The Conjurer (The Vine Witch #3)(16)
“Pour a scoop into this cloth and tie it up.” Sidra made sure the man looked away from Yvette long enough to notice the insignia on the slip of silk she’d laid out on the table with a thud. The cloth had belonged to Hariq.
“There was nothing I could have done different,” Yanis pleaded. “One potion, two bottles. Everything went according to plan.”
Feeble excuse for a witch. She would sew his lips together with stingweed if he didn’t stop talking about that day. “Except it didn’t. Now do your spell,” she said through her gilded teeth. “The one for the scent.”
“Anything, anything,” he begged, then jumped from his seat onto his leg while the wooden one kept him balanced like an awkward shorebird. “Give me one minute.”
While the sorcerer went about his work, crushing small brown seeds with his pestle and adding drops of various oils into the mix, all the time muttering incomprehensible words about magic and jinn, Yvette tied up the cloth full of frankincense resin.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me what this is for, too, just like you explained about the last two items.” Yvette secured the knot with an extra tug for emphasis.
Sidra adjusted her headscarf, her bracelets chiming with the effort. “It’s for an incantation. As soon as this goat’s ass is done with his spell mixture, we can begin.”
“Sidra, you have to believe me,” Yanis said, looking up from his work. “It was something other than the potion. Let me explain.”
“Enough!”
With a sigh, he handed her the mixture folded up in brown paper. A card was tied on top with instructions for how to use it. She sneered at him, and the hair on his arm singed until it smoked. He patted the arm and rubbed his skin against the sting.
Back in the apartment, Sidra placed the items collected from the market in a polished clamshell along with three drops of the reeking civet oil. She opened the envelope of fragrant seeds the witch had crushed under his pestle, passing it under the girl’s nose with a smile. They both sighed at the strong aroma of vanilla and cardamom.
“You asked me earlier why I live in a village not in my own country.” As the jinni spoke, she lit the wick of a fat candle with a finger’s touch. The firelight gleamed in her eyes as they traced the dancing flame. “There’s a unique magic in this place. Protective magic. Scent magic.”
Yvette leaned in, her gauzy gown sparkling against her luminescent skin. “You mean the witches who make perfume? I met one in the city before I found my parents.”
“The magic of the perfume witches is all about pleasure. Their spells are designed to entice. They focus on allure and attraction. All good and well in the right moment.” Sidra poured the contents of the sorcerer’s spell packet into the shell with the other ingredients, then held the bowl over the candle flame. “But what we’re after is something stronger. Something to confuse the dog chasing after the fox. A repellent. A cloak in the darkness.”
“You mean from les flics?”
“Bah. I could strike them down with one puff of breath.”
The jinni shook her head as she swirled the contents of the clamshell over the fire to let the civet oil heat up.
“That smells as bad as that stuff the witch gave me.” Yvette waved her hand in front of her nose. “Then who?”
Sidra added another pinch of crushed cardamom as she spoke. “Jamra, that’s who.” The spice flared in a puff of golden scent. She added another drop of civet oil to be sure and a chunk of frankincense resin. The scent of pine and lemon spiked in the air.
“Who’s he?”
“The one who bound me to the city,” the jinni said, swirling the clamshell slowly over the flame. “Our families have been at each other’s throats for as long as there have been throats.” Sidra sniffed the mixture. “He is my husband’s brother.”
The fair one started catching on as she sat back and stared at the man’s clothes by the door. “Your husband was once your enemy.”
“Until we fell in love.”
“Well, well, well,” Yvette said and whistled. “Tell me more.”
Sidra paused her stirring. How to explain to this girl of twenty years the novelty of one ethereal entity discovering another in the midst of an ongoing imperial conquest that took place over three centuries earlier—Hariq drawn by the skirmish of mortal men leading the fight for territory from their horses, and she attracted by the toll of war on the women once the horses trampled past. Each had hovered above to observe the ever-creeping expansion of the mortal empire, each resisting the urge to interfere and nudge the course of events to their liking.
In the cool of the evening after a fiercely won battle, when the mood among mortals swayed between relief and misery, she spotted him. They’d each masqueraded as tiny songbirds so they might sail over the skirmish and spy on the progress of the war. In the aftermath, the pair had perched in separate trees to sing—she to lull the wounded to sleep, he to offer promise of another life for those who would not wake again. Disguised as they were, they didn’t know each other as enemies, and so a game ensued where she flitted from one tree to another, only to be followed by Hariq, who landed closer each time until their wings touched as they alighted side by side. At last he revealed himself in his human form, entreating her to do the same so they might press more than shoulders together.