Free Hexes and Hemlines by Juliet Blackwell

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    Serpentarius was said to have been a gifted medical man who revived the near dead and recently dead with the blood and venom of snakes. According to the story, Hades, god of death, worried that Serpentarius would eventually keep anyone from dying. Hades begged Zeus to kill Serpentarius, which he did, but then Zeus honored the talented human by setting him in the sky as a constellation and giving him the Greek name Ophiuchus, which means “the Serpent Bearer.” The Romans called him Serpentarius.
    Serpentarius is now considered the patron of physicians. The American Medical Association, even today, uses a staff wrapped with serpents as its symbol in his memory.
    All of this was fascinating, but it didn’t tell me anything about why Malachi Zazi would be organizing dinners in the man’s honor. Did Zazi simply enjoy the idea that Serpentarius was the thirteenth sign of the zodiac, and through the association with the number thirteen that it was thought to bring bad luck? Or was this somehow related to medicine and healing, a subject near and dear to my heart? Or could it involve the association with snakes?
    Unfortunately, though I riffled through all the books at my disposal last night, I found few answers relevant to this case. Much less the one I really wanted: What was it about my involvement with Malachi Zazi that had made Aidan so furious?
    The brass headstand of my bed glinted in the rare early-morning sunshine that streamed in through my bedroom’s multipaned window. It was well past time to start the day. I liked to get downstairs to cleanse Aunt Cora’s Closet and light a candle of protection before opening for business.
    First things first, though. Time to negotiate with the animals.
    I walked into the kitchen—my favorite room in the apartment—which I had painted in shades of bright pink, canary yellow, and chalky turquoise, inspired by the cheery colors I saw during my sojourn in Jamaica. Bundles of herbs hung from overhead beams, and a motley assortment of jars contained everything from cooking spices to freeze-dried bats. The lunar calendar hung near the sink, a pot of live basil attracted good luck, and my iron cauldron sat at the ready.
    At the moment, a black cat also adorned the tile countertop. Upon seeing me it let out a raspy squeak. Unless I managed to find a home for the cat soon, I would need to buy some actual cat food. In the interim I opened a can of sardines and poured a saucer of the raw milk I kept on hand for spells. Other than the leftovers from a gumbo dinner I had made on Saturday, my refrigerator contained more ingredients for spell casting than for cooking: raw milk, fresh spring water, fresh herbs and roots of all kinds. Still, I kept a lot of canned foods and frozen items on hand, for what Graciela used to call “pantry cooking.” She always seemed ready for the apocalypse with all her canned and dried foods—and for all I knew, that’s exactly what she was waiting for.
    The cat purred so loudly while eating, it made me wonder how often it had been fed. Its sleek black coat was soft as velvet. Allergies be damned, I spent a few minutes doting on her . . . or him. It lifted its head and bumped its wet little nose against mine.
    I sneezed and washed my hands thoroughly.
    “Gesundheit,” Oscar said as he glowered at the cat. “If you’re really gonna keep that . . . animal here, you should at least cast a spell against your allergies.”
    “I’m afraid it’s not that easy.”
    “But, Mistress, couldn’t you just brew . . . ?”
    “To change an inborn trait requires strong, continuous magic. It’s costly.”
    “But you wouldn’t charge yourself, would ya? It’s free to you.”
    “I didn’t mean that kind of cost. I meant it would be exhausting, and it would sap my energy for more important things.” No, by far the best idea would be to find her a loving home with people who don’t have an exaggerated immune response to her very presence.
    “You’ve got lots