Ghosts & Echoes

by Lyn Benedict

  “Beneath you,” she said. “The door’s that way. Go find Zoe, and we’ll talk.”

  “We’ll talk now, Shadows. You’re just going to have to be late.”

  “I can’t imagine you have anything to say that interests me,” she said. She headed toward her bedroom and a change of clothes.

  Wright’s widening eyes gave her warning, and she blocked Suarez’s attempt to grab her shoulder with a supple torso twist, came around and seized his thick wrist in her hand, nails one step from drawing blood. “I really don’t have time for this,” she said.

  Suarez said, “Señora Alvarez said you left her with the impression that Isabella Martinez was the thief, or one of them. She said you went inside and spoke to the girl. Is she involved? Mrs. Alvarez believes it so.”

  He held up a hand in Wright’s direction; without looking at Wright, Sylvie knew the conflict written on his face—defend Sylvie or defer to the local police.

  “Ask Bella”—and that was a slip she could ill afford: familiarity with a suspect—“if you’re so curious.”

  “Her parents are in the Bahamas on business. We’re waiting for the family lawyers to get in touch with them, then with us. But the Martinezes’ housekeeper says you went through there like a house on fire. Lots of shouting, and you took something away. Something I doubt was stolen goods. Tell me what it was.”

  “I’m not the sharing type,” Sylvie said. She reined in her brittle control, dropped her hands first to her sides, then slid them behind her back, trying to look less confrontational. It might work better, she thought, watching his eyes narrow, if she wasn’t known for carrying a SOB holster.

  His hands fisted at his sides, then relaxed. “Tell me one thing, Shadows. Tell me my instincts are right. That this burglary is more than it seems. More like the UFO abduction. Something that needs your skill set. Give me that, at least, and I’ll back off until you call.”

  Sylvie could give him that. She nodded once. “Stay out of it, Suarez. It’s not safe.”

  “All right. I’m gone for now. I’ll bring your sister back. Then we’ll talk.”

  Wright winced as the man bumped the briefcase on his way out, tipping it over. Sylvie, who knew it was locked, was more sanguine, at least until it hit the tile and popped open a tiny bit, releasing the scent of spoiled milk and dead flesh into the room. Luckily, it coincided with Suarez’s opening the apartment door on a wash of fresh summer air.

  She saw him to the open stairwell, then pounced on the briefcase with a muttered curse that was more bluster than emotion. This was a problem she could solve. “Wright!”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “There’s a roll of duct tape in the drawer next to the fridge. Get it? Oh, and the salt.”

  Wright, heading for the tape, paused. “Salt?”

  “Yeah. I should have done it yesterday, but I’m not a witch. Don’t think like one.”

  He brought her the tape, the salt dispenser. She shook it thoughtfully, wondering if she had enough.

  “Hold that end,” she said, passing him tape. She popped the lid on the shaker, exposed the sticky side of the tape, and laid down a thin line of salt along its length.

  “Protective magic,” she said. “A lot of things don’t like salt. Gunpowder works, too, but it’s an expensive habit and tends to go bang at bad moments.”

  She wound the leather case with three ugly rows of duct tape, thinking legend was apparently less than complete if the Hands could affect locks on their lonesome. First her door, now the briefcase.

  “So we’re taking them to the witch, right? ’Cause I’m beginning to get ideas of them crawling across the floor all on their own. And my dreams were crappy.”

  Sylvie paused. “Specifically crappy? Like Bella’s dream about the dead kid?”

  “Just”—he waved his hands, trying to catch the impossible words he needed to describe it—“nasty. Busy. Like I could hear people talking about really horrible things next door.”

  “Tell me sooner next time,” Sylvie said. “These are dangerous artifacts, and you’ll be more susceptible to their corruption than me. Not judgment. Just fact. You died once. You have a . . . passenger. You’ve got a gap in your defenses.”

  He shrugged, though it was tight. “So what? Your boyfriend Demalion’s like . . . a common cold? Weakening my immune system? You think the witch can help with that?”

  “I’m hoping she can help with a lot of things,” Sylvie said. “Not least, getting rid of these Hands.”

  14

  The Retail Witch

  ODALYS’S SHOP, ADDRESS BETTER DEFINED BY ALEX’S GOOGLEFU, turned out to be nothing like Sylvie had expected. She thought of magic shops, and she thought dark, dim, and claustrophobic—a showman’s tent, a bloody basement ritual, an abandoned house. At best, she had thought the shop would be new-age incense and candles, plastic bead curtains, and velvet draping—all the trappings of bell, book, and candle.

  Invocat looked like a high-end cosmetics store: glass counters and shelves shining in sunlight, mirrors adding colorful blazes to dark corners, shoji doors with inked cherry blossoms marking out dressing rooms, the back of the store. It was sparsely peopled. One boy, college age, browsed along the rainbow of candles, picking one up, putting one down, reversing himself, and starting again. A girl tourist in a Miami Dolphins tee shook her head at the jewelry and made her way out as Sylvie came in.

  Sylvie stepped through the glass doors; the air was cool and scented, and there were delicate wind chimes above the door.

  Wright, outside, propped his feet on her dash and pushed his sunglasses up higher. He’d been quiet all morning. Probably still thinking about Demalion, about her tie to him, still wondering if she could be trusted.

  She hoped he didn’t run off while her back was turned. He hadn’t wanted to wait in the truck, but until she had Odalys’s measure, she hadn’t wanted to expose Wright—or Demalion—to her. It was true: There were more people who’d hinder than help, and that was without counting those things that might home in on a doubled soul. Humans were tasty to a lot of creatures; Wright would be the equivalent of a deep-fried Snickers bar. Deeply wrong and unnatural, but irresistible.

  “May I help you?” the woman behind a glass counter said. Her gaze swept Sylvie head to feet, a quick assessment, and a displeased one. She wasn’t the usual shopper, she supposed, and a duct-taped briefcase shedding fine flakes of salt was not a fashionable accessory.

  But then, the woman behind the counter was as unusual as the shop—not a neohippie with long, trailing skirts, wearing a jumble of assorted charm bracelets, necklaces, and cheap, dangling earrings; not a princess of darkness either, no tats, no piercings, no black. Instead, the woman was ten years past college age and dressed like a successful corporate lawyer, smoothly and expensively professional.

  “Are you Odalys?”

  “I am,” she said. Her voice was as sleek as her red-gold chignon, as bright as the chic gold edge to her glasses. Her slate blue blouse was crisp, her grey skirt pristine. “And you are?”

  “Sylvie,” she said. “I have a few questions for you.”

  “If they’re within my purview, I’ll be glad to help.” She stepped around the counter, gestured gracefully to a seat near a glass bookshelf. Sylvie took the seat, noting as she did so that there wasn’t a smudge to be seen on the glass. Such perfection argued either an obsessive personality, strongly controlled, or extreme boredom.

  “I have a problem on my hands,” Sylvie said. “A couple of black-magic artifacts that need disposal—”

  Odalys laughed, out loud and brightly, then covered her mouth with a hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. I just didn’t expect that type of question from you. You look like such a sensible woman.”

  She smoothed her skirt, the grey wool barely reaching her knees, and took the next armchair. She leaned forward, cast a quick glance about her, and said, “Let me tell you something. I run a magic shop. That doesn’t mean I practice magic. Or even
believe in it.”

  Sylvie might have bought it—the earnest furrow between carefully plucked brows, the exasperation lacing her voice—except for two things. One, she was selling it a little too hard. It was bad business to disavow belief where customers could hear. By the candles, the boy looked perturbed, and that was a sale getting away, or Sylvie didn’t know human nature. And two?

  “You’re new to Miami,” Sylvie said.

  “I’ve been here over a year,” Odalys said. She sounded affronted; no one liked to be labeled a newbie, and Sylvie’s implication was obvious: Odalys was missing something. Odalys didn’t like that at all, a controlling personality, without a doubt. She controlled her environment, and she wanted to control the conversation.

  “Relatively new,” Sylvie amended, a sop to the woman’s pride. “Let me tell you a story about two women who live outside of town. They keep a very close eye on who goes in and out of their territory. They’re also a bit greedy. They consider all of Miami their territory.”

  “ ‘ Territory,’ ” Odalys echoed. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her chest. “Is this a welcome from the local Mafia? I’m not intimidated.”

  “They smell magic,” Sylvie said. She leaned in, closing the distance that Odalys had opened. “And they’re wicked accurate. They sent me here. To you.” That was the second reason she knew Odalys’s denial was crap. Tatya and Marisol might be paranoid about their safety, and delusional about whose city this really was, but they knew power.

  Odalys’s manicured nails drummed a quick tattoo across the glass shelf. “Come into the back.” She looked at the boy, still deliberating near the candles, and said, “Three red, one yellow. Red for action. Yellow for learning. You won’t get the girl if you don’t learn to be decisive—$49.95. I take Visa, Amex, and Discover. Cash, of course, if you’re the sort who likes to flash it.”

  Obediently, the young man trotted over, pulling a credit card from his backpack.

  Not such a poor saleswoman after all.

  Odalys moved over to the counter, and if her clothes were sedate, the way she moved wasn’t, all hip sway and sidle. Her heels were stilettos and stone grey, a modern color for a modern woman.

  The boy left, starstruck and hopeful, and Odalys turned the charm off. “Call your cop inside. He’s bad for business, lurking out front like that.” She turned, brushed past the rice-paper doors, and headed into the back.

  Sylvie waved Wright inside, waited for him to translate her increasingly impatient gestures. Finally, he unfolded himself from the truck. “So?” he said, over the brief carillon of the door chimes. “She going to help?”

  “Maybe,” Sylvie said. “If she does, I’ll bet it costs.”

  Wright grinned, but when Odalys came to stand in the frame of the doorway, his cynical grin changed to something purely appreciative. Sylvie sighed. Men. Odalys, with her high cheekbones, her pale skin, her chignon, her glasses, her tidy clothes—

  Sylvie poked Wright in the small of the back. “Sorry to interrupt your ‘hot secretary’ fantasy,” she said, “but you’re blocking the path.”

  Odalys smiled over his shoulder at Sylvie in female, conspiratorial amusement. Sylvie realized then that Odalys’s style choice had been chosen to elicit exactly that response.

  Shrewd choice; most men, trained by Wonder Woman, harbored the fantasy of discovering a secret, overlooked beauty, and most girls fantasized about being the hidden beauty. A good look for a woman who promised magic.

  Sylvie, briefcase in hand, brushed past Wright, and stepped into the back room. When Wright tried to follow, Odalys leaned out, and said, “Watch the store for me, darling,” and slid the barrier closed in his face.

  “Hey,” Wright objected, his irritation clear through the screen. “I’ve got questions of my own, you know.”

  Odalys waved Sylvie onward, farther into the dim recess. Sylvie hesitated. Shut out again and again, Wright had a reason to be pissed, but . . . as much as she hated the necessity, she should play nice with Odalys.

  Slow is best, her little dark voice warned. See how she deals with the dead things before you trust her with a living being. Sylvie took a step after Odalys.

  “It’s nothing personal,” Odalys said. “But if he joins us, I’ll have to close the store and charge you for my lost business. Unless . . . are you paying me for a consult?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Sylvie said.

  The back room was as pristine as the front though less sterile. The chairs weren’t bleached wood, but buttery soft leather in burgundy and blue; the lights were warm instead of bright, and there was a lingering scent of rose oil and vanilla. The shelves along the wall were dark wood, and filled with open-topped wicker baskets. Sylvie, incurably nosy, pulled one out and smiled.

  Witch.

  Yes, Sylvie agreed. She’d begun to wonder if Odalys had been telling the truth. The storefront felt nothing like magic, and even the back room lacked that . . . charge in the air, that sense of worked spells. But the wicker basket held a jumble of charms, red cords, small nuts, and cedar, some flaking crystals that might have been salt. Basic protective-spell ingredients.

  Odalys said, “Yes, you’re right—I am a witch. How clever of you to find me out.” She said it all on one bored breath. “What you haven’t found is any reason for me to talk to you.” She pushed the charms basket back onto the shelves.

  “Business courtesy between two entrepreneurs?”

  “You haven’t said what it is you do,” Odalys said. She swayed to her seat, and Sylvie bit back the urge to tell the woman to turn off the glamour.

  “I’m a troubleshooter,” Sylvie said. “And I’ve got some trouble I’m hoping you can help me with.”

  Sitting in this quiet room with Odalys felt oddly familiar. Odalys was a witch in the same mold as Val Cassavetes. Elegant, personable, superior. Sylvie tucked her grubby sneakers beneath the chair. At least with Val, Sylvie had had years of acquaintance to offset the disparity in their priorities.

  “Well,” Odalys said. “Are you going to tell me what evil magic you’re afflicted with, or are you waiting to see if your cop can sell a love potion to the high-school crowd? They’ll be in fairly soon.”

  Sylvie set the briefcase on the oriental carpet between them, pried up the tape, and opened the latch. “I need two things. One, to make these safe, inert. Two, to figure out who might have sold them.”

  There was a screech—Odalys shoving her chair back off the carpet, her poise stripped from her. “Oh, that’s . . . disgusting. Close it at once.”

  “I agree.”

  “Just . . . close it!”

  Odalys was out of the chair, her hand at her throat as if her breath had lodged itself there.

  Sylvie tipped the lid shut, aggravated. Val wouldn’t have spooked so easily.

  “Damn you,” Odalys said. She rummaged through a basket, shoulders tight, and yanked out a long length of embroidered white silk. “Those kinds of things stain. Places and souls. I’ll have to cleanse the entire shop once you’ve gone.” She tossed the silk at Sylvie; it fluttered and fell short, drifting to the floor with a hissed whisper. “Cover that up.”

  Sylvie draped the silk over the briefcase. “Sorry,” she said. Apology wasn’t her usual style, but this interaction was still new enough it could end abruptly and unsatisfactorily; Sylvie needed a witch on her team.

  Odalys waved a hand; tiny diamonds in her bracelet caught the light and flashed. “Better back here than in the storefront, I suppose. Small mercies. That silk will isolate the damage.”

  “Thanks,” Sylvie said.

  “It’s also a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  Sylvie sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  The bell in the main store rang, followed by the laughter of young girls, and Odalys’s attention veered toward it.

  Wright’s voice welcomed them, started another round of giggles, and Odalys sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

  She slid the door back and dis
appeared. Sylvie waited until she heard Odalys catching the girls’ attention with practiced ease, then she rose and gave in to temptation.

  Careful, the little dark voice urged. Witches protect their secrets well.

  Sylvie agreed, but there wasn’t much help for it. She chose to trust in her sketchy immunity to magic, trust in her instinct and ability to withdraw before a spell could touch her at all.

  She thought dryly she might as well milk what she could out of Lilith’s legacy. Something more useful than the bad temper, inability to shut up in the face of danger, and a stubborn streak the proverbial mile wide.

  The baskets were stacked seven high, the tallest accessible by step stool; the rows were ten baskets wide. Seventy baskets and just a few minutes to make her assessment of Odalys. She wanted to know the caliber of the witch she was asking for aid. Odalys rang . . . false to her. According to Tatya, the woman was powerful, and Sylvie had seen that she was clever enough. Still, she seemed more like a retailer than a witch. Only her instant recognition of the Hands and the shield cloth argued anything more.

  Sylvie selected the basket least likely to be reached for, trusting that the candles, jewelry, books—things that the shop ran out of most often—would be the most easily accessible. She used the step stool, picked the basket in the darkest, higher corner, rested her hand on the edge of it gingerly. It didn’t feel like anything but clean wicker. Despite its position, it was dust-free. More obsessive cleaning? Or proof that this basket was used frequently despite the awkward placement?

  The basket, drawn out carefully, yielded evidence that Odalys was more witchy than she let on. The basket revealed narrow vials of what looked like clumpy dirt and cloth dolls. It wasn’t a smoking gun, but the two items in conjunction suggested the darker sides of magic. If it were grave dirt, it argued some control over death, though that could be benign—an abjuration against an evil spirit—or something more malign—the base for a curse.

  The poppets—Sylvie picked one up, studied the blank face, the undone seam where fingernails, hair, or teeth could be inserted—were more worrying. Sylvie didn’t know any nice spells that involved poppets; generally, beneficent spells were worked directly on the targeted person. Only black-magic spellcasters felt the need for a proxy. Too afraid to face their enemies.