Shady Lady (Corine Solomon 3)

Kel sat down beside me. He seemed to take up more than his half of the sofa, due to presence more than physical size. Which was impressive. But unlike most men, he didn’t sprawl; he contained himself in as little space as possible, as if he were accustomed to being confined.

Like any good hostess, Tia offered us refreshments, which I declined. We needed to get down to business. The social stuff would have to keep for another time, assuming I survived.

I hefted the white box. “I have an item for you to examine,” I said in Spanish.

“¿Qué?”

“It’s a saltshaker, but it’s got a killing hex.”

She crossed herself and regarded the case dubiously. “What do you think I can do with it?”

“I was hoping you could tell me something about the kind of magic used.”

Tia considered for long moments, brow furrowed, and then nodded. “I have one charm that might prove useful. Do you know if it’s meant only for you, or will it work on anyone who touches it?”

I glanced at Kel, who answered, “It’s keyed to Corine.”

Wonderful. From my mother—who had been a witch—I knew such specificity required sophistication and finesse in the casting. In most cases, it also required a personal effect or some physical tie, like locks of hair, blood, or nail clippings.

Damn. I probably shouldn’t get my hair done at the salon until this is over.

“I would rather not test that,” Tia said with a grin creasing her weathered cheeks.

She stood up and headed for the kitchen. A few moments later, she came back with a tray, including a crystal bowl, salt, a cup of mixed herbs, and a slender stick carved out of green, fragrant wood. She was also wearing a pair of long black satin gloves, perhaps a remnant from an old Día de los Muertos costume of La Calavera Catrina, which came from a zinc etching by José Guadalupe Posada in 1913. It had since seeped into Mexican celebrations, a feminine skeleton in silk and tulle—death all dressed up.

I gathered she was taking no chances with poor Eros. Given my track record in romantic relationships, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was a warning in the form of the would-be instrument of my death: Love will be your doom. Smiling at such hubris, I watched as Tia perched on the edge of the sofa and arranged the items.

First, she rimmed the bowl with salt and then sprinkled the remainder into the water. Next, she scattered the herbs, and finally, she stirred the mixture with the stick, all while whispering what sounded like broken fragments of a prayer.

I caught snippets, like “en espiritu sancti” and “el buen Señor,” but mostly, it was too soft for me to understand. When she finished chanting and mixing—the water was a cloudy pool by this point—she picked up the white box, opened it, and—with one thumb holding Pysche in place—she tipped Eros into the bowl.

With a hiss, the herb-and-salt-infused water turned black as ink and it roiled as if a thousand tiny snakes swam in its depths. Tia cupped her hands, guiding the liquid, which solidified into a substance that resembled black Jell-O.

Gross.

Beneath the permanent suntan, her face paled as she worked, air-sculpting the lines into something she saw only in her mind’s eye. Before long, the thing in the bowl began to look human; she was crafting a viscous bust of the spell caster.

Holy crap, all Booke can do is tell us what the person’s astral sigil looks like.

It wasn’t a perfect image, of course, but I would most likely remember this face, if I saw him—and it was most definitely a man. Kel stood up and, without bothering Tia, went looking for a pad of paper. Shortly, he sat down and started sketching in quick, bold lines—good on him; there was no telling how long this spell would last.

As he was putting the finishing touches on the drawing, the creation wavered. Tia swayed, and then Eros came spurting out of the thing’s mouth, landing in a wet, slimy spatter on top of the tray. Now we just had a disgusting saltshaker and a bowl of dirty water. My friend looked worse for the wear, so I made her a cup of tea. I had been to her house often enough to know to manage.

When I returned, she seemed a little stronger, but her voice was hoarse. “Magia negra, muy negra.” Bad magic, very dark: as if I couldn’t have guessed that by the reaction to the water she’d blessed. “Magia sangrienta.”

Blood magick.

That actually helped. Certain voodoo traditions used blood, and so did the darkest hermetic traditions. Practitioners like my mother never used blood; neither did Tia. I also knew of a few shamans who used it, but in sympathetic magick, not baneful.

Most would laugh at the idea of magick and hexes. The world was divided into three groups: practitioners, those who wanted to believe in the paranormal, and those who scoffed at it. Skeptics comprised the vast majority; practitioners were rare, and the ones who wanted to believe or had seen something unusual tended to get lumped in with those who claimed aliens had abducted them or that the government had put hardware in their heads to make sure they always bought American cars.

At any rate, Tia’s work gave us a place to start.

Area 51, a message board used by the gifted community, offered untold resources. People there could likely tell me some names of practitioners who could—and would—craft such a special blood-based spell. After all, not all sorcerers, witches, and warlocks were willing to hire out as mercs; many felt that demeaned their gifts.

While Tia sipped the hot tea, I cleaned up the mess. I was careful not to touch Eros; I merely carried the whole tray to the kitchen and left him alone while tidying up. I could hear Kel talking in his low bass rumble and I marveled at his perfect, elegant Castilian accent, so different from the one I’d picked up here. It sounded like he was reassuring her. With Tia, he showed gentleness I had never seen from him before, and I made a note to question him about it later.

She had more color in her face by the time I came back to the sitting room and her hands were steady. But the air felt thick and cloying, as if her spell had some residual effect. No breeze whipped through the open windows, and this high on the mountain, that stillness was unusual at this hour in the evening. It seemed as if the world held its breath.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked in Spanish.

“Quinientos.” Five hundred—it was more than she’d ever charged me before, and yet it wasn’t as much as it sounded.

I dug into my purse, which felt light, since Butch—my hyperintelligent Chihuahua, whose ability to sense supernatural threats had saved my bacon more than once—was with Shannon at the shop, got out my wallet, and peeled off a bill. I loved the colorful Mexican currency; my favorite was definitely the twenty. The old ones were a charming shade of purple, and the new ones blue, both so beautiful they didn’t even feel like money.

“Is there anything else we can do?” I asked, because she looked very tired, more than I had ever seen her. For the first time in our acquaintance, she looked not old, but ancient, as if a strong wind could sweep her away.

“No,” she said. “Just take the cursed thing when you go.”

After picking up the white box, Kel went to the kitchen to fetch the saltshaker. I was happy to let him take care of it.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“No.” Probably reading my expression correctly, she went on. “But because I’m an old woman, not because of this. I hope I was some help. If you want more answers or for someone to remove the curse, you need to go to Catemaco.”

I’d heard of the place, a legendary town of witches set on the mystic shores of one of Mexico’s largest lakes. “Say I do—who would I speak with?”

“Nalleli. She is the island witch. Any boatman should know of her.”

“And she’ll be able to help me?”

Tia smiled, her eyes shadowed and deep in her lined face. “Much more than I can, child.”

Kel appeared in the doorway, the white box in his hand. Presumably he had washed and stowed Eros back in the compartment alongside Psyche. Maybe it was the inveterate pawnshop owner in me, but in addition to those answers about the man who had crafted the spell, I also wanted the curse removed.

It would be irresponsible of me to sell the set to the Spanish professor, knowing one of the items was cursed. Though nothing should happen to her, since the hex was keyed to me, one never knew what might happen as spells started to decay. I didn’t want to be the reason she wound up on her kitchen floor, bleeding from the eyes, two years from now.

I also wanted to make that sale; the Spanish professor would love these. Maybe Chance thought I bought the pawnshop for lack of other options, but I really enjoyed hooking people up with junk they never knew they always wanted.

God’s Hand bowed to Tia and then we let ourselves out. Her garden smelled sweet with the freshness of growing things as we passed through. Outside the gate, the street was quiet. She lived high enough on the mountain that there wasn’t much traffic, and the park had emptied when the sun went down. It was dark and silent enough that I was glad for his presence at my side. The walk back to my shop from Tia’s place was always easier, since it was almost entirely downhill.

“We’re going to Catemaco?”

I guessed he had overheard everything, but I couldn’t get used to the idea that someone so dangerous and otherworldly would be content following me around until he received alternate orders. “Well, I am.”

“You won’t last the week without me,” he said quietly.

An odd sensation took me then, as if I’d been living on borrowed time for longer than I knew. I was supposed to perish in Kilmer, but I survived the fire that caused my mother to take her own life—only to die there so many years later—and be resuscitated by Jesse Saldana. Again I nearly died, only to be saved by the very demon I was meant to feed. Reflexively, I rubbed the hard spot on my side. It was barely perceptible, but since I knew where to touch, I could find it.

A knife went in there—and now the weapon is part of me.

“That’s good news,” I said sourly.

Kel’s gaze followed my movement; his jaw tightened. “I know about that, and it gives me no pleasure to be sworn to one so demon-touched.”

“Where were you, then? So it didn’t happen.”

“I had other orders.”

Well, of course you did.

I didn’t want to hear how much I sucked in comparison to his other jobs, so I changed the subject. “You were different with Tia. How come?”

“I behave in accordance with proximity to grace.”

It took me a minute to work that out. In that time, we cut across the silent park. In the dark, you couldn’t see the brown patches in the grass, but I heard the difference beneath my feet. “You’re saying she’s a holy woman?”

More than me, certainly. I have earthly tendencies of which a paladin could never approve.

“And shortly destined for . . . better things.”

“You mean she’s going to die soon?” My heart twanged.

I didn’t want to lose Tia; in the time I’d lived here, she had become important to me. When I came back from Kilmer, heartbroken all over again, I’d spent more than one night on her sofa, listening to her stories. Sometimes Shannon came along. In her quiet way, Tia had done more to teach me how to be self-sufficient and complete unto myself than anyone else. She’d taught me that work was often a cure for what ailed you, and that unless you learned inner contentment, you could never truly be happy.