Witch Fire (20 page)

He added another small embellishment in support of his case. ‘Glory aroused Dr Caron’s suspicions when she left Wildings so abruptly. There were all sorts of rumours flying around. If Dr Caron thinks she’s a spy, and then runs into her in Cordoba, Glory could be in serious trouble.’

‘Serious trouble,’ said Troy wearily, ‘is what I’ve come to expect from the two of you. OK. What do you want?’

‘Glory’s contact details. A fake passport. And a smartphone – the signal on mine can be traced. Money.’

‘A coven loan!’ Troy’s mouth twitched. ‘I hope you’re prepared for our interest rates. Because I don’t think Daddy Stearne would be best pleased if you lost your kneecaps.’

‘I won’t need much. I’m going to empty my current account before I go, but I can’t access my savings without my father’s say-so. And if I try and use my bank cards, WICA will be able to trace me. Then there’s getting through immigration –’

‘Shut up a moment and let me think.’

Troy swung round in his chair and regarded the scene outside. It was several long minutes before he turned back.

‘OK. Fine. I’ll get you what you need.’

‘
That’s great. Thank you so m—’

‘
Truth is, I was already thinking of sending someone to San Jerico,’ Troy said abruptly. ‘My sister Candice is living there and my parents are increasingly anxious about her. I’d like to get a first-hand report of her welfare and activities, as well as Glory’s, but for the moment I can’t spare the staff. Nor can I rely on my Cordoban contacts. This is a private family matter, and I want to keep it that way.’

‘I understand.’

‘
Then here’s something else you need to get into your head: whatever you find out there, whatever progress you make, you report it to me. Not WICA, not Daddy Stearne, definitely not the prickers.’ Troy fixed Lucas in his cold green gaze. ‘You’re on my payroll now. Don’t forget it.’

Chapter 20

Before her first night’s work at the Carabosse, Glory invested some of her dwindling cash in a trip to a hairdresser. She came out with her hair cut in a sixties-style bob, brown roots dyed a glossy platinum. With a picture of Granny Cora as her reference point, she bought some false eyelashes too. Her eyes were heavily rimmed in black and her lips were painted nude. If people were going to start talking about ‘the Starling Girl’, she wanted to look the part.

The job, though, proved to be a disappointment. It didn’t take long for the novelty of performing witchwork in public to wear off, and there was none of the camaraderie she’d hoped for among her fellow witchworkers. Competition for tips and the preference of the regular punters was fierce. Inevitably, Glory’s age and abilities caused resentment. Even Candice took to arriving for work separately, and turning a cold shoulder to her in public.

Glory’s signature trick was the rose fascination. For the right price, she would craft a rose in the colour of her customer’s choice. For her own amusement, she’d experiment with the scent, dousing her tissue-paper blossoms with a spritz of mint breath-freshening spray or lavender perfume or lemon hand-sanitiser. At the end of the evening, the fascination would fade and the buyer would be left with a crumpled ball of paper, leaf mould and drawing pins. Which was, of course, all part of the fun.

Glory would also spy in a scrying-bowl, and tell people what their friends were getting up to in other bars or hotels. A vanishing trick was equally popular. She would place a gentleman’s watch or a lady’s earrings on a pocket mirror, fogged with her own breath, which she proceeded to wrap in a black handkerchief and sprinkle with dust from the street. It was an amulet known as a shroud, because it ‘buried’ an object from view. Afterwards, she’d whip off the handkerchief to gasps of astonishment, as the customer prodded an object they could feel but couldn’t see.

Most nights there was the additional entertainment of a cabaret singer or burlesque dancer. Only one witch ever took centre stage. This was a woman known as Sheba, whose handsome features suggested a mix of Amerindian and North African blood. She wore a costume of a silver leotard, and a decorative witch’s bridle made out of diamanté that covered most of her face and neck. Her act centred on her familiar, a big black cat. She and the animal would dance together, and it would spell out answers to audience questions by picking out letters on coloured cards. Then it would go and collect banknotes in its mouth as tips. It was controlled by the ring Sheba wore on her right hand: a circlet of cat hair braided with her own, sealed with spit and the animal’s blood.

Glory would watch their show whenever her duties allowed. She had always been told that using a familiar regularly was dangerous. If you merged your mind with an animal’s too frequently, or didn’t have strong enough fae, you were at risk of blurring the boundaries between human and beast. Sheba certainly had a cat-like look, with her wide cheekbones, snub nose and slanting eyes. Glory had never heard the woman speak, only yowl and hiss and purr. Once she’d seen her lick her hands clean, as if they were paws. Maybe it was all part of the performance, but it gave Glory the creeps.

The other creeps were the paying kind. Stag parties and businessmen out to celebrate a deal were the worst, and had to be told to keep their hands to themselves. Glory felt more comfortable with the gangsters; coven folk who weren’t dazzled by witchwork and just wanted a pretty girl to serve the drinks.

Although Glory was soon making good tips, she had to give all her wages to Candy. As Glory was staying in her and Todd’s home, it was difficult to object. But the villa wasn’t much of a refuge. The little dogs ran wild, soiling the chipped marble floors wherever they felt like it, and the constant hip-hop shook the plaster from the walls. When Todd wasn’t ‘writing’, he liked to play skittles with beer bottles in the hall. What with the smashing glass, pounding music and yapping dogs, Glory sometimes thought of Wildings’ hushed hallways with regret.

‘I know the real reason you came here,’ Todd announced on the afternoon of her sixth day in Cordoba, when he came upon Glory slumped moodily in the lounge.

She tensed up in spite of herself. ‘I told you. It were the pyros breathing down me neck.’

Todd pushed back his dark glasses with a smirk. ‘You can’t fool me. I’ve seen the way you mope around the place. Staring into space, heaving sighs, leaving your food . . . There’s a boy, isn’t there? Some heartbreaker you’re pining for.’

‘No,’ said Glory, a little too quickly.

The way Todd stood posed in the doorway made it obvious that he was sucking in his gut. ‘Plenty more
peces
in
el mar
, sweet-cheeks. Wait and see.’

Glory waited until he’d slouched off, then went to the patio doors. Purple storm clouds were already gathering over the city’s haze of smog. A wine bottle and a couple of cigarette butts bobbed in the swimming pool. She breathed on the glass, traced her fingertip through the mist.
You OK?

And though she knew she shouldn’t, she closed her eyes, pressed her palm against the window.

Cold stars. Warm breath. His hands in her hair.

She was out of sorts for the rest of the afternoon. On her way in to work, the streets were as full of light and music and laughter as ever, but she was starting to notice different things. There was a group of beggars congregated on the steps of the cathedral. One of them had been hexed to think there were live insects crawling under his skin; his body was bloody and scabbed from constant scratching. Aunt Angeline had told Glory how to craft something similar. It was one of the black banes, the kind that could only be undone by the witch who inflicted it. She herself had threatened Silas Paterson with one.

There were bloodstains too on the Plaza de la República’s cobblestones, along with broken glass and torn placards. It was the aftermath of a political rally, De Aviles’s supporters versus the opposition, which had ended in a brawl. The number of
Hags Out!
slogans scrawled on the walls seemed to be increasing. So were the groups of private militiamen. Even the police got out of the way when they swaggered into view.

But once she arrived at the club, the sight of the spiral staircase lifted Glory’s spirits again. Who knew who might come down those glittering crystal steps? That was the best thing about Cordoba, she reminded herself. Anything was possible.

It turned out to be a busy night. Just after ten a party of bankers arrived and specially requested Glory, keeping the tips flowing for the next hour. In the lull that followed, she waited by the bar, leaning against the wall in an attempt to ease the pinch of her high-heeled shoes. Then her eye was caught by a swish of dark red hair. A woman – girl – was descending the crystal staircase. She had a pale heart-shaped face and violet eyes.

The last time Glory had seen those eyes, they had been dull and unblinking; the face a frozen mask. The girl’s movements had been stiff as a wind-up doll’s. But Rose Merle was easing her way gracefully through the crowd towards a group of media types, where she was greeted like an old friend. She was dressed for the office in a tailored cream blouse and black pencil skirt. Her hair had been cut nearly as short as Glory’s. She looked crisp, businesslike.

Was it truly Rose? Or some rent-a-witch, masquerading as her with a glamour? Glory felt giddy with anticipation.

She got hold of Ricki, the designated host for Rose’s table, and persuaded him to let her take his place. He only agreed after she promised him all her tips from the evening. Then before she could think better of it, she sashayed across the room and started taking orders. No fae-tricks were required, just waitressing.

‘Inquisitor’s Elixir for you, miss?’ she asked Rose, who was deep in conversation in fluent Spanish with her neighbour.

‘No, thank you. I think I’ll have an orange juice –’

Rose turned around and started. A flash of recognition crossed her face, to be replaced with uncertainty.

‘Hello again,’ said Glory brightly. ‘Rose, ain’t it?’

‘Oh . . . hello . . . have we met?’ Her voice was cut-glass confident, not the slow, slurred speech that had followed Glory into her dreams. Glory’s eyes flicked down to Rose’s right hand, where the pearly skin was red and raised. One of the symptoms of Rose’s condition was that she had lost all feeling in her body, and she’d scarred her hand by putting it into boiling water. If this was a glamour, then Glory had to approve of the attention to detail.

But the girl had definitely recognised her, and that was a good sign.

‘It were back in England,’ said Glory. ‘I came to talk to your mum.’

Rose lowered her voice, smoothing her hair nervously. ‘Back home when I was . . . ill?’

Glory didn’t answer. To prove her identity, Rose needed to remember for herself. Only a handful of people knew about their encounter in Lord Merle’s mansion. Lady Merle’s murderous ambush of her husband and Silas Paterson had been hushed up in the press. Just like Rose’s brain injury – the result of a fall from a horse, according to official reports.

Rose’s eyes filled with tears. ‘It was, wasn’t it? And Mummy was cross with you,’ she whispered. ‘Because it was the night – the night –’

‘Go on.’

‘It was the night of the party.’ Rose looked down at her scarred hand.
‘
The night of the fire. And . . . everything else.’

Her face had become more as Glory remembered it: blank and glazed. ‘You shouldn’t have been there,’ she said slowly.
‘
That’s why Mummy was angry. I remember now. I – I used to forget everything, you see.’

‘When you was ill?’

‘Yes. Afterwards, most of my memories came back. Especially the ones I wish I could lose.’ Rose gave a small strangled gasp. Her face was white and stricken. ‘Why is this happening? Why?’

Glory wondered if she’d gone too far. One of Rose’s neighbours had turned around.
‘
Te molesta esta muchacha?
’ he asked, with a suspicious glance at Glory.

Rose blinked. At once, it was as if her outburst had never been. ‘
Estoy bien, gracias
,’ she told the man. Her face and voice were bright. She turned back to Glory. ‘On second thoughts, hold the orange juice. I’ll have one of those Coven Dazzlers, please.’

Time for a strategic retreat. Obediently, Glory wrote down the order and made the rest of her rounds. She didn’t make another attempt at contact until she saw Rose head in the direction of the ladies’ toilets, and intercepted her by the door.

‘Look, I don’t want to cause upset or nothing. I just wanted –’

‘It’s the strangest thing,’ Rose interrupted, ‘but I feel like I know you already. I mean, I realise we’ve met before.’ She put her head on one side. ‘But there’s more to it than that, don’t you think? Something between us.’

This was encouraging. ‘Sure. So . . . d’you think we could talk? There’s some stuff I need to ask, about when you was ill and such . . .’ She trailed off. Rose had that closed, vacant look on her face again. But then the girl gave a little shake, and smiled.

‘Yes. Yes, it would be good to talk. How about tomorrow morning at nine? We could meet in the Café Grande.’ She leaned in confidingly.
‘
They serve the best hot chocolate in Cordoba, you know.’