“You said plenty. I’m just not sure what any of it means.”
“You never know with these things. Often the meaning is revealed over time.”
“I just hope that time comes sooner rather than later,” I said.
Hervé stood and brushed off his clothes while I gathered my stones and tea lights. I used a small whisk broom to sweep up the salts, hoping that whatever residue remained behind wouldn’t interfere with an ongoing police investigation. Shawn said the forensics unit had already come and gone, but still. I probably should have run this one past Carlos.
I repacked the supplies in my backpack and picked up the shoe box; then Hervé and I made our way down the circular stairs. Shawn was fast asleep on the couch in the front parlor, so I left the room key on the desk and we let ourselves out.
The night was chilly, with a thick blanket of fog blowing in off the bay; I shivered, pulling my cardigan tight. When would I learn to take a coat whenever I was out at night in San Francisco, no matter how warm the day?
A group of five people about Shawn’s age laughed and feigned screaming as they ran across the street. Traffic was light compared with daytime, but nonetheless there were a good number of cars cruising the street. It always surprised me that San Francisco had so many people out at night, despite the fact that most restaurants closed by nine thirty. San Francisco was not New York City.
Hervé escorted me to my car and lingered while I stashed my supplies in the trunk. I let out a sigh, feeling decidedly defeated.
“You know this is how it works, Lily. The spirits aren’t known for their clear signs. You need more pieces of the puzzle before things start to fall into place.”
“I know. It’s just that . . . Well, Sailor’s in jail.”
“Sailor? What for?”
“He’s the main suspect for this murder.”
“This murder? The one in room two seventeen?”
I nodded, glumly.
Hervé paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know Sailor well, Lily, but I know this: I felt the sensations in that room. Sailor is not capable of that degree of violence or unbridled ambition. Whatever was in that room with Tristan wasn’t some normal guy caught up in the moment.”
I almost laughed. Talk about a good news/bad news scenario. The good news: My fiancé wasn’t a murderer. The bad news: The murderer was an ambitious psychopath and I had to track him down. Oh, goody.
“Anyway,” I said, ready to change the subject, “did you get your invitation to the handfasting?”
“It’s on my calendar. Selena dropped by my shop today—she’s so excited to be in the wedding. She said something about trying on bridesmaid dresses with you tomorrow.”
Dangitall. I had totally forgotten. Another lapse in memory. This wasn’t like me. “Yes, of course. I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re confident you’ll be able to spring Sailor in time for the nuptials? I’d hate for her to be disappointed.”
“We’d all be just a tad disappointed. And anyway, I don’t have any other choice. Sailor didn’t do this, Hervé. I just have to find out who did, and figure out how to prove Sailor’s innocence.”
“Exonerate Sailor and find the real killer. How hard could that be, right?” Hervé chuckled, his voice sonorous.
“That about sums it up.”
A siren wailed in the distance, and several people emerged from the theater next door. Show must be over.
“If I can help, you know where to find me. But, Lily, you mentioned your grandmother’s coven is on their way into town. Couldn’t they be of assistance with this sort of thing?”
“They’re taking a rather circuitous route. Besides, they’re all in their seventies and eighties, so I’m not sure how helpful they’ll be with the actual running-after-a-murderer part. Also . . . my mother is on that bus.”
He nodded sagely. “Mother issues. They’re the worst.”
I smiled. “My familiar said that very thing this morning.”
His eyebrows rose. “Your pig talks?”
“I . . . might have interpreted that. You know how it is.” Watch it, Lily. Only Sailor, Aidan, and Selena knew about Oscar’s true form, and it was best that way. Since I had started feeling at home, making friends, creating family, I had been letting my guard down.
Or was it more than that? I had been losing track of conversations, talking to myself, letting things slip.
I sneezed.
“Coming down with something?” Hervé asked.
I shook my head.
“My wife swears by zinc and echinacea, but personally, I think industrial-strength DayQuil’s the only thing that works.”
“Thanks. But I’m not getting a cold. I don’t get colds.”
He chuckled. “Of course not. But if you do, DayQuil’s the ticket.”
* * *
? ? ?
By the time I got home, I was exhausted, worried, and no closer to figuring out what was going on, much less how to exonerate Sailor. Walking into the kitchen, I was relieved to see Oscar snuggled in a nest of blankets in his cubby above the refrigerator, snoring away. At least I didn’t have to worry about his being out and about.
I yearned for bed, but was so worried about Sailor that I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. So I rose to my tiptoes to reach a high shelf, and grasped a thick old tome covered in faded red leather: my ancient Book of Shadows.
I had inherited the witchcraft manual from Graciela, who had inherited it from her own grandmother. It was chock-full of spells and incantations, wise words, articles clipped from newspapers—including a few from the Jarod Weekly Clarion that accused me of creating havoc at that snake-handling fiasco. I flipped through the yellowed pages, running my fingers along paper made soft from frequent handling, not seeking anything in particular. But every once in a while my Book of Shadows would offer me subtle advice; a familiar spell might be changed ever so slightly, or I would notice a new addition that was useful for my particular situation.
This time my eyes fell on a passage I’d read before, dealing with human-demon alliances:
A daemonic allegiance is oft betrayed by an outward manifestation of youth and vigour. The maturation of the individual is slowed by the hand of vile iniquity belonging to the servant of the Devil. The soul of the wretch, enmeshed by vanity and greed, is in such manner seduced by the blandishments of an abiding beauty. Alas! doth the sufferer fall victim to the foul trickery of the daemon, the better to employ the truckling knave.
Huh.
Other than that, the old red leather tome remained mute, except for a quote I hadn’t noticed before: Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.
At the moment, anything that mentioned the world being over sounded a tad ominous, what with prophecies being bandied about, and all. Still, it was a good sentiment to keep in mind, I supposed.
I flipped through to some clippings from my time in Germany. None of them mentioned Dupree specifically, but they reminded me of that time in my life. Of my father, and a terrible fire that consumed an old manor house.
In the bedroom the suitcase was still splayed open on my bed, so I rummaged through the manila envelope of clippings. I found only one mention of Tristan, in which he was described as “Tristan Dupree, aged 45. Resident of Füssen, Bavaria.”
Tristan had looked much younger than midforties when I knew him in Germany, I thought. I would have guessed he was in his thirties. In fact, when he stood at my door yesterday, he still looked as if he were in his thirties. But if the newspaper article was correct, Tristan would have been sixty today. Also, I remembered that Dupree seemed to know who Carlos was this morning, even though he hadn’t been introduced. Not aging and knowing things he shouldn’t . . .
Had Dupree made a deal with a demon?