The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(69)
“I can’t find him without something more personal of his, something with a strong connection to his psyche.”
“Is the boy an artist by any chance?” Marion asked from her seat in the chair.
Now who was the psychic? “Yes, he is. How did you know?”
Marion bent forward. “I know I’m not supposed to speak—tick-a-lock—but I couldn’t help noticing the satchel at my feet. A quick peek inside revealed a few sketches. One of them is signed Henri Perez. Is that our man?”
“His portfolio! He left it. Oh, Marion, thank you.”
Elena took the leather satchel, knowing how much the young man’s drawings meant to him. She hugged the sketches to her chest and tried again. This time her mind zoomed through the shadow world, emerging in a strange underground room with open bottles of gin on the table. A bronze statue of a woman with bat wings appeared in a corner, and a human skeleton propped up in an open coffin leaned against the wall. Several men had abandoned their drinks to circle around a young man holding a small silver revolver.
Henri. She’d found him. If only she understood where he was.
When Elena was conscious again, she had no more faith that they’d find him than before as she relayed the scene she’d discovered herself in.
“Describe everything you saw,” Jean-Paul insisted.
“It must have been an illusion. There were caskets as tables. Bat wings on a woman. A skeleton and player piano. It makes no sense.”
“Only to those who don’t move within the city’s social circles.” Marion’s eyes lit up with mischief. “There are marvelous adventures to be had in these sparkling champagne times we’re living in, if one knows where to look.”
“Maman, you know this place?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t know about Hell’s Mouth? It’s perfectly situated at the base of the butte.” She swung the young man’s satchel on her arm. “We’ll take my carriage, shall we?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Yvette hadn’t thoroughly passed out from the pain of squeezing through the metal bars, but there were squidgy moments she couldn’t quite recall. Like how she’d ended up sitting on a damask fainting couch inside a rather exclusive perfume shop. Surrounding her were urns brimming with botanical oils, dried rose petals scattered on counters, and glass shelves showcasing dozens of delicate bottles, not unlike the one tucked inside her bodice for safekeeping. The heavenly scent worked like a transfusion to revive her, replacing the dank catacomb air in her lungs with the flowery scents of jasmine and lavender.
“They gave up and turned around almost immediately once they thought they’d hit a dead end,” said a woman in a powder-blue suit. The pearl buttons on her jacket alone were worth more money than Yvette had ever earned in her lifetime.
“Thank you,” she said and tried to stand. “I should probably go.” But as soon as she said it, she wobbled back down onto the sofa.
“That was a very brave thing you did back there. Most Fée wouldn’t have attempted to slip through iron bars.”
Fée?
“The iron left several burns on your left arm, but this salve should help take the sting away.” The woman dabbed a lavender cream on Yvette’s skin. The balm dissolved immediately into a shimmering coating where several blisters oozed, red and angry.
“You’re a perfume witch.”
The woman nodded. “Priscilla Gérin. This is my shop. I was working on a secret new scent when you burst through my cellar. It’s none of my business, of course, but I assume they were trying to trap you for profit?” She dabbed at a burn on Yvette’s neck. “Why some men think they can treat the Fée like they’re magic tokens to be cashed in is beyond me.”
A flicker of fear darted across Yvette’s thoughts, the sort that told her she was on the verge of a truth she wasn’t yet ready to know. “Why do you keep calling me one of the Fée?”
Priscilla put the cork back in the jar of salve and did a quick up-and-down glance at Yvette. “Did you hit your head too? Poor thing. Can you tell me what day of the week it is? Who the prime minister is?” When Yvette’s lip began to curl into a snarl, the witch pulled back. “You’re serious? I just assumed . . . I mean . . . you transmuted earlier.” She stared at Yvette as if she ought to understand. “You illuminated. Well, mostly. My grand-mère was a half-Fée witch too.”
Half-Fée witch?
“When my sister and I were little, she’d illuminate in front of us as a treat when we stayed at her house in the summers. Alas, I have none of her talent for affecting glamour. Only those with enough Fée blood can do that.”
A half-Fée witch? Is that what she was? “But there are no fairies here anymore. Isn’t that what everyone always says?”
“Oh, I don’t think they’d ever truly leave for good. There are pathways for those who want to come and go.”
The news stunned Yvette so that she stared dumbfounded, her hand over her mouth. Did that explain the strange code in the book that no one understood? Was her mother a fairy? A quick memory of a woman bathed in rapturous light flashed in her mind, followed by a glittery chill that she was seeing a reflection of her true self for the first time. Your kind, her captor had said. Is that what he’d meant? And the goblins too?