Chapter One

 

“Merde.”

I scowled and sucked on the slice across the pad of my thumb. I didn’t taste blood, the papercut wasn’t that deep, but my tongue tingled with the flavor of…

Odd.

I picked up the letter opener, slit open the envelope, and several glossy black-and-white photos spilled out and slid across my desk.

Black and white? Who took black-and-white photos these days? Who took photos these days? That’s what phones were for, right?

I reached for the nearest photograph, studied it curiously—and dropped it as though it had burned my fingertips.

A man and woman locked in naked—very naked—embrace.

I didn’t recognize the man, though the large tattooed pentacle on his back indicated maybe I should.

The woman was my sister-in-law. Jinx.

I drew in a deep breath.

Well, this was…unexpected. And unwelcome.

I bowed the envelope to check for a letter. I was anticipating something with misshapen letters cut from magazines and spelling trouble, but there was nothing. Just the photos.

Not that that wasn’t plenty right there.

I rested my fingertips on the photos, closed my eyes, concentrated… To my surprise, there it was. The scintilla of the arcane. Magic.

I opened my eyes.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Was there any possibility this wasn’t a threat? That the intent was…what? Hey, here’s something you might want to keep an eye on? I considered that theory hopefully, but I couldn’t quite convince myself that these photos had been sent with anything but ill intention.

To what end, though?

Money, right? That was the way these things usually worked. Not that I had any practical experience of blackmail.

Yes. Blackmail.

It wasn’t a complete surprise.

Or rather, yes, it was a surprise—especially given that Jinx seemed to be the target—but we weren’t the first family in San Francisco to get one of these poison parcels. John had been losing sleep—a lot of sleep—over the past month with the discovery that the city’s high society appeared to have fallen prey to a well-connected extortion ring.

John is John Galbraith. My husband—but more importantly, in this context at least, SFPD’s new police commissioner.

The plot had only come to light because one of the victims, the Rev. Canon Angela Tzeng had had the guts to go to the police and report an attempt to blackmail her. Tzeng was supposed to be consecrated October 1st as the first female bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Northern California, but her courageous move had been rewarded by the blackmailer releasing information about a teenaged pregnancy to the press. It was the Twenty-First Century. You’d think— But you’d be wrong. The revelation of Tzeng’s youthful mistake was damning information in the eyes of both the public and the diocese. Now Tzeng’s very future in the church was in question.

Needless to say, no other victims had come forward. Not openly. Not officially. But they were out there.

“Someone’s going to get killed,” John had said the other night. He was not a guy for kidding around, and he was not kidding then.

I considered the pile of photos before me. I couldn’t help thinking that choosing Jinx as a blackmail target was kind of a stretch.

Yes, these photos were revealing and embarrassing, but at twenty-five, Jinx was a grown woman. The fact that she was a sexually active grown woman would likely only come as a shock to John. She did not hold public office. She was not married. There was no reason I could see that she shouldn’t have sex with whoever she pleased, although I had to wonder about her good sense in choosing a guy who’d branded himself with the Sigil of Baphomet.

Jinx had been studying with the Duchess for the past few weeks, so she surely knew better. And if this guy was not a poser, if he was Craft, he ought to know better too. But this photo might be months old. When I’d first met Jinx, she’d been a little bit of an occult fangirl. Actually, she was still a little bit of an occult fangirl.

But I digress. As usual.

That the photos had come to me, made me wonder if Jinx had already been approached and had brushed it off. You have to care a lot about what other people think to make a good blackmail victim. When it came to what other people thought, Jinx had, in the mortal vernacular, zero fucks to give. In fact, there had been a time, and not so long ago, when I thought she’d have taken delight in appalling both John, who was twenty years her senior, and her mother, Nola.

And when it came to Nola, who could blame her? I felt the urge to appall Nola now and then myself. Not that I had to try. My existence was enough to keep my mother-in-law in a constant state of pall.

Which meant what?

That the real target was me? The assumption being that I would pay up to keep Jinx’s past from embarrassing her? From embarrassing me? No. From embarrassing John.

Of course.

Because John was the vulnerable one. As Police Commissioner, San Francisco’s first gay police commissioner at that, John was the one with something to lose. The news that the police commissioner’s younger sister was a devil worshipper (oh, I could already hear all the idiotic and ignorant things people would say) would certainly bother the hell out of John—and might even impact his political future. John was an ambitious man. A man with a plan.

So why not send this packet to John?

Oh, right. Because John was as honorable as he was ambitious. He would not be blackmailed. He would see Jinx burned alive—in the court of public opinion, that is—before he paid one cent of blackmail money.

The blackmailer was relying on me to pay up to protect John from himself.

Mistake.

If I had learned anything in the four months I’d been married to John, it was that honesty was the best policy. At least with John.

 

 

When I stepped out of the office, I found Blanche, my assistant, struggling valiantly to load a seventeenth century Nuremberg wrought-iron pirate chest onto a hand truck.

Blanche is a curvaceous fifty-something. She’s an expert on eighteenth century jewelry, makes the best vegan cheesecake this side of Sacramento, and favors Elvira Mistress of the Dark eye makeup. She is also Wicca, a loyal friend, and a great employee. What she is not, is a deckhand or a longshoreman. I rushed to her aid.

“What the—? Blanche, you’re going to throw your back out.”

She gasped out, “No worries,” but hastily moved out of my way.

I managed to redirect the chest’s landing so it did not topple over the tall and very narrow Italian Regency apothecary chest. Blanche leapt to save the gilt and violet SF & Co. water basin and pitcher rocking precariously on the nearby dining table.

“No worries? This thing’s nearly two hundred pounds.” I managed to shimmy the loading platform beneath the bottom of the trunk and leveraged it a few inches off the floor. Awkwardly, I maneuvered my unwieldly cargo through the obstacle course posed by plush carpet and fragile furniture to its new home by the large bay windows at the front of Blue Moon Antiques’ showroom. I lowered it to the floor with a little oof of relief.

“It is heavier than it looks,” Blanche admitted.

I glanced around the long, furniture-crowded space. Sunlight gilded old wood and fragile porcelain, glittered off a decorative string of benignly smiling jack-o’-lantern faces.

“Where’s Ambrose? I asked him to move this thing.”

Blanche murmured something vague, and I glanced at her. Behind heart-shaped rhinestone spectacles, her blue-green gaze was evasive.

“What?”

“Oh. Well… He had to leave.”

I frowned. “Had to leave why?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Something to do with his grandmother.”

“Not again!”

She raised her hands in a now-don’t-get-excited gesture. “I think it really was an emergency.”

“It’s always an emergency.”

Blanche didn’t bother to argue because it was true.

“This can’t go on. The whole point in hiring him was because we need someone here.”

“I know.” Blanche sounded sympathetic. As though Ambrose’s irresponsible behavior didn’t affect her too.

“I mean, I like him. I think he’s a good kid. He’s a big help when he’s here. But he’s never here.”

“Yes. True.” Her expression was regretful.

I brooded for a moment or two. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it.”

Behind the sparkling red glasses, Blanche’s eyes went wide with alarm. “Cos, you’re not— Are you going to fire him?”

I hesitated. “I’m not sure. Probably not? Not today. Not without talking to him. But this can’t go on.”

“I know. I know.” Her tone was soothing.

“I know you know.”

“It’s just he’s in such a difficult situation.”

I nodded. This was so. Ambrose was sole caretaker of his elderly grandmother.

She added persuasively, “And he is trained now.”

“Whatever that means.”

Blanche said coaxingly, “He’s used to us? We’re used to him?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head.

* * * * *

I arrived at City Hall one minute after noon. Pat Anderson, John’s charming and ruthlessly efficient executive assistant, apologetically informed me that John’s meeting with “The Brass” had gone into overtime.

In this case “The Brass” meant Mayor Stevens, Police Chief Morrisey, Deputy Chief Danville, the Board of Supervisors, various elected officers, and other entities.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “That sounds like a recipe for indigestion.”

“I wish I’d known you had a lunch date, Mr. Saville. I could have—”

“No, no. This was spur-of-the-moment.”

“Ah.” Pat’s smile was sympathetic—I was getting that a lot today.

I was trying to think if there was a way I could slip in for a quick word with John. This wasn’t an emergency, exactly, but the situation was certainly urgent. John would certainly think it was urgent.

“I’m so sorry your vacation plans had to be canceled,” Pat was saying.

“Hm? Yes. Thanks.” John and I had been planning to travel back to Salem, Massachusetts to visit my father for the holiday, but then Reverend Tzeng had shown up on SFPD’s doorstep with her tale of harassment and extortion. “Business before pleasure. Pat, do you think there’s any chance—”

Pat was opening her mouth to regretfully inform me there was no chance in hell, when the door to the conference room flew open and a crowd of grim-faced men and women in business attire streamed out, all of them talking at once as they answered their phones, checked for text messages, and nodded distractedly to each other.

John was at the back of the crowd, handsome and imposing in a dark gray suit with micro checks. That is, I think he’s handsome, but his features are too severe, too fierce to ever sell anything but truth, justice, and the American Way. Like the others, he was grim-faced, so I deduced the meeting had not gone well for anyone. My heart squeezed at the uncharacteristic weariness I saw in his face. I hated to think I was about to add to his already considerable stress.

He didn’t see me at first. He was talking with Sergeant Pete Bergamasco, his bodyguard and general factotum. Bergamasco is one of those brusque former military types, but beneath his olive drab exterior beats a heart that burns with devotion for John. Not romantically. Bergamasco is not gay. Even if he were gay, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be the romantic type. But he is definitely a one-man dog. He tolerates me.

“Pat, can you push my one o’clock back to two and my two to tomorrow?” John called over the din of voices.

“On it.” Pat reached for the phone.

John was a big guy, the tallest man present, and at last his restless gaze lit on me lurking by the doorway. His face brightened. “Hey,” he said, coming to meet me.

“Hi.”

He kissed me, and we got some smiles from the others as they filed past. Technically, we were still newlyweds, and most people have a soft spot for the newly married. Not including Sergeant Bergamasco.

“Cos. Were you hoping for lunch? I can’t get away today.”

“Another day would be lovely. Can I talk to you?”

John hesitated, glanced at the line of lawmakers funneling out the door into the hallway, glanced at Bergamasco, who looked resigned.

“Just for a minute,” I said quickly. “It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

John’s amber eyes met mine, and his expression softened. “Of course.” He put his hand on my back, guiding me through the queue, which made way as though before Moses parting the Red Sea.

We stepped into John’s very large mahogany-paneled corner office. He closed the door, and the thick carpet and thicker walls instantly swallowed the reception area noise in a gulp.

“What’s wrong?”

“This came in yesterday’s mail. I only opened it this morning.” I handed over the manila envelope.

John frowned, took the envelope, peered inside. He drew out a photo. His face changed.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Blanche handled it, I handled it, the mail person handled it, so I don’t know about fingerprints. But there was a very faint scintilla…”

I stopped talking. He wasn’t listening.

I studied his stony face, said, “She’s a grown woman, John. She isn’t doing anything wrong.”

I could see myself come back into focus. John growled, “You don’t know that. This guy could be married. This guy could be…anything.”

“Anything” meaning nothing good, as evidenced by the sigil tattooed on Jinx’s unknown partner’s back. But this was not about me, not about the Craft, and I did not take offense.

“Okay. Fair enough. But my point is, Jinx’s actions don’t reflect on you. Don’t reflect on your office.”

He threw me a look of impatience, but his voice was quiet, even, as he said, “Of course they do, Cos. In the court of public opinion? My sister’s actions absolutely reflect on me.”

I wanted to argue, but maybe he was right. In fact, he probably was right.

He drew out another photo, studied it with hard eyes. “Goddamn it,” he said softly. His gaze rose to meet mine. “Did you know about this? Do you know who this is?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I had—have—no idea.”

For a moment I was afraid the old suspicions and misunderstandings that had nearly torn us apart before would resurface, but he accepted it with a little nod. He turned away, went to his desk, and dumped the photos out. With a couple of quick movements, he arranged them in a large square and then stared down at the big picture.

“Do you think she’s in love with him?” He didn’t look at me.

“I don’t know.”

“I hope not.”

I went to join him at the desk. He said, “You see how, no matter their position, his face is hidden? That’s not coincidence. He’s part of this. He set her up.”

John was right. Or at least, he was right that in every photo, the face of Jinx’s companion was obscured. Personally, I thought the giant sigil carved on the gentleman’s back would be kind of a giveaway in a lineup.

Not that having sex with the police commissioner’s sister was grounds for arrest or even being thrown into a lineup.

Not so far anyway.

“I see.”

“Maybe, just maybe, this time they’ve slipped up.”

“But are you sure this is connected to your extortion case? It could be a co—”

“I’m sure.” He sounded sure, no lie.

I considered John’s stern profile.

“John…”

He glanced at me. Once again, his face seemed to lose some of its hardness. “What?”

“I think I could be of help.” I tried to phrase it carefully because I knew he would be instinctively resistant to my offer. “When I opened the envelope, there was scintilla. Just a trace.”

“A trace of…a trace? What?”

“Scintilla. It’s hard to explain in words, hard to translate.”

“I know what scintilla means.”

“No, but in this context—”

His reddish brows drew together. “What context?”

“The context of-of Craft. Of magic.”

Instantly, his features grew shuttered, closed. “No.”

“You haven’t heard me out.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with magic. This is extortion. Plain and simple—and all too human.”

I said quietly, “I’m human, John.”

His whisky-colored eyes widened. “I know that,” he said quickly, and put his arms around me, as though sheltering me from his words. “That isn’t what I meant. You realize that, right? I understand that you want to help. I appreciate the offer. But no. This is not a time, not a situation for magic. This is police business.”

“I understand, yes. But—”

He brushed my hair back from my face. “I don’t want you involved. This is an ugly, sordid, god-awful mess, and I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

I tried to interject, but he was still speaking.

“And you promised you would stay out of police business. Remember? You promised you would try not to use magic.”

I had promised. I had promised not to use magic as a first resort. In fact, I had sworn to only use magic as a last resort.

I closed my mouth. Swallowed the words he did not want to hear.

“I’m holding you to that promise, Cos.” His voice was gentle, but he was dead serious. “I’m touched that you want to help, but I mean it. I don’t want you involved. I don’t want you to use magic.”

I said nothing. My heart was pounding very hard, as though I was facing some terrible threat, but the truth was, this was a promise I had made willingly, had made with all my heart.

John was still gentle, still steely. His eyes saw too much, saw everything. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said huskily. “I understand.”