Autumn Bones

Page 38

I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
Casimir pursed his lips. “Oh, this is awkward. I’m sorry, Daisy. But coven business is a private matter.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” My right hand dropped to dauda-dagr’s hilt. Funny how the gesture had become instinctual in such a short time. “Not this time. I don’t mean to pull rank, but I’m Hel’s liaison, Cas. We’re talking about a supernatural threat in Pemkowet. That makes it my business.”
We had a polite staredown. For a moment I thought Casimir was going to call my bluff—and it was a bluff, since I didn’t really have any options if he refused to admit me—but he relented.
“You have a point,” he said. “Do I have your oath that you’ll treat everything you see or hear as confidential?”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with my duty to Hel, yes,” I said. “Fair enough?”
“It will have to do.” He gestured. “Come in.”
The living room looked more like I imagined the Fabulous Casimir’s place would be than the sparsely appointed altar room at his shop. It was filled with cluttered elegance. Paintings with gilded frames hung in rows three-deep on the walls, knickknacks on every surface, old-fashioned stuffed furniture with scrolling wood trim, an Oriental carpet on the floor. And seated around the perimeter of the room, the other six members of Pemkowet’s coven.
The only two people I’d more or less expected to see here were Mark and Sheila Reston, who owned the tattoo parlor across from the Sisters of Selene, because . . . well. If you’ve got matching tattoos of the Wiccan rede—which, by the way, is “An it harm none, do what ye will”—around your neck, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway.
The others . . . not so much.
There was Kim McKinney, who graduated a year ahead of me and worked at the deli counter at Tafts Grocery. I didn’t know her well, but I definitely didn’t see that coming.
There was nice Mrs. Meyers from the historical society, her expression placid, her lap full of yarn, and her knitting needles clicking away industriously.
There was taciturn Warren Rogers, who owned a nursery and a landscaping business and had done some work out at my mom’s place a couple of years ago in exchange for her making his plus-size daughter, Naomi, a kickass prom dress that flattered her curves to hell and gone.
And there—holy crap—was my mom’s friend Sandra Sweddon, recently referred to by my former teacher Mr. Leary as “that infernal do-gooding busybody.”
Okay, maybe I should have known that one. After all, I did know she collected crystals. But frankly, I hadn’t even suspected it.
Casimir bustled around, pouring tea and making introductions. “Wonderful,” he said once acquaintances were made or in my case, renewed in a very different context. “If everyone’s ready, I’ll give a quick invocation and then we’ll begin.”
A murmur of assent ran around the room.
Fetching a long-handled lighter from a drawer, Casimir lit the first of two candles on the coffee table, a silver pillar. “Hail, fair Lady, queen of night, enfold us in your grace,” he said, and then lit the second, a gold pillar. “Hail, great Lord, ruler of day, protect us in this place.” He set the lighter down. “So mote it be.”
“So mote it be,” the others echoed.
Now that I wasn’t suffering from an excruciating hex-induced migraine, I could feel a faint charge in the air after Casimir’s invocation—nothing like the vastness of Hel’s presence, but a change. Interesting.
“We invoke the Lady and Lord in their archetypal forms,” Casimir said to Sinclair. “Of course, everyone is welcome to address whatever particular facet of the deity speaks to them. Are you dedicated?”
I didn’t understand the question, but Sinclair gave a brief nod. “You might say so. I was raised to honor Yemaya.”
Also interesting. I made a mental note of the name.
“Wonderful,” Casimir said again. “All right! Everyone, please help yourselves to the lovely cheese tray Kim was kind enough to bring for the occasion. Mr. Palmer, tell us about yourself and your situation.”
Snacking on cheese and crackers, I sat and listened while Sinclair related his story. At the coven’s prodding, he went into more detail about his own youthful studies in obeah, which involved using his ability to see auras to diagnose ailments in individuals and gradually acquiring the herb lore to prescribe cures.
“And you didn’t think that was worth pursuing?” Warren Rogers asked in a neutral tone. He was a guy who knew a thing or two about herbs. “The healer’s path?”
“Not at the cost.” Sinclair met his gaze squarely. “The further I went down that path, the further my sister went down the other.”
The other members of the coven nodded in understanding. I guess this whole path of balance thing was a cornerstone of most occult practices.
With a few assists from me, Sinclair finished up with a description of Emmeline’s visit and her ultimatum, followed by a short discourse on the nature of duppies, during which the coven attempted to determine whether obeah’s concept of an earthly soul that was somehow distinct from a heavenly soul corresponded to the notion of an etheric body that was distinct from the physical and spiritual bodies.
Okay, I tuned out for a while during that part. But at least the cheese was good.
At around twenty to eight, Casimir deftly turned the conversation to ways of protecting Sinclair from his sister’s threat.
“Obviously, we should start with a ritual cleansing,” Kim McKinney said. “I’d be happy to oversee it.”
I’d just bet she would. I suppressed an irrational surge of jealousy.
“Have you done any work with crystals and visualization?” Sandra Sweddon asked Sinclair. “White light? Chakras?” He shook his head. “That’s okay, honey. We’ll work on it.”
“How do you feel about ink?” Mark Reston stretched out his arms to reveal a pair of large and intricate seals tattooed on his muscular forearms. “Sheila and I have a portfolio of sigils we designed ourselves. Some of them are for protection. You’re welcome to stop by the shop and see if any of them speak to you.”
“I’ll knit you a prayer shawl, dear,” Mrs. Meyers said in her kind voice. “There’s a blessing in every stitch.” She caught sight of Sinclair’s expression and chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s more of a scarf than an actual shawl.”
Warren Rogers scratched his chin. “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of herb lore, then. You any good with plants?”
“Not bad,” Sinclair said. I wondered if that had anything to do with the elemental nature fairies’ fondness for him.
The landscaper gave him a shrewd look. “I could use a new assistant. Lost a couple of college kids to the fall semester, and I hear your tour’s only running on the weekends during the off season. You interested?”
“Point of clarification.” Casimir raised one finger before Sinclair could answer. “Are you talking about a job or an apprenticeship, Warren?”
He shrugged. “Depends on Mr. Palmer here. I could use a good worker either way. Don’t know that I’ve got a handle on this obeah business, but his studies sound close enough to my journey on the right-hand path. If he’s willing to dedicate himself to our craft, I’m willing to mentor him.”
Casimir turned to Sinclair. “Well? Are you?”
Sinclair frowned in thought. “What happens if I say no?”
“If you’re asking if we’ll withhold our assistance in the matter at hand, the answer’s no.” The Fabulous Casimir steepled his fingers. “We’ll do everything in our power to protect you. But to be perfectly honest, it will be more effective if you’re on your way to becoming an initiate. And if you’re asking if we’d like to have you, the answer is yes.”
Glancing around the room, Sinclair studied the members of the coven one by one—reading their auras, I assumed.
After a moment he nodded. “I’m in.”
Twenty-five
For another half hour, the coven discussed the specifics of implementing their various plans of occult protection. I listened and made mental notes on the individual members and their different areas of expertise, figuring it was all good input for my thus-far-hypothetical database.
Hey, I’d promised to keep confidentiality, but I hadn’t promised not to make a record of what I learned. It might be useful someday.
At quarter after eight, I excused myself. “Cas, I’ve got to leave. Sorry, but duty calls. You said someone could give Sinclair a ride home?”
“I’ll do it,” Kim McKinney volunteered, smiling sidelong at Sinclair. “No problem.”
He smiled back at her. “Thanks, sistah.”
The Fabulous Casimir spread his fingers. “Et voilà.”
It’s not like I had any right to complain. I was the one who’d broken up with Sinclair, and I was the one to arrange this meeting. Now that he was back on the market, I couldn’t blame Kim for flirting with him.
Still, it gave me an inward pang.
Of course, that was offset by the fact that I was meeting with my childhood crush and sometime partner in police business, Officer Down-low himself. Too bad we were headed out to Twilight Manor to locate a missing kid. Not exactly a fun date.
I called Cody from Casimir’s driveway. He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Pixy Stix. Ready?”
“Yep.”
Unless I imagined it, there was a faint sigh of relief on Cody’s end. No matter what he’d said, no one in their right mind wanted to enter the House of Shadows without backup. I know, I’d done it. “Meet me at the gas station on the corner of Sixty-fourth Street,” he said. “I’ll pick you up. If you’re coming as Hel’s liaison, I think it’s best if we present a united front.”
“See you in five,” I said, and ended the call.