Free Poison Fruit by Jacqueline Carey Page B

over distance. “Learn to see with the eyes of your heart as well as your mind,” she said, tapping her chest with one gnarled forefinger. “When the time comes, you will need it.”
    I hesitated. “Um . . . is this still about the Night Hag?”
    The Sphinx made a shooing gesture. “When the time comes, you will know.” She paused, then added, “Or not.”
    One of the library patrons, a portly gentleman who looked to be of retirement age, strolled past me to approach the checkout counter holding a book from the New Releases shelf. Pemkowet’s resident oracle took his book and scanned it while he pulled out his wallet and fumbled for his library card.
    Ohh-kay.
    Clearly, I’d been dismissed. Well, as far as encounters with the Sphinx went, that wasn’t entirely unproductive. At least I’d gotten a riddle and a piece of soothsaying out of it, even if I had no idea what either meant.
    Next up, Sinclair’s ritual tattooing.
    If you’re wondering what that’s all about, Sinclair is apprenticed to the local coven. He’s actually descended from a long line of obeahpractitioners, but until recently, he’d been avoiding claiming his heritage—which, now that I think about it, is something else we had in common. Well, except for the part where claiming it could breach the Inviolate Wall and unleash Armageddon.
    At any rate, he’s claimed it now, on his own terms. The tattoo isn’t mandatory or anything, but according to Casimir, having a seal tattooed on your own skin is one of the most powerful protection wards you can obtain. And conveniently enough, two of the members of the coven, Mark and Sheila Reston, happened to own a tattoo parlor. Since the events of Halloween, they’d been working with Sinclair to develop his own personal sigil.
    There were a fair number of people crowded into the tattoo parlor when I arrived. I wasn’t surprised to see Casimir, since he was the head of the coven and his shop was right across the street, or Warren Rodgers, who owned a nursery and landscaping business and had taken Sinclair on as a mentee and part-time employee during the off-season when tourism was slow. I was a little surprised to see Jen and Lee—but then, Jen and Sinclair had become fairly good friends since she’d sublet a room in his rental house last fall.
    Stacey Brooks, though . . . that I was not expecting. At all .
    “Hey, girlfriend,” I greeted Jen. “What are you doing here?” I lowered my voice. “And what the fuck is she doing here?”
    Jen grimaced. “Yeah, um . . . Sinclair invited me, and since Lee and I were going for coffee, we figured we’d stop by. And . . . okay, they’ve been spending time together, but I was really hoping it wouldn’t last and I’d never have to mention it to you.”
    “Son of a bitch!” My tail lashed, and the atmosphere in the crowded tattoo parlor crackled with rising tension. A set of chimes hanging over the front door, probably part of a protection ward, shivered and clanged unhappily.
    “Daise, be cool,” Jen warned me.
    “I’m cool, I’m cool.” I visualized stuffing my volatile mix of jealousy and profound irritation in a box, tying a bow around it, and setting it aside for later. Above the door, the chimes quieted.
    “Hey, Daisy!” Sinclair threaded his way through the parlor to greet me with a hug. “Thanks for coming. Sorry about the short notice.”
    “No problem,” I said. “I need to talk to you anyway. It’s a professional matter. Will you have a minute later?”
    “Sure.” Sinclair nodded, the beads in his short dreadlocks rattling. “Stick around.” Stacey Brooks came up behind him to slide a possessive hand around his arm. “You two know each other, right?”
    I want to say Stacey gave me a simpering smile that did nothing to mask her gloating look, because that’s what the Stacey Brooks I’d known since kindergarten would have done, but the truth is, she looked nervous—possibly because the last time we’d seen