Chapter Seven

 

I stepped out of the steamy shower, starting at the sight of John standing naked in our newly remodeled bathroom.

John murmured, “Damn. I need to work on my timing,” and took me in his arms. I clung to him, and his arms tightened. “Mm.” His voice was a deep, friendly growl. “Warm, wet husband.” He buried his face in my neck, inhaled. “I love that soap on you.” I could hear his smile. It made my eyes sting.

Until that moment, the moment John wrapped his arms around me, I’d actually been… Well, not okay. Not by a long stretch. But I’d managed to hold it together.

I had to hold it together. There was no other option.

I didn’t know if I was legally responsible for Eddie Darksoul’s death, but I felt responsible. If I hadn’t shown up there, asking questions that clearly terrified him… And what did I have to show for that fatal interview? A slew of bewildering half-answers that only left me with more questions.

But my feelings were irrelevant. Even my safety was irrelevant compared to the safety of the Abracadantès.

John nudged my face, found my mouth. I kissed him, kissed him again, again. He kissed me back, but then…

“Hey,” he said softly. “What’s all this?” Knowing me well enough to not mistake panic for passion.

Worse, for all I knew, somewhere in the bowels of SFPD a sketch artist was working on a composite of me right at this very moment. I had tried to do a forgetting spell on the building to remove my fingerprints in the elevator and on the windowsill. I had attempted a forgetting spell on the street to remove my image from the inevitable security cameras, but the problem was the apartment building was close to the intersection of Polk Street. There were apartments everywhere. There was a park across the street. There were restaurants and boutiques. There were cars and pedestrians. There was the kid in the window across the way. It had been broad daylight.

No wonder John noticed I was clutching him as if for dear life.

I raised my head, tried to laugh. “I just really, really missed you today.”

“I missed you too.” He frowned a little. “Did something happen?”

My voice wobbled as I said, “You ever have one of those days?”

“Sure. Fewer now that you’re here.”

I closed my eyes, leaned into him.

He said, “Cos, did you want to skip tonight? It’s all right to say you need some downtime.”

Yes. Please. Because what I have to tell you will not be easy. Maybe change how you feel about me. Please let me have this time with you.

I shook my head, raised my face to his, kissed him briskly. “And let the home team down? No way.”

He looked uncertain—which didn’t happen often—and as I pulled away, he caught my hand and kissed it.

I walked out of the bathroom. A few seconds later the shower taps blasted on again.

 

 

Sometimes you can tell a lot by the costumes people choose for Halloween parties.

For example, John wore full Highland regalia for the mayor’s party: kilt, Prince Charlie jacket and vest, cream-colored hose—jewel-topped sgian dubh included—fur-covered sporran—whisky-filled silver flask included—and black leather ghillie brogues. From his black satin bow tie to his navy-blue garter flashes, he was the living embodiment of his own cultural fantasies.

But sometimes the choice of costume comes down to what was left on the costume store shelf. Which is how I ended up dressed as Sherlock Holmes.

When I joined John at the bar downstairs, his eyebrows shot up.

“Elementary, my dear Macduff. I waited too long to order my costume. And if you say I told you so, you can fix your own breakfast tomorrow.”

“I always fix breakfast on Sunday,” John pointed out.

“True.”

“The hat—deerstalker?—is cute. You definitely have the head for hats.”

I sidled onto the barstool. “Nice to know I have a head for something.”

He grinned, handed me a glass of wine. “¡Arriba.”

“Abajo.”

“Al centro.”

“Adentro.” I drained the glass.

John whistled. “Thirsty?”

“Dutch courage.”

He was amused. “You’re not nervous about tonight? You were born with a cocktail glass in your hand.”

“True. It made for a difficult birth.”

He snorted.

I said, “No. I’m not worried about tonight.” That was the truth. News of the death—even the possible homicide—of someone like Eddie Darquez would not have infiltrated the upper echelons of City Hall. Not yet.

John considered me for a second or two, and I knew he had questions. I braced myself. Instead, he glanced at his watch. “Did you want another?”

I set my empty glass on the bar counter. “Nope. Lead on, Macduff.”

“Isn’t it ‘Lead on, Macbeth’?” John was setting the security system as I bade Pyewacket good night at the front door.

“No. The play is called Macbeth, but Macduff is the real hero. In fact, you could say he’s the detective.”

Pyewacket’s meow was jeering. I glared at him.

 

 

We were in the car, and Ella Fitzgerald was singing “That Old Black Magic,” when John said abruptly, “You can’t tell Andi this, but Trace is going to ask her to marry him.”

Startled out of my bleak thoughts, I stared at his profile. “He is?”

John nodded. After a moment, he asked, “Do you think she’ll accept?”

“I think she loves him.”

“But?”

“It’s complicated. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“Andi doesn’t believe in marriage between witches and mortals. She doesn’t think it’s right to spend your life with someone you have to lie to about the things that matter most.”

“She’d have to tell him the truth.” John’s voice was flat. He didn’t say it, but I couldn’t help fearing the unspoken message was Or I will.

“She would never break her vows.”

“But I thought if Trace became her beloved consort or whatever you call it, she could tell him the truth.”

“Yes…” I said slowly. “That’s partly true. Anyway, in Andi’s case, Trace wouldn’t be her first beloved consort.”

John threw me a quick sideways look. “No?”

“Andi took a beloved consort in high school.”

“In high school? She got married in high school?”

“Not married, no. But she did take a beloved consort. It didn’t last, of course. It was a horrible mistake. He was half demon.”

The car swerved ever so slightly.

“Wait. You’re saying she could tell a half-demon the truth, but not Trace?”

“No. She could tell Trace the truth. But because he’s mortal, she believes she shouldn’t.” John didn’t like that, but it was how Andi felt. “The other problem is if Andi and Trace had children, those children would be half mortal.”

“But half demon was okay?” John asked sardonically.

“No. It wasn’t okay. It’s one reason why she’s so…such a stickler for the rules now.”

“So what happens if a child is half mortal?”

“There’s no way of knowing. The child’s witch heritage might be dominant, in which case everything is fine.”

“Is it?”

I let that go. “Or the mortal side might be dominant, which could still be okay—unless there are other children and the witch heritage is dominant in those children.”

John didn’t say anything, so presumably he understood what I was getting at. The memory of Chris Huntingdon, Valenti Garibaldi’s stepbrother, was surely as fresh for him as it was for me.

“My cousin Waite is half mortal, and everything turned out fine there. Well, I mean, aside from the fact that Waite is a total di…” My voice died away.

The idea that came to me was as sudden and shocking as reaching into the darkness and grabbing a live wire.

It wasn’t possible, was it? Eddie Darquez had been unwavering in his insistence that the name of the man who had hired him was Count Whitney.

Waite’s last name was Whitby. My aunt Iolanthe Saville Whitby was a countess by birth, but she married a mortal commoner—Walter Whitby—so Waite did not inherit a title. But Waite being Waite, he did still introduce himself as Count Whitby.

Was it possible that Eddie Darquez had confused Count Whitby for Count Whitney?

“Your cousin Waite is the one who owns the Sonoma winery?”

I answered automatically, “Yes.”

It made sense on a couple of levels. Aunt Iolanthe had always been a little aggrieved that my mother was born two minutes ahead of her, thus securing Maman’s position in the line of succession to trône de sorcière; and Waite believed being two years older than me gave him dibs on eventually being crowned L’ermite. That’s not the way it works, but in Waite’s view, it was the way it ought to work.

My cousin had tried to drown me once before, but we had been children. Presumably, he had not known any better. This would be an entirely different thing. I couldn’t believe it was true—and yet I couldn’t quite shake the idea either.

John’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Did you get a call from my mother today?”

My heart jumped. The call that came through at Eddie’s? That had been Nola. The woman had a gift for lousy timing. In her case, it was practically a superpower.

I said casually, apologetically, “She did. I’m sorry. I was…busy. I meant to call her back.”

“No need. I spoke to her.”

“I’m sorry, John. I really did mean to call her back.”

“I know. It’s okay.” He did know. There was no censure in his tone. “It’s better if she talks to me anyway.”

Wise words. But I kept that thought to myself.

 

 

A giant blue rabbit was strolling into the Classical Revival mansion on Yerba Buena Island when John and I arrived at the mayor’s Halloween party.

“Werewolves of London” floated on the night breeze, and grinning jack-o’-lanterns lined the brick steps as we went inside. The smell of recent rain, candles, and burning pumpkin filled the damp night air.

Mrs. Stevens—call me Sukie—greeted us at the door. She wore a tight black dress, scarlet-lined black cape, and a witch’s hat.

“Commissioner! We’re so delighted you could join us. And darling Cosmo!”

I’m not sure when Sukie and I got on darling terms, but I leaned in to kiss her and noticed she was wearing a silver inverted pentagram on a chain.

Now the upside-down pentagram is not exclusively Satanic. There are even Wiccan covens that have adopted the symbol to designate ranking. Not many. Craft does not use it, and Sukie was definitely not Craft. I wouldn’t have guessed she was Wiccan. And maybe she wasn’t. This was a Halloween party, and half the women in the room were dressed like sexy witches. The necklace looked old and expensive, but appearances can be deceptive. No one knows that better than those of us within the Craft.

If I hadn’t already been on edge, I don’t think I’d have made anything of the amulet. But after the day I’d had, I was seeing potential trouble everywhere.

Sukie led us through the giant cobweb of orange and black streamers, introducing us to people as we went. John was commandeered almost at once by Deputy Police Chief Danville and Mayor Stevens. He tried to delay the inevitable by telling them he was on his way to the bar, but Danville pointed out they were already in line at the bar, and Sukie stepped in, linking her arm in mine and telling John shop talk was so boring and she would take care of me.

I couldn’t help wondering if, after the contretemps at the last party at our house—the party where I’d tried to redirect the police investigation into the Witch Killer murders—the mayor had asked his wife to keep me out of the way.

John threw me a look of apology. I tugged on my deerstalker in my best, All right, guv’nor.

“You two are so adorable,” Sukie said, towing me along through the vampires and witches and clowns. “He’s absolutely besotted with you.”

“He’s not really the besotted kind,” I felt it necessary to observe.

“He’s besotted with you.”

We ran into Mrs. Danville—It’s Alice, remember?—who was also dressed like a witch. Her flirty little cape was lined with orange. Her sparkly earrings were inverted pentagrams.

“Oh my God. Sherlock Holmes. That’s adorable!” crowed Alice.

“He needs a drink,” Sukie said, trying to draw me on.

Alice had hold of my other arm, and she held me in place. “Has he met—?”

“That’s next on the agenda.” Sukie and Alice exchanged meaningful looks, which made me more uneasy.

We chitchatted for a few minutes—I couldn’t say about what if my life had depended on it—and then we were joined by Ann Morrisey, wife of Police Chief Morrisey.

Ann was also dressed like a witch—purple-lined flirty cape, inverted pentagram ring—and my heart sank.

Ann asked if I still enjoyed married life and whether Sergeant Bergamasco was a regular fixture in my household. I replied yes to the former and no to the latter. She asked if I had been worried to learn that Ciara Reitherman was out on bail, and I said no. I didn’t think Ciara posed a danger to me or John. She asked what I had heard about Chris Huntingdon, and I said I had heard nothing. As far as I knew, he was still rooming at Atascadero State Hospital.

Ann said to Sukie, “Has Cosmo met—?”

Sukie said, “Great minds think alike!”

By now I was pretty sure who the mysterious someone the First Wives Club wanted me to meet was, and far from being pleased at the opportunity to meet SFPD’s occult expert, I could feel my tension mounting by the moment.

“Are you talking about Solomon Shimon?”

Their faces lit up. “Then you’ve heard of Solomon?” Sukie said.

“John mentioned that SFPD has its own occult expert.”

They chorused, “Yes!”

Ann said, “But he’s so much more than that.”

That was what I was afraid of.

When I had first learned of Shimon, I’d tried to Google him. Without luck. It isn’t possible to use a forgetting spell on the entire World Wide Web, but witches can pay to have their internet profile scrubbed just like anybody else. The lack of information on Solomon Shimon made me think he was paying to keep his data private. When I’d suggested this to John, he’d been amused.

“You mean like you do?” he’d said.

Which…okay, yes, he had a point. The lack of easily accessible information on Solomon Shimon wasn’t necessarily sinister. But it wasn’t necessarily not sinister either.

Anyway, Sukie and Alice nodded eagerly at Ann’s words.

“Meeting Solomon has changed our lives,” Sukie said. “When we told him about you, he said he had to meet you.”

I asked mildly, “What did you tell him about me?”

“That you’re a witch,” Sukie said. “That you know all kinds of people in the witch community.”

“Which community?” I joked, though I wasn’t remotely amused. However, it was my own fault. At the party John and I had given back in June, I had hinted at a familiarity with Wiccans and the occult that your average citizen doesn’t possess. It had been for a good cause, but in hindsight, not my smartest move. I mean, I had also joked about being pregnant, and no one took that seriously. But it seemed my intimations of arcane knowledge had fallen on more fertile ground.

“How did this, er, meeting of minds happen?” I inquired.

Sukie said, “Solomon teaches at SF State. I was taking his course on Modern Witchcraft. In fact, I’m the one who got him the job at SFPD.”

“Ah-HA!” I exclaimed, and they all giggled at my very bad impression of Sherlock Holmes.

“Where is Solomon?” Ann asked.

“I don’t see him…” Alice craned her head, scanning the packed room.

“That’s funny.” Sukie was frowning. “I spotted him by the punch bowl literally just a minute ago.” She glanced at me. “He said he couldn’t wait to meet you.”

“Maybe there was a police emergency.” I was only partly kidding. The memory of Eddie Darquez was never far from my thoughts. I thought it was very likely that Eddie’s body art was eventually going to attract the attention of SFPD’s occult expert.

They smiled, but clearly Solomon’s disappearing act was a disappointment. It was sort of a disappointment to me too, but it was also a relief. I felt like there was already more in my altar bowl than I could deal with.

My initial concern had been that Solomon Shimon was a Wiccan priest using his position at SFPD to gather high-society acolytes. Now I had to wonder if his sudden disappearance meant he had recognized me—and that he knew I would recognize him.

Which could mean a couple of things. Perhaps he was a member of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm. I had suspected for some time that someone at City Hall was feeding information to the SPMMR. On the other hand, I only knew a couple of members of the SPMMR, so it seemed unlikely I would recognize Shimon on sight.

Which left the far more alarming possibility. That Shimon knew me because he was Craft. And that he knew I would recognize him not simply as Craft, but as someone from my own tradition.

I did not want to believe that. But the more I thought about it, the more I feared that Solomon Shimon was a member of the Abracadantès.