***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2019 Juliet Blackwell Chapter One A salty, heavy shroud of fog obscures the night. Frigid waters close over my head. Sparks of silvery moonlight dance on the surface of the bay, calling to me. I flail and kick, struggling to lift myself, to breathe sweet air, my arms and legs numb with cold and exhaustion. The cheerful lights of San Francisco peek through the fog, tantalizingly far away; the island behind me is closer, but gleams and pulsates in the light of the full moon like a living, malevolent thing. The Golden Gate is the third point on the triangle, and I am in the center. A foghorn sounds in a mournful cry. Strong currents wrap around my legs, tugging at my feet, pulling me toward the Golden Gate and out to the vast Pacific Ocean.
Lost at sea. Lost forever. I can''t go on. I fear drowning, but remind myself: Witches don''t sink. At least I don''t. I had been in the bay once before and popped up like a cork. But . what about now? Icy fingers grip my ankles, drawing me down.
The water closes over my head again, and I try to scream. "Mistress!" I struggle toward the surface. Fighting, flailing. I have to. I have to. "Mistress!" a gravelly voice called again. "Are you all right? Why are you all wet?" I opened my eyes. I was in my own home, in my own bed.
Safe. Oscar, my ersatz witch''s familiar--a shape-shifting cross between a gargoyle and a goblin--perched on my brass bedstead, leaning over to peer at me. His fearsome face was upside down and his breath smelled vaguely of cheese. Soaked and shivering, I let out a shaky sigh. I wasn''t sweaty from fear, but dripping wet--and smelling of brine--as though I had, indeed, just emerged from the San Francisco Bay. "I had a nightmare," I said. "Yeah, no kiddin''. That''s one heck of a nightmare if you''re manifesting in your sleep.
Were you swimming or something?" Oscar waved a handful of travel brochures under my nose. "Hey, check these out. I think we should go to Barcelona first, maybe." "Oscar, I cannot discuss my honeymoon plans with you at the moment." My brain felt fuzzy. I sat up and glanced at my antique clock on the bedside table. Its hands glowed a mellow, comforting green that cut through the darkness. City lights sifted through my lace curtains, but even raucous Haight Street was hushed at three o''clock in the morning.
"But it''s the witching hour," Oscar whined. "Ideal for spellcasting, not for making travel plans." Oscar cocked his head. "What better time is there?" "In the morning. After coffee. When normal people are awake." "But we''re not ''normal people''--like we''d even want to be, heh!" He chuckled, a raspy sound reminiscent of a rusty saw. I''m Lily Ivory, a natural-born witch from West Texas who wandered the globe for years, searching for a safe place to settle down.
On the advice of a parrot named Barnabas, whom I had met in a bar in Hong Kong, I had come to San Francisco--specifically, to Haight Street--where a witch like me could fit in. I love it here. For the first time in my life I have friends, a community, a home. If only the beautiful City by the Bay weren''t so chock-full of murder and mayhem. Oscar was right, I thought, plucking the soggy nightgown away from my skin. It was unusual to manifest during a dream, to bring a physical object--in this case, water from the bay--from the realm of slumber into the waking world. I shivered again. "Just saying, we''re both awake right now," Oscar continued.
"And not for nothing, but you might want to dry off and maybe put a towel down before you ruin your mattress." Throwing back the covers, I hopped out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Washing away the waters of the bay with lemon verbena soap, I lingered under the hot spray until warmth settled down deep in my core. I emerged from the bathroom to find that Oscar had gone. He had left the travel brochures fanned out in a semicircle atop my comforter, and on the nightstand was a steaming mug of chamomile tea. He had also managed to dry the bed, somehow, and to make it up with fresh sheets. Oscar might not be a typical (read: obedient) witch''s familiar, but he definitely had his moments. Not to mention he had saved my life on more than one occasion.
I sat on the side of the bed, sipped the tea, and picked up a brochure with a glossy photo of Barcelona''s famous Sagrada Família. The next brochure featured the Eiffel Tower, and the last the Voto Nacional de Quito, in Ecuador. I had promised Oscar he could tag along on my honeymoon so that we could search for his mother, a creature suffering under a curse that transformed her into a gargoyle. The problem was he had no idea where she might be, only that "gargoyles live a long time." I reminded myself to discuss this with my fiancé, Sailor, so that we could come up with a targeted approach before Oscar whipped up an entire world tour for us. Recently it had been difficult for Sailor and me to find the time--and the peace of mind--to talk about much of anything, much less gargoyle-guided tours. I yawned. Speaking of honeymoons, I had a bucketload of decisions to make before the wedding, and more than a few wrinkles to iron out.
My grandmother''s eccentric coven had recently arrived in town; I was about to be married to a beautiful but secretive man--an attachment to whom, I had been warned, might weaken my powers. Oscar kept disappearing to search for his mother even though he was supposed to be helping secure the perfect venue for my upcoming wedding, and recently I had come to realize that instead of one guiding spirit, I had two, and they weren''t getting along, which was messing with my magic. And finally, my beloved adopted city of San Francisco was facing a frustratingly nonspecific existential threat that primarily involved a cupcake lady named Renee. I took another sip of tea. I also still needed to find just the right vintage bridesmaid dresses for my friends Bronwyn and Maya. Under any other circumstance I would have said "Wear what you like!" but the style editor for the San Francisco Chronicle was planning to do a feature on our antique bridal wardrobe, which would be great publicity for my vintage clothing store, Aunt Cora''s Closet. I may be a witch and a soon-to-be bride, but I''m also a small-business owner vying for customers on increasingly competitive Haight Street. I needed the exposure.
I also needed some rest. Grabbing an in fidem venire praesidii amulet off the dresser mirror, I held it in my right hand and walked the perimeter of the bedroom in a clockwise direction, chanting: I have done my day''s work, I am entitled to sweet sleep. I am drawing a line on this carpet, over which you cannot pass. Powers of protection, powers who clear, remove all those who don''t belong here. As I lay back down and switched off the light, waiting for sleep to take me, I couldn''t shake the sensation of the waters closing over my head. It wasn''t like me to have a nightmare. Much less a manifesting nightmare. It was enough to worry a weary witch like me.
Chapter Two The next morning Aunt Cora''s Closet was bursting at the seams with witches. Fourteen elderly women--an entire West Texas coven, plus my mother--crowded the aisles of my shop, searching for glittery garments to rival the silver bugle bead jacket my grandmother Graciela had nabbed from my inventory a few days ago. "The sparklier, the better," said Agatha, pawing through a rack of ''80s-era, padded-shoulder flapper-revival tops. "I want one exactly like Graciela''s, except in blue," said Kay, her thick tortoiseshell glasses magnifying her rheumy eyes to a comical extent as she tilted her head back to examine a royal blue sequined jacket through the bottom of her bifocals. Her beaded glasses chain clicked. "Blue brings out my eyes." "No two vintage items are the same, that''s what makes them so special," MariaGracia said, then added in a loud whisper: "If you want that silver one you can win it from Graciela on pagan poker night." My mother, Maggie, was flipping listlessly through a rack of 1950s sundresses, listening to the goings-on with a slightly bewildered expression.
Not only was my mother not part of the coven, she had only very recently come to approve of magic at all. I couldn''t imagine what the long road trip from Texas had been like for her, given her boisterous, opinionated travel companions. "This one''s nice," said Winona, holding up a bolero jacket encrusted with gemlike rhinestones known as crystal chatons. Their facets reflected the late-morning light streaming in through the store''s street-front display windows. "It''s purple, that''s my color." "That''s not purple, it''s eggplant," said Caroline in an imperious tone, tucking her subtly highlighted blond hair behind one ear as she studied a full-length silk charmeuse evening gown. "Purple, eggplant, what''s the difference?" Winona shrugged. "And that, my dear, is why you''ve never mastered color magic," quipped Caroline.
"Well, at least I can work with a pendulum without breaking a black mirror," muttered Winona, slipping some cheesy crackers to Oscar, who was currently in his public guise as my pet Vietnamese miniature potbellied pig. The thirteen coven members were women of a certain age: Darlene, Winona, Betty, Caroline, Iris, Kay, MariaGracia, Nan, Pepper, Rosa, Viv, Agatha, and, of course, my grandmother Graciela. They represented all sizes and colo.