The Conjurer (The Vine Witch #3)(17)
When she saw his robes, his hair, the curved blade on his belt, she knew him for who he was: clan of the sunset tribes. Her enemy, sworn by blood and fire! Instinct urged her to smite him and leave the cursed jinni for dead on the pile of soldiers where the hungry vultures already filled their bellies. But then he smiled full of kindness, encouraging her to appear. A man brimming with curiosity and compassion, not hate and belligerence. Some fluttering counterinstinct told her he could be trusted, overriding her impulse to do him injury. And so she animated as a woman beside him.
Instead of lashing out in recognition of a foe, he offered her a solution to their dilemma. He held his hand up and asked for her to do the same. Then he vowed that she of the sunrise and he of the sunset would be destined to know only harmony because no day under the heavens could be complete without having the sun rise and fall in tandem. “Tawazun,” he said and pressed his palm to hers.
She never hid from him again. He made her feel seen in a way she didn’t know was possible. Such a desire was foreign to most jinn, yet she discovered that the pleasure of his gaze was what she’d craved all her life. Before the mortals could wage their next battle, she knew she couldn’t live without his face being the first thing she saw at dawn.
“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.