THE FORTY-MINUTE DRIVE to Cripple Creek, home of Sparrow’s Grotto, was worth spending the bit of cash I made at the diner. A Wiccan shop would not fare well in Belle Meadow, but thankfully the surrounding towns had pulled themselves into modern America.
I shrugged off my seatbelt and grabbed my list from the glove compartment before stepping out of my Jeep. A wad of fingerprinted gum blocked the parking meter slot. No way was I hunting down another space. I dug the gum out with the blade of my car key and forced a quarter past the sticky residue.
There. Twenty minutes for me.
I stared at the shop I’d first set foot in when I was sixteen—the place that always provided answers. Doctors hadn’t been able to help with the noise. Tinnitus, they’d said, as if this were only a ringing in my ears.
Tinnitus, my ass.
But I’d gone to them first because magic was something I turned to only when necessary. After today, I was convinced this was one of those times.
I shoved my thoughts aside and headed into Sparrow’s Grotto, where coyote figurines prowled the shelves, patchouli and sandalwood infused the air, and notes of Celtic music relaxed my nerves. The wall opposite the checkout counter was stacked with books, and the center aisles were filled with herbs, oils, candles, chalk and salts, small dishes, and other ritual implements. Athames, bolines, and other sharp objects were kept locked in the back.
Paloma, the shop owner and my long-time mentor, burst through a beaded curtain, her out-swung arms breaking the image of bamboo shoots. Her long hair, brown as coconut husks, tangled in her large, gold hoop earrings.
“Oi, Sophia!” she said. “It’s been far too long!”
“You’re telling me. How’ve you been?”
Following a quick bout of chitchat, she reviewed my list, her gaze only interrupted for a moment as she wiped a stray hair from the sun-weathered skin of her forehead. “What sort of ritual do you have in mind?”
“Something for positive energy.” Less demanding than a ritual for silence; I never felt right making demands while using magic.
“Ah,” she said, tapping a finger against her lips. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She disappeared behind her beaded curtain while I admired a few antiques on a shelf near the counter. A small violin charm made me smile. I set the charm beside the cash register. It would be a perfect addition to the bracelet Grandfather Dunne had given me shortly before he died. He’d even removed several links so it wouldn’t slip from my wrist.
Paloma returned with four plum-colored herbal pouches strung shut with thin black cords. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’re out of agrimony. I’ve substituted with eyebright.”
“I thought agrimony was best for banishing negative energy?”
“The eyebright will bring balance. My mother used this for a similar ritual in Belém when I was young. In Brazil, we grew agrimony in our garden. The sweet apricot scent is lovely.”
I bit my lip. Eyebright was not part of the plan, and I hadn’t come all this way for air freshener. Mental clarity might help, but it generally wasn’t suggested to rush into a ritual. That included changing details at the last minute. One herb could change everything, and I didn’t have time to redo all my research.
But I needed the noise gone—yesterday.
“Have I ever steered you wrong?” she pressed.
She had a point.
“One more thing,” she said, retrieving a large book from under her counter and handing it to me. “A gift. For you.”
The leather binding displayed a labyrinth of leafy spirals and branches of laurel. A handwritten cover page read Maltorim Records, Volume XXVI, Salem Witches.
“Are you sure?” I asked. Gifts always made me feel as though I needed to do something nice in return, and I could never figure out what. “It looks…valuable?”
“You mean it looks old? That’s why I’m giving it to you.”
“You’re giving it to me because it’s old?”
She waved me off. “You know what I mean. You study those ancient texts and all, don’t you?”
“Paleography,” I said, surprised she remembered the special interest I’d had in college. If the book was handwritten, I’d certainly enjoy analyzing the text.
“I’ve no use for it,” she continued. “In some people’s hands, that book would end up as a gag gift and eventually a door stop in some old man’s house with too many cats and too many back copies of newspapers, not to mention that one woman who used to come here to buy books just to burn them.”
“You mean Mrs. Franklin?” I asked, only half-joking.
“I’m rambling again, aren’t I?” She let out a brief sigh and gestured toward the book. “Consider it an early birthday present.”
Early was an understatement. The start of September was a far cry from December 21st.
“Thank you, really.” I pulled some crumpled bills and a few Tic-Tac-sized balls of lint from my pocket.