The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(3)
“I can leave right now, if I want.”
“No, girl, you can’t. The thing you desired with every ounce of your heart is here, and until you find it and satisfy your wish, you cannot leave.” Sidra shivered, a thing Yvette had never seen her do before. “In the meantime, that bottle cannot be found in my possession,” she went on. “Not while my powers are dimmed.”
“So, you want me to stash it for you?” Normally she’d be happy to continue tormenting the moody desert witch, but there was something different in Sidra’s eyes this time. Something desperate. Fearful even. It strummed a sympathetic chord inside Yvette, layers and layers beneath the tough facade she’d built up from years of living on the streets. She knew the feeling of offering something of value to someone, only to have it broken from lack of care.
Yvette closed her fingers over the bottle and slipped it inside her costume. “I guess I owe you for helping me escape. I’ll keep it safe, if that’s what you want.”
Sidra gave a firm nod, her relief obvious. The jinni seemed to consider the matter settled, as if a debt had been paid. Standing aside a horned gargoyle, she scoured the skyline and pointed to a hill on the far side of the city where a domed roof rose above the summit. “You’re not too late. The one you’re looking for is still there.”
Yvette’s mouth watered with fear. She didn’t know what dream the jinni had seen in the flames, but watching her correctly pick out the neighborhood atop the butte where she was born told her the vision had been rooted in truth. Or as near a version of the truth as she’d ever known. She understood partly why she’d been swept back to the city. Perhaps she had wished to return from some deep place inside. Before Sidra turned her into a sparrow, she’d seen proper magic done by a proper witch, and for the first time in her life she’d wanted that for herself. Magic was in her blood, always had been, tingling on her skin at the tips of her fingers, in the roots of her hair, and along her spine. And yet she’d never been anything but a failure at spells. There’d never been anyone to show her how to do them properly or teach her how to channel the restless energy that seemed to flow through her. No one who cared, anyway.
But now that she’d seen a vine witch wield her magic and knew what was possible, Yvette wanted power for herself more keenly than she ever had before. That was the thought she’d folded up and tucked away in her heart just before she’d been caught in the jinni’s sorcery.
Yvette leaned over the railing, scanning the city as the streetlights twinkled against a purple sky. The image gave her the courage to confess. “I want to learn magic for myself, is all. I want to know what kind of witch I was supposed to be before everything went to shit and I ended up in that prison.”
Across from her, a fat gargoyle stuck its tongue out and rested its head in its hands.
“That, girl, is why I decided not to kill you.” The jinni side-eyed Yvette as if waiting for her to flare up and then smiled when it didn’t happen. “There is no greater journey than following one’s fate,” she said, her voice softened, perhaps on reflection of her own circumstance. “Even if it’s to be found in this stinking place.”
“It’s been three years,” Yvette said, finally gazing at the white-domed cathedral on the butte in the distance.
“A blink in time.”
“There’s usually some hell-broth on the boil at a little café at the top of the hill, if you’re hungry. That is, if you want to come with me.”
The jinni shook her head and pointed her chin in the opposite direction toward the south bank of the river. “My path is that way. In the maze of narrow streets where I can disappear.”
“So that’s it? We crash-land in the city together and then go our separate ways? How will I return your bottle to you?”
Sidra adjusted her shawl so it covered the top of her head. “For whatever reason, fate has bound us together. We will find each other again. This I do not doubt. Until then, take care with that bottle or I will curse you and your children, and your children’s children, to an eternal blistering hell of torment, as though a thousand fire ants feast on your brain.”
“Honestly, it’s a wonder you haven’t got more friends.”
Sidra showed her teeth—half grimace, half smile. The gold scrolling engraved in the ivory gleamed in its secret incantation.
“Not one scratch,” answered the jinni. And with that she climbed onto the ledge of the balustrade and shimmered into a screen of smoke that vanished over the head of a pouting gargoyle, leaving Yvette alone to contemplate her own way down.
CHAPTER ONE
Elena and Jean-Paul arrived in the city on the afternoon train, leaving themselves just enough time to forward their luggage before hailing one of the now ubiquitous motorized cabs. They were headed to the campus of ancient buildings on the south side of the north bridge, summoned there by the Ministry of Lineages and Licenses. The address written in bold type at the top of the telegram clearly stated Elena was to report to 333 rue de Courbé. After double-checking the number above the door, she tucked the summons back in her purse and tried to hide her nervousness with a tight, confident smile.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Jean-Paul glanced up and down the street as if they’d somehow made a mistake. He tried the door, finding it locked.