Chapter Eleven

 

So that was the weekend—and then came Monday.

Cold, wet, foggy Monday.

On the bright side, Blanche showed up with a box of donuts from Donut Farm, Ambrose showed up and I was able to hand over Maman’s box of charms and potions, and my father finally returned my increasingly frantic phone calls.

“What’s the urgency, Cosmo?” Father demanded. “Make it quick.” His voice sounded small and very far away. In the distance I could hear a female voice issuing dictates from on high.

“Are you in an airport?” I asked.

“I’m at Boston Logan. My flight is about to board.”

“Are you on your way to Paris?”

“Of course. What is it you need?”

“Maman instructed me to tell you she’s been summoned before le Conseil Savant.”

My father, not known for his patience, roared, “I know all that! Does the woman think I live in a cave?”

Welllll… She’s more than once suggested he has the manners of a bear, so perhaps.

I opted for diplomacy. “She said you would know what to do.”

“Yes. I know what to do,” my father shouted. “Not miss my flight!”

Presumably, he just clicked off, but it sounded like he slammed down the phone—or possibly blew up the entire network.

 

 

I was enjoying my second orange creamsicle donut and studying SF State’s schedule of courses—Solomon Shimon did not have any Monday classes or office hours—when Andi phoned.

“How did it go yesterday?” Her tone was tentative.

I was glad to be able to reassure her. “It was good. We talked. Really talked. I finally feel like maybe I’m not still on probation.”

“Probation?” She was instantly offended, and I understood that.

“Maybe that’s the wrong word. I believe John really does accept me as I am. I know now that he’s not going to walk out the minute I screw up.”

Really, she didn’t like that a whole heck of a lot better, and I understood that too, but it was also the truth that for the first time in my marriage to John, I didn’t feel like he loved me in spite of who and what I was.

I hadn’t realized how dark a shadow my insecurity had cast until this morning. Despite the gloomy weather and the alarming rate at which my assorted worries were piling up, I felt an unfamiliar sense of peace. Of certainty.

At least where John and I were concerned.

“I have news too,” Andy said a little ominously.

“Oh?”

“Trace asked me to marry him last night.”

I said carefully, “But you knew that was coming.”

Her voice shot up in very un-Andi-like agitation. “Not this soon I didn’t!”

I winced. “You guys have been dating steadily as long as John and I have been married.”

“That’s not that long, Cosmo!”

“Okay. Well. True. But you love him, right?”

“That’s beside the point!” Her voice wobbled dangerously. “You know it’s beside the point. You know my feelings about…” Andi’s voice cracked.

I felt her pain like my own. I still tried to argue. “How can it be beside the point?”

“Love is not the most important thing in the world!”

“Then what is?”

“How should I know! Duty. Honor. Tradition. We’ve taken our vows to put the needs of the sacred circle above the needs of the one.”

“Andi, there is nowhere in the Ten Precepts that says we can’t marry a mortal. In fact, it used to not be that uncommon.”

“Used to not be that uncommon is not common! We don’t live in the fifteenth century. It’s not common now. I can’t marry someone I’m going to have to spend my entire life lying to. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

“You could try telling him the truth.”

She gasped. “Really, Cos? You of all people?” and hung up on me.

 

 

Strike two. My best friend thought I was an insensitive jerk, and I couldn’t pay a visit to Solomon Shimon until tomorrow at the earliest. I decided to concentrate on something I could control, and spent the morning paying invoices, returning customer phone calls, checking the newspapers for upcoming estate sales, and selecting a few of our own treasures for markdown.

From my office I could hear customers come and go, hear the occasional comforting chime of the antique cash register, hear Blanche and Ambrose chatting companionably as they worked.

At lunchtime I headed over to Our Lady of the Green Veil to continue reading The Lady in the Lake—Raymond Chandler, not Lord Tennyson—to my friend Rex who was still in a coma after falling victim to a hit-and-run in early June. The accident—if it was an accident—had occurred the night of my wedding rehearsal dinner. A street person claimed that a black Mercedes Benz had deliberately run Rex down, but there had been no corroborating witnesses, and without a license plate number or a description of the driver, the police had made no progress on the case.

Although I’d known Rex for years and we’d traveled around Europe together after I’d graduated from college, I’d had no idea they were a private investigator until the accident. Rex had no romantic or business partner to tell us what they had been working on, so it was still a mystery whether the accident-that-might-not-be-an-accident was work-related. All along I’d suspected that Rex might have fallen victim to the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm, but that was partly because I’d only recently learned about the society’s existence, and because Ralph Grindlewood, who I knew was a member, drove a black Mercedes Benz.

In other words, it was pure speculation on my part. Lots of people drove black Mercedes Benzes, my mother included.

Anyway, four months later, Rex was still in a coma. Immediately following the accident, I and other friends had linked to create a healing sphere around Rex to give their body time to heal in stasis, but the protection of the spell had ended with the autumn equinox. If Rex did not soon awaken, their spirit would depart and their body would fade from the world.

In the meantime, all I and other friends could do was take turns sitting by their bedside, talking and reading and, yes, praying. The doctors remained hopeful but noncommittal as to whether Rex would ever regain consciousness.

I was back at Blue Moon Antiques when John phoned early afternoon to say he would be working late that night, but did I want to meet him for dinner at Brenda’s French Soul Food? I did and said so, and John said he’d see me at six.

I called Jinx to let her know John and I wouldn’t be home for dinner, and she said no problem, she was meeting friends.

She added, “And you can tell John, no, he doesn’t know them.”

“You know, he is trying,” I said.

“I know. It’s even more irritating.”

I couldn’t help laughing, though it made me a little sad that Jinx and John were still so far from détente.

 

 

Maybe it was the visit to Rex or maybe I was clutching at straws, but late afternoon, I got the sudden idea to pay Ralph Grindlewood a visit.

When I’d opened Blue Moon Antiques, Ralph had been one of my best customers. I’d eventually even come to think of him as a friend. Naturally, this was before I’d discovered the existence of SPMMR or Ralph’s involvement. In fact, I had been naive enough to assume his unusual knowledge of witches and Craft meant he was sympathetic, an ally. It was galling to remember that I had talked and confided in him about Craft matters as if he had been a true friend.

Ralph insisted he was a friend.

But the goals of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm were not compatible with the goals of Craft in general or the Abracadantès in particular.

All the same, I thought Ralph might have some insights about what was beginning to seem like a rogue witch operation aimed at harming mortals. After all, his whole raison d’être was to keep mortals safe from witches. And he was very much tapped into the city’s preternatural undercurrents.

I told Blanche and Ambrose I’d be out for an hour or so and popped over to upper north Berkeley. Ralph lives in a renovated craftsman bungalow on Virginia Street. He works mostly from home, although he does guest lectures on the occult at colleges and universities now and then, so I knew the chances of finding him at home were high—and I was correct.

A cheery Halloween witch wreath, complete with crushed hat and crooked legs, hung on Ralph’s front door. I was not amused.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Halloween. Samhain is one of the Greater Sabbats. Halloween is a mortal holiday. They’re quite different. But Halloween is the time of year when mortals seem to look upon witches with greater tolerance, even affection. Little kids in costumes are cute and what’s not to love about free candy?

Ralph looked surprised when he answered the door, but unlike Oliver, the surprise seemed to give way to genuine pleasure.

“Cosmo. Come in. I was just thinking about phoning you.”

“Were you?”

Ralph led the way into an airy living room with bay windows, slate-colored wood floors, and a pale tile fireplace. The house was done entirely in restful tones of gray and white and taupe—much like Ralph himself.

“Yes. I was thinking you might like to get together for drinks or dinner one night.”

Ralph is a well put-together fifty. He’s tall and thin and not exactly handsome, but there’s something about him women find irresistible. He always has some lovely young thing in the picture and, as far as I can tell, they remain friendly with him after he’s moved on to still greener pastures. His eyes are blue, warm, and intelligent. His hair’s sandy and thinning at the sides.

“Maybe too soon,” I said.

He looked surprised. “Is it? I wasn’t aware we were on the outs.”

The outs. That made my lips twitch.

“Well, you did pretend to be a friend when in fact—”

“But we are friends. Of course we’re friends.”

“It’s hard to remain friends when you’re opposed to everything I believe.”

“Now that’s not true.” Ralph’s tone was easy, amused. “We share many common ideas and beliefs about any number of things, including the use of magic in the mortal realm.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

“Cosmo, this is really troubling,” he interrupted, and he sounded sincere. “I’m not your enemy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Yes, we sometimes find ourselves on opposite sides of…of certain issues, but I believe we’re more often on the same side.”

“Well, if that’s case, how do you know Solomon Shimon?”

Ralph hesitated, and I realized my shot in the dark had hit home. He said, “He teaches at San Francisco State. I met him when I was lecturing there a few years ago.”

I smiled. “He’s your informant at City Hall.”

Ralph blinked but recovered instantly. “I won’t deny that Solomon and I are friends, as you and I are friends. He does discuss his cases now and then. Not ongoing investigations, of course.”

“Sure he does,” I said. “I know he does. And if you’re serious about remaining friends, you shouldn’t lie to me.”

Ralph pursed his lips, considered, and shrugged. “You’re right. We shouldn’t lie to each other. It’s not a friendly thing to do.” He gestured for me to sit, and I took my place on the short taupe-colored sofa. “Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee? Juice?”

“No thank you. I know that SPMMR has actual members of the Craft working with you.”

Ralph took the chair across from me. “Yes, of course. You’re not unique in your belief that magic has no place in the mortal realm. We do have allies within the Craft.”

“Shimon is one of them.”

Ralph opened his mouth, but I forestalled his denial. “I know he is. I know he’s Abracadantès.”

Ralph’s pleasant expression never changed. He didn’t say a word.

“I also know he’s built or is building a coven of women married to high-ranking city officials, which to me seems like it would be at odds with the aims of SPMMR, but maybe not, because Valenti was doing something similar and you didn’t seem to have a problem with it.”

“I miss Valenti very much,” Ralph commented. “She moved back to the Southland, sadly.”

“Sadly for the Southland.”

Ralph’s mouth quirked. “Your view of the poor girl is bound to be jaundiced.”

“Bound to be,” I agreed. I considered Ralph as he sat there with his long fingers steepled, his expression thoughtful as he considered me right back. “I also know—well, I don’t know this for a fact, but I suspect that Shimon is part of this blackmail scheme—”

“Now there you’re wrong,” Ralph interrupted, thereby confirming I’d correctly guessed the rest of it.

Surprise held me silent—I really had been mostly guessing—and Ralph continued, “SPMMR has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with this abhorrent extortion racket. We want this person or persons caught just as much as you do. Our own members have been victimized.”

“So you do know about the blackmail?”

He frowned. “I’ve just said our own members are being victimized. Naturally, our assumption was Craft was behind it.”

“Naturally.”

Ralph’s brows drew together. “You’re offended, but isn’t that your own assumption? Isn’t that what you were getting at?”

Well, yes. Except I was viewing Shimon as a renegade witch working with mortals. Mortals who I believed were most likely SPMMR. I wasn’t viewing this as an official Craft operation. First of all, getting all of witchdom to work together on anything is all but impossible. Which is why, despite our obvious advantages, witches don’t rule the world.

“How many in your organization have been victims?”

Ralph hedged. “After all, to be blackmailed, you have to have done something you would pay to keep secret. Something embarrassing or even illegal.”

“Exactly.”

“Not many. For any to fall prey to such a scheme is shocking.”

“How many?” I insisted.

“Let us say…more than one, fewer than five.”

“Hm.” That was nice and vague. “Maybe you want this person or persons caught, Ralph. I don’t think you can speak for your entire organization. You’ve been wrong before. You were sure wrong about Chris.”

Ralph looked pained. “That was a very different situation.”

“Not really. Witches and mortals working together to cause greater harm.”

“No, but think,” he protested. “Think what you’re suggesting. The entire mission of SPMMR is to protect the mortal realm from the influence of magic. How could we then justify working with witches to harm innocent mortals in order to effect the change we desire?”

“The ends justify the means. That’s not one of our Precepts. People manage to justify all kinds of things. You already admitted you have witches working with you.”

He shook his head, and he did really seem distressed. “Working together to prevent harm—to prevent harm to witches as well as mortals, by the way. Blackmail isn’t…blackmail is… Whoever is doing this has no greater purpose. This is extortion, plain and simple. It’s loathsome criminal behavior meant to profit some evil person or persons.”

“Then how do you explain—”

“A false-flag operation,” Ralph exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair. “It has to be.”

I didn’t bother to hide my skepticism.

The term false flags originated back in the (all things being relative) golden days of piracy when enterprising buccaneers hit on the strategy of flying the national flag of a targeted ship until they got close enough to attack, at which time the false flag would be taken down and the Jolly Roger run up.

The idea of a false-flag operation had flitted through my mind, but I’d dismissed it as unlikely. I still thought it was unlikely.

“A false-flag operation run by whom for what purpose?”

“To discredit SPMMR!” Ralph’s eyes blazed with excitement. “To turn against us those within the Craft who are sympathetic to mortals.”

“I hate to break it to you: the Craft is already against you.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “More specifically, to turn you against us.”

“Me?” I scowled. “I’m also against you.”

“But you’re not,” he insisted. “You’ve been trying to live a mortal life. You married a mortal.”

“Just so you know, the trying to live a mortal life isn’t working out for me.” It was the first time I’d admitted it to myself, but there it was. Time to face facts.

He waved that away. “You love a mortal. True?”

“Yes. True.”

“One day you’ll be L’ermite. You’ll reign over the most powerful of all traditions: the Abracadantès Witch King.”

I shuddered at the idea, and not just because Witch King is a vulgar term. So is Witch Queen, for that matter, but that one has slipped into vernacular.

“Maybe.” I remembered the ordeal my mother was facing perhaps at this very minute, and had to tamp down that surge of instant and extreme anxiety. What if Ralph was right? What if witches were the real targets?

Except…

I shook my head. “No. Sorry. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not logical. We aren’t the ones being attacked. Mortals are the victims here.”

Ralph said, “That’s why it’s a false-flag operation.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Well, I admit I don’t see the complete pattern yet.”

I sighed.

“But I know I’m correct,” Ralph insisted.

“That’s what they all say, Ralph. All the religious maniacs, all the persecutors of those who’re different …” My voice faded as a new and alarming thought occurred to me.

I had been viewing the situation from the usual angle of mortals trying to harm witches, and of course that scenario made no sense because witches were not being harmed.

What if I was looking at this backward?

What if witches were harming mortals?

What if the plan was exactly what it appeared? That some within the Craft were tired of mortal interference, mortal persecution, mortals in general? What if the efforts of the Society for Prevention of Magic in the Mortal Realm was the final straw?

What if witches were indeed victimizing mortals? Ralph had already admitted some of the victims had been club members.

“What?” Ralph demanded. His eyes were intent. “You’ve thought of something. I can tell.”

I stared at him. If I was right, I could not share this theory with Ralph. In fact, Ralph was one of the last people I could discuss this with. If SPMMR knew that witches were actively targeting mortals, they would escalate their efforts, and the result could be an all-out war between Craft and mortals.

Is that the ultimate goal?

Stricken, I considered this terrible possibility. What if the plan was to incite violence on the part of SPMMR against Craft? That would provide justification for something that all too many within the Craft believed already. That mortals were our enemy and we could never be at peace with them.

But there was still a big difference between never being at peace and being in a full out war.