Tarnished and Torn (26 page)

I had to laugh. But then . . . “Hey, where did the cat come from?”

Realization sank in just a little too late. Sailor and I watched as Noctemus bounded toward the open door, leaping into Aidan’s arms. His blue eyes were icy with anger.

“Well, isn’t
this
charming?”

“If I’m not mistaken,
you
, sir, were banished from this town. And you”—he gestured toward me—“should have known better than to try a stunt like this.”

“Give me the ring, Aidan. We can do this together. You and I would be strong enough.”

“I told you I don’t have the infernal ring!” Aidan yelled. I tried to remember if I’d ever heard him raise his voice before. “Do you honestly think that if I did, I’d hold out on you and let the demon’s strength grow? What kind of witch do you think I am?”

“A scared one,” I said. “Aidan, I know how hard it is to go up against a demon, especially one you’ve met before. And I know what you must have gone through in . . . the fire.”

“You will never know what your father and I went through,” he said in a quiet, intense whisper. He stroked Noctemus, and regained his carefully casual air. “So, what gives you the sudden impression that I have the ring?”

“Johannes, Griselda’s assistant, came here two days after she died.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Here, as in, to my office?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s . . .” He trailed off, his eyes meeting those of his familiar. Noctemus had leaped onto the bookshelves and now loomed over us, silent and disapproving, as was her way.

Aidan shook his head. “He never entered my chamber.”

“Then what was he doing here?”

“Good question. Perhaps he was looking for me, but I haven’t been around much lately.”

“I noticed.” I blew out a loud breath in frustration. When Shawnelle talked about the Wax Museum and especially the European Explorers exhibit, I had been so sure. “All right. Aidan, I apologize for breaking into your office. It was wrong of me. I’m sure you’ll think of some way I can make it up to you, and I’ll be happy to, but I’d appreciate it if it could wait until this whole demon thing is wrapped up.”

Aidan gave me an almost imperceptible nod. I turned toward the door but realized I was alone.

“Sailor, aren’t you coming?” I asked.

“Aidan and I have a few things to discuss. We need to have this out, once and for all.”

“
Now
? We have a lot to do . . .” I looked to Aidan, hoping for a little coolheaded rationality. Given the heated, angry look in his eyes, I was going to have to keep on looking.

Great
. I was trying to save my friend, my father, and my city, and the boys had chosen this moment to do their top-dog macho thing.

I stormed out, casting my thoughts about for an idea. Where to now? I paused and studied the wax statues, looking into the faces of John Cabot and Ponce de León. Neither of them were talking. They might not have anything to say, even if they could. Johannes might have hidden that ring anywhere in this city, could have dropped it in a gutter for all I knew at this point. If the
Ojo del Fuego
wasn’t going to assist us by sending out a signal, there was no way to . . .

My eyes alit on the sculpture of Mary Ellen Pleasant.

Did she just wink at me?

I circled her. One reason reproductions like this worry me is that they can serve as poppets for skilled practitioners. But . . . could they serve as conduits for powerful spirits as well? Giving them a way to exist on this plane, as well as in the next?

Though Pleasant had been accused of practicing voodoo magic and persecuted for it, there didn’t appear to be any actual evidence that she’d ever practiced. But Madame Decotier, a powerful—
deceased
—voodoo priestess who had once helped me in exchange for this very wax statue as a tribute to a largely maligned and forgotten champion of civil rights . . . well, Decotier might well be powerful enough to inhabit this poppet. And to keep the ring safe.

I remembered the note from Carlotta to her sister, Griselda:
If All Else fails, have a Pleasant Day.
Germans capitalize nouns, but “pleasant” is an adjective. And I had wondered why that last sentence was in English. Did the English make it stand out, so Griselda wouldn’t miss the instruction? Or was it that she wanted to use the word “pleasant” as in Mary Ellen Pleasant? Perhaps Pleasant’s wax figure was the backup plan, and when Johannes couldn’t find Aidan to pass off the ring, he left it in her custody for safekeeping?

I checked Pleasant’s hands. No rings.

Darn
. Maybe I was stretching, making things up at this point, seeing significance where there was none.

From the vicinity of Aidan’s office, I could hear deep voices raised in anger. I rolled my eyes. Soon they’d be having a fistfight. What were they, fifteen?

But then I noticed the pendant Mary Ellen Pleasant wore. The one made of human hair. But this time it was bright orange, in place of the black one she wore last time I saw her. Didn’t Hans say Carlotta’s hair was dyed a bright carrot orange?

The necklace was bulky, as though woven around something. I flipped it over. There was an Aztec glyph on the back, with a stylized lizard—or could it be a salamander? As in a fire elemental? Pleasant was from Louisiana originally, then New York, then California. An Aztec symbol seemed like an odd choice.

I laid my hand over the medallion. While my hand rested on her chest, I could have sworn I felt her breathe. Her glass eyes reflected the lights; they seemed genuine, real, alive.

Next I examined the medallion around her neck more closely. The hair was plaited intricately into a cord, with a fastener at the back. I undid it and slipped it over my head. At first the vibrations were absent, then dissonant, almost painful. Finally, they seemed to fall in step with my own vibrations, following along with me so as not to be detected. It hummed between my breasts, warm and evocative. This was different from the sensations I picked up from clothing. These were almost alive, as though Carlotta—and others before her—had imbued the medallion with parts of themselves.

I took it off to study it.

Carefully, I pulled strands of hair from the woven cord. They put up resistance; the weaving was so fine and intricate that they did not release easily. I hated to take it apart. Aside from not wanting to destroy a work of art, neither did I want to deal inappropriately with an obvious charm of a powerful witch, dead or alive. I could feel it humming now, and emotions streamed through me.

But when I cupped it in my palm, the hair began to unplait itself, lock by lock. Finally it revealed a massive fire opal cabochon in a tarnished silver setting. The translucent stone was a vivid yellow-orange with green, red, and yellow flashes within. It gleamed as though reflecting the sun.

At dawn and midnight, the opal shows its color best.
Before I fully processed the fact that I had finally found the coveted
Ojo del Fuego
, colors began flowing over the walls and ceiling, falling like stars.

“It’s like a disco ball!” said Oscar.

His voice, so unexpected, pulled my attention away from the powerful fire opal, from the treasure so many had sought for so long.

“Oscar? What are
you
doing here?”

“Aidan sent for me. What are
you
doing here?”

“I . . .” I trailed off while I watched Oscar spin around, then put one hand up pointing to the ceiling while another was pointing down and slightly behind him, à la John Travolta in the iconic posters for
Saturday Night Fever
. He started crooning “Stayin’ Alive”
in his gravelly voice, which sounded surprisingly good in a Tom Waits, rock-and-roll kind of way.

I smiled but tried to filter out his antics, concentrating instead on the colors whirling around the room. How they moved as I did, yet also fell of their own accord. Red, orange, yellow, green. Were they trying to tell me something? Or were they just a beautiful phenomenon?

I tried to decide what to do next. The
Ojo del Fuego
had been safe here in the museum, with Mary Ellen Pleasant. I wondered whether there was a way to lure Gene here, on Aidan’s turf, and to have a showdown.

I felt something I could only describe as a strong premonition, an urging to put the medallion back around Pleasant’s wax neck. Whether Madame Decotier’s spirit was directing the medallion or it was compelling me itself was hard to say. But I obeyed and slipped the necklace over her head for safekeeping.

Perhaps it knew I wasn’t strong enough to use the
Ojo del Fuego
by myself. Once things calmed down, I would have to confer with Aidan as to what to do with the piece.

But first . . . I thought I might know who had killed Griselda and who hurt Renna and Eric. Zeke was already in the hospital by the time Renna and Eric were attacked, and I couldn’t imagine Clem carrying out those tortures by himself. Gene, a demon’s devoted minion, would likely have someone else do his dirty work. But there was someone who had access to Griselda’s things, including, very possibly, the notes she kept about Renna and me and Aidan. Someone whose own place was surrounded by rowan loops, and whose grandfather had left him old clothes in the attic, like the bag of clothes left on the stoop in front of Aunt Cora’s Closet. Someone who was painting a border that looked like lizards—or salamanders.

Someone entirely human, who might well be in the process of throwing in his lot with the demon in order to secure success for his inn, and whatever else it was that demons offered.

I hurried down the stairs. If Lloyd was trying to pledge himself to Xolotl, was there a way to stop him before he’d done even more harm? I needed to speak with my father. He would know.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I slowed.

It looked like one of the wax figures was lying on the ground. But no—it wasn’t wax. It was breathing.

“
Clarinda
?” I said, kneeling by her side. “Are you okay?”

There was a sudden rush of blinding pain, and then all went black.

When I came to, a gun was being held to my temple and I was in a headlock that choked off most of the oxygen to my lungs. I clutched at the arm wrapped around my neck, trying to loosen it not so much to escape as for a more immediate need: to breathe.

“Lloyd . . .” I managed, a whispery croak.

“Oh, you’re awake. Good. You can walk on your own, then. You’re heavier than you look.” He released the arm, but kept the gun trained on me and wound his hand in my hair, urging me along painfully. My head ached from the earlier blow, and my scalp stung where he pulled my hair. Still, it was better than being choked. I swallowed convulsively, trying to ease the crushed feeling in my throat.

The scene was nightmarish. We were in a windowless, dank room—I was guessing the basement of the museum. The ticket taker, Clarinda, lay on the floor, looking as broken as the misshapen wax figures surrounding her. Rows of heads, a table full of boxes labeled R
EAL
H
UMAN
H
AIR
, containers of fingernails, and medical-grade glass eyes. Dismembered arms and legs.

“Woah, check this out!” Lloyd said, awe in his voice. “Gene told me how to get down here. Isn’t it awesome? Plus, no cameras, which is helpful.”

“Lloyd, please listen to me,” I said. “Try to understand what I’m saying. Gene isn’t . . . he isn’t a normal man. He’s working for a . . . demon, for lack of a better word.”

“You think I don’t know this? ‘Demon’ makes him sound like a bad thing, but demons can be helpful as well. Gene explained it all to me when I first met him. It was on that trip to Europe, five countries in as many days, but I really loved Germany, so I stayed on for an extra week. That’s where I bought the cuckoo clock you liked so much. Remember?”

He started to drag me by my hair across the room. My head pounded and my scalp ached; I held on to his wrist to lessen the pain.

I was racking my brain, hoping Lloyd would keep talking. In my experience, this sort of person usually enjoyed the sound of his own voice and relished the opportunity to vent his frustrations. If I could buy time, Aidan or Sailor might be able to find me. I used my mind to call out as loud as I could, hoping someone, somewhere, might sense my need. I’m not psychic, but as a trained witch my powers of concentration are highly developed. Empaths could pick up on my calls, if I tried hard enough. I hoped.

“I came back from that trip and I finally understood my place in the world, what I had been lacking. The lack of respect . . . no one showed me enough respect. I started to study, just as Gene had told me to. It turned out there was lots of information about demons in those old books Grandfather left me. Years passed, and I wondered whether I’d ever be called, but finally Gene contacted me and asked for my help with Griselda. I had to pretend to meet her by chance when she arrived at SFO, but I pulled it off. And now, if I find the talisman, I won’t ever have to work another day in my life. But Gene’s got other people looking for it, like those two backwoods brothers. Those guys are like all those damned immigrants, coming into this country and stealing jobs.”

Sailor had always heard me in the past. But I wondered whether we still had that connection. It didn’t seem like anyone was going to burst in and save me. A sudden shaky sigh of fear and regret surged up in me.

“Lloyd, is Clarinda . . . dead?”

“Nah, she’ll be fine. She’s still breathing and everything. No one dies from a simple tap on the head.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I need that talisman, Lily. It’s as simple as that. I will be rewarded greatly for its return. And I deserve a little reward in my life. Why should I have to work my butt off and pay all those taxes to the goddamned government, have other people living as ‘guests’ in my family home? How is that fair? I could sit around and enjoy myself, waiting for government handouts. But instead,
I
have to do it the hard way. I guess it’s like my father always said: Nice guys finish last.”

Anger edged out the fear.
As though his life is all that hard,
I thought to myself with disdain. Why is it that so often, it’s the most fortunate of the world who feel sorry for themselves? This man lived in the Bay Area, inherited a beautiful old house, and seemed to be educated and healthy. And yet somehow he was the victim here because he had to work for a living?

I welcomed the anger. It was clarifying, helped me concentrate. I could use it to—

Lloyd suddenly picked me up as though to cradle me in his arms, then dropped me unceremoniously on the floor. The wind was knocked out of me and I lay there, stunned. Before I could push myself up he set a heavy plank of wood on top of me.

Lloyd sat on the board for a second, making me grunt from the pressure.

“Oh, look. It’s a sandwich. Get it? A sand-witch?” He stood, releasing the compression momentarily, but then placed two heavy supply boxes right on top, over my midsection. The board pressed on my chest and abdomen.

It wasn’t bad at first. The board on top of me was heavy, but it didn’t hurt.

“You can put a stop to this anytime,” Lloyd said. “Just tell me where you’ve hidden the talisman, and it’s over. Simple as that.”

“It’s in Coit Tower,” I lied. “Behind a heating grate on the third floor. I’ll take you there.”

“Gene told me it had to be in someone’s possession. Like, with a witch. I detest liars.” Lloyd gave me a pained expression and put another box on the board. “Mendacity of any kind, really. And yet it’s all around me. I’m a rare honest man in a deeply dishonest world.”

I took another breath just as deep as I could, savoring the air and desperately trying to concentrate, and it dawned on me whom I should call: Oscar. He was my familiar. Could he hear me? Could he help me?

Lloyd crouched down, putting his mouth very close to my ear. When he spoke his voice was very soft and gentle, seductive, like the whisper of a lover.

“Tell me where to find the talisman.”

My concentration wandered, interrupted by my body’s signals of distress. Lloyd placed yet another huge box on me, and my breaths became shallow and strained. Never before had I realized how much movement was involved in breathing, the up and down of the chest, however imperceptible in daily life. Just a fraction of an inch to expand and draw in sweet oxygen.

“Tell me, Lily . . .” Lloyd’s voice was a singsong now, as though we were playing a game and he had all the time in the world.

He might have time on his side, but clearly
I
didn’t. Nausea swept over me, and I fought down panic and concentrated simply on breathing. The pressure on my body was immense, and I felt tingling in my arms and legs. But that was nothing next to the desperate, sickening need for more air. I started to twitch frantically, my eyes darting around the room.

Lloyd reached out toward the pile of boxes again.

“No!” I called out in panic. There was a note of pleading in my voice, a whimpering that would have embarrassed me, had I had my wits about me. Though I didn’t make it a habit to envision my own death, I never would have imagined facing it with cowardice. But it wasn’t the pain that bothered me; it was the hideous sensation of one’s body being slowly starved of oxygen that was pushing me beyond reason to one sole thought:
No
.
Please, please,
no
.

“No, what?” said Lloyd.

“Not another box, I beg you.”

“Would you prefer the
strapatto
?” His tone sounded disinterested, as though he were happy to proceed with whichever torture method I wanted. “That’s what I used on that gypsy witch, though I hear she lived. It’s not really meant to kill, you know. Neither is pressing. It’s really a way to extract information, not to kill anyone.”

“You killed Griselda.”

“I didn’t! I pressed her, that much is true. And sometimes a person can miscalculate, apparently, so she was having a very hard time telling me what she needed to. She passed out, I went to get some water to revive her, and by the time I came back someone had stabbed her with an antique knife. That’s sort of . . . hitting someone when they’re down. Right? What the heck was that about?”

He put a stone atop me.

“Please . . .” was all I could manage, but then realized I shouldn’t waste my breath. Quite literally. It wasn’t as though begging would change the mind of this madman.

My vision started to narrow, the peripheral vision darkening. All I could think about now was breathing.

Lloyd started to whistle, and then began prancing around the room, as if preparing for the next fire dance. As I panted my shallow, quick breaths, I watched him twirl and fling his imaginary pots of fire.

“Gene says I’m a natural. A little more practice, and I’ll be invited to join the troupe if I want. I know I’m a bit older than the others, but I’ll be the best fire dancer there.”

I felt a wave of calm come over me. The tingling in my extremities stopped . . . but now they were numb. The pounding of my heart sounded in my ears. And I heard a thrumming, so low it wasn’t perceivable to the human ear. But I could feel it.

As could Lloyd. He stopped his dance steps and looked at me with a frown.

“What is that?”

I just stared at him, panting.

“Can’t you speak?” He lifted one of the boxes off of me. “Better?”

Like a fish dying on the pier, I opened and closed my mouth uselessly. Then I shook my head slightly, as though I couldn’t speak.

“
Dammit
. Too much weight again.” He took off the stone. “You know, I read those witch-hunting manuals; looked them up on the Internet. I did my damned research. But they weren’t really clear on how much weight is too much or how long to leave it on. How’s that?”

Lloyd looked at me with concern, as though he were some sort of twisted therapist worried about my welfare.

“Like I said,” he continued, “I’m not trying to
kill
anyone, just get some information. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few days, it’s that you witches are stubborn creatures. Also, you die a lot easier than a person would think.”

He crouched down and put his hand to my neck. I felt the rough calluses of his finger as he pressed, hard, to feel my pulse.

Behind him, I saw a slight movement behind a broken wax sculpture of Genghis Khan.

Oscar
. He had come for me. With the
Ojo del Fuego
pendant around his neck.

My head lolled to the side, and I tried to telegraph my thoughts to him:
He’s got a gun
. But truth was, Oscar wasn’t paying attention to me. Everything in his gnarled, adorable little face was concentrated on my attacker, Lloyd. I had seen my familiar in action before—other times when he had come to my assistance—and when he was in his natural form he was surprisingly strong.

Lloyd has a gun
. I tried to shake my head at Oscar, suddenly frantic at the thought that he would be shot. Could gobgoyles stand such an injury? I had no idea, but I knew they were mortal. Naturally long-lived, but just as mortal as the next person if they were shot at close range.

As I watched, the strands of hair began to unwrap themselves, revealing the
Ojo del Fuego
. And it was, indeed, afire, blazing with its own light.

Still staring at Lloyd, Oscar closed his large, humanlike hand around the fire opal, facing the gem into his palm.

The lights began twirling around the room, like colorful reflections off a disco ball. At first I thought I was seeing things as a result of the lack of oxygen, but then I realized Lloyd saw them, too.

“What the—” he exclaimed, looking around, spinning to try to focus on the lights, which sped up, weaving among themselves. They rotated faster and faster, growing in size until everything was a blur of pure white light. Lloyd spun so fast he was whipping around, out of control, spinning to keep up with the lights.

He cried out, then fell to the floor, his eyes still spinning, unfocused.

The lights subsided.

Oscar ran to me and threw the boxes off, then the board. Without a word he grabbed one of the heavy boxes, lifted it high over his head and turned to loom over Lloyd. He held the box right over the prone man’s head.

Still unable to sit up, I drew in a ragged breath and choked out: “
Oscar
! No!”

“I’ll smash his head!”

“No. Put the box down, Oscar.
Now
.
Listen
to me.” My hands and feet were overwhelmed with tingles as I regained sensation in my limbs. “You’re my familiar; you have to do what I say.”

He stood there with the box raised overhead for several more beats, breathing hard. He was facing away from me so I couldn’t see his expression, but after another moment his shoulders relaxed slightly and he tossed the box as hard as he could toward poor Genghis Khan, whose head split off with the force, falling to the floor with a thud and rolling into the corner.

Shaky, I sat up and started to rub my hands vigorously, trying to get rid of the painful tingles.

“
Oscar.
Thank you. You saved my life. Did you hear me calling?”

He nodded and pulled the talisman over his head. The
Ojo del Fuego
was once again wrapped up in its hair cocoon, hidden. Oscar walked up to me and slipped the pendant over my head.

The talisman thrummed that strange bass tone, melding with my energy. I felt my breathing normalize, and the awkward pain from the pressing subsided, the tingling dissipating.

Finally, it quieted, matching its rhythm with mine, so we were indistinguishable.

“You keep that, mistress. It is too powerful for me. I almost couldn’t make it here. It took my energy from me.”

“How did you find it?”

“It called to me. I don’t understand how. I’ve never seen that kind of behavior in a necklace before.”

“Thanks, Oscar. Come on. Let’s tie this guy up before he comes round. I’ll call Carlos and tell him what happened. Let’s let the justice system deal with him.”

“I’d like to serve him a little justice, goblin style.”

“I know. Me, too. But we have to rise above, let him be judged by a jury of his peers.”