Hexed

“Sure. Besides, you don’t like witches, right?”

“I guess I know which kind of Eastwood movie you’d like to watch.” I got Oberon set up in the living room with a Dirty Harry flick and then took off on my bike, sword strapped to my back in plain sight, heading for Malina’s condo near Town Lake.

Ever since I’d started to carry Fragarach around regularly—just in the last few weeks—I had noticed an interesting phenomenon: Hardly anyone thought it was real. Most people took a look at the guy on a bike with a sword and assumed I was still living with my mom and harboring an unhealthy obsession for anime. Or they supposed the sword was a prop for a role-playing game or some other fantasy, because the idea of carrying a sword for personal defense in an age of firearms caused them too much cognitive dissonance. While I paused at the stoplight on Mill and University, one citizen even inquired if I was on my way to the comics shop.

Malina lived in the Bridgeview condos, a twelve-story tower of glass and steel built just after the turn of the century in Tempe’s rush to develop the Town Lake district. She and the rest of her coven owned the entire ninth floor—though now there were six vacancies. Granuaile, my apprentice, lived on the eighth floor, directly underneath the condo of Radomila, the coven’s erstwhile leader. I thought it would be wise to check on her before knocking on Malina’s door, so I rang her bell.

“Who is it?” her voice called through the door. “Oh, it’s just you.”

She answered the door in something scanty, and I experienced a moment of panic as prurient thoughts pushed aside the innocent inquiry I’d been planning to make about her safety. Granuaile was not plain; she was a tall, lithe redhead with green eyes, a mouth that looked delicious, and an extremely sharp mind. The latter was most important, for otherwise she would not be my apprentice. It was difficult to dwell on her mind, however, when so much of her athletic build was on display—more than I had seen to date, in fact. She usually dressed very modestly and I appreciated it, because it kept my thoughts of her (mostly) innocent. But now that she was dressed in a low-cut pale-green nightie, all slinky and clinging to her shape—

Baseball! Must think of baseball. Not the curve of her … curveball! Randy Johnson has a wicked slider too. Oh, how I would love to slide—

“Atticus? What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh. Um. Hi.” I’d been reduced to monosyllables by a nightie.

“Why are you looking up? Is there something above my door?” She took a step closer to me and leaned over to see what I was looking at and, oh, my—

“There’s some tit, uh, titillating wallpaper up there! Yes! Fantastic interior decorating here, I just noticed.”

“You’ve seen it before. What’s going on?”

Just the facts, Atticus. “Someone attacked me tonight and I wanted to make sure you were okay,” I said, trying to remember who held the record for stealing second base.

“Oh, well, yes, I’m fine. Who attacked you?”

“Still trying to find out. It was a magical attack, not a physical one. Actually, there was a physical one too, but that was a demon, and an elemental killed it for me so that’s all right, the ghouls are on their way, but I’m not sure my neighbor’s ever going to be the same, though you don’t have to worry about Oberon, he’s fine.” Sweet honey of Dagda, now I was babbling.

“What?” Granuaile said.

“Look, there’s no time to discuss it; just lock yourself inside and close all your windows. I’m going to put a ward on your door to keep you safe tonight while I go deal with this.”

“You think someone’s going to attack me?”

“No, no, it’s a precaution only. Now get inside and close the door—shoo. But open up the shop for me tomorrow; I won’t be in ’til after lunch.”

“All right,” she said uncertainly. She turned, and I looked at the ceiling so that my peripheral vision would not drag my focus downward. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Sleep well,” I said as the door closed, shutting that body away from my eyes, and I sighed in relief. “Damn, I need a cigarette after that. And I don’t even smoke.”

Druid’s Log, November 1: Buy attractive apprentice some shapeless, ugly clothes as soon as possible; maybe convince her to shave her head as well. Tell her all the cool Druid initiates are doing it.

I didn’t need to put a ward on Granuaile’s door, since I had placed one there a week ago without telling her, right after she returned from North Carolina and confirmed she still wanted to be an initiate.

After taking a couple of deep breaths to regain my composure and focus on my purpose, I used the stairwell to head up to the witches’ floor. I had no illusions that I would catch them unawares; they probably knew the moment I’d entered the building, much less ascended the stairs to their floor. I took a moment to mutter a binding on all my hair and skin, to make sure none of it escaped to fall into the hands of a witch. I had to be careful with my magic usage here; nine floors up from the earth, I had a limited supply of energy upon which to draw, just what was stored in my bear charm. I can’t really sling magic around the way witches can, in any case. In a situation like this, my sword would serve me better. Fragarach (the Answerer in Irish) wasn’t simply a sharpened piece of steel: The Tuatha Dé Danann had given it a couple of bonus utilities when they forged it ages ago, and I intended to employ one of them now.

I drew it from its scabbard, thereby breaking a state law or two about deadly weapons, and opened the door to the ninth floor. The hallway was clear and uncomfortably silent, the lights dimmer somehow, and the air close and quiet like the dark, stuffy space underneath a blanket. On the other floors, where trust-fund college kids and young professionals lived, you could hear muted music and laughing and The Daily Show’s mockery through the doors. The witches were having none of that.

“It’s Atticus,” I called as I rapped my knuckles on Malina’s door. The percussive sound seemed to offend the hallway’s sense of decorum, and the quiet chastised me as it dropped into my ears like cotton balls. I stood presenting my left side to the fish-eye peephole, so that my sword arm was hidden from view.

While I waited for her to answer, I thought of how stupid I was being right then. Oberon’s words rang in my ears, along with the shrill voice of paranoia in my head. Meeting the witches on their own turf without a nonaggression treaty and without support of any kind was really asking for it. I still didn’t know quite what they were capable of; if Malina was to be believed, they had held this territory against all comers for nearly thirty years. The threshold could be booby-trapped or enchanted. I could be walking into a cage fight with a demon. Hell, she could open the door with a Glock 9 in her hand and put a bullet in my ear, or throw a cat at me, or call me a damn hippie.

She did none of those things. I heard the locks tumbling open—regular, everyday locks—and then she stood before me with red-rimmed, puffy eyes and said, “Waclawa’s dead.”

It took me a moment to process that she’d said someone’s name. I know forty-two languages—many of them extinct now—but Polish isn’t one of them, and in general I’m not that great with the Slavic tongues. Waclawa, I recalled, was one of the names on the list of Malina’s coven members.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “How did she die?”

“The police will probably call it spontaneous combustion,” she ground out bitterly, “but there was nothing spontaneous about it.” Malina wore a diaphanous purple tunic over a white camisole. She had on a black skirt that fell to her knees and hugged her hips; her legs were sheathed in black tights, and she wore pointy high-heeled ankle boots of jet suede. Her lips were painted a soft pink, and now they were pressed together in regret. I marveled again at her hair—gentle waves of blond silk that one simply never sees except on silver screens, framing her face and spilling down past her collarbone. Normally her skin was white and smooth as marble, inviting caress, but now it was flushed and blotchy because she was upset. She opened the door farther and gestured. “Come on in.”

I didn’t move. “Forgive me, but I need two questions answered first.” I moved my sword into view but did not raise it or threaten her with it. “Will you answer?”

Malina’s eyes flicked down. “If I answer incorrectly, then I get the sword?”

“No, the sword makes sure you answer correctly. It’s kind of special that way.”

Malina narrowed her eyes. “What sort of questions?”

“Nothing about your coven’s secrets, nothing personal. They regard my immediate safety only.”

“Do I get a quid pro quo?”

I sighed. Everything with this witch was a negotiation. “I freely tell you I have no intention of attacking you without being attacked first.”

“I already knew that. I want to know about your magic.”

“No, that is not a quid pro quo.” I shook my head. “The value is not the same.”

Malina raised her eyebrows. “You are suggesting that innocent questions about your magical abilities are more important than questions of your immediate safety?”

“Of course, for the answer to the latter will do me no good past this evening, and the former will inform you forever.”

“I am too upset to enjoy fencing with you about this. Ask your questions about personal safety.”

I raised Fragarach slowly, deliberately, and pointed it at Malina’s throat. “Freagróidh tú,” I said in Irish, and Fragarach turned cold in my hand, its blade gleaming blue and enveloping Malina’s head in a soft cloud of cyan light. The witch blinked.

“The sword can cast a spell?” she said. “Most unusual. Was this the reason Aenghus Óg wanted the sword so much?” I was sure it was one of the reasons, but the true answer had more to do with Fae politics and a personal vendetta against me. I had not come to discuss my sword’s magical capabilities.

“I’ll ask the questions,” I replied. “Did you have anything to do with the attempt on my life tonight, or do you have any knowledge of who might have been involved?”

“I personally had nothing to do with it, nor did any from my coven, but I do have knowledge of who might have been involved.”

The temptation to ask “Who?” was nearly overwhelming, but I bit it back; it could wait, and I only had one question left. I carefully composed it, then asked, “Do you, or any other person, creature, or spirit within your home, intend to cast any spell on me while in the building, or are there enchantments that I may unknowingly trigger during my visit?”

“Neither I nor any other person, creature, or spirit in my home intends to cast a spell on you. I do not wish to tell you about our enchantments, for I feel that intrudes uncomfortably into the area of coven secrets, which you promised not to explore.…” Malina frowned for a moment and then continued, her eyes widening as she realized she could not stop herself. “But of course you tripped an enchantment the moment you walked into the building, as all nonresidents do—a simple low-level alert. And another that identified you as carrying a magical item. And then another in the hallway that—Zorya Vechernyaya, zamknij mi usta!”

I really needed to pick up some Polish if I was going to continue dealing with Malina, though I did catch that she invoked one of the Zoryas, the star goddesses from whom her coven derived its power. “Whatever you’re trying, it won’t work,” I said. “You must answer the question fully before you are released. You were speaking of an enchantment in the hallway.”

Malina decided to try a physical response: She attempted to slam the door in my face, or at least made an abortive movement as if she wanted to do so; that was when she discovered Fragarach wouldn’t let her move more than a couple of inches. Since the sword’s enchantment had been originally intended to interrogate highly hostile enemies, it was a defensive measure more than anything else—can’t have people stabbing you when you’re pumping them for information. I smiled gently and said nothing. The only way she could be free now was to answer the question, and the spell would compel her to speak soon enough if she insisted on being silent.

She insisted.

Fifteen seconds later—a decent holdout—she was telling me everything about the hallway and glowering at me for it as her volubility waxed.

“The hallway has an enchantment that removes a few hairs from your head if you do not live on this floor. Crossing the threshold of my door will do the same thing. There is a knife in my kitchen that will slice into your fingers if you try to use it, thereby producing blood we may seize upon. And if you use our bathroom, your waste will be stored for later use.”

“Eww, gross,” I said. First impression of a valley girl, ever. I swear.

“That is all. Release me from this spell now,” Malina said.

“I have promised to ask you only two questions regarding my safety, and that is what I have done. The fact that you did not want to answer the second question demonstrates I had good cause to be worried. And, of course, you did not want to answer because you know that possession of my hair, blood, or any fragment of my cells for magical purposes is expressly forbidden in the nonaggression treaty we have yet to sign.”

Malina seethed quietly, and I continued, “I am going to release you shortly. Before I do, I want you to know I hold you and your coven blameless in the recent attempt on my life. I’m not going to ask you any more questions now, for that would violate my promise, but I would appreciate it very much if, once you are released, you would share what you know about who tried to kill me. If the party responsible for attacking me is the same party that killed Waclawa, then I offer my aid in avenging her.”

The witch’s expression softened minutely, and after a brief hesitation she gave me a curt nod. “That is reasonable. I will return any hair taken from you immediately and dispel the enchantment on my threshold so that you may enter safely. But you will never use this sword’s power on me again, nor on any member of my coven.”

I didn’t nod or give any other sign that I agreed to that but instead released her and said, “Let us proceed, then.” I was curious to see whether the silent hallway had succeeded in taking my hair when I had put a binding on it specifically to prevent that from happening.

“Who attacked me?” I asked.

“Just a moment,” she said. She spoke a few words of Polish, and the door frame flared with white light for a brief second. “It’s safe for you to come in now.”

“Thank you,” I said, and stepped into her condo. It was decorated in purples, ranging from intense violet to soft lavenders, and anchored by black leather furnishings and steel appliances. The wall above the obligatory big-screen TV boasted a large painting of a triple goddess figure, presumably the Zoryas. Pale wax candles dotted the room with fingers of light, emitting a scent of orange peel and cardamom.

“I think custom demands that I offer you refreshment,” Malina said as she moved to the kitchen, “but you won’t take any, will you?”

“No, but I thank you for the thought. It is a meaningful gesture in itself.”

“Will you be seated?” she gestured toward the inviting leather couch in the center of the living area. The black coffee table had several magazines scattered about on it—Newsweek and Organic Living and Rolling Stone, I noted with some surprise. Then I wondered at myself: What did I expect, Ritual Animal Slaughters Quarterly? I almost accepted her offer, because the couch did look comfy, but then a tense whisper of caution suggested that she could say something in Polish and make it eat me.

“I prefer to stand, thank you. And with my sword drawn, though I will keep it pointed at the ground. I do not wish to take much of your time, only what is necessary to establish who attacked me and to retrieve anything of mine your enchantments may have removed.”

Malina was not used to being so flagrantly mistrusted, and I think she was close to taking offense. But, let’s face it, most people outside her coven didn’t know she was a witch; they thought her nothing more than an alluring, successful, cosmopolitan woman with glamorous hair and a penchant for wearing sexy boots.

“Fine,” she said shortly, pulling a cork out of an already open bottle of Rosemount Estate Shiraz that waited on her granite countertop. She started to pull a glass out of her cupboard, but then thought better of it and tossed the cork carelessly over her shoulder, deciding to drink straight out of the bottle since I wouldn’t be partaking. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” She took a gulp or two for courage before continuing. “Waclawa is nothing more than a collection of cinders now on the lake shore, thanks to a certain hex I haven’t seen since my younger days in Europe. It’s not something my coven can do, I assure you, nor would we want to. This hex cannot be cast without the aid of dark powers, and it takes three witches in tandem to cast it. That,” she said, aiming her bottle at me meaningfully, “should give you an idea of what we’re confronted with.”

“If I was targeted at the same time as the rest of your coven, it means we’re dealing with two dozen witches plus eight demons.”

“Correct—well, the demons may not still be around. But I’m sure they left something of themselves behind.” Her eyes grew round significantly, and I began to wonder how much wine she had already consumed.

“Oh, no. Let me guess. Eight of those witches are eating for two now.”

“Very good, Mr. O’Sullivan. That’s generally how these things work. In nine months, eight demon babies will be born—and more soon after, if the witches care to try again. There’s only one coven large enough and soulless enough to try this, and we have run into them before: They call themselves die Töchter des dritten Hauses.”

“The Daughters of the Third House?”

“Yes. They are the bitches I was referring to on the phone.” Her face twisted and she looked as if she was going to scream a curse or five, but she mastered her temper in time and instead observed calmly, “I see you speak German.”

“Ja, several versions of it. Why did you survive when Waclawa did not?”

Malina shrugged. “She was outside when it happened; the rest of us were at home. Here on our floor we are very well protected, as I am sure you are protected somehow. Had we all been outside at the time of the attack, we’d all be dead.”

“If that’s so, then you would think that they would have timed the attack better, to ensure more of you were vulnerable.”

“You are assuming they’re aware of our defenses. They have no conception of the wards the Zoryas provide us. Their magic is as different from ours as it is from yours. To their way of thinking, they have cast a hex no one can survive. They will be surprised to learn otherwise.”

“Why was I targeted? Why were you targeted, for that matter?”

“They targeted us partially to settle an old score,” she replied, tapping her chest with the bottle and then remembering it held a rather tasty vintage. She took another drink before continuing, and moved into the living area. “But mostly, we—and I include you in that we—are all that’s left protecting the East Valley territory, whether you realize it or not.”

“I didn’t sign up for that.”

“It’s not the sort of thing one signs up for.” She put her fist up to her mouth briefly to mask a delicate belch. “They perceive you to be a guardian of this area, therefore you are. Perception is reality, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“Why not go after the werewolves? Or Leif?”

“They represent entirely different spheres of influence. The werewolves care only about other lycanthropes; since magic doesn’t touch them, they couldn’t care less who rules the territory. The vampires care only about other undead. We, on the other hand, must worry about all magic-casters.”

“Must we?”

“Look at places with high crime. The West Valley as opposed to the East Valley, for example. The west-side cities, including Phoenix, have higher rates of crime, poverty, and auto accidents than the east. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Socioeconomic status and poor civil engineering.”

“No, it’s because the West Valley is not under our aegis like the East is.”

“You are suggesting that your coven is solely responsible for the East Valley’s relative peace and prosperity?”

“Not solely responsible, just largely responsible. The Zoryas are protective goddesses, not the vengeful sort that wants blood and sacrifice.”

“That’s fascinating,” I said, “but hardly germane to the point, which is where can I find this German coven and how do I kill them?”

“Kill them the way you killed my sisters,” Malina said coldly. She didn’t know I hadn’t really killed any of them—five had been werewolf snacks, and the sixth had fallen prey to another witch, one who was on my side. “As for where they are, I imagine they are in town somewhere. I cannot give you a precise location, because I do not know myself. We will attempt to divine their location after midnight.”

“Excellent. I will try to divine their location also. Would you say this coven is more powerful than yours?”

“Certainly they are at the moment, outnumbered as we are. They left us alone while we were at full strength. But now they know we are depleted, the East Valley is a lovely place to live, and they think they can win.”

“Can they?”

“In a sense they already have. We cannot leave this floor of the building until the threat of that hex is removed, because we cannot protect ourselves individually from it. At the same time, we are unlikely to defeat them solely by magic with only six of us. So it is up to you, Mr. Sullivan, to go out and thwart them if you can.”

“I think you’re confusing me with a superhero. Heroes go around thwarting dastardly villains. They give the evildoers to the police, and the bad guys always say they would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those meddling kids.” A groove appeared between Malina’s eyes as she tried to attach my words to something that made sense to her, and I could see she failed. Not a big fan of Saturday morning cartoons, I guess. “Druids, on the other hand, take revenge on people who try to cook them.”

“Well, that I can understand.”

“Good. Tell me why the East Valley is so desirable.”

“Why do people fight over it, you mean?” Malina gave up pacing the living room and plopped herself on the comfy leather couch, tilting her bottle of Shiraz yet again.

“Yes. Explain it to me as if I were a child, because in truth I have never understood the territorial urge. Why do groups of magical beings fight over pieces of real estate when we could easily spread ourselves thin over the surface of the earth?”

“I thought it would be obvious, Mr. O’Sullivan. In a densely populated industrial society, the citizens are predisposed to think of magic as ridiculous. Therefore it is easier to blend in, easier to prey on them if we were so inclined, and far easier to profit from them. As a single individual, you can go where you wish with relative ease; but a larger group needs a larger herd to hide in and a larger economic engine to afford us the life we’d prefer to live. Urban centers are therefore both our protection and livelihood, and it is natural that we compete for the choicest places to live.”

“You can’t share?”

“To some extent we can, yes. We share this territory with the Tempe Pack, for example. We share it with you. But when too many magic users populate a given area, the risk of exposure increases, as does the risk of overtaxing the economics.”

“I beg your pardon. How exactly do you overtax the economics? I run a bookstore and apothecary shop. All members of the Tempe Pack have legitimate jobs. Don’t you do the same?”

Malina laughed. “Why, no, Mr. O’Sullivan, I don’t. People give me everything I want. The same goes for my sisters.”

“You mean people just give you money?”

“Yes, that’s right.” She twirled a lock of her hair around a finger and smiled brightly at me.

“Of their own free will?”

“Well, that’s how they remember it.” She shrugged a shoulder and raised a hand, palm up. “So it must be true, mustn’t it?” She smirked wryly.

“And you have no moral problem with that?”

“None whatsoever. Actually,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if sharing a confidence in a public place, “we are on the payrolls of two dozen different companies as consultants, but we do absolutely nothing for our paychecks, just like normal consultants.” She leaned back and continued at normal volume, “We do, however, provide a service to the people of the East Valley.”

“Dare I ask what that may be?”

“Why, we keep it free of truly nasty witches, of course, as well as some of the less savory citizens of America. There are parts of Mesa that could easily become like the dangerous parts of big cities if it weren’t for us. And that’s what will happen if die Töchter des dritten Hauses take over this territory. Not to mention the damage that the Bacchants can do once they get here.”

“What? Bacchants are on their way here? Now?”

“Even as we speak. You know, the ones from Las Vegas. I mentioned them to you before, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I believe so.” I struggled to appear nonchalant, but I was dangerously close to needing a new pair of underwear. Back when I was an initiate—this was decades before Jesus—Bacchants were the scariest creatures in the world, according to the archdruid. Anything that could scare the archdruid damn well gave me nightmares; I nearly shat kine whenever Bacchus was mentioned even obliquely for my first few centuries.

Kids today don’t know much about the Bacchants, except perhaps for the story about Orpheus told in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I had an ASU student looking for it in my shop last week, and he defined the Bacchants for me as “those drunk chicks who killed that one dude because he wouldn’t have sex with them.” His professors must be so proud. I asked him if he knew what maenads were, and instead of correctly answering that it was just another name for Bacchants, he bizarrely thought I was referring to my own testicles—as in, “ ’Ere now, mate, don’t swing that bat around me nads.” The conversation deteriorated quickly after that.

Now that I’m much older and hopefully wiser, I know that the archdruid’s fear was partially his own chauvinist terror of women who did whatever they wanted, but I also know that it was partially well founded.

Bacchants carry around thyrsi, which are staves wrapped in ivy leaves that give them the power to throw an instant party: Slap the ground with them, and wine bubbles forth. They dance and drink themselves into a frenzy, and then they acquire tremendous strength, sufficient to rip apart a bull (or a man) with their bare hands. As a corollary, their frenzy tends to have a ripple effect on people around them, turning fairly civilized parties into orgies of debauchery. It isn’t the sort of magic that specifically targets anyone, and I suspected much of it had to do with simply stimulating human pheromones, so I feared my amulet wouldn’t protect me from it. In addition to this, Bacchants are not burned by fire, and they cannot be harmed by iron weapons. The former didn’t really apply to me, because Druids don’t go around chucking fireballs at their enemies, but the latter presented me with a huge problem, since I basically used my sword whenever I wanted to do unto others before they did unto me. Bacchants were therefore well protected against the talents of Druids, while I feared myself defenseless against their magic.

“We have driven them back twice in years past,” Malina said, “but now they not only outnumber us, they can also fulminate a fine frenzy without fear of us showing up, because we’re stuck here until the German hexen are destroyed. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that the two groups are working together to take over the territory.”

“This,” I said with a sardonic smile and waggling my left index finger at her, “is starting to sound suspicious to me.”

Malina’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Only now it’s starting?”

“Yes,” I said, ignoring her sarcasm, “it sounds to me like you want me to run around and take care of your problems while you just hang out at home and watch The Notebook or something.” I changed my voice to her pitch and tried to affect a Polish accent. “Go slay the German hexen for me, Druid, and while you’re at it, take care of those bothersome Bacchants and win one for Orpheus.”

Malina glared at me. “Was that supposed to be an imitation of my accent? It sounded like a Russian trying to imitate Bela Lugosi and failing miserably. My accent is far more sophisticated and dignified.”

“My imitation of your accent is not the issue.”

“Well, I’m making it one. And, besides, you offered to help avenge Waclawa.”

“And so I will. But what does your coven plan to do to fight the hexen?” I asked. Malina deflated, considered her bottle, then thought better of drinking any more and sighed heavily, throwing her head back on the couch. The movement flung her hair about her head like a yellow whorl of silk, coming to rest on the black leather cushion like a halo. She had the power to enchant her hair so that it made men give her whatever she asked for, but I was beginning to think she hardly needed to use magic on it. The white column of her neck beckoned, and my eyes followed the arrowhead formed by the hollow of her throat and her collarbones, downward to linger on her—baseball. Focus, Atticus! Any kind of liaison with Malina would not end happily.

“We have to find them first,” she said, “which is the point of tonight’s divination. “Once we know where they are, we can fight back from here. Nothing so dramatic as eight simultaneous hexes, but we will pick off one here and one there until you are ready to confront them directly. I will keep you informed. And when the Bacchants get here—most likely tomorrow night—I’ll let you know where they are as well.”

“Then I suppose there is nothing left to discuss except whatever you have of mine that you really shouldn’t.”

“Ah, yes.” Malina pushed herself up from the couch and put her wine bottle on the coffee table, weaving a bit on her boot heels. She gathered her hair and tied it back in a knot, talking affably to me as she led me to a bedroom currently doing service as a witch supply closet. “I do hope we’ll get around to signing the nonaggression treaty soon, Mr. O’Sullivan, for despite your uncomfortable questioning when you arrived and your barbaric insistence on walking around with your sword hanging out, I feel we can live and work together peaceably going forward and even prosper, once these current troubles are behind us.”

That wasn’t English she was speaking: It was the language of diplomacy. “I have no objections to peace and prosperity,” I allowed.

Malina’s witch closet, in contrast to the décor of her living area, was painted a pale moss green and lined with cedar shelves sporting rows of glass bottles. I tried to find one with something unspeakable in it—a human brain or deer lips or otter balls—but saw nothing but herbs, oils, philtres, and a curious collection of claws from big cats. She had claws from tigers, snow leopards, lions, and black jaguars, as well as cheetahs, cougars, and bobcats. She also had beaks from several birds of prey, but otherwise her supplies were entirely plant-based.

In the center of the room was a wooden worktable bought from IKEA’s kitchen department. It supported the obligatory mortar and pestle, a knife for chopping, a peeler for tubers, and an electric hot plate she had plugged in via extension cord. I was vaguely disappointed to see she had a regular saucepan resting on the hot plate rather than a black iron cauldron—and even more disappointed that there wasn’t a hapless amphibian in there. A smaller copy of the large painting in the living room hung opposite the worktable; the three Zoryas watched from the walls, waiting to bestow their blessings on Malina’s work.

“Who supplies your herbs?” I asked. “I could probably be of assistance if you’re having trouble finding something of sufficient quality and freshness.”

“We get most everything at an herbalist in Chandler,” Malina said, “though I’m sure we’re going to need much more bloodwort shortly if we’re to deal properly with the hexen. Have you any available?”

Bloodwort was one of many common names for yarrow. Witches used it in some divination spells, but it could also be used in spells of both protection and attack. For my part, I employed it extensively in my apothecary business, including in several proprietary tea blends: Virus Immuni-Tea for the onset of colds and flu, Digestive Facili-Tea for various gastrointestinal ills, and a truly trippy mixture I called Enhanced Visibili-Tea. I made the latter for artists who wanted to see the world differently, because, in sufficient concentrations, yarrow could cause a temporary color shift in the eyes.

“Sure, I have pounds of the stuff, because I use it all the time. I grow it in my backyard, all organic and very potent. How much do you need?”

“Three pounds should safely see us through.” Malina nodded. “Could you have someone bring it to us?”

“Certainly. I’ll send a courier in the morning. You can pay him. I’ll send along a list of my other herbs in stock, too, and another list of what I can grow for you provided that you give me sufficient notice.”

“Good, let there be commerce between us.” Malina moved over to a shelf near the painting of the Zoryas and looked at an uncorked, unlabeled bottle—also uninhabited by anything that I could see. Sitting next to it on the left, and stretching down the length of the shelf as well as two shelves above it, were jars containing locks of hair with people’s names labeled on the front. All of those people were completely in Malina’s power, whether they knew it yet or not. I felt a twinge of pity for them.

“It should be here,” Malina said tensely. “The last person to visit this floor was the officer who informed us of Waclawa’s death.” She pointed to the labeled jar next to the empty one. Inside was a lock of sandy hair, and emblazoned on the label in purple ink was the name of Kyle Geffert. “Your hair should have been deposited in this empty bottle here,” she said, then looked up to the air vent through which her air-conditioning was softly blowing. Presumably any hair collected from visitors in the hallway got routed through the ductwork to land in the empty bottles, but nary a red hair from my head was to be found in any of them.

“What in the name of Zorya Utrennyaya is going on?” Malina scolded the bottle as if it would answer her, and I fought to keep a smile off my face.

Ha-ha. My personal binding was stronger than her enchantment. Neener neener, Malina. You can’t catch me.