“But Maya thought she saw Sailor the other day, in an herb shop in Chinatown. He claims he wasn’t there, and when I asked him about it, he hesitated and wondered if it was a result of projection.”
“He projected himself to an herbal store in Chinatown? Why?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Now that you mention it, it does seem odd.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Listen, a powerful psychic—and I mean a very powerful psychic; this stuff isn’t easy—might be able to project an image along with some thoughts . . . but what would be the point? The appeal of projection is it allows you to see without being seen.”
“A sort of psychic invisibility cloak,” I pondered aloud. I wondered if there was a witchy version. I could dearly use something like that. “Cool.”
“But seriously, in answer to your question, no, it could not have been Sailor’s psychic projection that killed this guy. For one thing, unless you’re lying to me, Sailor doesn’t have sufficient motive. We both know he’s not a stone-cold killer. For another, unless Sailor were suffering from some sort of schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder, he would have remembered killing a man, no matter what form he took.”
“He didn’t remember being in the herbal shop, when Maya saw him.”
Patience shrugged. “That could be something else entirely. If Sailor’s been working on astral projection with Renna, he would start with wandering through areas he knows well, like his apartment or neighborhood, or even this shop. Maybe Maya picked up on his projection, somehow. Does she have abilities?”
“Maya? No.”
“You sure about that?”
“As sure as I can be. She’s never said or done anything to suggest otherwise, and I’m pretty sure she would have told me if she had. But what if it’s not projection at all? Could the man Maya saw in the store have been the same guy? The murderer?”
“I suppose it’s possible there’s a Sailor look-alike wandering the streets of San Francisco,” Patience said. “So that’s your plan to get Sailor out of jail? Find Sailor’s look-alike, the one who’s the real killer? How do you intend to do that?”
“By asking for help. Starting with you. Will you use your scrying skills to find this look-alike?”
“If it will help free Sailor.”
“What can I do to help you get started?”
“This is a tricky one,” Patience said, looking thoughtful. “Usually I have a clearer idea of who I’m looking for. If I search for a fake Sailor, I’m likely to keep finding the real Sailor, if you see what I mean.”
I nodded.
“So what I need to do is a more generalized search and then eliminate all the signs that point to Sailor. But how do I distinguish Sailor from Not Sailor?”
I remained silent, fascinated by watching an experienced and powerful psychic at work. The magic arts are enormously variable, even within specialties. Some witches are experts at chanting to alter reality, for example, while I shine in the art of brewing. I had been tutored as a witch, and had only a general idea of how psychics functioned.
“Let’s try this: I need something of Sailor’s. No, wait—I need something that carries energy from both you and Sailor. Your combined energy should work better, help to distinguish between Sailor and the Other Guy. . . . Something you associate with him, a sweatshirt, a boyfriend shirt. You have something like that?”
I glanced at my engagement ring. I hated to take it off my finger for even a moment, but if it would help Sailor, it would be worth it. I slipped the ring off and handed it to Patience.
Her eyebrows rose. She tried to put it on her ring finger, and I took mean pleasure in the fact that it was too small. Instead, she put it on her pinkie.
“Please—,” I began, then cut myself off.
“No worries, princess. I’ll take good care of it. I shouldn’t need it for long.”
I gazed at my ring for another moment, not liking how pretty it looked on her graceful hand. The ring made me think of the bēag Dupree had been looking for, and I wondered if Patience could help me with that as well.
Interrupting my thoughts, Patience demanded, “What?”
“What, what?”
“I don’t have to be a psychic to know there’s something else on your mind. Spill.”
“As a matter of fact . . . there’s this shoe box that dates from the time I knew Tristan Dupree.”
“Where did you know him from?” Patience asked.
“In Germany, half a lifetime ago. He knew my father.”
“I hear your father is bad news.”
I nodded. “Anyway, I think this bēag Tristan was looking for might be in the shoe box.”
“And . . . ?”
“I need help to open it.”
“Not a typical shoe box, then.”
“Not exactly, no.”
She let out a long sigh. “Where is it?”
“I can’t do this right now. I have to go try on dresses with Selena.”
Patience’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? Sailor’s rotting in jail and you’re busy trying on dresses?”
“First of all, he’s not ‘rotting in jail.’” I talked a big game, but in truth my stomach was quailing at the very thought. Was Sailor safe? He was healthy and strong, experienced with supernatural evil. But could he hold his own among whatever nefarious characters were behind bars with him? “He’s only been there overnight. I’m on it as much as I can be, but I will not disappoint a young girl. Especially since I don’t exactly know what to do next.”
She stared at me.
“I’m open to ideas at this juncture,” I added.
“You’re a piece of work, Lily Ivory. Okay, how’s this for an idea? We need more help. I assume you have not failed to notice that all signs indicate we are dealing with some kind of supernatural evil. If that is the case, then my visions and your shoe box of whatever
