I nodded, a bit stunned. I’d always lumped psychics in with magical folk, but what she said made sense.
“But my point is this: Because psychics aren’t magical per se, we can draw a sigil without summoning a demon. My aunt Renna, on the other hand, would have to be as careful as you are. She’s great at hexing, that sort of thing, as you well know.”
“Okay, important safety tip. But I still doubt that this image is a demon’s sigil.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I think my grandmother’s coven is taking a circuitous route on purpose, making this symbol. I can’t imagine why they would do that.”
“I don’t know a lot about demons, but aren’t there some good ones?”
“Good ones?”
“Helpful ones. I mean, students used to call on demons to help them with their studies, or artists called on them for creativity. Things like that, right?”
“I’m no demonologist, either, but you’re right that people sometimes call on demons for help. It’s tricky, though. They’re only helpful if they’re kept in line, and that’s no easy task. Almost always, those who summon demons aren’t powerful enough to control them, and so the demon ends up turning the tables and controlling the person, instead.” I gazed down at the symbol, and shook my head. “No, I think it’s more likely something else. Could it be some sort of protective sign?”
“You’re the witch. You tell me.”
“I hate to say it, but I guess it’s time to go to Aidan for help. I need to ask him if he knows what the sign is, and . . .” I sneezed.
She fixed me with a hawkeye. “You might want to try some of those Chinese herbs for colds.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get colds.”
“Uh-huh.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. My thoughts wandered back to Sailor’s apartment, wondering what Carlos would find and how I might gain access to whatever he found. Patience was staring at the tabletop, arranging crystals of table salt into little patterns. Good thing she really wasn’t magical, I thought, or merely by drawing things in salt, she might wind up spellcasting by accident.
She looked up at me. “I don’t suppose the point of all this could be to get you out of the picture?”
“Me?”
“Maybe someone’s trying to keep you occupied and therefore out of the way.”
“Out of the way of what?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “But didn’t that weasel with the cupcakes—”
“Jamie.”
“Whatever. Didn’t he say Tristan came to San Francisco to work with Renee-the-cupcake-lady?”
I had wondered about that as well. Could Tristan really have been the male practitioner to Renee’s female? Had he been after the lachrymatory in the shoe box? A contribution to her collection of grief and tears, an offering to her foundation of power?
“So maybe now she’s angry with you, sending cupcakes and a fake Sailor to confuse you and keep you busy. Out of her way.”
“But wait,” I said. “The Sailor look-alike killed Tristan, right? If Renee is manipulating the look-alike, and she wanted to make Tristan her male counterpart, then why would the look-alike kill Tristan?”
“Good point.” She sat back, defeated. “So much for playing junior detective. I need another drink.”
“Have one—you’ve more than earned it,” I said. “But I have to get back to the store, plus I’ve got an appointment at four to look at some wedding dresses.”
Patience let out a bark of laughter. “You really are a piece of work. You outrun a Sailor look-alike one moment and try on wedding dresses the next?”
“At this juncture, it would feel good to cross one single item off my to-do list. Anyway, lend me money for a cab?”
“A cab in San Francisco? Dream on. You’ll be waiting an hour. I’ll get the food to go, and call us a Lyft. I’ll go back with you.”
Before we left, I asked Patience to pick up the napkin with the sigil on it and place it in the center of my old-fashioned embroidered cotton handkerchief. Then I tied the handkerchief’s corners together, wrapping the napkin up so I wouldn’t physically touch it.
“Why are we doing this?” she asked.
“I don’t want to take any chances in case it really is a demon’s sigil. If I carry it on my person, I might accidentally invoke it.”
She looked skeptical. “How does a person ‘accidentally’ invoke a demon? I would think it would be pretty complicated.”
“For a normal person, sure. But I think we both know I’m not particularly normal. You know how, in moments of stress, a person might pray or say, ‘Oh please oh please oh please’?”
She nodded.
“When I do that, I could focus my intent enough to set off a chain of events I didn’t fully intend. It’s been known to happen.”
“So you’re like a ticking time bomb ready to go off.”
“I have the sense neither of us walks the easiest path.”
Once we got back to Haight Street, Patience left to speak with Renna and ask if she was able to see anything useful, as well as to make sure as many Rom were lined up to help as she could get. As Patience sashayed down the street, her swishing skirts turning plenty of heads, I realized I was glad to have her on my side. On Sailor’s side, to be more precise, as I was fairly certain she wouldn’t go out of her way to help just me. But that was good enough. All I wanted right now was to get Sailor out of jail, figure out what the hell was going on, and find a wedding dress.
I glanced at my watch. I had just enough time to check in with the gang at Aunt Cora’s Closet, and then head over to the estate sale. Fingers crossed, one of the dresses would be perfect. That way I’d be all set—just in case I could find a way to spring my man from jail in time for the handfasting.
I always love coming into my shop, to be greeted by the hustle and bustle of business and by the scents of fresh laundry and the rosemary and lavender sachets I hung on the rods. But on a day like today that sensation was multiplied many times over. The shop was crowded, but not with customers. Selena was there, along with Bronwyn and her boyfriend, Duke; Conrad and his friend Shalimar; Maya and her cousins Kareem and Richard.
“Lily!” Bronwyn called out, as she hurried over and gave me a big hug. “I’m so glad to see you safe. What in the world is going on?”
“I, uh . . . ran into an old acquaintance,” I said, though my attention was diverted by Oscar. Instead of greeting me as he usually did, he was lying on his silk pillow and making strange sounds.
“What’s wrong with Oscar?” I asked.
“He’s been doing that for a while. I’m starting to get worried about our little guy,” said Maya. “It sounds sort of like that hollow cough that dogs get.”
A loud, indignant snort, emanating from the direction of the purple silk pillow, expressed Oscar’s displeasure at being compared to a dog. Then the sounds began again.
It didn’t sound like kennel cough to me, though. It sounded like he was giggling—in a porcine sort of way. What was up with him?
Unless . . . it wasn’t Oscar? What if Oscar had a look-alike, too? I could only imagine the havoc it could wreak. Was a look-alike spirit capable of copying any individual it chose, or did every person—and gobgoyle—have his or her own unique counterpart?
“Sailor’s lawyer called back,” Maya said.
Dang, I’d hoped to speak with him.
“He left a message,” Maya continued, handing me a note saying there was an arraignment scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten.
I tried Petulengro’s number, but got voice mail again. I made a face, then saw Maya was watching me.
“I know, I know,” I said as I hung up. “I really need to get a cell phone.”
“I’m just saying . . . you run around town a lot, so it’s hard for folks to get in touch.” Maya gestured with her head and I followed her into the back room for privacy. We spoke in hushed tones. “Lily, I don’t understand. You’re saying there really is a Sailor look-alike walking the streets of San Francisco?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “I just . . . I’m not sure how to explain it to everyone.”
Maya nodded slowly. “How about an evil twin?”