“I told you, children make you susceptible, vulnerable. I wanted to leave, but your father begged me to stay while you were there, to help protect you. One night, it was unseasonably hot, with thunderstorms moving through, one after another. At three a.m., the witching hour, while you and I were sleeping, your father called on the demons in an attempt to vanquish them once and for all. But the creatures had grown strong, and at least one escaped the circle.
“You woke me, telling me there were terrible sounds coming from the locked study—the demons were laughing and taunting, demanding your father surrender you to them. I locked you in your room. When the screams began in the study, I managed to break down the door and went to your father’s aid, hoping our combined powers would be enough to overcome the demons, to save your father, to save you. By then the other demons had escaped your father’s spell. We fought the rest of the night. It was horrific.”
“Then how did . . . how did it turn out?”
“You joined us in our fight. We were exhausted. We had been fighting for hours by that time, and just as the rays of the sun appeared in the window, the door swung open on its broken hinges, and there you stood. The demons crowed—a hard, triumphant sound. I can still hear it. They were sure they had won. I thought so, too. I felt your father’s strength ebbing away, and mine as well. But none of us, it seems, had counted on you.”
“What did I do?”
“You honestly don’t remember this part? Even after we melded our magic yesterday?”
I shook my head.
“You rushed to your father’s side, took his hand and mine, and started chanting, melding our powers. The demons began screaming, shaking the house in their fury and starting fires in the four corners. If they could kill us before we vanquished them, all three of our souls would belong to them. The demons had grown weaker but continued to fight, and as the fire spread, we were running out of time. Your father ordered me to get you out, to save you. I tried to pull you out of the room, but you were still chanting and fighting them. You were crying, refusing to leave.”
“I don’t cry.”
“You did cry.”
“Then what?”
“Your father told you he despised you, and your weakness. He told you he had already made an agreement with the demons, for strength. For power. As fire engulfed the room, I was finally able to pull you to safety. We were both burned, but I was able to get you to a safe house in Bavaria, and some friends contacted your grandmother. She was able to heal you from afar, along with some help.”
“But not you? Why do you have scars, when I don’t?”
“I had to run, no time to heal properly. A struggle with a pack of demons like that—it marks you, whether or not you wind up pledging allegiance to their power. I’m not beholden to the demons, but I paid a steep price for my freedom.”
“Where was this safe house? Who helped me?”
“As I said, your grandmother and her coven were able to do much of the healing from afar.”
“But where was the house?”
“It was hardly luxury accommodations—more like a basement room. With a former student of your father’s who didn’t have enough natural talent to continue his training. After he left, he and I remained in touch. He wasn’t happy about it, but he did help. It was Tristan Dupree.”
Chapter 21
“Tristan helped me?”
“Tristan’s mother had a number of magical abilities, and she was very good at glamours—in fact, I learned a lot from her. But as much as he tried, Tristan never lived up to her promise. But he did help you, at least at first.”
“And my father?”
“As you know, he survived the fire. During the battle, he pledged his allegiance to one of the demons, and the demon wanted him alive. You healed, and forgot the whole thing. I escaped here, to San Francisco.”
“Why San Francisco?”
“Why not?”
“No, I just meant . . . was there some special reason you chose the City by the Bay?”
He smiled. “Besides the weather? Of course. Because of the prophecy.”
“The prophecy which says a witch like me is going to come to San Francisco?”
“It’s slightly more complicated than that. The prophecy had to do with a witch able to provide a conduit for other powerful witches—in other words, not just your guiding spirit, the Ashen Witch, but others. This witch would form one half of the coincidentia oppositorum, and I, of course, hoped to provide the other half. And then she would go up against a primal force of evil. Unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Unless she herself was seduced to the other side. In exchange for power, or self-interest. In your case I imagine your weakness would have more to do with trying to ‘save’ loved ones, that sort of thing.”
“Caring for other people isn’t a weakness; it’s a strength.”
“Sounds like somebody’s been reading some Bay Area–style New Age literature. Of course caring for others is a strength in normal humans, Lily. What you don’t seem to have grasped yet is that you’re not a normal human. You need to be worried about the state of people in general, not one person in particular.”
“Uh-huh. And what if I’m not wild about becoming the queen of the witches, or whatever this position is officially called?”
“It’s not like running for office, Lily. You don’t get to just decline.”
“I don’t even believe in prophecies.”
Aidan let out a long breath, and took another sip of wine. “Tell you what: when your grandmother’s coven arrives, why don’t you chat about it with them? See what they have to say?”
I nodded. Good idea. Silence reigned for a few moments. The waiter came with the food: a paella valenciana served in a huge flat pan. Bright yellow saffron rice was studded with mussels, clams, and crab.
“So, how do you go on, after battling a host of demons?” I asked him.
“In your case, you block the memories entirely. But I wasn’t so lucky. I was in bad shape when I arrived, physically, mentally, and spiritually. An amazing woman helped me, brought me back to life. She was trying to hold the Bay Area magical community together, and passed that responsibility on to me. And then things ratcheted up, becoming increasingly dire. As I told you, I believe the surge in energy has to do with you, or at least with your arrival here in San Francisco.”
“Hard to believe this all started with a parrot in a bar,” I muttered as I dug into my paella.
“Excuse me?”
I shrugged. “I was just thinking about the decisions we make in life, how they bring us to where we are today.”
He smiled. “Waxing philosophical, are we?”
“A little, I guess.
“Are you a Dickens fan?”
“Well . . . I’m not not a Dickens fan.”
“‘Pause and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.’”
“That’s Dickens?”
He nodded and plucked a clam from the paella. “From Great Expectations. Wonderful novel. All about expectations, as the title would suggest.”
I sighed. “I admire people who can memorize things. I usually think of myself as having a good memory, but the only actual scripts I remember are my spells.”
“Seems to me that’s more than enough.”
“I don’t know. . . . I’m feeling so off, lately.”
“With your brewing as well?”
I nodded. “Do you really think Jamie’s telling the truth, that Renee slipped me something, and that’s why I’m feeling like this?”
“Possibly. But as I said, it could be a simple cold—or it could be connected to your upcoming wedding. I told you your relationship to Sailor would make you vulnerable.”
“I thought you meant in the sense of having my energies divided, not catching a cold. You know what we could use right now?” I asked. “A mandragora. Mandragoras are great at sniffing out spells and strange ingredients in food. Whatever happened to the one I made you?”
“I gave it away as a gift.”
“You told me you wanted it as a household imp, that you were lonely.”
“Did I?”
“Who did you give it to?”
“A gentleman never tells. Anyway, back to the important point: I find it interesting that your brewing has been affected, and now your familiar’s out of commission.”