Secondhand Spirits (34 page)

My first ever slumber party, at the ripe old age of thirty-one.

“Don't you want to close the store for a few days, take a well-deserved break?” asked Bronwyn as we washed our dishes. I reveled in the ordinariness of the chore after our extraordinary night.

I shook my head. “All I want is to get things back to normal.”

“So how did you know what spell to use, and that you needed the coven?” Maya asked.

“I finally broke down and called my grandmother Graciela. She taught me everything I know about the craft. Though I have to say, there's no way to really know about these things. There's a bit of improvisation that goes into it. But she was working a spell on her end . . . and I had some other help as well. And all you women, too. I could never have done it alone.”

“I still can't believe that Delores Keener was . . . less than human,” said Maya.

“Poor thing,” I said. “I still feel bad for the child she once was, for Elisabeth.”

“Why didn't Frances just say her child had been returned to her? Why the big secret, keeping her in the attic, of all things? Maybe that's what made her so nuts.”

“It took Frances a couple of years to get strong enough to negotiate with
La Llorona
, during which time Elisabeth wouldn't have aged. Hard to explain. Plus, by the time her mother got her back she was changed . . . altered.”

“Even her new name, Delores, meant pain,” Maya mused. “And her last name, Keener, as in one who cries or wails, like
La Llorona
?”

“That's what I finally guessed, after a few hints.”

“Now that I've seen you in action,” Bronwyn said, hanging three Italian ceramic mugs on their cup hooks, “I have a hard time believing your protection spell didn't work for Frances.”

“At first I thought it was because I had focused the brew on demons, rather than humans. But as it turns out, my spell was useless against suicide. Self-destruction is a powerful drive. And ironically enough, I made a mistake with an important ingredient—hair—that helped Delores survive the poison.”

“And then she went on to try to run us down, and kill Sandra?” Maya asked. “How
is
Sandra, by the way?”

“Back to her old self since I called and told her I was giving Frances's property to the neighborhood association. She's nothing if not goal-oriented. She says they'll make it into a park.”

“A haunted park?”

“That part's anybody's guess.”

“Lily, sweetie, what's this?” Bronwyn picked up a piece of paper I had left out on the counter. My last will and testament.

“Um . . .”

“You really didn't think you were going to survive tonight, did you?”

“Well . . .”

“But you went anyway?” Maya asked.

My new friends looked at me, eyes huge.

“It was important,” I mumbled.

“
You're
important,” said Bronwyn.

“Important and a little bit crazy,” added Maya, her voice edged with anger.

The cuckoo clock chimed five o'clock.

“So, does it still count as a slumber party if there's no sleeping involved?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“That's almost the very definition of a slumber party,” said Maya with a reluctant smile and a little yawn. “But with that said, I call the couch. I'm even willing to share with the pig.”

 

Despite my entreaties for them to get some more sleep, Maya and Bronwyn stuck to me like white on grits as I opened Aunt Cora's Closet that morning. Soon after I performed my cleansing ritual, the bell rang and we all looked up to see a man walk in, his faced obscured by two cellophane-wrapped supermarket floral bouquets and a shiny helium balloon that read,
Thank You
.

I knew who it was by the tattooed biceps.

“Tomás. How nice to see you.”

“Hey.” His dark eyes shifted to Bronwyn and Maya.

“Guys, could you give us a minute?” I asked.

“Sure. We'll go down to the café for coffee. Either of you want anything?”

I asked for a mocha latte. Tomás shook his head.

After they left, he and I looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Then he held out the flowers and balloon.

“These are for you. On behalf of my family. They don't . . . they don't know what you did for them, for all of us.”

“It wasn't just me. A lot of people worked together. Does Jessica seem all right?” I asked as I accepted the flowers and cradled them to my chest, breathing in the scent of mums and carnations. “Her old self?”

“Just like the day she left. The police already came by, and we told them what we knew: that she just showed up at the door in the middle of the night, and can't remember a thing. That's all.”

I nodded.

“She can't tell us anything about what happened. It's like she was asleep the whole time.”

“That's for the best.”

His dark eyes fixed on mine, intense and wary.

“But you and I both know she had some help. I saw those women who just left for the cafe, your friends, hiding out in their car last night, watching until Jessica came into the house.”

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

“And . . .
La Llorona
?”

“She's left town.” The combination of the strength of the coven, my spell casting, and Aidan's power—mostly the latter—had convinced her to return home to the Rio Grande, where she belonged.

“I'm sorry about what I said, about you being a witch.”

“You saved my life, remember? So we're even on that score. And the truth is, I
am
a witch.”

He smiled slightly. “Well, then, I guess there are witches and then there are witches.”

“I guess so,” I said, returning his smile.

“If there's ever anything you need . . . all you gotta do is ask. I got your back.”

“Thanks, Tomás. That means a lot.”

“I'll see you around, then.”

I nodded. “See you around. Thank you for the flowers.”

He turned and walked out, just as another person walked in. The two men nodded at each other as they passed in the doorway.

Max. With a spray of wildflowers.

His eyes held mine for a beat; then he looked down at the flowers in my arms.

“Looks like I've got some competition.”

“Yep. They're practically knocking down the door.”

He smiled. “Well, as I believe I've mentioned before, I'm not easily daunted. Are you free for dinner on Saturday? There are things we should talk about.”

“Oh, I can't on Saturday.”

“Hot date with Mr. Biceps?”

“Not exactly. The provost at the San Francisco College of the Arts saw the article on Aunt Cora's Closet, and she promised me a bunch of Victorian clothes and old flapper costumes she found in a sealed storage closet under the eaves.”

“Sounds intriguing. But why are you looking at this stuff at night?”

“Maya's a student at the school, and she mentioned that I might be able to help out with an unusual problem. Supposedly the students have been hearing odd noises in the middle of the night; the provost wants me to check it out in exchange for the clothes.”

“Let me get this straight: You nearly drowned last night, and now you're chasing ghosts again?”

“I'm not chasing ghosts, Max. I don't know the first thing about ghosts.
La Llorona
was a demon. There's a big difference.”

Max looked at me for a long time, an angry glint entering his light gray eyes. “You don't even realize quite how crazy you sound, do you?”

“The students are just spooked because they discovered the school was built over an old cemetery, but of course that doesn't guarantee spirits of any kind, much less malevolent ones. I'm just going to assure them there's nothing to worry about. I'm certain I won't see a thing more exotic than corsets and white cotton bloomers.”

Max blew out an exasperated breath. “I don't know how I'm going to handle this sort of thing.”

“We haven't even gone out on our first date yet and you're already giving up? What happened to Mr. Undaunted?”

“I never said I was giving up. And we had our first official date already, over tacos. I was thinking of something slightly more elegant for our second outing.”

“Well, I do need an escort for this vintage wedding I was invited to.” I handed him the gilt invitation I had received yesterday via Susan Rogers, fashion editor at the
Chronicle
and aunt to Natalie. “But you'll have to wear a tux. It's at the Palace Hotel, pretty fancy.”

“I look great in a tux.” He looked down at the invitation. “But this is months from now.”

“You don't think you'll be around months from now?”

His eyes looked up into mine. At long last he gave me a slow, sexy smile. “Consider yourself escorted.”

Bronwyn and Maya returned with hot beverages and bagels in hand. I introduced them to Max. After exchanging pleasantries he ducked out of the store, promising to call me later.

“Yet another good-looking man in here,” said Maya as she handed me my mocha. “Things are looking up.”

“Maya and I have a little present for you,” said Bronwyn with a smile. “We saw it in Sandra's window—her niece is watching over the store—and we couldn't resist.”

“A present? For me?” I felt like Oscar when I gave him his pendant. When was the last time someone had given me a gift? Then I remembered Oscar, currently snoring contentedly on his purple silk pillow. I guess it's true that the best things in life are accidents: My familiar turned out to be my favorite present ever.

Carefully I untied the yellow ribbon and the pretty pink wrapping on the flat package. It was a bumper sticker.

I couldn't stop laughing. We carried it outside, where I proudly affixed it to the steel bumper of my vintage Mustang.

It read:
Rhymes with Bitch.

“Oh, now,
that's
funny,” a voice came from behind us.

I turned to see Aidan walking toward us. Maya and Bronwyn said a quick hello, then scooted back to the store to give us privacy.

“I'm glad to see you're finally embracing your witchy self,” he said with a wicked smile. “Now, about that debt you've incurred . . .”

Most of the spells used throughout this book are based on information gathered from practicing witches in personal interviews, but none should be repeated.

The directions for creating a mandragora are found in a fascinating, massive collection of spells and incantations originally published by Paul Christian in 1870, and recently reissued:
The History and Practice of Magic
by Lida A. Churchill and Paul Christian, published by Kes singer Publishing, 1994. The directions are found on pages 401-402.

“I need something to guard against ghosts . . .” whispered the young woman slouching at the counter. She cast a nervous glance around the shop floor, which was empty except for racks of great vintage clothes, cases of costume jewelry, and shelves jammed with hats. “A protective . . . thingamajig.”

“A talisman?” I asked.

“That's it.”

“Talismans don't really guard against ghosts, per se—”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “It's better than nothing.”

Her feathery bright pink hair brought to mind a silly children's toy, the kind one might win after stuffing ten dollars' worth of quarters into the mechanical contraption at the Escape from New York Pizza parlor a few blocks down Haight Street. But from the jaded look in her heavy-lidded amber eyes and the multiple piercings along her left eyebrow, I suspected the overall effect she was after was more “aggressively alienated youth” than “cuddly stuffed animal.”

“You're a student at the San Francisco College of Fine Arts?” I said as I opened the back of the glass display case and pulled out the black velvet-covered tray that held my rapidly diminishing collection of hand-carved wooden medallions. There had been a run on them lately.

“How did you know that?” Her eyes flew up to meet mine. “Can you read minds?”

“No.” I shook my head and stifled a smile. “My assistant, Maya, goes to the College of Fine Arts. We've had a lot of students stop by in the last week, asking for protection.”

“Did I hear my name?” Maya emerged from the back room. She was petite, had delicate features, and wore her hair twisted into thick black locks that ended in a series of beads that clacked pleasantly against the silver rings and cuffs adorning each ear. “Oh, hey, Andromeda.”

“Um, hey,” the customer said to Maya with a nearly imperceptible lift of her chin. Pink hair swayed as she tilted her head in question. “Where do I know you from again?”

“Sculpture class,” Maya answered. “We've met a few times.”

“Oh, yeah—my bad. So, you've told her about the ghosts at the school?” Andromeda asked Maya. “The footsteps out in the hallways, the heavy breathing, doors opening and closing . . .”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

“It turns out that the main building”—Andromeda leaned across the counter toward Maya and me, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper—“
was built on top of an old cemetery.
”

“That's mostly an issue in the movies,” I pointed out. “It doesn't actually mean there are ghosts lingering.”