The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(28)
Elena shivered. Even she wasn’t that good at palm reading. “How did you see that?”
The old woman let go of her hand and laughed. “That you’ve been working with poison? I can smell the bitter residue of freshly ground foxglove leaves on your fingertips. As for the curse, your hands are even colder than my husband’s. That part never goes away, I’m afraid.”
The bartender, widemouthed and slit eyed, waddled to the table with two shots of gin held on a tray. The old woman stroked his arm before he left, purring words of thank-you at him. “He’s been living with cursed skin since before you were born. Never did catch up to the witch who done it. What makes you think you can find your special someone?”
“I heard a rumor there’ve been dead cats turning up on the roads. Could be someone trying their hand at blood magic.”
The woman bristled at the mention of the cats. “It’s a dark heart behind that business, and no question about it. Whoever’s doing it turned their back on the covenants years ago.”
Elena picked up her glass and swirled the gin until a blue arc of light ran through it. “Curses go against the covenants too. Could be the person who does one sort of dark magic might just as easily do the other.” She leaned in, hoping not to be overheard. “The witch I’m looking for wears a long blue robe and carries a distinct pocket watch on a silver chain.”
“Distinct how?”
“It’s got a green dragon’s eye with a yellow slit on the cover. She might work the high street on festival days reading cards for tourists, or sell potions out of the back of a wagon.”
“Sounds like you’re looking for one of the Charlatan clan.”
She’d discounted the idea after meeting the sisters, thinking them too coarse and ignorant to pull off a transmogrification curse, but maybe that was just her pride misleading her. Maybe their interest in the occult ran deeper than the novelty junk they sold on their cart.
“Are they customers of yours?”
“We get all types in here.” Madame Grimalkin spoke behind a whisker smile of indifference. “Can’t say as I’ve ever noticed any of them with that particular trinket, though.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
She tapped the base of her glass on the table, then locked eyes with Elena. “We make a decent living, me and old Paddock. ’Cause we don’t ask no questions. Let people come and go as they please, as long as they pay their bill. Which is why I don’t ask why a goatherd has no goats with her.” She paused to look over her shoulder at her husband behind the bar. “But witches that go about cursing each other are the lowest, and I spit on ’em.”
“So you’ll keep an eye out?” Elena slid another three coins on the table.
“A pocket watch like that ought to be easy enough to spot on the sly,” she answered, taking the money. Elena was about to thank her when the old woman cut her off. “But let me give you a word of advice, goatherd. Whether it’s the Charlatans mixed up in this or not, the type of witch that deals with the foul stuff like what’s going on out there with those cats don’t bother with the sort of curses you walk away from alive. Best not to go asking too many questions, if you value what skin you have left.” Madame Grimalkin swallowed her gin in one gulp, then stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other customers to attend to.”
Elena sipped her gin and peered over the rim of the glass at Madame Grimalkin as she walked away, a definite nervous twitch in her step. She was encouraged, though. Even if it wasn’t one of the Charlatans, the witch who cursed her still might be inclined to put her feet up in the sort of tavern that didn’t ask questions. But what then? She had a plan for Bastien, but what of the witch who’d done the actual spellwork? It would take a little more innovation to get past a conjurer who prospered off forbidden spells. And for that she would need all her strength.
Elena rubbed her palm, reminded of how the touch of Jean-Paul’s hand against hers had heated her blood, making the magic spike. It was true the cold had gotten into her skin after the curse, but she no longer believed, as Madame Grimalkin did, that the affliction had to be permanent. Even thinking about him stirred a curative pulse inside her that sent a warm thread running through the veins. So odd that a mortal could affect her and her magic that way.
Drawn out of thought by the sensation of being watched, Elena took a sip of her gin and scanned the room. A bearded man in a black frock coat and monocle kept looking up, but he appeared to be working on a sketch in his lap. So many witches were drawn to the arts, unable to resist the temptation of seeing their spellwork preserved in paint and charcoal. But he was not the one ruffling her senses. It was another, wearing a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. He watched her from a secluded corner by the front windows. He thought he was concealed in shadow because he’d snuffed his candle out, but the weight of his stare on her neck overwhelmed like the panting breath of a dog. Unable to intuit his intentions, she tossed one more coin on the table and walked outside, eager to get home and learn if Jean-Paul had returned. She took two steps in the muddy road before her plans were thwarted.
“It isn’t just cats,” the man in the hat said, catching up to her before the door shut. He proved no taller than a broom handle when he sidled up beside her. He tipped his hat back to reveal a full-moon face and wisps of tawny hair that poked out over his ears. His eyes, a chalky sort of blue, traced the outline of her weakened aura. “Couldn’t help overhearing your conversation in there,” he said as he handed over a business card adorned with moons and stars.