find out more about whom—or what—Gene was.

Maya laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

“Maya . . . could you just trust me on this? As someone who’s older and who wants the best for you?”

Maya rolled her eyes like a teenager listening to a thoroughly unhip parent.

“At least promise me you won’t go back without me. Will you do that much?”

“Lily. . . .”

“Please?”

“I . . . sure. Okay, you can come. But I
am
going. The next one’s on Saturday, I think.”

“Okay, I’ll be there. Oh, and Maya—what’s Gene’s last name?”

“Gene doesn’t have a last name, silly,” Maya said with a laugh. “He doesn’t need one.”

•   •   •

After letting myself in to Aunt Cora’s Closet, I turned on an Edith Piaf CD and took yet another look at all the jewelry that might have been in the box Griselda had sold me. Feeling like a pirate looting my own store, I gathered up the rings, necklaces, and other assorted items. I held the medallion with the fire opal and concentrated on the sound of Edith’s crooning filling the store, but try as I might I felt nothing. There were several more lapis pieces, and a few beltlike items that looked North African. I looked through all the rings, trying to sense anything suspicious. The rings, as before, included two school rings, a silver band, a cameo, and a big fake engagement ring diamond in a gold leaf setting. Several pendants were Southwestern-style turquoise in pounded silver settings, which seemed funny, since they came from Germany. But a collection of “junk” like this could have accumulated over the years and might have originated from anywhere.