other six members of Pemkowet’s coven.
The only two people I’d more or less expected to see here were Mark and Sheila Reston, who owned the tattoo parlor across from the Sisters of Selene, because . . . well. If you’ve got matching tattoos of the Wiccan rede—which, by the way, is “An it harm none, do what ye will”—around your neck, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway.
The others . . . not so much.
There was Kim McKinney, who graduated a year ahead of me and worked at the deli counter at Tafts Grocery. I didn’t know her well, but I definitely didn’t see that coming.
There was nice Mrs. Meyers from the historical society, her expression placid, her lap full of yarn, and her knitting needles clicking away industriously.
There was taciturn Warren Rogers, who owned a nursery and a landscaping business and had done some work out at my mom’s place a couple of years ago in exchange for her making his plus-size daughter, Naomi, a kickass prom dress that flattered her curves to hell and gone.
And there—holy crap—was my mom’s friend Sandra Sweddon, recently referred to by my former teacher Mr. Leary as “that infernal do-gooding busybody.”
Okay, maybe I should have known that one. After all, I did know she collected crystals. But frankly, I hadn’t even suspected it.
Casimir bustled around, pouring tea and making introductions. “Wonderful,” he said once acquaintances were made or in my case, renewed in a very different context. “If everyone’s ready, I’ll give a quick invocation and then we’ll begin.”
A murmur of assent ran around the room.
Fetching a long-handled lighter from a drawer, Casimir lit the first of two candles on the coffee table, a silver pillar. “Hail, fair Lady, queen of night, enfold us in your grace,” he said, and then lit the second, a gold pillar. “Hail, great Lord, ruler of day, protect us in this place.” He set the lighter down. “So mote it be.”
“So mote it be,” the others echoed.
Now that I wasn’t suffering from an excruciating hex-induced migraine, I could feel a faint charge in the air after Casimir’s invocation—nothing like the vastness of Hel’s presence, but a change. Interesting.
“We invoke the Lady and Lord in their archetypal forms,” Casimir said to Sinclair. “Of course, everyone is welcome to address whatever particular facet of the deity speaks to them. Are you dedicated?”
I didn’t understand the question, but Sinclair gave a brief nod. “You might say so. I was raised to honor Yemaya.”
Also interesting. I made a mental note of the name.
“Wonderful,” Casimir said again. “All right! Everyone, please help yourselves to the lovely cheese tray Kim was kind enough to bring for the occasion. Mr. Palmer, tell us about yourself and your situation.”
Snacking on cheese and crackers, I sat and listened while Sinclair related his story. At the coven’s prodding, he went into more detail about his own youthful studies in obeah, which involved using his ability to see auras to diagnose ailments in individuals and gradually acquiring the herb lore to prescribe cures.
“And you didn’t think that was worth pursuing?” Warren Rogers asked in a neutral tone. He was a guy who knew a thing or two about herbs. “The healer’s path?”
“Not at the cost.” Sinclair met his gaze squarely. “The further I went down that path, the further my sister went down the other.”
The other members of the coven nodded in understanding. I guess this whole path of balance thing was a cornerstone of most occult practices.
With a few assists from me, Sinclair finished up with a description of Emmeline’s visit and her ultimatum, followed by a short discourse on the nature of duppies, during which the coven attempted to determine whether obeah’s concept of an earthly soul that was somehow distinct from a heavenly soul corresponded to the notion of an etheric body that was distinct from the physical and spiritual bodies.
Okay, I tuned out for a while during that part. But at least the cheese was good.
At around twenty to eight, Casimir deftly turned the conversation to ways of protecting Sinclair from his sister’s threat.
“Obviously, we should start with a ritual cleansing,” Kim McKinney said. “I’d be happy to oversee it.”
I’d just bet she would. I suppressed an irrational surge of jealousy.
“Have you done any work with crystals and visualization?” Sandra Sweddon asked Sinclair. “White light? Chakras?” He shook his head. “That’s okay, honey. We’ll work on it.”
“How do you feel about ink?” Mark Reston stretched out his arms to reveal a pair of large and