Hervé’s voodoo supply shop closed at eight. I just barely made it to Valencia Street in time. Caterina gave me a cool smile when I entered, then ducked into the back and sent Hervé out to speak with me.
“I think we need to go back to the hotel,” I said. “But this time with backup.”
“Who is our ‘backup’?”
“Aidan, Patience, you, and me.”
“So two witches, a Gypsy psychic, and a voodoo priest walk into a hotel . . . ,” began Hervé with a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Sounds like the beginning of a joke.”
“Yes, but I’m not sure if I’ll like the punch line.”
“Lily, I’ll go with you if you need me, but I believe I did all I could last night. If Patience is half the psychic she’s cracked up to be, she’ll be able to make contact with any latent spirits.”
Caterina reappeared through the beaded curtain that separated the shop floor from their private quarters. She was carrying a canvas shopping bag, which held two smaller brown paper bags. She set it on the counter in front of me.
“One of your friends forgot this when they were checking out earlier,” she said without preamble.
“Oh, um, thank you,” I said.
She shrugged and went back through the curtains.
Hervé leaned toward me and whispered: “Not your biggest fan.”
“Yeah, I get that. Sorry. I hope my coming here doesn’t make things difficult for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Who left the bag, do you know?” I asked as I peeked within the first paper bag. There was a little figure in a coffin, and a hexing candle. They weren’t from Hervé’s shop but from the botanica—a sort of Mexican herb and magical-supply store—across the street. The second bag held various dried herbs.
“Wind Spirit, I believe she’s calling herself.”
“Wind Spirit?”
“She used to go by Amy.”
“Yes, I know she did. I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“I don’t know her well. She comes into the shop from time to time.”
“I don’t know why that surprises me. . . . A lot of people come to you for supplies, right?”
“True.”
“What does she buy from you?”
“Last time it was a cookbook, if I recall.” He took a copy off a nearby shelf and handed it to me.
“I didn’t know you sold cookbooks.”
He grinned. “Very special cookbooks. Look up voodoo bread pudding and love sauce.”
“What’s love sauce?” I asked as I flipped through the pages. “Or . . . do I want to know?”
“Basically it’s a slightly sweet bread with sauce. Orris root gives the bread a subtle violet aroma. The sauce is made from brown sugar, butter, and rum.”
“Nothing not to love about that.”
“Indeed.”
“But when you say it’s a voodoo recipe . . . ? Does that mean it’s harmful, or special in some way?”
“You tell people it’s a love potion, and they’ll bake anything.”
I smiled, but his words made me think of Renee with her cupcakes.
“Besides, you know as well as I do that if one is able to focus one’s intent through true belief, one might just infuse that bread pudding with actual feelings of love.”
I flipped through the book. “There are a few negative recipes in here as well.”
“Sometimes love goes wrong,” Hervé said with a grin.
“Are they actually poisonous?”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. Just contain a few nasty ingredients . . . but I have the sense you’re used to things like that. Anyone who brews knows that things can get a bit pungent, from time to time. A secret ingredient, secret revenge.”
“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” I said, glad in that moment that Caterina didn’t have her husband’s powers.
He smiled. “We all have our ways, Lily.”
Chapter 22
That night I felt lonely. No Oscar snoring above the fridge, no sound of boots on the stairs telling me Sailor was on his way up. I was also anxious and frustrated. Again, I sat for a while with my Book of Shadows, but it didn’t speak to me. I was finding it hard to concentrate. My mind ping-ponged from thoughts of Sailor to the grandmas on the bus, to what Renee had put in the meat pasties, to what Aidan had told me about his past, to my role in vanquishing the current threat, to Calypso.
Had her love for Aidan made Calypso vulnerable, the way Aidan told me my love for Sailor diminished me? Or had it made their coalition stronger, and if so, why did she back out and leave everything to Aidan?
I could feel my energies scattering, like Selena’s typically did. I wasn’t sure whether it was due to Renee’s spell, or Sailor being in jail, or the urgency of needing to find the killer. . . . What I did know was that it wasn’t helpful in any way.
Maybe I needed to make myself a Gutta Cavat Lapidem talisman.
Enough. Time to go back to basics. I stepped out to my terrace, pulled on my gardening gloves, grabbed my spade, and spent some time communing with my garden under the light of the waxing moon. Even when I was a young, out-of-control witch, plants had calmed me, while the rich soil soothed me. Graciela had explained it was because I tapped into—and contributed to—the ancient earth energy. That was my skill, my gift, my soul.
I worked the soil for nearly an hour, pulling weeds, pruning and shaping my herbs, bushes, and small potted trees. Before I realized what I was doing, I had started to gather snippets of plants in my basket: mugwort, jasmine, willow, oak leaves, holly berries, mistletoe, yarrow, broom, orris root, ivy, shamrock, rose, and heliotrope. Ingredients I knew well.
I returned to the kitchen.
Quietly, calmly, I began to cast a spell—not for Sailor, or against Renee—just for me. For strength and wisdom. For inner quiet, so I could remain open to the wonder of the night sky, and serve as the conduit between it and the earth beneath my feet. I filled my cauldron with river water and put it on the stove to boil. I chanted while crushing a few of the plants with my stone mortar and pestle, giving my thanks for their sacrifice. I added the rest of the ingredients to the brew, whole. I dropped in a dollop of goat’s milk, a pinch of cayenne, a smidgen of black pepper, and a dash of Tabasco sauce.
After I stirred for a while, the brew began to swirl on its own, and then came to a rolling boil. I cut a small X into my palm and added the secret ingredient: three drops of my own blood.
As always, a great puff of steam exploded out of the pot. I looked up toward the ceiling to search the fog for the face of my guiding spirit, the Ashen Witch.
But she didn’t appear to me.
The Ashen Witch didn’t come.
Long before I even knew what I was, long before I knew who she was—ever since I could remember—the Ashen Witch had come to me when I brewed.
When I looked down into the now-calm brew, I saw herbs floating atop the water. They formed a shape like Sailor’s doodle, the one I’d asked Maya to look up for me. The one the busload of witches seemed to be making with their path.
The one Patience thought was a demon’s sigil.
* * *
? ? ?
As I headed over to Jail #2 for visiting hours the next morning, I kept trying to come up with some way to convince Sailor to go back to work for Aidan. I didn’t think I could handle this alone, and Aidan had a point: Working for him had to be a better option than rotting in prison. Right?
I was so wound up by the time Sailor shuffled in that I just blurted it out.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Aidan is the one behind all of this?” was Sailor’s response.
“No. What are you talking about?”
He shrugged. “Think about it: It gets me back into his employ, brings you closer to him, and spoils Renee’s plans, all at the same time. Seems to me he has plenty of motive. Also . . . Aidan’s very good at glamours. Maybe he’s my mystery twin.”
“Could a glamour be used that way? To actually change someone’s appearance like that, so completely?”
“You tell me. This is witchcraft—it’s your strong suit. Remember?”