was as jumpy as a junkie overdue for a fix, and for all I knew, he might be one. I didn’t think so, though. I was pretty sure that the problem lay right in front of me, nestled in a silk-lined box.
“That depends,” I replied. “Do you know what it is?”
The man shook his head. He was short and muscular like a boxer, with the flinty-eyed squint of a hustler. “No idea. Weirds me out, that’s why I want to get rid of it. Had no idea what we were getting when I bought that batch of unclaimed luggage, and now I’m beginning to think it was a bad idea.”
I straightened up, careful not to touch the box. In it lay a skull covered with intricate beadwork in the veve of Baron Samedi, one of the Voudon Loas associated with death. I had seen my friends Lucinda and Caliel at work, and, once or twice, I’d glimpsed the Baron’s spirit. Whether my would-be customer knew it or not, the Loas were not to be trifled with.
“It’s a Voudon relic – you probably call it Voodoo,” I said. “There’s more of a market for something like this down in New Orleans, which means fewer potential buyers here, and that affects the price.” I named a dollar figure that I thought was low. The stranger jumped at it.
“It’s yours,” he said. “Cash?”
I nodded. “We can do that. But I will need to record your name, address, and a phone number, just in case there are questions.”
Hustler Dude looked nervous. “Why would there be questions?”
I shrugged. “It could happen. Especially if that turns out to be a real skull.”
Hustler Dude blanched as if he hadn’t considered that possibility. “Oh man,” he said, taking a step back. “Do you think it could be?”
I shrugged again, although my spidey sense was tingling. I was betting that it was not only real, but it had been used by someone with power and know-how in some honest-to-gods Voudon rituals. And as with the hair necklace, I had the definite impression that a trapped ghost was connected to the beaded skull, and that ghost was scared witless. Hustler Dude didn’t need to know any of that. “No idea. But it didn’t come from Joe’s Juju Junk Shoppe.”
“Where’s that?” he asked, wide-eyed.
I resisted the urge to face-palm or roll my eyes. “I made it up,” I said. Across the store, I could see Teag hiding a snicker. “What I meant was, I think it’s the real deal. Do you want to sell it?” I repeated my price.
I could see him torn between the greedy hope that he could find someone to pay more, and the strong desire to get rid of the damned thing. And I was willing to bet that there had been some hard-to-explain circumstance that spooked Hustler Dude. “Okay,” he said. “Sold.”
The grinning, bejewelled skull lay nestled in the satin lining of its box, and the similarity to a coffin had not escaped me. I sent Hustler Dude over to Teag to get his money, but I already knew who I needed to talk to about the relic – Lucinda.
As soon as Hustler Dude was out of the door, Teag looked at me and shook his head. “Sometimes, Cassidy, I really wonder about your sanity.”
“Touch that silk and tell me that isn’t an active relic,” I challenged.
“I didn’t question whether or not it was active,” he said archly. “I questioned your sanity.”
“Yeah, well. That’s been in short supply lately.” The dark shadow at the nursing home spooked me more than I wanted to let on, especially after the attack in Boston. I was grateful for Chuck’s help, and I had a suspicion that Lucinda might have been the one to set the wards. Now with the skull, I had an excuse to go see her right away.
“Think you two can handle the shop for a while?” I asked. “I want to see what Lucinda makes of this.” I pulled out a plastic bag. “And can you please put the skull in this? I don’t want to touch it.” Teag gave me an exaggerated, long-suffering look as he put on a pair of gloves, picked up the skull and put it in the sack and then slid it into my tote bag.
“Go. Get rid of it before it causes problems.” He shook his head. “That thing is so tacky, it looks like it belongs in a New Orleans airport gift shop.”