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Authors: Jacqueline Carey
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sending a confirmation, I swung by the Sisters of Selene, Pemkowet’s local occult store, to pick the Fabulous Casimir’s brain.
Technically, I guess Casimir is a drag queen, although his cross-dressing has to do with the shamanic tradition, too. Either way, he cuts an imposing figure. He’s over six feet tall without the wig, and the towering Marie Antoinette number he was sporting today put him closer to seven.
He caught my eye as I entered. I waited patiently while he finished ringing up a purchase and the store emptied for a moment.
“Hey, Miss Daisy.” Casimir fussed with a display of charmed crystals that the last batch of tourists had disturbed. “Whatever went down at Rainbow’s End last night, I hope you know none of my people were involved.” He gave a little shiver. “From what I heard, that was no love spell.”
“No, I know,” I said. “It was a satyr.”
“A satyr ?”
“A satyr in rut,” I clarified. “Any thoughts?”
Casimir’s lips pursed. “I deal in magic, not mythological beasties.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about obeah? That’s a kind of magic, right? Do you know anything about it?”
His long-fingered hands went still. “Not really, dahling , no. It’s a little outside my geographic purview.” Beneath heavy makeup and false eyelashes, his eyes were shrewd. “Mind if I ask why ? Because I don’t think that had anything to do with the shenanigans at the club last night.”
I shrugged. Sinclair hadn’t given me permission to discuss it, so it was best to honor the eldritch code.
“Never mind.” Casimir tapped his carmine lips with one fingertip. “I can guess. Is it causing . . . problems?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, girl. There’s a time and a place for gathering knowledge, and it ain’t necessarily during the early days of a young romance. Romance is fragile, Miss Daisy.” He shook his finger at me. “If you want my advice, don’t go looking for trouble or you might just find it.”
“I’m not!” I protested.
The door chimes rang as another group of tourists entered the store, and the Fabulous Casimir turned his fabulous attention toward them. Checking the time on my phone, I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Leary before lunch.
“Daisy!” Casimir called after me.
I paused in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean to put you off, honey.” Beneath the mask of white makeup and strategically placed beauty marks, the expression on his face was serious. “If your young man finds himself in trouble, I’m sure we can figure out a way to help him.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Cas. No one’s in trouble. You’re right—I’m just being nosy.”
He made a shooing gesture. “Then go on—get out of here!”
I drove across the bridge from Pemkowet to East Pemkowet, a distinction that many find confusing for good reason, since the communities are intertwined. In terms of tourism, they’re joined at the hip. In terms of governance, they are actually two separate entities, and there’s a little bit of rivalry on the local level, too. I have fond memories of taking part in the annual Easties vs. Townies battle that goes down every Halloween night, complete with water balloons and eggs.
Once upon a time, East Pemkowet was a little more down-to-earth and homespun than its sister-city across the bridge, but in the past ten years, it had become a haven for upscale dining and boutique shopping. Driving down Main Street, I couldn’t help but notice the improvements, which included some pretty ambitious street- and landscaping. Well, except for Boo Radley’s house.
That’s what we called it in high school, anyway. I don’t know what it was called before To Kill a Mockingbird came out. It was the oldest house on Main Street, a rambling Tudor Revival with crumbling white stucco and dark exterior woodwork, the kind that looked like it was integral to the structure, not just a veneer.
According to
Technically, I guess Casimir is a drag queen, although his cross-dressing has to do with the shamanic tradition, too. Either way, he cuts an imposing figure. He’s over six feet tall without the wig, and the towering Marie Antoinette number he was sporting today put him closer to seven.
He caught my eye as I entered. I waited patiently while he finished ringing up a purchase and the store emptied for a moment.
“Hey, Miss Daisy.” Casimir fussed with a display of charmed crystals that the last batch of tourists had disturbed. “Whatever went down at Rainbow’s End last night, I hope you know none of my people were involved.” He gave a little shiver. “From what I heard, that was no love spell.”
“No, I know,” I said. “It was a satyr.”
“A satyr ?”
“A satyr in rut,” I clarified. “Any thoughts?”
Casimir’s lips pursed. “I deal in magic, not mythological beasties.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about obeah? That’s a kind of magic, right? Do you know anything about it?”
His long-fingered hands went still. “Not really, dahling , no. It’s a little outside my geographic purview.” Beneath heavy makeup and false eyelashes, his eyes were shrewd. “Mind if I ask why ? Because I don’t think that had anything to do with the shenanigans at the club last night.”
I shrugged. Sinclair hadn’t given me permission to discuss it, so it was best to honor the eldritch code.
“Never mind.” Casimir tapped his carmine lips with one fingertip. “I can guess. Is it causing . . . problems?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, girl. There’s a time and a place for gathering knowledge, and it ain’t necessarily during the early days of a young romance. Romance is fragile, Miss Daisy.” He shook his finger at me. “If you want my advice, don’t go looking for trouble or you might just find it.”
“I’m not!” I protested.
The door chimes rang as another group of tourists entered the store, and the Fabulous Casimir turned his fabulous attention toward them. Checking the time on my phone, I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Leary before lunch.
“Daisy!” Casimir called after me.
I paused in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean to put you off, honey.” Beneath the mask of white makeup and strategically placed beauty marks, the expression on his face was serious. “If your young man finds himself in trouble, I’m sure we can figure out a way to help him.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Cas. No one’s in trouble. You’re right—I’m just being nosy.”
He made a shooing gesture. “Then go on—get out of here!”
I drove across the bridge from Pemkowet to East Pemkowet, a distinction that many find confusing for good reason, since the communities are intertwined. In terms of tourism, they’re joined at the hip. In terms of governance, they are actually two separate entities, and there’s a little bit of rivalry on the local level, too. I have fond memories of taking part in the annual Easties vs. Townies battle that goes down every Halloween night, complete with water balloons and eggs.
Once upon a time, East Pemkowet was a little more down-to-earth and homespun than its sister-city across the bridge, but in the past ten years, it had become a haven for upscale dining and boutique shopping. Driving down Main Street, I couldn’t help but notice the improvements, which included some pretty ambitious street- and landscaping. Well, except for Boo Radley’s house.
That’s what we called it in high school, anyway. I don’t know what it was called before To Kill a Mockingbird came out. It was the oldest house on Main Street, a rambling Tudor Revival with crumbling white stucco and dark exterior woodwork, the kind that looked like it was integral to the structure, not just a veneer.
According to
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