A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery (21 page)

“Are you saying you’re sending me back?” Boye said this with the same trepidation I remembered from Oscar back when he first arrived and I told him I didn’t want him.

“I’ll fix it with Aidan. Don’t worry. I
told
him I didn’t need a new familiar. I just wanted help finding my old one. He ignored me, of course, because that’s what he does. A glass of milk?”

He nodded.

“Do you know Oscar?” I asked as I retrieved the milk from the refrigerator. It was raw milk I kept on hand for spells, but it was fresh.

He shook his head.

“Could you help me find him?”

“If Aidan sent me to you, your other familiar must be lost. For good.”

I slammed the glass of milk down on the table in front of him so hard a dollop of white liquid jumped out and splashed on the table. Boye reared back.

“Sorry,” I said as I handed him a dish towel. “But don’t say that. Oscar is
not
lost for good. I will get him back if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You really don’t have to call me ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Could I ask you something? Do you know anything about . . . ? Well, would Aidan keep something on Oscar, maybe you, too, to keep you beholden to him?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Well, I mean, why do you do what Aidan tells you to do?”

“He’s the boss.”

“Why? I mean, what makes him the boss?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

I supposed Boye followed the pack leader, loyal and doglike. Aidan was the alpha, end of story. I decided to try another tack.

“Do you know where Aidan lives?”

“His office is at the Ferry Building. You can find him there most days, unless he’s unable to see clients.”

“Yes, I realize that. But I was wondering where he actually lives.”

“Ma’am?”

I clamped down on my impatience. “Do you know where he might keep something? It would be all right to tell me,” I said, feeling like a heel. But I couldn’t think of any other way. “Does he have a warehouse space, something like that?”

Boye just stared at me. He might be obedient, but he was no fool. And Aidan was his master.

I went into the bedroom to use the phone to call the hospital again and check on Conrad. By the time I came back out, Boye was asleep on the couch.

He was still in man form. I studied him for a moment, thinking how it was funny that such a well-built, handsome man could hold absolutely no attraction for me. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I was so enamored of Sailor, or whether it was because Boye was not a regular human man, or what, but it was intriguing. Asleep like this, dark eyelashes against his olive skin, muscled arms crossed over his chest . . . he was adorable. Very much like a dog.

Back downstairs in Aunt Cora’s Closet, I found my employees closing up for the night. Maya was adding up receipts, and Bronwyn was carefully storing her herbs in their jars and sealed bags for freshness.

“The shelter hasn’t had anyone call in, but I left them the information and our number in case anyone comes looking,” said Maya.

“Oh good, thanks.” I looked over Maya’s tally of the day’s receipts; the numbers were abysmal. Missing Pig
Central had not been good for sales. The store was jammed with people all day, but with a few exceptions, they weren’t buying clothes.

Done attending to her herbal stand, Bronwyn started straightening the racks. “Where’s the puppy?” she asked.

Maya snorted. “Some puppy. That dog has a few pounds on me, I think.”

“I fed him a snack,” I said. “And he lay down for a nap. I think I’ll let him rest.”

“My mother always said if he stays the night, he’s yours,” said Maya. “You might just have found yourself a dog. Hope he likes pigs.”

“You’re not allergic to dogs?” asked Bronwyn.

“A little, maybe,” I said. “Not like cats.”

“Poor little sweetie,” said Bronwyn with a sigh. “I wonder how long he’s wandered out in the streets, lost and confused, not knowing where his people are. Doesn’t it just break your heart?”

“He looked well fed and healthy,” pointed out Maya. “He probably hasn’t been lost all that long. And if he was so well taken care of, he probably has a loving family out looking for him. I guess I should make up some flyers tomorrow.”

“Well, we know the drill by now,” said Bronwyn. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? We’re looking for a pig, but we find a dog. Perhaps someone out there has our pig, and we can just make the switch.”

We finished up, and I ushered my friends out with hugs. The bell rang out with its sweet tinkle. I double locked the door, cast a protection spell, and switched the sign to
CLOSED
.

Back in my apartment, I stood over the dozing man on my couch.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” I said aloud. “If familiars have the ability to transform into people, how come Oscar chose to be a miniature potbellied pig?”

“Ma’am?” said a sleepy Boye.

“Nothing. Sorry.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

I went in the bedroom, stripped, and got in the shower.

“Why is there a man asleep on your couch?” Sailor demanded when I came out ten minutes later, wrapped only in a towel.

“I wouldn’t say he’s a man . . .” I replied.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, sometimes he’s a dog.”

A careful look entered Sailor’s dark eyes. “You mean, in the sense that all men are dogs sometimes?”

“What?”

“What?”

“Sorry—I should back up. Boye is a, um, well . . . Aidan sent him.”

“I’ll just bet he did. What, is he supposed to replace me?”

“No, he’s supposed to replace Oscar. He’s a familiar. He’s a dog, much of the time.”

Ah.” Realization had dawned in Sailor’s dark eyes. “That explains why I picked up on dreams of Milk-Bones. He’s pretty good-looking. For a dog.”

“You’re missing the point. Apparently, Aidan doesn’t th-think we’ll get Oscar b-back.” I ended with a hiccup.

Sailor wrapped me in a hug.

“Aidan doesn’t know everything, despite what he thinks. We’ll figure this thing out, one way or another.
You and I are good together, power-wise, and unless I miss my guess, Oscar will move heaven and earth to get back to you. With the three of us working together, we’ll sort this out.”

“Did you see Lance? Was his arm hurt?”

Sailor shook his head. “He didn’t show for work today. I checked out his apartment, but he wasn’t there, either. I did, however, find quite a library of books on the witchcraft trials in Europe and the Americas. Massachusetts, especially. And there was this.”

He handed me a drawing of a box with symbols on it. The one Carlos had found under the tree, the one Will had shown me, drawn by a minister in Dathorne.

“Mean anything to you?”

“It was the box that the Ashen Witch put Deliverance Corydon’s ashes into.”

“Let’s back up a minute. Ashen Witch and Deliverance Corydon?”

I realized I hadn’t kept Sailor informed of everything I knew. I gave him the rundown, as best I could figure out.

“It sounds to me like you need to take another trip in that magic cape. The problem is, with Oscar missing . . .”

I nodded. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to control it. With Oscar by my side, I felt I could handle it. But without him . . . I’m not sure what will happen when I put the cloak on. What if I can’t control it, or . . . can’t get back?”

Sailor nodded, and our eyes met for a long moment.

“Okay, let’s try a different tack,” he said. “Renna tells me she knew Sebastian well. It’s very possible he was killed just for being a jerk.”

“I could easily believe that, except for the fact that someone deliberately brought him to the tree, or he brought them there—in any case, he died there. This was no random fit of rage. Also, there’s something creepy
going on with the tree, as you know. And then the attack on me at the Academy of Sciences last night . . .”

“Is there . . . I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Boye, “but is there anything to eat?”

In this, at least, he reminded me of Oscar. I fixed him a sandwich and offered Sailor one as well.

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’d rather go talk to Herve Le Mansec.”

“Herve? My Herve?”

Sailor gave me a crooked smile. “How many Herves do you know? Renna says Sebastian came to her looking for a cure for a love curse on behalf of a mysterious client he wouldn’t name—Bart Woolsey, no doubt. She refused to deal with him, but she told him he should try Herve.”

“Okay, that’s a great idea. I’m supposed to pick up some supplies from him, anyway. Let’s go.”

Having inhaled his sandwich, Boye stood to go with us.

“Boye, you stay here.”

“I’d like to remain by your side, ma’am.”

“Sailor will be with me.”

“Even so.”

“No. I’m sorry. You’ll have to stay.”

He continued to stare at me.

“
Sit
. And stay.”

He sat on the couch and stayed.

Sailor was looking down at me, amusement in his face. I refused to meet his eyes.

As I drove across town, we talked it through.

“Bart asked me to try to cure him of the curse,” I said. “But Herve’s probably a better bet. If he hasn’t met with him already, I should probably send him to talk with him.”

“Why are you worrying about some old man’s supposed curse? He paying you?”

“He’s a sad old man. Besides, I can’t help but think this might have something to do with the fix we’re in—according to what I can figure out, Bart’s ancestor was cursed by the witch he had sentenced to death. And that cape brings me back to that exact death scene. And anyway . . . Can you imagine having to go through life believing you have no possibility of finding true love?”

I was looking ahead, tending to my driving, but I could feel Sailor’s gaze on me. “Yes. I can imagine that. Okay, I’m in. Let’s fix this. What do we do?”

Amused at his sudden “get this done” attitude, I gave him a smile. “It’s not like there’s a step-by-step process laid out in a handbook somewhere. At least, I don’t think there is.”

I realized I hadn’t yet looked this up in my Book of Shadows, the tome that held spells, stories, and quotes, which my grandmother Graciela had passed down to me when I was still a child—a young, unskilled witch. I knew my Book of Shadows held a series of love spells, but love curses . . . ?

“Love spells play on a person’s fantasies, simply attaching them to the desired object. But love curses are more complex: The hexed person can never find true love because of the crushing inability to truly care for themselves.”

“But a lot of insecure people are married or in relationships.”

“True, a lot of people are in fair, ho-hum relationships and they make them work, building a life together, raising children, supporting each other. But the cursed won’t settle for that. They’re not satisfied with anything but the ultimate, true, deep and abiding love.”

“That sounds like a true curse,” said Sailor. “But would one of your kind be able to cast a curse strong enough to survive the ages? To pass on from one generation to the next? That seems like a bit much, even for you.”

“I don’t think
I
would be capable of it, but I think we’re dealing with something beyond the common everyday witch here. I think Deliverance was much more than that—
is
much more than that. Besides, last words are powerful, no matter who you are. That’s why witches were often denied their last words when they were facing execution: for fear that they would curse their prosecutors. A curse cast by a dying witch is pretty tough to repeal.”

“Unless you’re a pretty determined witch yourself,” Sailor said, his hand cupping my head.

We arrived at Herve’s shop and set about finding a parking space. Not an easy feat in this part of town, especially in the evening. The neighborhood was hopping.

Herve and Caterina Le Mansec ran a voodoo and spiritual supply store in the neighborhood of San Francisco referred to as the Mission. I loved this part of town; it had a decidedly Latin flair and was full of immigrants from Spanish-speaking countries, lately joined by young professionals seeking rents cheaper than downtown, along with the nightlife and good food that often accompanied immigrant areas. Tonight was no exception: Though it was still early, music blared from car radios and clubs, young people crowded the streets, and the shops were open late.

I still closed Aunt Cora’s Closet at six, though lately I’d had some pressure to stay open later. It would be nice to accommodate people who work normal hours for a living, true, but I enjoyed having my evenings to myself. And being open evening hours also invited more trouble, what with people drinking and feeling rambunctious.

We found Herve pulling small votive candles out of a large cardboard packing box and placing them on a shelf near the door.

“
Lily
, how nice to see you,” he said as he greeted me.

We hugged. “You know Sailor, don’t you?”

“Of course. Hello, and welcome.” They shook hands, doing one of those manly, assessing handshakes.

I said hello to Caterina, who was tallying receipts. She gave me a polite greeting, but I knew she wasn’t crazy about me. I feared she thought I led Herve into trouble, and she might be right. I know she associated me with the vandalism their shop fell victim to not long ago, when a local group lashed out in fear and anger at us magical types. I had helped Herve and Caterina clean up and get the shop back on its feet, but she still held a grudge.

“Your supplies are ready,” she said, hauling a cardboard box out from behind the counter.

“Thank you. The shop looks great. That whole shelving unit is new, isn’t it?”

Herve nodded. “The insurance money came through, so I had an unemployed friend build a few items. Upgraded a bit. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Very.” A couple of teenage girls came in to try out the essential oils. “Could we speak in private?”

“Of course. Follow me.”

The beaded curtain clacked as we passed through it. We continued down a short, narrow hallway to his office, a decidedly utilitarian space with featureless beige office furniture. The first time I’d seen it, I had been disappointed by the quotidian surroundings. One might as well be at the DMV for all the personality it showed. On the other hand, when a person lived in the kind of world Herve and I operated in, a little boring was sometimes a good thing.

And speaking of boring . . . as soon as we were out of earshot of the other customers, Herve dropped his lilting Caribbean accent. He was born and raised in LA. The lovely accent was part of the show he put on for his clientele.

“What can I do for you?”

“Did you hear about Sebastian Crowley?”

He nodded.

“Any idea what’s going on with that?”

He shook his head again, a broad smile slowly spreading over his face. “You’ve taken it upon yourself to investigate?”

“Well, I . . . not investigate per se . . .”

I realized Sailor was nodding by my side.

“You are awfully willing to insert yourself in such affairs, aren’t you?” Herve asked.

Sailor nodded again. I was getting a little impatient with the “wow, she’s so crazy” model of dealing with Lily.

“Once again, this is an issue that has implications for many people,” I insisted. “It’s not just finding justice for Sebastian. There’s a wicked tree, a love curse, an enchanted cape. . . .”

Herve was grinning by now.

“And most importantly, I’m missing my pet pig. So okay, here’s what I need to know,” I snapped, now thoroughly irritated. “Did Sebastian Crowley come to you for help with a client in overcoming a love curse?”

“Of course.”

“He did?”

“Of course he did. Madame Decotier’s is the first place people turn when they need help lifting curses. You should know that by now. Especially since”—he paused, his eyes flickering over to Sailor’s. He nodded in recognition of the family—“since Sailor’s aunt was attacked. There are only so many of us in the area with that kind of power. How is Renna, by the way?”

“She’s doing well, thank you. Almost fully recovered physically. Emotionally . . . well, that’s harder. But she’s a tough nut, and she’s got family around her. She’ll be fine.”

“And your uncle?”

“The same. Healing.”

“Please give them my regards.”

“I’ll do that.”

“So, back to Sebastian,” I urged

“Yes. A couple of weeks ago . . .” He thumbed through an agenda on his desk. “On the thirteenth, Sebastian requested a private interview. He told me a client of his was suffering under a love curse passed down through generations and asked if I could help.”

“And did you?”

“As I’m sure you know, curses laid upon generations through time are very rare.”

I nodded.

“And it was Sebastian. . . .” He met Sailor’s eyes.

“What does that mean?” I asked, looking from him to Sailor.

“Sebastian had a way of exaggerating things,” said Sailor. “He wasn’t the most reliable of characters.”

“There are a lot of people who wouldn’t have minded seeing Sebastian dead,” said Herve. “I’d say it’s much more likely his death was connected to a business deal gone sour rather than the result of some alleged love curse.”

“Thanks for your advice. I’d really just like to know what you did for him.”

Herve shrugged. “I sold him a kit to remove love curses.”

“Does that work?”

“Not in Sebastian’s hands it doesn’t. First I quoted him what I would charge to remove such a curse and told him I would have to deal directly with the client. He balked, of course. Cheap bastard. He insisted I sell him the ingredients to do it himself. But as you know very well, Lily, the success of any spell or curse has to do with the intent of the practitioner. The materials, the incantations might be exactly the same in a blessing as in a curse, but the intention is what results in magic—or not.
There aren’t that many people able to instill that kind of intention in a spell for a stranger.”

True. But for a family member or someone we loved, it was more plausible. Perhaps if Sebastian passed the items on to Bart, the cursed man in his desperation would have had enough intent to work magic. It was known to have happened: the parents of a sick child, the enamored of her love.

I glanced at Sailor again. He had asked me once if I had cast a love spell upon us both. Of course, I denied it. Yet what if I had done it by accident just because I wanted it so badly?

Stop it, Lily,
I told myself. As Graciela had taught me, there are no accidents when the practitioner is well trained, the spell is well cast, and one has faith in one’s helping spirit.

“Could you tell me what you gave him?” Perhaps Sebastian had been killed before he could pass on the items to Bart, for a small fortune, of course. Much more than he had paid Herve.

“Ti plant, Syrian rue, devil’s pod, eupatorium, galangal. Storm water from Hurricane Katrina, cemetery dust, vervain-infused beeswax for the poppet, straw from a fallow field, a suffering root.”

“Sounds like quite a care package,” said Sailor.

Herve smiled again. “Only the best from Madame Decotier’s. Oh, and the most important thing, of course: the words.”

He took a large leather-bound tome from the shelf, flipped it open, and then handed it to me.

“The ancestor who was cursed was a Christian, so I kept it in the faith.”