CHAPTER ONE
My next appointment required a protection spell and herb-infused socks because you can never be sure what San Francisco’s streets hold when you’re living, breathing demon-catnip. I can see spirits and demons that regular people can’t. To survive, I’ve spent half of my twenty-four years memorizing spells and testing out new ones. The lack of a wiki for demon hunters turns every day into a potential disaster.
A couple of years ago at a party, when I took out six sigil-encrusted beasties with a plunger and a box of holy water-infused tampons, word must have gotten around because the smarter demons pretty much left me alone. I called that a win. But I’m still careful.
Fresh rosemary was an essential for my charm. My warded backyard sanctuary was my happy place, safe from roaming demons and the Sisters who had taken Mom. This morning, San Francisco’s fog had shrouded my raised beds in a filmy gray light, turning what was already magical, otherworldly.
I threaded my fingers through the damp, prickly rosemary, searching for a place to cut. The crushed thyme under my bare toes swirled up like an elixir.
Grounded and present.
I come to you asking for protection and clarity.
Finding a place along the newest growth, I snipped the branch, inhaling the resinous freshness.
I thank you for your gift.
Intentional harvesting preserved the energy flow, and I was all about the balance of things. The plant would most easily replace the latest growth. Mom had said that our choices define us. The memory of her voice kept her close.
Respect what is given and what is taken. No life should be taken without care.
Feeling her words guide me, I laced my fingers through the fronds to select a second sprig with the same intention.
I tucked the rosemary into my belt with the bay leaves I’d already gathered, buzzing with the vibrancy from the harvest. Never leaving the garden sounded good, but I had to hone my skills in real-life situations, and I didn’t want to be late for my client.
In the kitchen, I arranged the herbs on our redwood table. A friendly chirrup was followed by a brush as my cat, Antimony, twined through my legs. She rubbed her head on my bare toes and accepted a pat before stealing out into the garden. A smileturned my lips as she disappeared around the door like a gray shadow. Would her destination be rolling in the catmint or hunting mice under the neighbor’s fence? Her life was a mystery, and she liked to keep it that way. She had her secrets, and I had mine.
Settled with a dish of water, I poured salt in a circle around the herbs, added an amethyst to boost the energy, then lit a white candle. The spell was mainly powered by my natural abilities but enhanced by the life force of the plants. I focused on the flicker of the candle flame, adding drops of water to the salt as I spoke.
I walk with light. I walk with the power of nature. I walk with life. I charge this circle to support me and shield me from all harm. So it be.
The spell lifted from the tabletop, almost tangible but not quite. Sort of like dust catching sunlight, it was a sparkle you might miss if you weren’t looking for it. I poured the salt and herbs into a double muslin bag and tucked it into my bra.
I always put on my underwear before my socks, in case the big one happens. Portals open all the time in San Francisco, but if a main fracture ever cuts into our world, I intend to go into battle with a bra and panties on. Call me prudish, but there’s something unseemly about having exposed nether regions while bashing demons with magical bolts of energy. Underwear is also handy to hold spell bags.
Ihad plenty of time to get to my client, but exorcisms are best done before noon. Maybe it’s the solar energy, but it’s easierto send a spirit packing before lunch than at the stroke of midnight.
This week’s schedule had a burial interview and a love intention oil—but my first appointment was trouble of the more haunting kind. With socks and shoes on, I was as ready as I was going to be. I settled my lavender-tinted sunglasses into place and headed out.
Portal-hopping beasties aren’t commonplace, but my lavender lenses blocked the sun’s rays peeking through the fog, allowing me to see demons more clearly if they showed up. Turns out purple power is real.
I was wary but energized on the downhill walk from my house in Potrero Hill to my client’s house in San Francisco’s Dogpatch neighborhood. The rosemary charm amped with the heat of my skin, helping me to be hyperaware of my surroundings. Fancier areas of San Francisco have three-story houses jammed together in hilly connected rows, but in Dogpatch, the land is flatter. The houses are still close together, but with more space between them.
A chill breeze whipped my peasant skirt against the tops of my plum Docs as I paused near the towering redwoods at Esprit Park to zing my aura. The client’s description of a constant hum, voices in her head, and things falling, likely meant a spirit tied to something inside her house. A deceased friend or relative who was trying to connect with her was an easy dispelling. I’d be home well before lunch.
Five blocks later, I spotted Mrs. Meest’s rose-painted Victorian. The dark-purple trim and green fence stood out between two sleek modern glass-and-metal renovations. I peered over the slatted wood gate to check the yard, shifting the weight of my messenger bag.
There weren’t any obvious portals or wandering demons, and the house didn’t have the glow of infestation. All great signs.
Strangers always tied me in knots, and every knock on a new door felt like opening myself a crack too wide, but sacrifices had to be made. The steep wooden steps creaked under me as I approached the front door. My stomach twisted as I shoved my lavender shades up on my head. I peeled the Teflon-coated finger glove off my right hand and hovered it over the door frame. It was always good to get a sense of vibration before you touched something, but the house seemed fine. I knocked, then rubbed the door frame while I waited to get a sense of any deep presence.
Nothing.
Whatever was bugging Mrs. Meest had nothing to do with the house structure.
CHAPTER TWO
The glass rattled in the door as it swung inward, revealing a willowy older woman in an ankle-length green and orange dress with faded sections like it was made from 1960s curtains. Her dyed strawberry-blonde hair curled around her weathered face like a mimosa plant.
