Tarnished and Torn (8 page)

Still, it was clear that their teasing and banter was based on a firm mother-daughter bond. I wondered what it would have been like to have that kind of relationship with my mother. I was fortunate Graciela took me in and cared for me after my magical talents emerged and I became too much for my mother, but my grandmother was never one to indulge in foolishness like elaborate parties. She would scoff, telling me the money and energy were better spent on nailing down protection spells. Given how my life had turned out, she had probably been right.

Abandoned by my father, kicked out of my childhood home at the age of eight by my mother . . . no wonder I had issues.

Pushing aside these gloomy thoughts, I realized Marisela’s
abuelita
was speaking. Spontaneously, as though she did this often, Marisela started to translate.

“My grandmother says there’s a famous story about a magical fire opal. The Aztecs called it
Ojo del Fuego
, which means ‘Eye of Fire,’ and had the finest jeweler in Tenochtitlán, the Aztec capital city, set the stone in a silver ring after it was discovered in the very depths of the mines. It was considered the stone of Xolotl.” In Nahuatl the “x” is pronounced “sh,” making Xolotl sound like Sholotal. “Xolotl was the god of fire, disease, and, like, all kinds of bad luck.”

Shawnelle snorted as she paraded around the store in the ball gown, loath to take it off. “There’s a
god
for bad luck?”

Janelle said, “Hey, want to switch dresses?”

“Sure,” said Shawnelle, and they headed back to the dressing room.

“There was a god for just about everything back then,” said Marisela in a voice loud enough to carry past the curtains. “It’s, like, a Mexican thing. Xolotl is usually depicted with a doglike face, and he could transform himself into an axolotl.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Shawnelle, her voice muffled. “What’s an axolotl?”

“I was hoping you’d ask! It’s a kind of salamander that lives near Mexico City, which was built in the valley where the Aztecs lived. The salamander’s face looks a little like a dog. They’re endangered now, so there was a whole public-service campaign to save them. They’re really cute.”

“Awesome,” said Shawnelle as she emerged from the dressing room clad in the pink tulle. Janelle was now wearing the cerise gown, and both girls rocked back and forth to make their skirts sway like bells as they admired themselves in the mirror. “You guys have some pretty wild stories.”

“Right?” said Metzli, now wearing an aqua off-the-shoulder gown, complete with crinoline skirts. It was pretty, but far too grown up for her. Rosa held her daughter’s gaze, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head. Metzli made a grimace of disappointment, but ducked back into the dressing room to try on another gown.

“
Abuelita
says that when the Spanish invaded, the Aztec priests and
curanderas
conspired to hide the ring containing the
Ojo del Fuego
. It was handed down through the generations. Opals are partly water, so they can carry part of the human spirit, or whatever.”

“You said something like that at the fair, right?” Shawnelle asked me.

I nodded. “I heard the stories from my
abuelita
.”

“I was wondering . . .” Maya interjected. “I collect stories from local elders. Would you ask your grandmother if she’d be willing to tell me stories and let me record them?”

Marisela spoke with her
abuelita
in Spanish, who nodded, and they made arrangements to get together on Thursday.

Lucille arrived, sewing basket and notepad in hand. After more hemming and hawing and prolonged debate over each gown’s relative merits, the girls decided on their dresses. Rosa and her mother also chose their gowns; Rosa selected the sapphire gown I had suggested, and Carmen opted for a loose, classic red-and-gold shift. Lucille would hem both pieces, and take in Rosa’s dress a little at the waist. The girls’ selections would need additional alterations: a few nips and tucks here and there to make them fit just right, and, in Metzli’s case, a panel inserted to expand the bodice.

“The
quinceañera
is a week from Saturday,” Rosa said, as I helped Lucille mark the alterations on Metzli’s dress.

“
Next
Saturday?”

Lucille, her mouth full of pins, looked at me with wide eyes.

“Um . . . I don’t know if all these alterations can be made that soon—” I began.

Metzli spun around, eyes filling with tears. “I knew it was too late! I
knew
it!”

Putting together an elaborate
quinceañera
had much in common with planning a wedding—including the capacity to send normally reasonable people completely around the bend.

“Don’t panic, Metzli,” said Rosa.

“But, Mom! This is the only dress I
like
. I’ve tried on so many!”

“It looks
great
on you,” said Marisela in a placating, big-sister tone of voice. “Everything’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

By this time Lucille had taken the pins from her mouth. A mother herself, she understood the dynamic.

“No worries, birthday girl,” she said soothingly. “Let me make sure I have all these measurements exactly right. I’ll pull a couple of the women away from other projects for a few days. We’ll get it done. Don’t you fret.”

Rosa met Lucille’s eyes and nodded a silent thank-you. Lucille winked.

“Now, anything else?” Bronwyn asked.

“My tiara!” Metzli said.

Last on the list was what had brought them to Aunt Cora’s Closet in the first place: as royalty for a day, no girl could do without a tiara. Fortunately, I had a humdinger of an antique tiara waiting for the right owner.

We polished the rhinestones, wrapped it in tissue, gave the group the name of an informal restaurant down the street that served great pizza, and sent the satisfied
quinceañera
party off with friendly waves and sighs of a job well done.

Lucille went home to get a jump on the alterations, and after putting away the discarded merchandise and straightening the dressing room, Maya, Bronwyn, and I retired to the back room and enjoyed a slightly cold Thai food feast. Sighing contentedly, I sipped a strong cup of French-roast coffee before turning to Maya, my go-to person for anything technical.

“How would I find the phone number of someone in Germany?”

“Depends. You know what part of Germany?”

“No.”

“You know her name, though, right?”

“It’s a he, and I even know his middle name.”

“Piece of cake, then. Follow me,” she said, and took a seat at the computer and started clicking. “Sooo, it’s a guy, huh?”

“Mmm,” I said.

“Would this be an old boyfriend, by any chance?” asked Bronwyn in her oh so innocent voice.

“I wouldn’t exactly call him . . . I mean . . . okay. Yes.”

“Good for you! Time really does heal all wounds, doesn’t it? Time to put Sailor behind you and move on with your life.”

Even just hearing Sailor’s name was like a physical slap. Not wanting to engage in this sort of conversation or explain exactly why I was calling a man in Germany, I shrugged and remained silent.

Maya pulled up an Internet directory and tracked down a listing for one Hans Wilhelm Brach. She clicked several times and voilà, up came a bilingual Web page for a psychic who, with the proper monetary motivation, would help you with your love life, your finances, your health, and your career. He would also, the site claimed, contact the dearly departed should one need to “clarify inheritance issues” or “put to rest old demons.” Apparently, dropping into the great beyond just to say hi was not the done thing.

I peered at Hans’s photo, in which he was posing in front of Tarot cards laid out in an arc on a black silk tablecloth. I would have recognized him anywhere. Same square-jawed face, same blue-green eyes. Same self-satisfied smirk, though he sported a few more wrinkles around the eyes and a thickening of everything, the kind that came with age and overindulgence.

“You want to e-mail him?” Maya asked. “I can just click on this.”

“Is there a phone number listed?”

“Right here,” Maya said. “I’ll bookmark the page for you so you can pull it up anytime.”

“Excuse me, Lily, but while it’s quiet, would you mind if I quickly run over to Chinatown for supplies?” Bronwyn kept a botanical stand on one side of Aunt Cora’s Closet, and recently had been gaining a bit of local fame with her custom tea blends. “Yesterday a customer placed an order for two birthday gift baskets.”

“No problem,” I said.

“Could I go with you?” Maya asked. “I promised my mom I’d find out the secret ingredients in your echinacea–rose hip blend. We all done here, Lily?”

“Yes, thank you. You two go ahead. I’m going to finish up a few things here in the back room.”

After Bronwyn and Maya left, I glanced at the clock. Germany was eight or nine hours ahead of San Francisco, which meant that since it was two thirty in the afternoon here, it was ten thirty—or eleven thirty—in the evening there. Such a late phone call bordered on rude, but in this case would probably be okay. Unless Hans had changed his habits in the intervening decade, he was a night owl.

I took a deep breath, picked up the phone in the back room, and dialed.

“Lily, what a surprise!” Hans, a psychic, had no need for caller ID. “Well, well. Tell me: How are you? To what do I owe this phone call out of the blue?”

“I need to ask you something. Do you know—”

“
Hey
, you call me up after all this time and I don’t get so much as a ‘How are you, Hans’?”

I blew out a breath. “How are you, Hans?”

“I am very well, thank you. You know, just the other day I was asked by the German ministry of—”

“I’d love to catch up,” I interrupted, remembering Hans’s propensity for speaking about his favorite subject: himself. “But right now I need to ask you about a witch from Bavaria named Griselda.”

He chuckled. “Half the witches I know are named Griselda.”

“She did trade shows, traveled to fairs selling vintage jewelry. Would that ring a bell?”

“Nothing occurs to me, but I could look into it. Why are you asking about her?”

“Listen, Hans . . .” I peeked through the curtains to be sure I was still alone. “Griselda was killed. Pressed to death.”

“Pressed?”

“I don’t know the word for it in German.” Like many Northern Europeans, Hans spoke excellent English. But witchcraft employed a highly specialized vocabulary, and it was important he comprehend its significance. Although psychics and witches are very different creatures, we were equally vulnerable to the tortures and killings during the purge. As were Jewish sages, healers of all sorts, and the Rom, for that matter. “Pressing is outlined in the
Malleus Malificarum
as a suggested method to extract confessions and information from witches.”

“Ah, yes, I have heard of this method. You’re saying this woman, this Griselda, was killed this way? Do you have any idea by whom?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I know Germany’s a big country, but did your paths ever cross? Do you know of her?”

“No . . . but I will ask around, see what I can find out.”

“You might start here,” I said, and gave him the return address on the label on the cardboard box Griselda had sold me. “Thank you for looking into this, Hans. I appreciate it.”

“Lily, did Griselda . . . give you something? A piece of jewelry—perhaps a ring?”

An alarm went off in my head.

Could Hans be using his psychic intuition to pick up on my thoughts, or might he know more about Griselda than he was letting on? I trusted Hans, more or less. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say I didn’t
dis
trust Hans any more than anyone else. But given what had happened to Griselda, it seemed wise to be extra cautious. It seemed wise to lie.

“Why would she give me a ring?”

“Amulet rings are used by exorcists to keep demons in check. When such a ring is spun around so the stone is pressed into the palm of one’s fist, a skilled practitioner may be powerful enough to go up against even a demonic foe.”

“Who said anything about . . . demons?”

“Just a hunch. I’m sensing danger and pandemonium.”

I sat back in the chair, impressed. Hans always was a sensitive guy—and not in the New Agey sense of the word.

“Yeah, well . . . that’s not much of a stretch for my life lately.”

“And I’m sensing a piece of jewelry . . . I think it’s a ring.”

I glanced down at the opal medallion on my chest. The metal was warm from being in contact with my skin, but otherwise I felt nothing from it. And it wasn’t a ring.

“I’m not aware of anything. Why would you think she might have passed me something?”

“Just an idea. Jewelry can be imbued with great power, as I’m sure you know. If this woman had a demon trailing her, perhaps she tried to get the piece to safety.”

“Why wouldn’t she have used the ring to exorcise the demon herself?”

“Don’t be naive. You know as well as I do that even with such an amulet, only highly powerful exorcists could manage to quell a demon. Most would fall under the demon’s spell, rather than the other way around. Even just having such a ring in one’s possession takes power, much less using it.”

“Well, anyway . . . she didn’t give me anything,” I lied again, just to be on the safe side.

“One more thing: Did you notice a hair amulet?”

I thought about the hair I saw in Griselda’s room at the inn. But that hair was “raw”—it hadn’t been put into a charm or brew yet. “What would it look like?”

“It doesn’t look much like hair, more like twine or silk braided or woven into an intricate, tight design. Women used to make them for their sweethearts, to protect them when they went off to war.”

Back in the day people were wildly resourceful and used whatever they had at hand . . . also, in all magical systems, hair was considered to be a powerful memento. It carried a bit of our personal magic within the strands of DNA.

“I haven’t seen anything like that. But why are you asking?”

“Just trying to narrow down what kind of practitioner she might be. A lot of German Rom use hair in their magic, for instance. And such amulets are often used to disguise oneself as powerless, to fly around the radar, I think you say.”

I heard a woman’s voice in the background, and Hans answered her in a muffled voice.

“I’m sorry. I should let you go,” I said, realizing belatedly that it might be awkward for Hans to be receiving calls from ex-girlfriends this late at night, even if he wasn’t asleep. Actually,
especially
if he wasn’t asleep.

“Let me take your contact information,” Hans said. “I’ll ask around and I’ll let you know what I find out. And Lily? Keep your guard up. It really is great to hear from you . . . once things have settled down a little, I’d love to catch up.”

I agreed and hung up, my hand resting on the receiver for a moment while I pondered.

Griselda had several rings on her fingers and dozens in her display. But surely something so valuable—a ring used in demon exorcism—wouldn’t have been out in plain sight. I thought back on the Gem Faire, closing my eyes and trying to visualize what I had seen. I couldn’t remember anything that might have been a hair amulet, but for all I knew she was wearing it under her T-shirt. And if such an amulet disguised one’s power, that would help explain why I hadn’t felt the aura of a practitioner.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized Griselda had been trying to tell me something while I stood at her stand. Her long gazes, her suggestion I return to see her after the show or come by the Morning House B and B, or mentioning she might come see me. I wished I had followed my instincts rather than telling myself I was overreacting. She had been scared of something, but unable to say or do anything obvious to ask for help. Had someone been watching us both?

And perhaps most germane: Could I have saved her, had I been more perceptive or on the ball?

The image of Griselda’s body again forced its way to the forefront of my thoughts. I stroked my medicine bag and realized that while I had failed to help her, I could at least help find her killer. It was the very least I could do.

I spent the next half hour in a frustrating search for every ring that might have been acquired at the Gem Faire.

The moment Bronwyn and Maya walked in, toting canvas bags full of fragrant herbs and spices, I asked, “Do either of you remember taking any rings out of the cardboard box?”

“Um, yeah. A few, I think,” Maya replied.

“Is there a problem?” Bronwyn asked, looking worried.

“No, not really. Just curious.”

While Bronwyn put away her packages, Maya scouted out two more rings from our Gem Faire excursion, and then picked a few out of my pile on the counter.

“These were the ones from your box. The others are the ones I bought from the woman who sold the knotted necklaces and the other vendor with the buttons. Bronwyn didn’t buy any rings.”

There weren’t many: two school rings, a fake diamond engagement ring, a plain silver band, a black resin ring with a raven à la Edgar Allen Poe, and a large mock-ivory cameo.

I spread them out on the counter and studied them one by one. I felt a few vague vibrations, but nothing much. The raven—black against a bright yellow background—was by far the most evocative, but it was modern, probably made in the last decade. I slipped it onto the ring finger of my left hand, enjoying the way its bold, large profile made my hand look dainty. It was dramatic and vaguely sinister.

“Hey, now you look like a real witch,” said Maya with a smile. “And I mean that in the nicest sense of the word.”

•   •   •

As much as I love my friends—and my shop, and my customers—it had been a long and eventful day. As the clock slowly ticked toward the closing hour, I grew anxious to take my pig and head home to the warmth and serenity of our cozy apartment, where I could interrogate my porcine pal in private. Luckily, my commute’s pretty short: up a flight of stairs to the apartment above my shop.

So as soon as Bronwyn, Maya, and I flipped the sign to C
LOSED
, went over the day’s receipts, emptied the cash from the register, noted the tally, and straightened the racks, I locked the front door behind them, and followed Oscar into the back room.

I paused briefly to arrange a pile of clothes in front of the jumbo washer and dryer. These clothes were a rarity: new acquisitions that could be tossed right into the machines. Most vintage items had to be dry-cleaned—at a green cleaner, of course, as this was the environmentally conscious Bay Area—or hand washed, or subjected to even more complicated cleaning techniques. I adore the history and feel of vintage clothes, love finding the right outfits for my customers. But the never-ending laundry? Well, let’s just say I could use a helper elf.

Speaking of which . . . I looked at my piggy familiar as we climbed the rear stairs. Oscar had his moments, but as he had informed me on more than a few occasions, he was no Igor to do my bidding . . . and he most certainly did
not
do laundry.

A door at the top of the stairs opened onto my apartment, which consists of a bedroom, a bathroom, a checkerboard-tiled kitchen, and a snug living room. By far the best part of the apartment is the beautiful outdoor terrace, where I keep my witch’s garden in pots and planters. My grandmother is a kitchen witch and
curandera
, or healer, and raised me in her tradition, which means that botanicals are central to my practice.

I might fail at scrying and divining and intuiting vibrations from jewelry, but when it comes to brewing, I shine.

I breathed a sigh of relief just walking into my apartment; in the tiny foyer was a mirror to repel bad spirits, a consecrated sachet tied with a black ribbon, and a hand-thrown earthen oil pot full of stinging nettles. Throughout the apartment were good-luck symbols and charms to keep me secure and protected . . . especially lately.

I felt safe here, at peace. At home.

“So . . . Oscar, we need to talk more about what you sensed at the Gem Faire.”

Oscar usually transformed into his natural self once out of sight of others. But this time he remained in his piggy guise. He trotted over to the sofa, hopped up, faced away from me, and curled onto his side, blowing out a loud sigh.

“Talk to me, Oscar.”

He harrumphed.

I was guessing he was still holding a grudge over my reaction to the incident with the security guards. No doubt about it, Oscar was one sensitive gobgoyle.

I sat on the arm of the couch, where I was treated to the sight of his curly little tail.

“I apologized once . . . but I’ll say it again: I really am sorry.”

One piggy ear twitched.

“I should have known you were there for a good reason. It’s just that when I saw the security officers chasing you, I was afraid I could lose you. And I never want to lose you.”

Oscar glanced over his piggy shoulder. His standoffishness was starting to melt. When it came right down to it, he was easy.

So I added the crowning touch: “Hmm, I’m feeling a mite peckish. Maybe I’ll make a grilled cheese. Would you like one?”

He transformed. “Grilled cheese?”

“Or you could make your own . . .” I teased. Oscar was my first familiar, and once I got over thinking of him as a pet I had to rush home to feed, I taught him how to cook a few simple dishes, such as pancakes or grilled sandwiches. He wasn’t bad, though his enthusiasm tended to lead to a kitchen floor liberally dotted with batter and a stovetop spattered with oil. And no matter how I nagged, cajoled, and scolded, he flat-out stank at cleanup.

“But everything tastes so much better when
you
make it, mistress.”

I smiled at this blatant flattery. Still, I
was
an excellent cook, if I did say so myself. Blending different ingredients, using the transformational power of heat and fire to create something new . . . cooking is like spell casting in its most elemental form.

I opened the fridge and took out cheese and butter, while Oscar retrieved a fresh loaf of sourdough from the old tin breadbox and laid it on the wooden cutting board.

“Now, tell me: What made you decide to come find me in the Cow Palace?” I asked, slicing the bread for which San Francisco is justifiably famous.

“I felt something, and I figured you needed your Oscar by your side. Even powerful witches need backup sometimes.”

“What did it feel like?”

“Something bad. Something . . .” Just as he had in the utility closet earlier today, he looked over both shoulders and dropped his gravelly voice. “Something weird. Maybe even . . . demonic.”

“You’re sure?”

He rolled his eyes and climbed onto the tiled counter to watch me cook. “I know what I felt, mistress.”

“Could it have been a powerful witch instead?” I lit the fire under my old cast-iron skillet.

There was a long pause. “Maybe.”

“Can you tell me anything else? It’s hard to know what to think when I don’t know what, or who, I’m looking for.” I started to cut thin slices of the fine, extra-sharp cheddar I had bought at the farmers’ market.

Oscar snuck a piece of cheese as he shook his head, his big eyes, as pure and bright as green glass, wide and afraid. He studied my lunar calendar, as though suddenly intrigued by the phases of the moon.

“Oscar?”

“I thought at first . . . I sensed something from a long time ago. Ancient times.” Now he began inspecting the pot of basil I kept on the counter for good luck and fresh pesto.

“Who or what?”

“I dunno. When I got inside, all I saw was regular humans. It was a little confusing, all those legs. It’s not easy being a pig.”

“So, none of the vendors or the guards or anybody like that seemed like an, I don’t know . . . an embodied demon—something like that?”

Oscar leaned against the cupboard, waved one oversized hand in the air, and cackled, emitting a rusty sound like an old saw bending. I felt vaguely insulted. Although I was the first to admit my limitations, it annoyed me when my familiar pointed them out. Because I had left Graciela’s side before completing my training, I was missing a huge amount of knowledge, especially where demons were concerned.

“Okay, so you came after me because you thought you sensed something ancient, perhaps demonic. But when you got inside the Cow Palace, you didn’t see anyone who fit that bill?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I just wanted to make sure I got it right. I’m a little at sea on this one. A woman was killed at the fair, Oscar. She was killed by pressing. I’m pretty sure she was a witch, and someone was trying to force her to tell them something.”

He shot me an alarmed look. “That’s very bad.”

I nodded and blew out a breath.

“I don’t want you to be pressed, mistress.”

“Thank you, Oscar. I’d just as soon avoid it myself.”

I dropped a pat of butter in the iron pan. It sizzled a little.

“That smells good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Mistress?”

“Hmm?”

“About the pressing. . . . Demons don’t play that way. The fires and all, sure. Demons like fire. And they like to scare people and make them crazy.”

“I know.”

“But . . . demons are all about having fun in the moment. He might try to play with a witch, but killing one would end the fun. Killing her, especially like that . . . that’s the sort of thing cowans do.”

I nodded. “Cowan” is a derogatory word for nonwitchy humans, and usually I tried to avoid its use. But in this case, the dangerous narrow-mindedness implied by the term seemed apt for the situation.