Hexes and Hemlines Read Online Free Page A

control of my talents.
    Which was why I was now headed to the San Franciscan tourist mecca of Fisherman’s Wharf. It was time for school. For better or worse, I had entrusted the furthering of my witchy education to Aidan Rhodes.
    I started driving, weaving through a traffic snarl at the intersection of Van Ness and Lombard. Perhaps Aidan would have some insights into the death of Malachi Za—
    “Stop looking at me!” whined Oscar, wrenching me from my thoughts. He was huddling against the front passenger-side door, an appalled look on his already grimacing face. The cat, sitting on the vinyl seat in between us, just stared.
    “The cat’s not hurting you, Oscar. Get a grip.”
    “Mistress, make it stop looking at me!”
    I pulled up to a stoplight and assessed my posse.
    “ Cat , stop it. Oscar doesn’t want to be your friend.” At the sound of my voice the feline shifted its gaze to me.
    “There,” I said to Oscar. “All better.”
    Keeping its eyes on me, the cat moved with stealthy determination, climbing onto Oscar’s lap.
    “Mistress!”
    “Stop it, both of y’all,” I said as the light changed.
    I spoke in the severest voice I could manage, but it was pretty hard not to laugh. As someone who has been allergic to felines all her life, I knew one absolute truth: Cats had an unerring ability to detect the one person in the room—or van—who least desired their attention. And then they showered that person with affection.
    Or with dander. Sneezing again, I drove around until I spotted a parking spot in a residential neighborhood off Bay Street, not wanting to worry about feeding parking meters, or using my powers to find a parking spot and cast a spell over a meter. Lately I was trying to focus all my power and strength on the important stuff.
    Easy parking, according to Aidan, did not qualify.
    I grabbed my leather satchel from the back of the van, and since the fog was likely to roll in off the bay by the time I left Aidan’s office, I also carried my vintage cocoa brown wool coat over my arm. But at the moment it was a gorgeous Northern California spring day, breezy and sunny. As I walked I reveled in the fragrance of pink jasmine and fruit-laden lemon trees . . . trailed by a potbellied pig and a cat.
    Together we formed quite the parade. Heads swiveled as we passed, but I held my chin up and nodded serenely, trying my best to channel a dark-haired Grace Kelly. I probably more closely resembled a cross-dressing Doctor Dolittle.
    One of the best things about being a vintage clothes merchant was having a huge closet to choose from every day, and I had gotten in the habit of advertising by modeling my own merchandise. Today I was wearing an outfit from the late fifties: a wide-skirted, knee-length, yellow-and-red madras plaid sundress topped by a persimmon-colored cardigan. Though I adored the look of vintage shoes, they didn’t really suit my active lifestyle—working at the store, investigating murder scenes, running from demons and what all. Instead, I favored Keds. Today’s were orangey red, with a hint of sparkle. Looking down, I enjoyed the way the shoes caught the light as I walked the several blocks to Jefferson Street.
    San Francisco’s Wax Museum is an ever-popular tourist destination, but in my opinion it is creepy on its best day, which no doubt explained why Aidan Rhodes kept an office here. I believe he thinks it’s funny. The wax figures, however artistically rendered, made me decidedly uncomfortable; they reminded me too much of poppets, used in many magical systems as stand-ins for humans. As if they were a reserve army of mindless automatons, I feared they could be transfigured, if desired, by someone with enough power.
    Like a certain male witch.
    There was no denying one fact: I feared Aidan’s power . . . but I envied him his mastery. Though my innate talents might rival his, I was nowhere near as in control.
    Just as my little entourage approached the museum entrance, a man