The Conjurer (The Vine Witch #3)(30)
“I had to leave in a hurry,” she said and patted her satchel.
Camille nodded her head as if she understood. “May I at least give you a ride somewhere?” The perfume witch pointed to a goose-nosed yellow automobile with a black hardtop and two rows of seats parked in the street.
“Is that yours?”
Camille grinned. “Bought and paid for with a little patchouli oil, bergamot, and jasmine potion mixed with the right words in the right order. Our Fleur de Sable perfume sells faster than we can make it.”
Elena took one last look around the platform, ready to accept a ride if nothing presented itself, when the dog’s tail poked up by the railing on the other side of the track. Curious brown eyes stared back as though trying to decide whether to trust her. That put both of them in the undecided camp, she thought. His ears lifted and he pointed his nose upwind. She swore he nodded to himself after that.
“Thank you for the offer, but I see my guide has arrived,” she said.
“Are you sure? It’s quite a way up the hill to get to the center of town.” But then Camille spotted the dog and wished Elena a friendly “Bonne chance à toi.”
Elena walked to the end of the platform. The dog trotted out from behind the railing, remaining wary, keeping his ears on alert. She knew better than to reach a hand out for fear of being bitten, so she instead nodded and said, “Hello.”
The dog sat, his head reaching as tall as her midthigh. He was a rather ordinary-looking dog with brown fur that grew darker around the face, paws, and tip of a tail that curled. There was no collar, no sign of abuse or neglect that she could see, though he did look a bit hungry after his long run to keep up with the train. She was hungry herself. Unfortunately, she had nothing for either of them.
“Was it you who put me on the train?” she asked. The dog blinked once between solemn stares. “There’s something we need to talk about? Something you need to show me?” The dog wagged his tail. “Very well, but first it’s imperative I send a message home. Is that all right?” The dog’s nose twitched, and he pointed it in the direction of the train station. “Ah, merci. Good thinking,” she said. “It would be quicker to send a telegram than a dove from this far south, not to mention the more humane choice, given the distance the poor bird would have to fly.”
Sometimes mortal inventions were worth the inconvenience of all that noise and bother that came with them, but they also required payment. Elena dug around in the bottom of her satchel. She usually kept a few coins for spells requiring a little copper or silver. Hmm, but would it be enough? She and the dog approached the operator inside the station as she jingled the coins in her palm, uncertain. The gentleman behind the counter began to explain how the cost of a message was based on the word count, but then he glanced at the dog and seemingly lost his trail of thought. Indeed, he appeared to lose all memory of what he’d just expressed to Elena about the price and instead offered to send whatever message she liked for free. She hardly thought she needed to take advantage of such manipulation of a mortal—clearly the dog had hypnotized the poor fellow in some way—but she desperately wanted to know how Jean-Paul fared and let him and Brother Anselm know she was safe enough for the moment. With the agent’s offer still humming in the air between them, she borrowed a fountain pen and piece of paper and began to write. She signed off the message with a note stating she had freed herself of the “visitor” and not to worry.
Unless, of course . . .
“You don’t think Jamra returned to the vineyard to cause further harm instead, do you?” She bit her lip, but the dog shook his fur out, and she took him at his word. No, the dog was right. Jamra was likely still heading south and wouldn’t stop searching until he found either her or Sidra again. Which led Elena to wonder if there was more at stake than punishing the woman he believed killed his brother and stole one of his possessions. Revenge, she knew from experience, was a fire that could burn hot for years. Perhaps doubly so, if you were made of the stuff.
“Now that that’s done,” she said to the dog when they stepped outside, “we can carry on with the business in town you’re so desperate for me to get to.” She knelt so that she was eye to eye with the creature. She checked for shadow, if by chance the animal had been cursed instead of being a jinni, but all she spied were the golden eyes of a dedicated guide. And, she began to hope, an ally. Elena thanked him for the nice trick with the telegraph officer, then followed him as he hopped on the funicular that carried the train passengers up the hill. He pulled the same mesmerizing stunt on the operator, who at first tried to shoo him off, and together they rode to the top of the hillside village with its clay tile roofs and arching palm trees. The town was like no place she’d visited before yet was pleasant enough, except for the overriding scent of flowers that obscured her sense of smell when it came to sniffing out fellow witches. Still, she could sense a familiar energy synching with her intuition as they disembarked and walked along the cobblestone streets.
For a creature so determined to see her delivered to the center of the town, however, the dog walked with an overabundance of caution. His nose twitched at every intersection. Twice he skittered sideways at the sound of an engine backfiring. As a jinni, if that’s indeed what her guide was, he couldn’t be more different from Jamra the Belligerent.
At last they came to a narrow road lined with palm trees, shops, and a covered loggia running along a small square. Fruits, flowers, and spices were on display inside baskets, bowls, and woven mats spread out on the sidewalk. And there were magical wares too. A man with a half-singed beard was selling crystals and amulets beside bundles of dried herbs, while a woman in a turban offered small tincture bottles full of fragrant oils meant to heal a headache. The scene was instantly reminiscent of summers in the Chanceaux Valley on market days when the palm readers lined the main street to ply their trade for money. Some you could trust to reveal innocuous fragments of your future, while others were a complete sham, claiming to know how the biggest events in one’s life were going to turn out. As if impending matters weren’t constantly being batted around by the whims of one outcome pitted against another. But the tourists never seemed to mind being taken advantage of, as long as they received good news.