• • •
By the time I got home, I was exhausted, worried, and no closer to figuring out what was going on, much less how to exonerate Sailor. Walking into the kitchen, I was relieved to see Oscar snuggled in a nest of blankets in his cubby above the refrigerator, snoring away. At least I didn’t have to worry about his being out and about.
I yearned for bed, but was so worried about Sailor that I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. So I rose to my tiptoes to reach a high shelf, and grasped a thick old tome covered in faded red leather: my ancient Book of Shadows.
I had inherited the witchcraft manual from Graciela, who had inherited it from her own grandmother. It waschock-full of spells and incantations, wise words, articles clipped from newspapers—including a few from theJarod Weekly Clarionthat accused me of creating havoc at that snake-handling fiasco. I flipped through the yellowed pages, running my fingers along paper made soft from frequent handling, not seeking anything in particular. But every once in a while my Book of Shadows would offer me subtle advice; a familiar spell might be changed ever so slightly, or I would notice a new addition that was useful for my particular situation.
This time my eyes fell on a passage I’d read before, dealing with human-demon alliances:
A daemonic allegiance is oft betrayed by an outward manifestation of youth and vigour. The maturation of the individual is slowed by the hand of vile iniquity belonging to the servant of the Devil. The soul of the wretch, enmeshed by vanity and greed, is in such manner seduced by the blandishments of an abiding beauty. Alas! doth the sufferer fall victim to the foul trickery of the daemon, the better to employ the truckling knave.
Huh.
Other than that, the old red leather tome remained mute, except for a quote I hadn’t noticed before:Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.
At the moment, anything that mentioned the world being over sounded a tad ominous, what with prophecies being bandied about, and all. Still, it was a good sentiment to keep in mind, I supposed.
I flipped through to some clippings from my time in Germany. None of them mentioned Dupree specifically, but they reminded me of that time in my life. Ofmy father, and a terrible fire that consumed an old manor house.
In the bedroom the suitcase was still splayed open on my bed, so I rummaged through the manila envelope of clippings. I found only one mention of Tristan, in which he was described as “Tristan Dupree, aged 45. Resident of Füssen, Bavaria.”
Tristan had looked much younger than midforties when I knew him in Germany, I thought. I would have guessed he was in his thirties. In fact, when he stood at my door yesterday, hestilllooked as if he were in his thirties. But if the newspaper article was correct, Tristan would have been sixty today. Also, I remembered that Dupree seemed to know who Carlos was this morning, even though he hadn’t been introduced. Not aging and knowing things he shouldn’t...
Had Dupree made a deal with a demon?
Finally, I bathed and dressed in all black, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of my coffee table. I grounded myself, stroked my medicine bag, and prepared to scry, or see beyond the here and now, to concentrate while allowing my mind to wander.
My crystal ball was beautiful, and easily my most expensive possession. The base was hand-wrought gold, encrusted with jewels. A grateful client had given it to Graciela, and she in turn had gifted me with it when I was forced to leave Texas.
But all the beauty in the world couldn’t improve my scrying. Most witches had at least some natural ability with this sort of thing, but not me. I could brew with the best of them, but seeing something useful—whether in the crystal ball or in a black mirror or in standing water—was almost always beyond my ken.
Tonight was no exception. I had hoped to spy a glimpse of Sailor, or Tristan Dupree, or even the cupcake lady, aka Renee Baker. But all I saw, as ever, was afew fleeting shadows, the significance of which remained frustratingly out of reach.
I turned to the shoe box.
At the moment, I was tempted to open it, but I feared I wasn’t strong enough to face whatever it contained, all by myself. Especially now, with the sneezing and fatigue and strangely challenged magical energy.
I cringed at how I’d left things with Aidan. When would I learn not to antagonize him? But I pushed that thought away. Best to focus on the problems at hand. For lack of a better idea, I rewrapped the rowan around the shoe box, braided some threads and knotted them with whispered incantations, added a string of holly and stinging nettles, then put the box back into my suitcase and hid the suitcase in the back of my closet. It would be safe there.
I hoped. Normally I had confidence that my apartment was so protected it was virtually immune to intruders. But since I hadn’t been exactly feeling myself lately... I wondered whether I should have taken up Aidan on his offer to safeguard the box. He would probably still agree to do so, if I asked him nicely.
I yearned to talk with Graciela, and to convene her coven of elderly wisewomen. Surely they could offer some insight into what was going on? If only they were here and could help me to open the shoe box, figure out what was plaguing me, find a murderer, and get Sailor off the hook.
My mind cast back to the red thread spiderweb forming over the map behind the register. What in the world were the women doing?
Had the coven simply been sidetracked by burgers and sea otters, or was there something else—something more sinister—going on?
Chapter 9
Early the next morning, I headed out to the jail.
The street was quiet at this hour of the morning. Haight Street’s boutiques, bookstore and record shop, and myriad bars and restaurants catered primarily to a later crowd. But Lucille’s Loft, right next door, was already bustling.
I had hoped to rush past—Sailor was paramount on my mind—but Lucille noticed me and came to the door.
“Good morning, Lily,” she said. Lucille is a lot like her daughter, Maya: calm, kind, and smart. Lucille carried a few more pounds and many more laugh lines, and her hair was graying, but other than that, mother and daughter could have been sisters.
“Good morning, Lucille.”
