“And far less blood?”
“That, too.”
Maritza’s concept of abbreviated took half the time I expected. My contribution was a bit of saliva and a scant three drops of blood.
She began by unfurling a long piece of white silk thread from one of the spools in her sewing box, ordering me to moisten the inside of my mouth, and asking me to run the thread over my tongue. “Make sure the entire length has absorbed your saliva,” she said.
At the burial mounds, I’d seen her empty a vial of soil mixed with dried blood onto her tongue, then spit it out. This seemed much less unusual, until she took the wet thread and tied it around my grimoire widthwise. She then placed the book in my left hand, pricked my ring finger with one of her ubiquitous needles, and squeezed out three drops right onto the knot.
Placing my right hand on the cover and over the knot, she chanted in French. In my head I was signing up for one of those online language learning courses because all signs were indicating that French should be my second language. When she finished, she glanced at her watch, counted silently, and after however many seconds she deemed were needed, declared the binding done.
“Do I need to leave this on my altar overnight?” I asked, drawing the book to my chest and shaking out my right hand.
“You may leave it wherever you want. Eventually, it will choose its favored location on its own.” At the sound of Leilani’s arrival, she added, “And if you’re lucky, that location will be in the house. Goddess help you if your grimoire prefers to exercise its right to travel.”
I swallowed, waved to Lei-li, and began my preparations for the evening’s main event.
Chapter 19
Hooks and eyes down the back of my dress secured and front seams aligned, I locked my dependable electric car and walked across the parking area, pebbles and gravel crunching under the thin soles of my pumps. To call the rut-filled expanse of dirt a parking lot would give it more credit than it deserved. Dropping my key fob on purpose, I crouched. My fingers wanted to get a baseline read on the soil and I wanted to communicate with the tangled mess of weeds and vines decorating a stand of trees shortened by high winds.
The vines acknowledged my presence with a surprised tug. After the equinox ritual I suspected every vine on the island was now part of my network of allies.
Fingers on the ground calmed my trepidation and confirmed what I suspected. The Flechettes’ magical signature, slick like oil on water, was here in abundance. Odilon’s addition was the rainbow of hues shimmering over the Flechettes’ greenish-black surface.
I stood, flicked my fingertips across my thumbs to remove the specks of dirt, and resumed my mission. Once the first high-heel-encased foot stepped onto the ramp leading to the dock at which the Merry Widow was moored, there would be no turning back. The wool dress swished around my thighs. Unlined bell sleeves soothed the goosebumps threatening to erupt across my skin. I appreciated that the dress hugged me tight through the chest while leaving me room to breathe.
This was going to be a disaster.
No, it was not.
I had wanted to look as though I had taken some care with my appearance without going overboard. Anyone who knew me from my days mucking about in their fields and orchards would never believe this version of Calliope Jones, inspector for the province’s Agricultural Commission.
This version was Calliope du Sang, witch and badass. The cuts on my palms and across the tops of my feet were protected by minuscule pieces of bandages, spelled to look like skin. I lifted my clutch to hide my grin. If Odilon was watching and caught me smiling at my bravado and giggling from an overload of nerves he might think my purse was wired. I didn’t want to suffer a frisking of the human or magical kind.
Nor did I want to relinquish my custom-made bag or the luxurious shawl.
I made it down the ramp without catching a heel on the slats. “Put your weight on the ball of your foot,” Maritza had said. That instruction—and the sticky-backed cushions she’d affixed to the inside of each shoe—worked to keep me upright. When I made it to the landing and looked around, the marina seemed deserted. Odd for this time of year, especially on a Thursday night, though weather predictions for the Salish Sea Islands gave us a mix of clouds and sun all weekend.
To my right, the restaurants alongside the harbor were lively with patrons with more outdoor tables occupied than not. I kept my head high, gazed straight ahead, and relaxed my shoulders. I even managed a friendly wave when someone called my name and offered a compliment. Turning away from the bustle, I stepped over a break between one dock and the next and reached the point of no return.
The only boat moored in this area of the marina was the Flechette yacht. A broad-chested man dressed in all black—from his baseball cap to his slacks and the polo shirt with a logo on the left side of his chest—waited midway down the dock. On his feet were high-tech sneakers, his stance was wide, and his elbows were bent. As I drew closer and he removed his cap and sunglasses, I almost hightailed it back to my car.
Roger Flechette.
That fucker.
I stopped before I was within his arms’ reach to gauge which of my dress’s hidden talents I had time to awaken first.
Odilon’s voice interrupted my calculations.
“Calliope, how good of you to join me.” He stood on the foredeck, hands resting on the polished metal rail. The evening breeze molded the fabric of his sharkskin gray pants to the sides of his legs. I had no intention of staring. The impeccably dressed man watching my every movement
