Secondhand Spirits (29 page)

As Frances had done. I wanted to condemn the woman out of hand, but a tiny part of my heart went out to her. She must have gone a little crazy trying to get her daughter Elisabeth back. Finally, out of desperation, she returned to her native New Orleans to study the voodoo of her youth, and had come back and set up an altar. . . . But the candles were burning two days after her death, so there must be someone else involved. Perhaps that someone was the person responsible for killing her, and for laying her out in the pentagram. And what were the “living threads” Decotier mentioned?

Decotier had given me a firm “no” to my suspicion that Katherine and Elisabeth were somehow one and the same, or that Elisabeth had possessed Katherine. Still, Aidan's book on demonology had pointed out that a child brought back after so much time would have returned with powers similar to those of a natural witch. She might seem perfectly normal until challenged, but she would be altered, a sociopath in psychological terms. Would she be capable of murdering her own mother, or would she think of
La Llorona
as her only mother now?

Sandra must have somehow stumbled onto all of this while harassing Frances about selling her house to the neighborhood committee. Had she found out something about Elisabeth? Was that why she was being strangled, to silence her?

We pulled up to Aunt Cora's Closet. I was disappointed that Hervé wouldn't help me. But I also understood. He already had a lot to deal with in his regular practice, and better him than me. I'd had all the dealings with voodoo I wanted. From here on in, it was straight witchcraft as I knew it.

“Thanks for your help, Hervé,” I said as I opened the car door.

Hervé reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. It was warm and comforting.

“May the strength of the gods be with you, and the mantle of goodness protect you.”

“Thanks. I'll take all the help I can get.”

I climbed out, unlocked the door, and let myself into the shop, turning to wave at Hervé as he drove away. Locking the front door behind me, I hoped to feel the warm embrace of my environment. But the subtle vibrations of the clothing didn't comfort me much tonight. I felt frustrated and insecure. What good were my talents if I wasn't strong enough to save a child, or to understand what was being asked of me?

Oscar sat on the next-to-last step of the stairs in the back room, head in hand, glowering like a worried mother waiting for her daughter to return from the prom.

“
Where
have you
been
?” he demanded.

“It's been a busy night,” I said.

“So busy you couldn't call?”

“Oscar, please.”

“I was worried.”

“I'll bet you were more hungry than worried.”

“That, too.” As if on cue, his little belly rumbled so loudly I could hear it across the room.

On the green linoleum table was an empty carton of Annie's Cheddar Bunnies crackers that I kept on hand as emergency snacks for hungry children, and several wrappings from the hard candy I keep in a basket near the front register.

Guilt washed over me. There weren't any leftovers in the fridge, and I hadn't spared a thought for Oscar's welfare. I wasn't used to having a pet, or anyone at all, dependent upon me.

“I'm sorry, Oscar. I apologize. I'm going to have to teach you to cook, little guy. Let's go upstairs and I'll fix you something—how does pasta sound?”

As I moved toward the stairs, I noticed a couple of strands of pale hair on the back of the velvet chair glinting subtly in the overhead light.

Hair. Like silky threads.
Look to the living threads.
Look to them for what? I used Frances's hair in the protection spell. . . . Or did I? I had assumed it was hers. Was I inadvertently protecting someone else?

Upstairs I fixed Oscar some pasta with marinara sauce before taking a long shower, scrubbing myself until I was pink and glowing. I washed my hair twice but it still smelled vaguely of pungent, acrid smoke. I was glad the damned place had gone up in flames, I thought to myself. Bitterness started to edge out the sympathy I felt for Frances as a mother. The apparition had confirmed that Frances made a deal with
La Llorona
to get Elisabeth back. Had she cast the power of her life force in with the demon? Had her maternal anguish led her to do the unthinkable, keeping the cycle of violence alive? Could she have led neighborhood children to their doom, essentially feeding them to
La Llorona
?

By the time I emerged from the bedroom Oscar was snoring on top of the refrigerator. I pulled his covers up around him, smiling to myself. He'd been with me only a few days, but already he had his routine, had made himself a place in my home . . . and in my soul.

My heart fluttered in my chest. I was going to go up against
La Llorona
tomorrow. I had no way of knowing the outcome. Provisions had to be made for Oscar, just in case. Bronwyn would love to take him, but he wouldn't be able to revert to his natural form around her. I wondered how difficult that would be for him. Perhaps he'd best go back to Aidan.

Which reminded me . . . I was going to need Aidan's help even to summon
La Llorona
, much less to fight her. I also needed for him to arrange for the addition to the Wax Museum. My original plan to steer clear of Aidan and local witchy politics now appeared naive, laughable. By virtue of the powers I was born with, I was involved, whether I wanted to be or not.
You can't run from yourself
, m'hija
,
Graciela used to tell me. But that was exactly what I had been trying to do for years now.

I was going to be in Aidan's debt, no matter how I looked at it. Best make sure he had his mandragora, at the very least. I reached into my backpack and pulled out the little wrapped root at the bottom of the satchel. I was out of my league with humans lately, but herbs and roots I could handle.

I unwrapped him very gently. My whole life I've had an affinity for plants. As a small child I had coaxed juicy tomatoes, plump chiles, and fragrant herbs from the unforgiving, hard-packed west Texas soil. Plants give us clean air and beauty and sustenance, and, perhaps most important, they represent eternal life. Even when they die they rise again. Their vibrations are green and bright. All as it was meant to be.

I brought out my Book of Shadows and opened it to the page for creating a mandragora. I read:

One thing about spells: Sometimes they have to be modified. Like any recipe, you make substitutions. You don't have access to a dead man's winding-sheet, you might use some gauze blessed with juniper and rose of Jericho instead. My blood would do instead of drowning the bats, and rather than actually burying the little guy in a dead man's grave, all we needed was some freshly overturned cemetery dirt.

Luckily the mandrake root is not poisonous to handle, unlike wolfsbane, which is so toxic that even touching the plant can cause irritation. Still, mandrake is a member of the nightshade family, so its berries, especially, can be deadly. I'd best not leave any lying around, lest Oscar decide he needed a snack. Funny that Frances had both wolfsbane and mandrake growing in her garden. Thinking back on it, I had even noticed lethal mistletoe clinging to a few of her trees.

I spoke to the mandrake root as I handled him, then hummed a snippet of a long-ago lullaby while I carefully carved just a little here and there to free his arms and give him facial features. His legs were already fully formed. He would be a cute little imp. Finally, I brewed an appropriate milk bath with herbs, seeds, and several more drops of my blood, and bathed him carefully. I wrapped him in clean black silk, thanked him, and put him to bed in a little wooden cigar box.

Once again I wondered why Aidan wanted a mandragora. Was it for a client? Or could he have been telling the truth—could he be lonely? It was hard to believe, but then, I hadn't realized I was so lonesome until Oscar barged into my life.

I went to bed, fell right asleep, and dreamed of fire and Frances's deadly garden.

Chapter 17

“Mistress, quick! You have to come!” Oscar yelled, jumping on my bed at a little before eight in the morning.

Bleary, I rushed after him into the other room. He had opened the mandragora's cigar box and stood gaping at it.

“Why did you wake him, Oscar?”

“What is he?”

“He'll be a mandragora, but he's not finished yet.”

“Why are you making
that
?” Oscar whined. “I don't like him.”

“You don't know him. He's not even born.”

“Yeah, but I know I don't like him.”

“You sound jealous.”

He shrugged and looked away, pouting. I tried not to laugh.

“Oscar, I'm not making him for myself. You're more than enough for me, I promise you.”

He looked up at me.

“Really?”

“Really. It's actually for Aidan.”

“What for?”

“Good question. Maybe you could ask him next time you talk to him.”

He stared at me for a moment.

“What's for breakfast?”

I whipped up some biscuits, which we ate with strawberry jam. Presuming I survived the day—or, more specifically, the night—I would have to start shopping more regularly, keep food on hand. Not only for Oscar, but for friends dropping by. I'd had only wine to offer Maya and Bronwyn the other day. People who had friends over offered things like cheese and crackers, right? It was the neighborly thing to do.

I felt a stab of fear, and dread, and yearning. I was finally starting to fit in here in this crazy San Francisco neighborhood, making friends, creating a sort of family. Suddenly I wanted to meet Bronwyn's coven, to celebrate the good, the strength and kindness of the Goddess and sisterhood. As a natural witch I couldn't really cry, but that didn't keep tears from stinging the back of my eyes. What would happen tonight, when the sun went down? How could I possibly be strong enough? Would Aidan Rhodes's help be sufficient to vanquish
La Llorona
, presuming he agreed to assist me? And if so, what would he demand in return? At the very least, I needed to tell him his mandragora was in the process of being born.

Speaking of which . . . I needed dirt from a fresh grave. It occurred to me that I hadn't noticed any grave-yards since I had moved to the City by the Bay.

“Are there any cemeteries in San Francisco?” I asked Oscar.

Oscar shook his head. “All the active ones were moved out to Colma and Oakland to make room for living people. Now there's only the military cemetery out at the Presidio, and a little historic one at Mission Dolores.”

“I guess it's lucky I'm headed to a funeral in Oakland this very afternoon,” I thought out loud to myself.

“Why do the Catholics name their places after sorrow and pain?” Oscar asked as he followed me down the stairs to the shop.

“What?”

“Mission Dolores. It means ‘Mission of Pain,' right? And there's a church called Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. It's kind of a downer.”

I smiled. “I guess I never thought of it that way. But it's important to remember the supreme sacrifice. I think that's what it refers to.”

“It's still kind of a downer. What time do we go to the funeral?”

“I'm sorry, Oscar, you can't come today.”

“But I
love
cemeteries!”

“It's a solemn event.”

“How come
he
gets to go?” Oscar gestured to the mandragora-to-be, which I carried in its box, under my arm.

“He has to stay with me until he's buried. Besides, he's not even alive yet. He sits quietly in his box.”

“
I'll
sit quietly.”

“Oscar, how am I supposed to explain bringing my potbellied pig to a funeral?”

He sat back on his haunches, his glass-green eyes huge, hurt, and filling with tears.

“Look, it's nothing personal, it's just . . .” His jowls began to tremble. I knew I was being manipulated, but my heart couldn't take it. I relented. “All right. But you'll have to stay in the car.”

“Thank you, mistress! What time?”

“I'll open the shop and then Bronwyn's coming in early. We'll leave in about an hour.” I consulted my cuckoo clock. “I have to talk to Aidan today after the funeral. Do you know if there's any way I can get in touch without going all the way downtown to his office?”

“I can get word to him.”

“You can? How?”

“Er . . . I'll just, sort of, like, use telepathy.”

“You have telepathic powers?”

“Hmm?” Oscar suddenly found his toenails very interesting.

“Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me something?”

“Are there any more biscuits, mistress?”

 

First things first. Before opening the store, I wanted to check in on Sandra Schmidt. I dressed in a simple early-1960s skirt and sweater and drove to San Francisco General.

When I arrived on the third floor I found Inspectors Romero and Nordstrom were in the room, talking with Sandra. My first impulse was to run away, but I squelched it. While I waited for the police to finish up their questioning, I asked a nurse for Sandra's prognosis. The nurse hesitated, but after I told her Sandra was my sister she informed me the doctors were running some tests to try to figure out what had happened, but the outcome looked good, no lasting effects. I sagged in relief.