“He had a beautiful smile,” Sidra said to the girl and left it at that.
“And now this Jamra fellow is after you? Because of . . .” She nudged her head again toward the clothes.
“It’s more complicated than simple revenge, but yes.”
Yvette picked up the card with the instructions that came with the packet of herbs. “And this spell can hide you from him?”
Sidra grinned. “It’s natural for my kind to disappear in smoke and scent. But if you add a layer over that with a spell, the fragrance-infused magic will cloak my scent-trail with its perfume,” she said. “Per fumum. Through the smoke. It is how I am hidden.” She stirred the ingredients in the clamshell with the tip of her finger, unaffected by the heat of the flame. “I make Yanis perform a portion of the spell to confuse the source of the magic. It is not foolproof, but it has protected me well enough for hundreds of years.”
The jinni stirred the scents together, letting the civet oil warm long enough to transform from a stench that offended the nose to an aromatic enticement. Occasionally she looked at the card, following the witch’s instructions for how much and when to add another pinch or sprinkle, until the room filled with a cloud of fragrance—zesty, earthy, but with the sweetness of vanilla. Like the market at noon when the cook fires are going and the spice-goods travel from seller to buyer to saucepot to be poured over fish or lamb in a creamy sauce.
“It is done. The cloud of scent will infiltrate the village. Between that and the surrounding flower fields, there ought to be enough confusion to mask my presence, making it much more difficult for Jamra to sniff me out. Which means you should be safe here as well.” Sidra inhaled and closed her eyes. Still she could see Yvette glowing through her eyelids. “Did you get the other thing I asked for?” She peeked one eye open as she waited for the answer.
Yvette tossed the bronze talisman onto the table. The medallion clattered against the wood, as if announcing how much the thievery had cost her reformed conscience.
“It, too, is for our protection,” Sidra assured her.
The girl seemed to calculate the deed against the gain and agree it was worth the effort. As she drummed her fingers against the table, her eyes scanned the rest of the items they’d used. “What about the saffron?” she asked at last. “Why didn’t you add that to the spell like the rest?”
Sidra retrieved the packet of spice from her caftan and tossed it at the girl with a grin. “That,” she said, “is for our rice. Light the stove. I’m famished.”
“You can’t just poof some up for us?”
“And deny ourselves the delicious aroma while it cooks? Grab a pot.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Somewhere over the southernmost vineyards of the Chanceaux Valley, Elena grew confident enough to let go of the tapestry’s thin edge with one hand. Jamra had slowed the pace through the air, though he made sure to let her know how much it annoyed him to travel so slowly with her in tow. He chewed on olives he’d produced for himself in a brass dish, spitting the pits at her feet. She kicked them off the tapestry with the heel of her clunky sabot. Honestly, she adored that wall hanging with its scene of a fox running in a field surrounded by a floral border, but she supposed it would never see the inside of her salon again. Nor did she know if she would ever see Jean-Paul again.
What if he worsened while she was away from him? What if . . .
She looked down at her wedding ring, so new the gold still glinted with a flawless shine, and was reminded not to let herself think too far ahead or fall into despair over shadow thoughts that hadn’t come to pass. Not yet. Still, she allowed herself to glare at the jinni before turning her back to let him know how much it annoyed her to be abducted by such a boorish swine. She kept up the brave show until she got a view of a ravine below and inched back toward the center of the woven textile to keep from falling off.
“It is amusing how mortals always give witches credit for flying in their stories,” he said and spit out a pit. “But you are as scared as a cat stuck in a tree. Where is your broom? Your magic ointment?” He made the tapestry swerve left, then right as an added taunt.
She imagined Jamra being the sort of child who deliberately stuck animals up in trees just to see them squirm when they couldn’t figure out how to get down. If jinn ever were children. But he wasn’t wrong. Though he’d assured her the makeshift magic carpet wouldn’t let her fall, the unnatural sensation of moving above the earth in the open air without even a handrail to provide a sense of security was most distressing. Escalating her fear was the very real notion that the sun would be setting soon, leaving them in the dark above the clouds. Not a place she wished to be. What if they hit a tree or hillside or one of those mortal airplanes with a propeller and were cut into pieces?
“I’d like to get down now. It will be dark soon, and I cannot navigate any longer without the light to see by.” It was a lie, but Elena was willing to bet Jamra didn’t know truth from fiction for witches. Besides, she was cold and hungry and in need of some grounding.
He spit another pit at her. “We are not there yet.”
“We won’t get there tonight, regardless. I’m not like you. I need rest and warmth at night. And food,” she said, glancing at the olives he’d refused to share.
Jamra exhaled in frustration. “Very well. But only because we are approaching the city at the fork of two rivers. There is a small restaurant there that serves grilled lamb the way I like it, with all the right spices. You may eat as well,” he said as he lowered them toward a grassy slope.
“You’re too kind.”
He answered her sarcastic response by bumping the tapestry against the ground, creating a hard landing. Elena rolled off and was sent sprawling onto the grass. Jamra had the nerve to laugh as her skirt flew up over her knees. She swore then, as she straightened her hem and gathered her belongings back in her satchel, that she would die finding a spell that would stuff the insufferable jinni into the smallest container she could think of and secure him inside for a thousand years.
Jamra rolled up the tapestry by making a winding gesture with his finger, stashing the rug high in the branches of an alder. He waved his hand at the tree, as if closing a curtain, and motioned for Elena to take the path to the center of town. “After you,” he said.
Instead of heading down the main road that ran beside the river, Jamra forced them to walk several blocks inland before coming around to the side street where the café sat wedged between a tobacco store and silk goods shop. No, a creature made of fire wouldn’t be very fond of the water, she imagined. The sun had gone down, and the streetlamps were just coming on in the town. The lamplight gave the walls a golden old-world glow as they entered the quaint bouchon.
Remarkably, somewhere between crash-landing the magic carpet and sitting down at their table by the fire inside the cozy café, Jamra had changed her appearance. She no longer wore her work clothes and muddy sabots. He’d opted instead to present her in a tasteful blue dress with a lace neckline. Simple yet appropriate for dinner out in a casual café. He, in his suit and derby hat, looked like any other man of business out for a bite of local cuisine.
“Nice trick,” Elena said and shook out her napkin upon being seated.
He ordered them a bottle of red wine. A good one full of strong notes of plum, smoke, cherry, and a hint of oak-barrel spice. The grapes had been grown in the south where the sun baked the hard earth, forcing the vines to dig deep for survival. As she watched him sip, she wondered how someone capable of tormenting others with the destruction of property, brain fevers, and kidnapping could so casually sit at a table like a normal being, ordering exquisite wine and grilled meat as if he were on holiday.
The drippings still sizzled on the plates as the waiter brought out their lamb, carrots, and potatoes. “There are few things mortals do well, but their talent for braising meat with just the right spice is to be admired,” Jamra said.
Elena spread a pat of butter on a hunk of crusty bread. “You do
n’t have a very high opinion of mortals, do you?” she said and took a bite.
“Every now and then you find one worthy of the air they breathe.” He skewered a chunk of meat on the end of his knife with a slice of potato and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. He smiled as he chewed. “I vow the chef in this quaint café shall never come to harm,” he said after he swallowed.
Elena put her knife down. Here she was sitting in a café eating a delicious meal in a new dress while Jean-Paul lay sick in bed with a fever. And sitting across from the very jinni who’d broken into their lives and stolen the happiness they’d worked so hard to build as if it meant nothing more to him than wiping a few breadcrumbs from the tablecloth. She might be hungry, but she couldn’t share another bite with her abductor. She wished there were a way for her to be alone with her thoughts, if only for a few minutes, so she could slip into the shadow world and check on Jean-Paul. But how to do it without Jamra noticing? He would undoubtedly try to invade her vision if he caught her, and she had no wish to experience that breath on her neck again. Could she make an excuse to be alone? And just how much of a prisoner was she? Jamra certainly hadn’t tried to restrain her or keep her from walking away when they landed in the village, though she hadn’t really made a serious attempt. No, the knowledge that he could kill Jean-Paul on a whim was manacle enough, and he knew it.
Jamra lifted his glass to drink. “You are not eating.”
“It’s very spicy,” she said as the seed of an idea sprouted. “Makes me thirsty.”
The jinni swallowed the last of his wine, then poured himself a second glass. Elena held hers out as well. Yes, the idea might work, she thought as she swirled the wine. Let him drink and eat his food. Take it in. But not too fast. Not yet.
She’d never had much practice with silent incantations, but there were ways to conjure spells without speaking a word. Intent was always the main ingredient, of course. Speaking or writing the words out loud put them into the world in the precise form. But as long as the mind stayed true to her intentions and didn’t wander, she should be able to channel the magic toward her goal without him noticing.
Elena swirled her glass so the wine rotated inside like a small tempest. The aroma of the fermented fruit funneled out, wafting in the air between them. Yes, with help from the wine she could do it.
A single sip to wet the tongue. A second one, the spell’s still young. Take one more the blood will thin, drain the glass let sleep begin.
She let the words of the spell run through her thoughts three times to reinforce her intention, all the while concentrating on the potency of the wine and the jinni drinking it. Candlelight reflected in the drink’s ruby tones, hypnotizing with its beauty as it spun around. She sent that dizzying sensation floating to Jamra. But slowly. Something to dissolve in his blood as the alcohol worked its way through his veins, heart, and brain.
The jinni snapped his fingers at the waiter. “Don’t you adore the quaint mortal gesture of paying for nourishment,” he said to her. As the waiter approached with the check, Jamra waved his fingers over his palm like a common magician doing prestidigitation. A stack of coins appeared in his hand, which he tossed on the table for the waiter to sort through.
“I’m not sure that’s how it’s done,” Elena said, then mouthed an apology to the waiter as they walked outside.
As yet, the jinni had given no indication he’d caught her at her spellcasting. Of course, there was always the off chance the silent incantation hadn’t worked. Or, worse yet, had missed Jamra and hit someone else in the café. She startled at that briefly before coming back to her senses. But as they walked along the sidewalk, Jamra’s feet became unsteady, and the magic that had transformed her attire began to fade so that she wore her blue wool skirt and dirty sabots again. He, too, transformed. His jacket, shirt, and tie smoldered with orange fire that nibbled at the threads until they turned to ash. He brushed them away with a giggle as he staggered in a free-flowing robe. Only his tailored trousers, black derby, and oxford shoes remained.
They’d come to a point in the neighborhood where three streets converged at an odd pointed angle, almost as if the city’s original planners had meant to create a letter Y in the center of town. To their left was a short side street, which they gravitated toward. More of an alley, to be honest, except for the odd business entrance tucked at one end. The other doors all appeared to be rear entrances to cafés and small shops—rarely used, judging by the cobwebs that had collected in the frames of a few of them. At the far end a stray dog trotted by, but otherwise the alley appeared abandoned.
“Voilà!” Jamra announced for all the street to hear, then laughed at his overt attempt at a proper accent. “I love that word.”
He stumbled into the alley and pointed with a flourish. “Your quarters, madame.”
A majestic tent appeared before her eyes that stretched from wall to wall in the alley. Unable to resist her curiosity, Elena pushed back the cloth of the tent’s opening and entered, where she was met with soft lamplight that glowed from multicolored lights suspended from the ceiling of fabric. Below she found a plush rug and narrow platform bed buried in pillows that was certainly large enough for her to curl up and sleep on. A brass washbasin, a hairbrush, and a mirror sat on a small octagonal table. It couldn’t be real. Not in the center of town. And yet she could feel the silk and cotton of the tent, the wool and leather of the rugs and pillows, the cool metal of the mirror’s handle.
“I’m to sleep here? In the middle of town? Won’t someone discover the illusion?”
Jamra had followed her inside and sunk into the pillows on the bed, his eyes half-closed from the mixture of wine and her spell. “I create illusions within illusions within”—he burped—“illusions. Do not doubt my magic, woman.”
“Nor mine,” she said under her breath.
She’d assumed they’d return to the landing site where her tapestry was stashed in the tree so they might remain out of sight of mortals. Yet the tent was warm and inviting and so much better than sleeping on the cold ground. But then, he was still right there in the same tent! If he’d meant to conjure his own quarters, as any respectable man would, it was too late. His lids fluttered shut and his head tilted back against the pillows. Her spell had hit full potency.
Elena took a pillow from the bed and used it to sit on the floor. She waited a minute to see if Jamra would rouse from his sleep, but once his mouth fell open and the snoring began, she closed her eyes. She no longer needed an item belonging to Jean-Paul to find him. The bond between them had created a silver thread that coiled through the liminal space. The connection was still there for her to pick up as soon as she entered the shadow world—an encouraging sign.
At the end of the thread she saw him. Jean-Paul’s head was propped on a white pillow. His glasses were on the side table beside a glass of water. His fever seemed to have lessened. She tried to press closer, but another energy held her back. Brother Anselm. He sat in a chair in the corner reading an illustrated book of Scheherazade’s tales. He’d no doubt grown curious about the jinni and his powers and hoped to find answers in the pages. She looked back at Jean-Paul. Although unconscious from the jinni’s curse, he looked little different from when he was in a pleasant sleep after a long day’s work. His body shivered, and Brother Anselm sat forward to adjust his blanket and reapply the cool cloth to his forehead. She didn’t know how the jinni’s magic had sent his mind to the desert, but she asked the All Knowing to let him find some small oasis where he could find comfort until she returned.
Elena sent her love to Jean-Paul, then reeled herself back in. She opened her eyes and immediately checked to see if Jamra had awoken. But, no, he’d rolled onto his side with his face squashed against the bed so that his derby sat askew on his head like a dandy gangster, albeit a drunken one with the giggles.
She tapped her fingers against her knees, thinking over her situation. She could leave. Run. Try to return to Jean-Paul before Jamra figured out where she’d g
one. But she could never return to Château Renard more quickly than the jinni could move within the ether. And then what would he do in retaliation? She was no better prepared to defend herself and her home from the jinni than she’d been that morning.
Besides, she’d begun to wonder if the farther they got from Jean-Paul, the weaker Jamra’s hold over him might become. It was a possibility. Some spells worked by proximity. Then again, it was also possible Jamra might prove a man of his word, despite his despicable nature, and release his hold on Jean-Paul if she continued to put up a front of cooperation. Not likely, but also not out of the question. From what she’d learned, jinn felt a deep sense of indebtedness to those who helped them. In either case, it meant she had little choice but to stay put.
It also meant she would have to decide if she would take him to Sidra’s true location or not. At first, after he’d so rudely swept her off her feet and abducted her, she’d vowed to veer him off course, claiming she had only a vague notion of where to go. She’d meant to lead him to the coast or the southern border where the mountain peaks rose up as jagged as wolf’s teeth. Let him sort out which village out of a hundred Sidra was in. Oh, but she knew exactly where to find the jinni. There was no mistaking those acres and acres of flower fields.
For now, there was little more Elena could do until her incantation ran its course and her spell-drunk abductor regained consciousness. Until then, she curled up on her pillow on the floor and hoped for once Jamra’s boast about his magic was true. She would still sleep uneasily, but it was reassuring to know they were hidden from the prying eyes of any villagers prone to prowling alleys at night. Cats excepted, of course.
CHAPTER NINE
Sidra placed a chunk of bakhoor in the incense burner and gently blew fire on it until the resin lit. She sat back against the sofa with her stomach full but her mind aloft in the clouds. The scent spell cloaking her presence in the village wouldn’t be enough, despite what she’d told the girl. Not against Jamra. He’d nearly figured out the location once before, which was why she and Hariq had gone to extremes to try to be free of him. Of course, had she known then the cost, she would have given up.
The Conjurer (The Vine Witch) Page 6