Lily Ivory feels that she can finally fit in somewhere and
conceal her “witchiness” in San Francisco. It’s there that
she opens her vintage clothing shop, outfitting customers
both spiritually and stylistically.
Just when things
seem normal, a client is murdered and children start
disappearing from the Bay Area. Lily has a good idea that
some bad phantoms are behind it. Can she keep her identity
secret, or will her witchy ways be forced out of the closet
as she attempts to stop the phantom?
Excerpt Tis the witching hour of night,
Or bed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen
For what listen they?
John Keats (1795–1821)
Chapter One Witches recognize their own. So I could tell this customer was . . .
different . . . the moment he walked into my
store. Not to mention the bell on the door failed to chime. He was gorgeous: golden hair glinting in the light of the
amber sconces, eyes the blue of a perfect periwinkle, tanned
skin with just a hint of whiskers inviting one’s touch. Tall
and graceful, he had the too-perfect, unreal beauty seldom
seen outside a movie theater. And we were a long way from
Tinseltown. This was San Francisco, where “silicon” referred
to computer chips, not plastic surgery. Here, people were
only too real in their endearing, genuine lumpiness. But what really drew my eye was the energy he emitted; to a
witch like me, he was as conspicuous as a roaring drunk at
an AA meeting. The stranger approached, the lightness of his step
suggesting a talent for sneakiness. I waited behind the
horseshoe-shaped display counter and fingered the protective
medicine bundle that hung from a braided string around my
waist. “Lily Ivory?” “That’s me,” I said with a nod. He placed an engraved business card on the glass countertop
and pushed it toward me with a graceful index finger.
Aidan Rhodes--Male Witch Magickal Assistance Spells Cast—Curses Broken—Love Potions Satisfaction Guaranteed “Male witch?” My eyes
wandered up, down, and across his muscular frame. “Are you
often mistaken for a female?” This was San Francisco, after all. “Rarely, now that you mention it.” A glint of humor lit up
those too-blue eyes. “But most people don’t realize men can
be witches.” “Sure they do. They just call them ‘warlocks’.” He winced. “Warlock” means “oathbreaker” in Old English, and
calls to mind the men who betrayed their covens in the bad
old burn-the-witches-at-the-stake days. Some male
practitioners called themselves “wizard” or “sorcerer,” but
most preferred “witch”. It was a solidarity thing. There are as many different types of witches—the good, the
bad, the magnificently venal—as there are familiars. Still,
the vast majority of us are female. I had an inkling of the
power of a traditional women’s coven, but in my experience
male witches were wildcards with a tendency to stir up trouble. Nothing about Aidan Rhodes suggested otherwise. “Cute accent,” he said. “You twang.” “It’s not my fault. I grew up in Texas.” “I know. I knew your father.” “Really.” “We worked together.” “Is that right?” My tone was nonchalant, but my mind was
racing. Aidan Rhodes was not overtly threatening, but if my
father was involved all bets were off. I glanced over at my co-worker Bronwyn, who was across the
room preparing a concoction for a middle-aged client with a
nasty case of eczema and a nastier case of an unfaithful
husband. The women’s heads were bent low as Bronwyn ground
up dried herbs with a wooden mortar and pestle. They
appeared absorbed in the task. Too absorbed. Aidan Rhodes,
male witch, must have cast a cocooning spell. If so, they
wouldn’t hear a single word we said; indeed, wouldn’t be
aware of his presence at all. “It’s not every day someone like you moves into the
neighborhood, much less opens a shop.” Aidan’s long, elegant
fingers caressed a pile of hand-tatted lace collars in the
wicker basket on the counter. “A retail store, though, that
surprises me. Unusual career path for one of your…talents.” “Is there a reason you’re here?” I asked, upgrading the man
from a curiosity to an annoyance. I wasn’t usually so abrupt
with potential customers, but it seemed unwise to use the
shopkeeper’s standard greeting, “May I help you?” in case I
inadvertently obligated myself to him. There’s many a slip
twixt cauldron and lip, my grandmother, Graciela, had
drilled into me. Words mattered in the world of spell
casting and a slip of the tongue could have dire consequences. “As a matter of fact, there is. I brought you a housewarming
present.” “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” “I’m happy to do it.” “I’m afraid I can’t accept.” “Oh, but I insist.” “I said no, thank you.” “You don’t know what it is yet.” “That’s not the—” “Pleased ta meetcha.” I whirled around to find a misshapen creature perched,
gargoyle-like, atop an antique walnut jewelry display case.
He was small and bent, with a muscular body and scaly skin,
a large head, a snout-like nose and mouth, and outsized ears
like a bat’s. His fingers were long and human-like,
surprisingly graceful, but his enormous feet had three toes
and long talons. His voice was deep and gravelly. “I’m your new familiar,” it said. “I’m afraid not, I’m a so—” I turned to give Aidan a piece
of my mind, but he was gone, the door slowly swinging shut.
The bell had once again failed to ring. I swore under my breath. “A so what, Mistress?” “Excuse me?” “Before you started swearing you said you were a so.” “I wasn’t swearing.” “Were too.” I blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m a solo act. I don’t
need a familiar.” “You’re a witch, aintcha? Ya gotta have a familiar.” “Says who?” “It’s in the handbook.” “There is no handbook. Besides, I’m allergic to cats.” “I’m no cat.” “So I’ve noticed. But I’m probably allergic to…creatures
such as yourself, too. Run along home to your master.” “Can’t.” “Why not?” “’Cause you’re my master now, Mistress.” The creature
attempted a smile, which took shape as a grimace. “I’m serious. Now, scoot.” The grimace fell from his greenish-gray, gnarled face. Had
it been possible, he would have paled. “You don’t want me?” “It’s nothing personal. I just don’t need—“ “Don’t send me away, Mistress!” he begged, jumping down from
the display case. Even at full height he didn’t reach my
belly button. He dropped to his knobby knees and clasped his
hands, gazing up at me in supplication. “Please don’t send
me away. I’ll be good, Mistress, I swear.” “I can’t have a goblin in the shop!” “I’m not exactly a goblin.” “Gnome, then.” “Not really a gnome, either….” “Whatever you are, you’ll scare away customers.” “Howzabout a pig?” “A pig?” With a sudden twist of his scrawny shoulders, he transformed
himself into a miniature Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. He
grunted, wagged his curly tail, and darted around the counter. “Hey! Get back here, you—” “Bless the Goddess, isn’t he sweet!” Bronwyn squealed,
nearly knocking over a rack of 1950’s-era chiffon prom
dresses in her haste to cross the room. “Where’d he come
from? I’ve always wanted one of these! George Clooney had
one, did you know? They’re very smart.” Bronwyn scooped up
the squealing swine and held him to her generous bosom
where, I couldn’t help but notice, he stopped kicking and
snuggled right in, his pale pink snout resting on her ample
cleavage. “What’s his name?” I sighed. I had a million things to do today. Evicting a
piggish gnome—or a gnomish pig—was not one of them. “His name’s…. Oscar,” I said off the top of my head,
thinking of the Sesame Street character. The ugly little
fellow seemed like he would feel at home in a garbage can.
“But he’s not mine. He’s a…loaner. He’s just visiting.” Bronwyn and Oscar both ignored me. “Oscar. Aren’t you just a darling? Aren’t you Bwonwyn’s
wuvey-dovey piggy-pig-pig?” She crooned to the creature in
the high-pitched, goofy tone humans reserve for cherished
pets and pre-verbal children. Oscar snorted and rooted around in her cleavage. Bronwyn
chuckled. I sighed. A plump woman in her mid-fifties, Bronwyn had fuzzy brown
hair and warm brown eyes. She favored great swaths of gauzy
purple clothing, lots of Celtic jewelry, and heavy black eye
make-up. The first time I saw her I couldn’t decide if she
was a delightfully free spirit or just plain nuts. Shortly
after I opened my vintage clothing store, Aunt Cora’s
Closet, she had approached me about renting a corner of the
shop for her small herbal business. I welcomed the company.
Bronwyn was a so-so herbalist and an amateurish witch, but
she had lived in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood since its
hippy heyday and knew everyone. She would be my entrée into
a new and unfamiliar city. Besides, Bronwyn had been one of the first people I met upon
my arrival in San Francisco, and she had welcomed me with
open arms. Literally. Bronwyn was a hugger of the bear variety. Finding a safe place to call home wasn’t an easy task for a
natural witch from a small Texas town. For years I had
traveled the globe, and finally came to the City by the Bay
at the suggestion of an ancient parrot named Barnabas, whom
I’d met one memorable evening in a smoky bar in Hong Kong. “The Barbary Coast,” he’d said, gazing at me with one bright
eye from his perch on the bar. “That’s the place for you.
But be careful!” “Of what?” I’d asked. “The fog,” Barnabas replied, holding a banana in one foot
and peeling it with his beak. “Mark my words. Mark the fog.” “What about the fog?” “Mark the fog! Mark the fog!” he screeched. “Hey!
Son-of-a-bitch bit me! Whiskey! Whiskey and rye till the day
that I die! Set up another round! Who’s buying?” That was the problem with parrots, I thought as Barnabas
waddled off to harass the bartender. They’re smart as heck
and never forget a thing, but they do like their booze. I can’t normally understand animals when they speak, so I
assumed he was either a shape-shifting elf –like the pig
currently snuggling in Bronwyn’s ample arms—or I had been
drinking way too many Mai Tais. But either way, I took the
incident as a sign. I packed my bags and headed to San
Francisco, a city home to so many beloved lunatics and
cherished iconoclasts that for the first time in my life
nobody noticed me. Or so I hoped. The unsettling appearance
of Aidan Rhodes-the-male-witch and Oscar-the-familiar might
make keeping a low profile a challenge. I watched as Bronwyn embraced the wriggling pot-bellied pig
with her typical unguarded, open-hearted enthusiasm, wishing
I could do the same. I didn’t know quite what to make of my
new “housewarming gift”. What might Aidan Rhodes, male
witch, want from me? And why would he bring me a familiar,
of all things? The door opened again, its bell tinkling merrily as my
inventory scout walked in. “Maya!” gushed Bronwyn. “Come meet our sweet little Oscar.” “Jumpin’ jehosephat, what is that?” Maya recoiled.
Twenty-three years old chronologically, but closer to forty
on the cynical scale, Maya had dark dreadlocks dyed bright
blue at the ends, ears edged with silver rings and cuffs,
and an aversion to make-up because, she’d explained
earnestly, it was “too fake.” Why the bright blue hair
didn’t strike her as equally artificial I wasn’t sure. Maya
attended the San Francisco College of the Arts part-time,
but her passion was visiting the elderly of her community
and recording their stories for an oral history project. I met Maya a few weeks before as she sat on a blanket on the
sidewalk, half-heartedly peddling the 1940s-era beaded
sweaters some elderly friends had given her in their attempt
to “make a lady out of her.” That quest was doomed to fail,
but in the course of our conversation Maya and I discovered
we had mutually beneficial business interests: she scouted
her friends’ closets and attics for inventory for my store,
and I paid her a generous finder’s fee. “I believe it’s called a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig,” I
said. “Apparently George Clooney has one.” “Had one,” Bronwyn corrected me. “Okay….” Maya said. “Why?” “A friend couldn’t keep it,” I said. “It’s only here
temporarily. Sort of a foster situation.” “We eat things like that in my neighborhood,” said Maya. “Hush, child!” scolded Bronwyn, clapping her hands over the
pig’s ears and whispering. “He’ll hear you.” “He’s a pig, Bronwyn,” Maya pointed out. “In case you didn’t
notice.” “He’s not deaf. And he’s a special pig. I love my little
Oscarooneeroo.” “Hey, whatever floats your boat,” Maya said with a shrug and
an enigmatic smile. Today Maya was taking me to meet a woman who had lived in
the same home for more than fifty years and who, according
to Maya, “had never thrown away a single item of clothing.”
That description was music to my ears. Hunting down
high-quality vintage clothing was a competitive sport in the
Bay Area, and elderly pack rats were my bread and butter.
Besides, I was on a mission lately: I needed to find the
perfect wedding dress. Not for myself, mind you. Me and romance…well, it’s
complicated, to say the least. But Aunt Cora’s Closet was my
first attempt at running a legitimate business, and I was so
determined to do well that I wasn’t above giving the fates a
nudge. On the last full moon I anointed a seven-day green
candle with oil of bergamot, surrounded it with orange
votives, placed malachite and bloodstone on either side, and
after scenting the air with vervain and incense of jasmine I
cast a powerful prosperity spell. Two days later the fashion
editor at the San Francisco Chronicle called me with a
fabulous plan: her favorite niece was getting married, she
wanted to outfit the entire wedding party in vintage
dresses, and could I be a doll and help her out? As my grandmother always said, “Be careful what you wish
for.” After weeks spent haunting estate sales, thrift
stores, and auctions, I had managed to rustle up several
options for each of the eleven bridesmaids as well as half a
dozen gowns that could be altered to fit the bride. But
anticipating bridal jitters, I wanted to have plenty of
options on hand. Maya’s lead on two more gowns, if they were
in good condition, would bring the selections up to eight.
Surely one would catch the bride’s fancy. The bridal party was scheduled to arrive tomorrow at two
o’clock for a mammoth try-on session, and Bronwyn suggested
I make the afternoon an event by closing the store to
passers-by and serving mimosas –champagne and orange juice--
which sounded like a good idea. I hoped. I wasn’t what you’d
call an experienced hostess. As we used to say back in Texas: I was as nervous as a
long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. “Lily, you ready to go?” Maya asked. “Sure am.” I grabbed my 1940s cocoa-brown wool coat from the brass coat
stand near the register and pulled it on, securing the
carved bone button at my neck. It was only four in the
afternoon, but a wall of fog was creeping in, dropping the
temperature a good fifteen degrees in the past five minutes.
Late afternoon or early evening fog is not unusual for San
Francisco, which sits on a thumb of land between an ocean
and a bay. Still, recalling Barnabas’ warning to “Mark the
fog,” I wondered if the weather had anything to do with
Aidan Rhodes’ visit. Spooks loved the fog. The thought gave me pause. If Aidan’s witchcraft was
powerful enough to command the weather, I would have to be
careful around him. “Go ahead and close up if we’re not back by seven,” I said
to Bronwyn, gently tugging on Oscar’s ear. “And you behave
yourself, young man, or I’ll send you right back to where
you came from.” “Don’t you listen to her, Oscar Boscar Boo. Mama Bronwyn
won’t let mean old Aunt Lily send you anywhere,” she crooned
to my would-be familiar as Maya and I walked out into the
cool March mist. Shape-shifting creatures and meddlesome witches aside, the
quest for really cool old clothes must go on.
Witchcraft Mystery
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