She looked at it with satisfaction, stiffening with some kind of awareness before turning her head in Claire’s direction. Her eyes seemed to meet Claire’s through the veil that separated them.
Then, very deliberately, she turned back to the book, closing it and leaning back, almost as if she were trying to show Claire the volume in which she’d been working.
The cover was cracked, with a slightly green cast. Despite the faded images—a giant snake winding its way around a twisted vine border and words Claire couldn’t quite read—she recognized the book as the one that held Marie’s spells. The one that sat, usually undisturbed, in the safe under the counter downstairs.
Marie took the book over to the altar, where she placed it in front of the lit candles. She began to chant words in a language Claire couldn’t place, steady and rhythmic, almost as if in time to a silent drumbeat.
Then Claire was pulled back and back, through the halls of the candlelit house, the walls and rooms fading to black around her.
The last thing she heard was Marie’s voice, echoing through the darkened halls of her sleep, sending her a message she almost understood.
TWENTY-SIX
She woke up with her heart racing, the dream coming back to her in pieces. The first thing she remembered was the house, then Marie and the ritual in front of the altar.
She sat up and reached for her cell phone.
Ten fifteen a.m.
Jumping out of bed, she hurried down the hall, passing the open door of her parents’ bedroom. The bed was made, the room empty.
She continued down the stairs. She needed some time alone in the store, and as she made her way to the kitchen, she was relieved to see a note on the refrigerator where her dad always left them.
WENT WITH MOM ON ERRANDS. HOLD DOWN FORT TILL WE GET BACK. LOVE, DAD
She wasted no time heading for the store. Her dad’s message was clear. He wanted her to man the counter in the store until they got back. But they didn’t officially open until eleven, which gave Claire at least a little time to find what she needed.
She started with the oldest reference books they had. Disappearing ink was a tool of the past. If someone wanted to hide something now, there were more sophisticated ways to do it. But a potion to cloak ink made perfect sense for someone in the 1800s.
Especially a voodoo queen who wanted to hide her most important spells.
Or counterspells.
She found the recipe in the third book. It was from the early 1900s, but the handwriting was small and neat, the ink only slightly faded. She ran down the list of ingredients, relieved to see that they had everything in stock.
Moving around the store with a bowl and the book, she started with coral root, rubbing the dried buds between her palms and letting the resulting powder fall into the bowl. She added the stamens of gall-of-the-earth, a delicate flower that looked nothing like its name, and continued with camphor root shavings. There were other things: powders and herbs and dried flowers. She added them all, finishing with two drops each of althaea and yarrow.
Following the instructions in the book, she added a drizzle of oil, blessed by her mother. Some of the stores were renowned for their spells, some for their eclectic inventory, and still others for something as simple as their prices. But many of the Kincaids’ most loyal customers came for just a few minutes with Claire’s mother and her special oils.
Claire finished the recipe with a long pour of distilled water. Then she put the book down and used a stirring stick to mix everything together. The potion smelled strongly of flowers, the camphor an undercurrent that made her think of cough drops.
She turned to pick up Marie’s book, placing it on the counter, open to the final blank pages. Grabbing a brush from the box under the counter, she dredged the bristles through the concoction and brushed it lightly over the first blank page.
It left oily streaks, the dried herbs sticking to the page, the gall-of-the-earth turning it yellow in places. She blew on it, willing the words to coalesce, but after ten minutes, nothing happened and she turned to the next page, repeating the process.
This page, too, was blank. Something twisted in Claire’s stomach; the knowledge that if the Cold Blood spell and its counter weren’t in Marie’s book, they were out of options. They would have to go to the Guild, and they could bet that would be the end of their involvement. The Guild would sweep it under the rug, pat her and Xander and Sasha and Allegra on their heads, and send them on their way. They wouldn’t know the truth of what Maximilian was planning.
And they wouldn’t know how to stop him.
They would be gambling on the Guild’s ability to protect them, something that didn’t exactly inspire confidence after everything that had happened.
She was on the last few pages, the mixture getting low as she brushed it across yet another page of the book, when something caught her eye. Looking closer, she wondered if it was her imagination. But no. There was something there.
Claire blew on the page and waved it back and forth, hoping whatever was there would become clearer once the page was dry.
It did, but only a little. The script was visible now, a shadow on the paper if she tipped it to the light at just the right angle, but she still couldn’t make out the words.
She eyed the mixture in the bowl, wondering if there was enough for one more pass across the paper. Deciding she didn’t have a choice, she dipped the brush into the bowl and worked it across the page, careful not to saturate it so much that it tore.
The words became more obvious, the ink darker, as the second coat of the potion covered the page.
Waiting for it to dry was excruciating, but with each minute that passed, the words became clearer. She could almost read them, and she tipped the bowl upside down, wiping out every drop with the brush and working a thin third coat over the page.
It was dry five minutes later. And now she could see.
The handwriting matched the other recipes in the book, the title at the top of the page making the tiny hairs on the back of Claire’s neck rise.
A Plea to the Loas
She saw Marie, head bent to the blank pages of the book, in her dream. Claire kept reading.
With consideration that my original potion for Cold Blood, devised only to ensure a cure in the event the recipe is created by others for evil or ill purposes, I, Marie Laveau, do humbly ask the loas—all who have been, who are, and who will yet come—to honor my request of a restriction on the original spell, that henceforth, the spell will require a final ingredient added by me in this dark hour as one among us seeks to work it for evil, causing the blood of her enemies to freeze in the mortal body.
It is my humble plea that the doll babies crafted using personal objects of the intended victim should be immersed in all previously instructed items with the addition of this last:
Blood given by one true and powerful enough to summon and call the loas to her aid.
Once immersion occurs, the ritual may commence as is our custom.
Should my worst fears be realized, the spell discovered by one who would use it to cause harm, those among us with authority of old may conjure a cure by use of the following.
Black Hen Feathers
Patchouli
Black Snakeroot
Adder’s Tongue
Asafoetida
Devil Pod
As with the addendum to the original spell, so, too, must the counterspell include it.
Claire read the whole page twice, trying to process what she was seeing. What Marie’s words were saying.