“That’s the reason for Madame Blue’s House of Voodoo,” the Caster Archivist said in a theatrical voice. “It gives me plenty of time to sell love potions and good-luck charms to Mortals who don’t know the difference between the voodoo religion and Velveeta cheese, while still monitoring the disruptions in our worlds.”
“What kind of disruptions?” Liv asked.
“It’s a dangerous time. We’ve got Sheers crossing over from the Otherworld in record numbers, Darkborns who are immune to Caster powers.” She glanced at Sam.
Liv looked shocked. “I had no idea things were this bad.”
Magnolia Blue sighed. “It gets worse. You said you were looking for Ravenwood Oaks, Abraham’s old plantation?”
“Yeah. We need to find it.” Link tried not to sound too eager.
“You might want to rethink those plans. I got a little visitor from there this morning. Looks like Silas moved on from dissecting frogs and pulling the wings off butterflies.”
“He moved on from that a long time ago,” John muttered under his breath.
“What are you talking about?” Link tried not to panic.
“Apparently, Silas is injecting Casters with new powers, and it’s changing the nature of their abilities. Among other things.”
Liv’s eyes widened. “That’s not possible.”
A woman who didn’t look much older than Link’s cousin Louise—who got knocked up at twenty-five, right before her wedding last year—stepped out from behind a bookcase.
Link’s first thought was Third Degree Burns, but a second later, he felt a little guilty for thinking it. The mystery woman wasn’t as hot as Rid, but she’d definitely given a few guys whiplash. From the red waves framing her toffee-colored skin to the black leather pants she wore tucked into knee-high lace-up boots, and the tangle of necklaces hanging over her ripped T-shirt, everything about this woman screamed trouble—that and the golden Dark Caster eyes staring back at them.
Necro and Floyd gave her the once-over as Liv eyed her suspiciously.
“I find it hard to believe that Silas found a way to inject you with a foreign Caster power,” Liv said. “Unless you wanted him to.”
The redhead waved Liv off with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t care what you believe, Mortal. What I can tell you is that you’re standing on what used to be a Civil War burying ground.” The woman turned in a slow circle, taking in the room around her. “One the Confederates never bothered to move. The building was a house of ill repute after that—and, from the looks of it, a popular one.”
Link frowned, his eyes darting around the room. As far as he could tell, this place was still a cross between a library and a creepy apothecary.
Floyd crossed her arms. “So you’re a Palimpsest? That doesn’t prove anything.”
“I used to be. Now I’m that and much more.” The redhead smiled at Floyd, and at Liv and Necro, who looked equally skeptical. “I’m sensing you girls want proof. If you insist.”
The mysterious Caster blew Link a kiss, and the front of his Led Zeppelin T-shirt caught fire.
The fire burned through his shirt, and he winced, patting down the tiny flames. He pulled at a charred hole in the fabric. “Come on. This was vintage Zeppelin, from the seventies.”
But Link was worried about more than his shirt, even if he didn’t want the redheaded firestarter to know it. He’d only seen one other Caster do anything like that before.
Sarafine Duchannes—Ridley’s Dark Cataclyst aunt.
The Cataclyst flexed her fingers the way Link had seen Sarafine Duchannes do a dozen times. “I couldn’t resist.”
“So Silas Ravenwood is somehow combining Caster powers. Interesting.” Liv took out her journal without missing a beat. “Do you know how he’s doing it? And extracting the other powers, while keeping them stable? Has he tried this on anyone else?”
“Slow down.” John rested a hand on Liv’s arm. “Give her a minute.” He turned to the Cataclyst—or half-Cataclyst; Link wasn’t too sure about the terminology in a situation like this. “Why don’t we start with your name? I’m John, and this is Liv, Link, Floyd, Necro, and Sampson.” He pointed at each of them.
The redhead flexed her fingers, as if she was still getting used to what they could do. “Angelique St. Vincent. My friends call me Gigi. But you can call me Angelique.”
Link sighed.
Another Cataclyst with an attitude. Just what we need.
Angelique turned to Liv. “And to answer your questions: I have no idea how Silas is extracting the powers, but I do know that I’m not the first Caster he injected.”
“How can you be so sure?” Necro asked.
Angelique extended her forearm toward them so they could see the tattoo on her skin: PATIENT 12. “After the kind of hangover I had, I’d hate to meet the first eleven.”
Liv shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like.”
Angelique shrugged and let her arm drop, along with her attitude. “He put me through worse. At least I was sedated during the injections.”
“What else did he do to you?” Sampson studied the Cataclyst, sizing her up in a way Link didn’t completely understand.
Angelique toyed with the chains around her neck. “He kept me locked up in a cell with the rest of the women in his little Menagerie—that’s what the sick bastard called us. He left us caged like dogs until a Dark Caster or Darkborn”—she stared at Sampson when she said the word—“rented us out for the night to do their dirty work. I got off easier than most of the girls. Not many people want to pay for the services of a Palimpsest. My friend Lucia was an Empath. Silas’ guys were always dragging her out in the middle of the night for jobs.” Her face clouded over for a moment.