The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(25)
“Catch the light and paint the lie, render the face before your eye.”
She blew a pinch of ground-up morning glory seed in his face to seal the spell, and by the time she reached the door the artist had settled down and begun sketching her outline on the canvas, speaking to the photo as if Elena were really sitting in a ray of light from the single window. The enchantment was, perhaps, verging on interfering with a mortal, a clear violation of the covenants, yet there was no real harm done. Nothing to alter his mind or thoughts, merely a little trick of the eye to focus his attention on something other than her. With luck, the portrait would turn out no different than if she’d sat in the stiflingly dreary room for four hours a day for the next week. Tedium at its upmost, to say the least.
“Lead on,” she said to the cat as she stepped into the hallway again, though instead of trotting outside to find Yvette as expected, the animal wound his skinny body through a crack in the nearest doorway. Elena pushed the door open and followed. The cat sat in the middle of the floor, twitching his tail at her excitedly as if to say, “Look around!”
She soon understood his intention. There was a cot, a washtub, a tiny stove, and the same light-filled window as the room next door. Only this apartment appeared to have recently lost its tenant—another artist, judging by the dabs of fresh paint on the floor, the broken brushes in the washtub, and the dirty turpentine rags strewn across the floor.
“Clever cat,” she said, and together they left to speak to the landlord about a short-term lease.
CHAPTER NINE
“You’re late.”
Yvette sat against a wrought-iron fence, tucked in among the Virginia creeper that had already begun turning a brilliant shade of seasonal red. She knew she was practically invisible there, except to the cat who pranced straight for her, picking her out of the verge with those perceptive green eyes of his.
“For good reason,” Elena answered back.
The vine witch was wearing a smart burgundy skirt and tailored jacket. Not new, not even a modern drop-waist cut, but smartly embroidered around the collar. Witch-made, no doubt. She suspected the ensemble was Elena’s sole travel suit. But it was one more than Yvette owned, so who was she to judge.
“Your friend here has found us something we can use. Come take a look.”
Yvette peered up and down the lane, eyes searching for anyone—namely les flics or their informants—who might be watching without looking like they were watching. The telltale sign was a person leaning one shoulder against a building, their head down to stare at a newspaper, with seemingly nothing better to do in the middle of the day than hold up a wall. But everyone she spotted was either busy tossing wastewater into the gutter or dragging an empty cart up the steep slope toward the Moulin a Farine, the old flour mill turned cabaret. Knowing her blonde hair worked like an electric light for drawing attention, she covered her head with the velvet curtain and followed Elena down the lane. A few streets later, they came to the notorious Maison Chavirée, so named because the building slanted toward the courtyard like a ship that had run aground. So, the tilt wasn’t just the effect of the drink, Yvette mused, recalling the last time she’d been inside the flophouse and felt the floor go out from under her feet.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
“You need a place to stay, somewhere safe, where no one’s going to ask questions.”
Yvette balked. “This place is a dump.”
“It’s cheap and it’s dry. And it’s convenient, at least for me.”
Still wary, she stepped over the threshold, careful not to set her foot in a suspicious wet spot on the hallway floor that reeked of the sewer. Elena opened the door to the vacant apartment. “What do you think?”
In all honesty, it wasn’t the worst place Yvette had slept. At least the cot was off the ground. The stove came with a pan for boiling water. And there was a small chunk of leftover soap sitting on the windowsill for washing up. A set of curtains might give the place some charm.
“So now what? Is this my new jail?”
“It’s our new work space. Here,” Elena said. “Give me your hand.”
“What for?” Like a stray dog that had been kicked one too many times, Yvette constantly questioned people’s motives, on the alert for harm especially from those appearing to do her a favor. They were the ones you had to watch the most.
“You said you wanted to learn about magic. That’s why we’re here. But first, I’m curious to know how well attuned you are with the All Knowing. There’s something I noticed about the building on my first day here. Take my hand and tell me if you can see it too.”
Yvette tossed off her velvet covering and grudgingly stuck her hand out. She held on while Elena placed her other hand to the room’s exterior wall and did that familiar trance thing.
“Anything?”
A second later a shiver ran from the curve of Yvette’s back to the base of her neck until her head felt like it was full of aluminum tinsel, abuzz with electricity. “What the hell is it?”
“A spell of some sort encircling the entire building. It’s woven into the walls, the floors, the roof. Can you see it? The golden strands like a web? Almost like the spell’s the only thing holding the place up in one piece.”
Yvette couldn’t see anything but slanting walls and dirty windows. Still, she felt . . . something . . . tingling within her veins, her brain, her heart. And the book. It vibrated against her middle with the hum of a tuning fork. She let go of Elena’s hand as if the touch burned her skin. The electricity, or magic, or whatever it was, stopped.