We made quick work of her potions and charms. Before long, we were following her down the street that paralleled the park. Her house sat farther up the mountain, the levels built into the rock itself, but she had an amazing view. Kel said nothing, merely carried three heavy bags with an ease that said he could bear any burden. It was a reassuring quality in a guardian.
I had visited her home before; sometimes I gave her things to sell in addition to her own wares. This time, I tried to see the place through Kel’s eyes. The house was terraced, the adobe whitewashed pale as milk so it glimmered in the sun, contrasting with the black wrought iron on the windows. The upper level had cement-and-plaster balconies, gently curved. As we stepped through the latticed front gate, I noted Tia had planted new flowers in the front—hibiscus and dahlia, angel’s trumpet and flowering sage. Her garden was beyond lovely, the courtyard paved in ornate terra-cotta tiles. Some of them had cracked, but it didn’t give the sense of disrepair. With moss growing green against the clay, it was more of a natural reclamation.
Tia handed us the rest of the bags so she could unlock the door. Within, it was dim and cool. My shoes made no sound against the marble floor. It was a nicer home than you might expect from a woman who cleaned houses for a living, in addition to selling potions and charms, but Tia worked so hard because she claimed it kept her young. Given how well she moved, I couldn’t argue with the results.
“Put everything on the table,” she instructed in Spanish, and then led us into the sitting room, where she met with clients.
Here, the furniture was so old, it felt different from modern couches in the lack of springs. With its solid wood frame and plain cushions, this was more like a futon, only it didn’t flip to form a bed. Everything in her home belonged to the rustic hacienda style, and had been crafted by hand.
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.