Besides, I wanted to watch.
Sawyer had already trotted downward in her wake. He didn't seem at all spooked by the idea of serial-killing basement murderers. But Sawyer didn't own a television; he'd probably never entered a movie theater in his life.
Still, Sawyer knew about evil. He'd been born of it.
So either Carta was truly a good witch and the basement was just a basement or Sawyer planned to tear her into itty-bitty bloody pieces so that no one would ever find her.
The thought didn't even bother me. And that it didn't should really bother me. I'd come a long way from the cop I'd been, even farther from the bartender I'd become.
I went downstairs. The basement wasn't just a basement; it was a laboratory.
Beakers, bottles, Bunsen burners lay scattered across several tables. Dusty books were stacked everywhere. Canning jars lined shelf after shelf, and they weren't full of applesauce.
"Are those eyes'?" I blurted. As I did, I could have sworn one of them glanced at me.
I gave a squeak and stumbled backward, tripping over the last step and landing hard. Both Carta and Sawyer stared at me as if I were a foolish child who'd fallen in the mud.
"I don't like eyes," I murmured defensively. "Especially in jars." Really, who did?
"Those are pickled onions, Elisabetta." Carta flicked a hand at them dismissively.
Sure they were. When I glanced in that direction again, the "eyes" faced the wall, revealing only their onionlike white, round rears. All hints of humanoid awareness were gone, along with the pupils.
I narrowed my eyes on Carta, but she'd already moved to one of her workstations and laid the amulet on top. I left the jar of onion eyes behind to join her.
As I came closer, the air that brushed my cheeks became hotter and hotter. When I cleared the heavy table, I saw why. The entire inside wall of the basement consisted of a furnace. Maybe it was an oven. It definitely looked like something she'd stolen from Auschwitz.
I glanced at Carta as she hunched over the amulet. With the fire blazing merrily at her back, she'd make a good model for a poster of Hansel and Gretel, the Return.
"Do you bake down here?" I asked.
"You might say that. My kiln comes in handy for the disposal of just about anything. Or anyone."
"Sawyer," I murmured as I inched toward the stairs. I'd seen good guys go bad. Jimmy in particular. I didn't really want to see it again.
Sawyer ignored me. I was tempted to grab him, but that would be the hard way to lose a finger or two.
Carla's smile faded. Her brow creased. "Where are you going? I thought you wanted me to remove the bewitchment?"
"Go ahead." I remained near the stairs, ready to run up at the first sign of trouble, or at least try. I had no doubt she could wave her hand and freeze me in my tracks, maybe even send a lightning bolt to drop me dead. If a lightning bolt would kill me. I wasn't sure.
Carla picked up the amulet and, without another word, without a single deed, tossed it into the blazing furnace. Then she dusted off her hands and turned her attention to Sawyer. "You're next."
His mouth opened, and his tongue lolled out. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was smiling.
"Hold on," I said, taking a step forward in spite of myself. "That's it?"
I indicated the kiln, where the flames leaped ever higher, as if they were feeding off the amulet. I couldn't see that a bit of copper would be all that combustible. Maybe the flames drew power from the magic.
The thought made me uneasy. Magic fire might be a serious problem.
"No spell?" I continued. "No eye of. . ."—I waved at the "onion" jars—"whatever? You just toss the thing into the fire? I could have done that."
Carla raised a brow. "Are you benandanti?"
I could be—if I had sex with one.
I looked Carla up and down. I didn't want to be benandanti that badly.
"Be grateful it's dust," she said.
I thought about it, then shrugged. "All right."
Carla turned to Sawyer, who still stared at her as if she were the most fascinating being on the planet or perhaps as if he smelled Scooby snacks in the pocket of her black sack dress.
She began to chant. Italian? No, Latin. Always a good chanting language.
Energy zipped through the room. Sawyer looked as if he'd stuck a claw into a light socket. Every inch of his black fur lifted toward the ceiling. When I touched my own hair a spark of static electricity sizzled.
Carla's pale, bony fingers seemed to glow silver against the dancing orange flames of the open oven-kiln. She made a motion, as if she were throwing something at Sawyer.