“I am ashamed that you do not like it. It has been in my family for a long time. I thought it would fill the blank space on your wall.” She pointed to the vacant space between two sets of shelves. “I would have been honored to see it hang here,” she said sadly.

  Pinkie quickly recovered her smile. “No, Mrs. Prashad. I love it. I do. I was just so shocked that you’d give something so precious to me. I’ll cherish it. It will hang right there in a place of honor. It’s the finest thing I’ll ever own.”

  The woman nodded slowly, but she didn’t smile. She backed to the door almost deferentially. “I will see it every time I pass the window of your store. It will bring you good luck.”

  The little tabby cat laid back her ears and hissed when the Indian closed the door behind her.

  “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” Pinkie hissed back. “Instead of sitting there passing judgment on everyone, why don’t you make yourself useful?”

  The cat’s answer was to walk to the door and stare at the knob.

  After letting the cat out, Pinkie took a good look at the battered frame with the spotted mercury glass mirror in the center. While the piece was probably two feet by three, the mirror itself was only half that size and nothing like the one that had been her mother’s; a full length dressing mirror from the 1800s. No human could pass through this mirror; no human or anything else. It was time to suck it up and get over it.

  Ninety-nine point nine percent of mirrors were harmless. Pinkie had been telling herself that for years, but it was a statistic pulled from thin air. It was what she told herself when she used public bathrooms or walked through department stores even though she was pretty sure there was no danger in modern mirrors.

  The mirror in her childhood room had been old, from a time when mercury-silver amalgams were sandwiched between thin sheets of glass. Pinkie knew this because she knew just about everything there was to know about mirrors, old ones in particular. Know your enemy, so to speak.

  When she bought this building at auction, there was only one mirror. It was in the bathroom and even though it was probably installed in the 1960s, Pinkie ripped it out and replaced it with a cheap modern one. It was her first project and the only fixture in the place that was brand new.

  “Get over it,” she told herself again, as she hung the mirror much too high on the wall under the theory that if she couldn’t look into it, it couldn’t look into her. “The Prashad’s are good people. You can’t insult them and you know Mrs. Prashad will be looking for it every time she walks by. There’s nothing hocus-pocus about the Prashads. No alarm sounded,” she reassured herself. “It’s been fifteen years and you’re not a kid anymore.”

  Nevertheless, she was marking the hanging of that mirror off as her Good Deed for the day.

  Mrs. Prashad’s promise of good luck seemed to prove true. It was a great day financially for Good Fortune. An hour later when she opened the door for the returning cat, two customers walked in. Instead of the usual browsing, they actually purchased what caught their eye, including two of the more expensive multi-stoned silver bracelets. Several more customers followed, all stopping first to admire the cat, who’d taken up her position in the middle of the window display. Everyone who walked in the door purchased something and she’d done three readings as well.

  “Looks like you’re finally earning your kibble,” Pinkie laughed.

  Around six o’clock, a party of seven young women, soon-to-be-bride and bridesmaids, came in, laughing and cracking crude jokes about the coming nuptials. All wanted their fortunes told before embarking on their night on the town. Pinkie told them mainly what they wanted to hear and for the most part, it was true. Two of them would find success in their chosen professions. Two of them would eventually marry the man of their dreams. There was no reason to tell them that neither of those men would be their first husband or that one of their number wouldn’t live to a ripe old age. The rest she made up. They weren’t looking for truth. They were looking for fun. Only for one did she offer a dire warning and it was an important one.

  “Beware of the man with the goatee,” she told the bubbly blonde and described him as best she could, “The one with the scar along his right ear.” She traced the line of the scar with her finger. “He will be handsome and charming, but he is not what he seems and he will hurt you. Horribly.” Pinkie reached across the table to grip the girl’s hand, ensuring that her message was heard. “Laugh with the others about my predictions, but don’t laugh at this. Your life depends on it.”

  “Who is this man? Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “And tell them what? That on the word of a palm reader, a man you didn’t know and never met was going to kill you?” Pinkie had been down that road before. “You can’t report a crime before it happens.” Unless you’re in a Tom Cruise movie. “Just stay away from him and keep your friends away from him, too. Please. I’m begging you.”

  The small binding she’d placed on the girl to make her listen was enough.

  “You really can see the future.”

  “Sometimes,” Pinkie answered truthfully, “But it’s not always enough. This time it is.” She gave the girl’s hand a squeeze. “Don’t ruin your friend’s party. They won’t believe you if you do. Just be careful. If you see him, you might want to take the party to another bar.”

  The celebrating group purchased rings and necklaces and several of her potions and creams. The electric bill would be paid with enough left over to catch up on the small loan she’d taken to finish the repairs on her building. But it was the young woman’s solemn nod as she followed her friends out into the street that gave Pinkie the greatest reward.

  The man Pinkie warned her about was no man at all and in saving the young woman, she’d probably condemned another to death. Save one and sacrifice another. Pinkie tried very hard not to think about it. She’d done the best she could. If she couldn’t stop the thief in the alley, she certainly couldn’t stop a demon in the guise of a man. Seeing it and knowing it was in the neighborhood had shaken her badly, but she’d learned a long time ago not to let her upsets show. Thou shalt smile no matter what. Rule number one.

  A few more customers followed. She and her purring familiar were in the back searching for a box in which to safely pack four witches balls. The hand blown glass ornaments were purported to ward off witches and their spells. The irony made Pinkie smile. Whether they worked or not, the balls were beautiful and they sold well.

  Many of the charms she sold and spells she wove over her potions were meant to ward off evil, but in truth, the best her spells could do was offer a warning. There was no ward against evil that she knew of. This was brought home to her, once again, when she walked out from the back room carrying the box. The cat was the first to feel it. Her back went up, her ears flattened, and she hissed.

  “What’s the matter with you? I thought we’d gotten past the mean cat look,” Pinkie complained before the feeling hit her, too.

  Every ward and charm in the shop vibrated with the violation. The discordant thrum was so intense, even the customer waiting at the register felt it. She looked back over her shoulder and shivered.

  “Someone just walked over my grave,” she laughed nervously, using the old excuse for unexplainable chills.

  Pinkie laughed with her, the sound falsely sweet against the jangling wards. She rang up the purchase, thanked the woman, and waited until she was gone before facing the woman who’d set off the alarms.

  “What do you want?” Pinkie asked bluntly. She knew what the woman was and like others she’d met, it wasn’t good.

  There was nothing distinctive about the woman. She was dressed like a thousand others in worn jeans and a zipper front sweatshirt with the hood raised. The woman didn’t look up at Pinkie’s question. Head down, stingy hair shielding her face from view, she continued to inspect the colorful bottles and jars. She uncorked a display bottle and sniffed the contents.

  “You have magic. So do I. Like calls to like.”

  “We’re nothing alike.”

  The woman ignored Pinkie’s cold response. “Oh, but we are, my dear, more than you know.” Her voice sounded so sad and pitiful. Shoulders slumped, her sigh cried out with weariness and despair. “You and I, we made the same kind of mistakes. You were lucky. You escaped. I didn’t. Not for a long, long time and not unscathed.” She sniffed a little, lifted her head to stare up at the wall or out into memory, but didn’t turn.

  Anger replaced by curiosity, Pinkie took a step toward the witch. “Who are you? How do you...?”

  “I’m a lost soul and you, you’re a legend. We know about you. You’re the one who got away.”

  “We?”

  Pinkie knew there were other, true witches out there. She’d even met a few and this woman was right; like did call to like. She also knew that the nightmare being who haunted her used those witches’ powers to find her. He’d done it time and again. But she’d never thought about there being others like herself, caught in his spider’s web, or what their fate might have been. The air around her grew heavy and still.

  “There are,” the woman nodded. “They, we, need your help.”

  Was this the redemption she sought? Was this the Good Deed that would clear away the black marks in the Book of Souls? The cat, sitting by her feet, hissed as the woman’s hands moved to another bottle. Pinkie ignored the cat.

  “How? How can I help?” she asked softly, half afraid of what would be asked.

  “You can give us what we lost,” the woman said. “You have the power to restore our dignity to make our way in this world. You can give back what was taken from us.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t have that kind of power.” And yet she would give them what she could. No matter what they asked, no matter what the cost, she wanted to make amends for their suffering.

  The woman held up a dark blue bottle shaped like a star. There were flecks of silver glitter in the glass. “Sweet Dreams,” she read from the label and picked up another, a pearly pink. She read that one, too. “Happy Thoughts. You present them as scents and tisanes, but we know what they really are, don’t we? They’re spells in a bottle. You’ve found a way to water them down.”

  It was true. Pinkie had found a way to dilute the most powerful spells much like she diluted her oils and essences until they were so subtle, they were barely there. When a bottle was purchased, she only needed to say a few words to trigger the spell within. They were temporary spells of the mildest kind.

  The woman held up the clear bottle with the rose design swirled into the glass. “This is what we need, but not the version you’re selling here.”

  The rose bottle with its old fashioned rose water scent was called Eyes of the Beholder. It was a beauty spell, so dilute it would be unnoticeable except to the woman who used it. Her eyes would be its first beholder when, after using it, she checked the mirror one last time before going out. She, the most critical observer of her face, would notice the subtle difference and her eyes would brighten in appreciation. Her mouth would widen in a smile. Others would see only the sparkling eyes and happy smile and respond in kind, making the wearer feel as if they’d seen the difference, too.

  “We need the real thing,” the woman said, finally turning to look Pinkie in the eye. “They’ve made us ugly.”

  Her face was evidence of how much these women had suffered. Her eyes were dull and ringed with dark circles. She wasn’t ugly so much as tired and worn. The guilt Pinkie felt for escaping their fate was almost overwhelming. She was about to say yes. She could do it. She’d done it before. She would have said it, too, if the cat hadn’t chosen that moment to hiss again and dig its needle-like claws into her ankle. Pinkie jumped at the sharp, stinging pain.

  The silent room suddenly exploded with the jangle of warnings given off by the wards. They’d been going off the whole time the two women spoke, but Pinkie hadn’t heard them. The woman hadn’t been idly looking at the bottles on display. It was a magician’s ploy, a distraction to take the eyes away from the truth. The witch had been weaving a spell.

  The woman before her was no longer the object of her guilt and pity. With the breaking of the spell, she was revealed for what she was. She was a user, an addict, and her drug of choice was dark magic. Her sunken eyes, mottled skin, and greyish pallor were the result of her addiction, not her time in Hell.

  “Get out!” Pinkie shouted. Her voice reverberated off the old plaster walls. Her heart began to race as memories assailed her. This wasn’t the witch from her nightmares and yet this witch reminded her of the other.

  She was haggard and drawn, and her eyes smoldered with a jealousy and hatred forged with molten iron. Her soul would be scorched by such heat. Those eyes frightened Pinkie the most. They were the eyes of her nightmare.

  “You want to think you’re just like the rest of them,” the woman sneered. “You want to think you’re clean and pure. But you’re not, Patience Penelope Persephone Pendergast. You’re just like me. Blood calls to blood.”

  “I’m not like you. Get out. Get out!” Pinkie shouted again. She felt a power rise in her that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. The air crackled with it. Her short curls stood on end. “Come near my shop again and I’ll send you back where you came from.” Her voice was clear and hard and threatening.

  “You wouldn’t dare. You’d have to bloody those lily white hands to do it,” the woman said, but she was already at the open door, pausing with her hand against the frame.

  “For you, I’ll make an exception.” Pinkie waved her hand through the air in a vicious stroke and the door to the shop slammed shut, barely missing the woman’s hand.

  Pinkie ran to the wide window, leaning her cheek against it to see where the woman went. The lights from the shops were too dim and there were too many people on the street. She went to the door, shot the bolts home, and turned the cardboard sign to ‘Closed’. She’d made enough money from her earlier sales and she needed time to collect her wits and recover her equilibrium.

  The encounter had frightened her in more ways than one and by the time she made it to the stairs, the aftershock of it set in. Her body began to shake and her legs collapsed. She crawled the rest of the way up the stairs and into the bathroom where she clung to the toilet bowl and retched until her stomach was empty. With trembling fingers, she cleaned her face with tissues and leaned back against the old claw foot tub.

  That woman was a witch and not the good witch kind. She was powerful enough to envelope Pinkie in a cocoon of beguilement that shut them away from everything but the mesmerizing sound of her voice. Pinkie had come so close to doing what the woman wanted. The urge to call on the dark power had been almost overwhelming.

  “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely to the cat, who sat in the only empty corner of the bathroom casually cleaning her tail. “You saved my life.”

  The cat stopped its ablutions to stare at her with unfathomable eyes. It blinked once and began to purr.

  “It’s true,” Pinkie told the cat as if the feline denied it. She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I came this close to falling off the wagon.”

  Which proved to her again that she wasn’t cured of her addiction and never would be. The alcoholic who stopped drinking was still an alcoholic.

  For that alone, Pinkie would be frightened of the woman, but there was more. The witch knew where Pinkie lived and knew what she was capable of. She knew of Pinkie’s past. Blood calls to blood. There was only one place where the dark witch could have learned Pinkie’s real name. He was back.

  When she hadn’t heard from him for several years, she’d foolishly thought her time had run out. She should have known there was no statute of limitations on what she’d done.

  Chapter 8

  If she hadn’t had her own problems to worry about, Andi might have felt sorry for the demon that was the subject of Abyar’s rage. The fine-lined scar along the guy’s ear gave his face a dangerously sensuous look that suited his goatee. The new slice across his other cheek, made by Abyar’s extended claw, was going to ruin the illusion Poynter worked so hard to create. Her time in hell had taught her that scars were something only the higher level demons could cover.

  “I told you, we don’t feed where we live,” Abyar snarled. The claws retracted and the scaled arm became a human one.

  “I didn’t feed,” Poynter snarled. His visage shimmered into the grey-green creature he was as he lost hold of the human illusion.

  At first, these changes had creeped Andi out. Early on, she’d seen these creatures with a kind of double vision that exposed both forms at once, but she’d unconsciously blocked the monsters out. She’d always been good at seeing only what she wanted to. It was hard to do that in the Otherworld when you were confronted by the reality day after day. She’d gotten used to it and now found it ironic that the demons hadn’t. They all wanted to look human and those that could hold the form longest were most admired.

  “Where are the others?” Abyar asked.

  They were assembling a crew. Abyar had someone on the other side feeding the likely candidates through the mirror. It was something else the bastard never thanked her for. She was the one who insisted they retrieve the mirror when they were first freed. She was the one who threw the hissy fit when Abyar wanted to sell it in Vegas. She was the one who knew how to use it. She was even better at it than Abyar, though she didn’t dare point it out. And she was a helluva lot better than that fat little palm reader in her two-bit magic shop. Shit, the bitch had one hanging on the wall and didn’t even know it.

  “Pillaging. Isn’t that what you ordered?”

  Andi snickered. “No one calls it that anymore. Raping, sure, but pillaging went out a long time ago. Robbing, thieving, breaking and entering, and the occasional smash and grab would be okay, but not pillaging.”

  “And where have you been?” Abyar glared at her as if she’d been the one to do something wrong.

 

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