“It’s nothing personal,” Odalys said. “But if he joins us, I’ll have to close the store and charge you for my lost business. Unless . . . are you paying me for a consult?”

“Not if I can help it,” Sylvie said.

The back room was as pristine as the front though less sterile. The chairs weren’t bleached wood, but buttery soft leather in burgundy and blue; the lights were warm instead of bright, and there was a lingering scent of rose oil and vanilla. The shelves along the wall were dark wood, and filled with open-topped wicker baskets. Sylvie, incurably nosy, pulled one out and smiled.

Witch.

Yes, Sylvie agreed. She’d begun to wonder if Odalys had been telling the truth. The storefront felt nothing like magic, and even the back room lacked that . . . charge in the air, that sense of worked spells. But the wicker basket held a jumble of charms, red cords, small nuts, and cedar, some flaking crystals that might have been salt. Basic protective-spell ingredients.

Odalys said, “Yes, you’re right—I am a witch. How clever of you to find me out.” She said it all on one bored breath. “What you haven’t found is any reason for me to talk to you.” She pushed the charms basket back onto the shelves.

“Business courtesy between two entrepreneurs?”

“You haven’t said what it is you do,” Odalys said. She swayed to her seat, and Sylvie bit back the urge to tell the woman to turn off the glamour.

“I’m a troubleshooter,” Sylvie said. “And I’ve got some trouble I’m hoping you can help me with.”

Sitting in this quiet room with Odalys felt oddly familiar. Odalys was a witch in the same mold as Val Cassavetes. Elegant, personable, superior. Sylvie tucked her grubby sneakers beneath the chair. At least with Val, Sylvie had had years of acquaintance to offset the disparity in their priorities.

“Well,” Odalys said. “Are you going to tell me what evil magic you’re afflicted with, or are you waiting to see if your cop can sell a love potion to the high-school crowd? They’ll be in fairly soon.”

Sylvie set the briefcase on the oriental carpet between them, pried up the tape, and opened the latch. “I need two things. One, to make these safe, inert. Two, to figure out who might have sold them.”

There was a screech—Odalys shoving her chair back off the carpet, her poise stripped from her. “Oh, that’s . . . disgusting. Close it at once.”

“I agree.”

“Just . . . close it!”

Odalys was out of the chair, her hand at her throat as if her breath had lodged itself there.

Sylvie tipped the lid shut, aggravated. Val wouldn’t have spooked so easily.

“Damn you,” Odalys said. She rummaged through a basket, shoulders tight, and yanked out a long length of embroidered white silk. “Those kinds of things stain. Places and souls. I’ll have to cleanse the entire shop once you’ve gone.” She tossed the silk at Sylvie; it fluttered and fell short, drifting to the floor with a hissed whisper. “Cover that up.”

Sylvie draped the silk over the briefcase. “Sorry,” she said. Apology wasn’t her usual style, but this interaction was still new enough it could end abruptly and unsatisfactorily; Sylvie needed a witch on her team.

Odalys waved a hand; tiny diamonds in her bracelet caught the light and flashed. “Better back here than in the storefront, I suppose. Small mercies. That silk will isolate the damage.”

“Thanks,” Sylvie said.

“It’s also a hundred and fifty dollars.”

Sylvie sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”

The bell in the main store rang, followed by the laughter of young girls, and Odalys’s attention veered toward it.

Wright’s voice welcomed them, started another round of giggles, and Odalys sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

She slid the door back and disappeared. Sylvie waited until she heard Odalys catching the girls’ attention with practiced ease, then she rose and gave in to temptation.

Careful, the little dark voice urged. Witches protect their secrets well.

Sylvie agreed, but there wasn’t much help for it. She chose to trust in her sketchy immunity to magic, trust in her instinct and ability to withdraw before a spell could touch her at all.

She thought dryly she might as well milk what she could out of Lilith’s legacy. Something more useful than the bad temper, inability to shut up in the face of danger, and a stubborn streak the proverbial mile wide.

The baskets were stacked seven high, the tallest accessible by step stool; the rows were ten baskets wide. Seventy baskets and just a few minutes to make her assessment of Odalys. She wanted to know the caliber of the witch she was asking for aid. Odalys rang . . . false to her. According to Tatya, the woman was powerful, and Sylvie had seen that she was clever enough. Still, she seemed more like a retailer than a witch. Only her instant recognition of the Hands and the shield cloth argued anything more.

Sylvie selected the basket least likely to be reached for, trusting that the candles, jewelry, books—things that the shop ran out of most often—would be the most easily accessible. She used the step stool, picked the basket in the darkest, higher corner, rested her hand on the edge of it gingerly. It didn’t feel like anything but clean wicker. Despite its position, it was dust-free. More obsessive cleaning? Or proof that this basket was used frequently despite the awkward placement?

The basket, drawn out carefully, yielded evidence that Odalys was more witchy than she let on. The basket revealed narrow vials of what looked like clumpy dirt and cloth dolls. It wasn’t a smoking gun, but the two items in conjunction suggested the darker sides of magic. If it were grave dirt, it argued some control over death, though that could be benign—an abjuration against an evil spirit—or something more malign—the base for a curse.

The poppets—Sylvie picked one up, studied the blank face, the undone seam where fingernails, hair, or teeth could be inserted—were more worrying. Sylvie didn’t know any nice spells that involved poppets; generally, beneficent spells were worked directly on the targeted person. Only black-magic spellcasters felt the need for a proxy. Too afraid to face their enemies.

Then again, as she was quick to acknowledge, she didn’t know all that many spells.

The rasp of the door sliding back alerted her, too late to do more than push the basket back into place, no time to regain her seat.

Odalys looked at her without surprise. “Curiosity satisfied? I am a witch, but I’m also a sensible one. Your problems are more than I want to be involved with. So you can take your cop and your disgusting artifacts and find someone else to bother. There’s a woman called Cassavetes. I hear she’s the one to go to if you have magical problems.”

Sylvie said, “She’s otherwise occupied. You’re it, I’m afraid. Going to have to step out of your comfort zone and deal with me.”

“But I,” Odalys said archly, “am a good witch. What makes you think I can even do what you want?”

“Part of being a good guy is knowing how to put the bad ones in their place. Besides, you sell the black, so you don’t get to be all holier than thou.”

Odalys laughed, a short, brittle thing. “It’s funny. Sad but funny. I offer ways to improve lives, help find happiness, harness luck, love. But that’s not what they ask me for. I might be a witch, but I’m a businesswoman first. I meet demand.”

“So that makes it okay for you to sell harmful—”

“No,” Odalys said. “Look again. Those dolls are mass-produced crap, no more magical than any Barbie. I sell the promise of black magic, not the actuality. It’s all fakes. Magic’s a tricky thing; it can turn on the user.”

“Tell me about it,” Sylvie said.

“If I did the harm people wished me to, even secondhand, I’d be concerned for the state of my soul.”

“So you sell fakes—”