an
ugly
stick.”
During the day, downstairs in the shop, Oscar is a run-of-the-mill miniature potbellied pig. But in the privacy of our apartment over the store, he shifts to his normal guise, a kind of a cross between a gargoyle and a goblin. He has oversized hands, taloned feet, and big batlike ears. His eyes gleam like green glass, in stark contrast to his gray-green scaly skin.
“Thanks for the floor show,” I said with a sigh, studying the little doll. I had set it out on a black cloth, drawn a circle of salt around it, and surrounded it with a varietyof protective stones: carnelian, lapis lazuli, Apache tear, Tiger’s Eye, and hematite. “I guess you’re right: it really
is
about as ugly as homemade sin.”
“Ugly as a mud fence.”
I smiled. Oscar had a knack for imitation, and he’d been taking note of my Texas twang and sayings, mimicking me with uncanny accuracy.
“It’s so ugly,” I said, “it has to sneak up on a glass of water.”
“Know what?” Oscar asked with a grimace, which was his way of smiling. He looked pleased at my playing his game; I’d been in a bit of a mood since I’d come back from Betty North’s house.
“What?”
“It’s
sooooo
ugly it has to slap its feet to make them go to bed with it!”
“True. It’s about as ugly as Grandpa’s toenails.”
“Ugly as ten miles of bad road!”
“Ugly as the back end of bad luck!”
We dissolved in cackles, as befits a witch with her familiar.
Still chuckling, I stood on my tiptoes to retrieve my massive leather-bound Book of Shadows from a high kitchen shelf. I set it on the counter and started to flip through the old parchment pages, so well-thumbed they felt soft as fabric.
“But I don’t understand . . . why would you bring that thing in
here
?” he asked, looking at the doll askance.
“It’s not charged,” I said. “I’m not sure what we’re dealing with, though, so I brought it here to keep it safe. I wouldn’t want someone to hurt themselves accidentally.”
He shook his head. “I’ll never understand your fetish for humans.”
“As I have explained many times, Oscar,
I’m
human. As is Aidan, and Sailor, and—”
“I mean reg-lar humans. Nonmagicals.
Cowans
.”
“Some of my best friends are reg-U-lar.” I pronounced the word with exaggerated care.
“I’m just sayin’ . . . I don’t trust ’em. Not so long ago those cowans would have burned you at the stake.”
“Good thing we live in the present-day San Francisco then, right? Besides, you like Bronwyn—”
“Ooooh, the
laaaady
,” crooned Oscar. Bronwyn—“the lady”—cradled Oscar to her ample bosom, which he adored.
“—and Maya—”
“Mayaaaa.” Maya, at first rather averse to having what she called “livestock” in the store, had gotten in the habit of sneaking Oscar a portion of her lunch every day. The coddling had only intensified since Oscar’s recent disappearance, when he had gone missing from Aunt Cora’s Closet for nearly a week, driving us all insane with worry and prompting many promises of spoiling him if only he would return. The constantly hungry little guy had been eating nonstop ever since.
“—and Bronwyn and Maya are about as regular as humans get.”
For the Bay Area, anyway. In other parts of the country Bronwyn and Maya might both be considered a bit “out there” but in the freewheeling Haight-Ashbury neighborhood they were positively salt-of-the-earth.
I searched my Book of Shadows. Graciela had given me the ancient tome when I was just a girl. “
This is for you, Lilita,”
she had said. “
Only for you. Learn it, trust it, and add to it; it is one of the sources of a witch’s power, filled with the knowledge of her ancestors.
No lo pierdas
. Don’t lose it!”
Even at that young age I had understood the book’s importance, and over the years I had added to the ancient spells newer ones of my own. Part recipe book, partscrapbook, it included spells, newspaper clippings,
ugly
stick.”
During the day, downstairs in the shop, Oscar is a run-of-the-mill miniature potbellied pig. But in the privacy of our apartment over the store, he shifts to his normal guise, a kind of a cross between a gargoyle and a goblin. He has oversized hands, taloned feet, and big batlike ears. His eyes gleam like green glass, in stark contrast to his gray-green scaly skin.
“Thanks for the floor show,” I said with a sigh, studying the little doll. I had set it out on a black cloth, drawn a circle of salt around it, and surrounded it with a varietyof protective stones: carnelian, lapis lazuli, Apache tear, Tiger’s Eye, and hematite. “I guess you’re right: it really
is
about as ugly as homemade sin.”
“Ugly as a mud fence.”
I smiled. Oscar had a knack for imitation, and he’d been taking note of my Texas twang and sayings, mimicking me with uncanny accuracy.
“It’s so ugly,” I said, “it has to sneak up on a glass of water.”
“Know what?” Oscar asked with a grimace, which was his way of smiling. He looked pleased at my playing his game; I’d been in a bit of a mood since I’d come back from Betty North’s house.
“What?”
“It’s
sooooo
ugly it has to slap its feet to make them go to bed with it!”
“True. It’s about as ugly as Grandpa’s toenails.”
“Ugly as ten miles of bad road!”
“Ugly as the back end of bad luck!”
We dissolved in cackles, as befits a witch with her familiar.
Still chuckling, I stood on my tiptoes to retrieve my massive leather-bound Book of Shadows from a high kitchen shelf. I set it on the counter and started to flip through the old parchment pages, so well-thumbed they felt soft as fabric.
“But I don’t understand . . . why would you bring that thing in
here
?” he asked, looking at the doll askance.
“It’s not charged,” I said. “I’m not sure what we’re dealing with, though, so I brought it here to keep it safe. I wouldn’t want someone to hurt themselves accidentally.”
He shook his head. “I’ll never understand your fetish for humans.”
“As I have explained many times, Oscar,
I’m
human. As is Aidan, and Sailor, and—”
“I mean reg-lar humans. Nonmagicals.
Cowans
.”
“Some of my best friends are reg-U-lar.” I pronounced the word with exaggerated care.
“I’m just sayin’ . . . I don’t trust ’em. Not so long ago those cowans would have burned you at the stake.”
“Good thing we live in the present-day San Francisco then, right? Besides, you like Bronwyn—”
“Ooooh, the
laaaady
,” crooned Oscar. Bronwyn—“the lady”—cradled Oscar to her ample bosom, which he adored.
“—and Maya—”
“Mayaaaa.” Maya, at first rather averse to having what she called “livestock” in the store, had gotten in the habit of sneaking Oscar a portion of her lunch every day. The coddling had only intensified since Oscar’s recent disappearance, when he had gone missing from Aunt Cora’s Closet for nearly a week, driving us all insane with worry and prompting many promises of spoiling him if only he would return. The constantly hungry little guy had been eating nonstop ever since.
“—and Bronwyn and Maya are about as regular as humans get.”
For the Bay Area, anyway. In other parts of the country Bronwyn and Maya might both be considered a bit “out there” but in the freewheeling Haight-Ashbury neighborhood they were positively salt-of-the-earth.
I searched my Book of Shadows. Graciela had given me the ancient tome when I was just a girl. “
This is for you, Lilita,”
she had said. “
Only for you. Learn it, trust it, and add to it; it is one of the sources of a witch’s power, filled with the knowledge of her ancestors.
No lo pierdas
. Don’t lose it!”
Even at that young age I had understood the book’s importance, and over the years I had added to the ancient spells newer ones of my own. Part recipe book, partscrapbook, it included spells, newspaper clippings,
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