She went out for some air, seeing night had fallen. The stars gleamed, storm clouds whisked away by a steady sea breeze. Mirrors of Manasa. Okay, she had that, but what else did she have? Her cameo gave her some signal, some warning about them, but no vision. Tangled information about the snake goddess didn’t amount to anything in this case. Supposedly, the goddess Manasa Devi was worshiped without image, which explained the mirror, the negative surface. But how was it linked to death by a stroke, by falling off a cliff, and by hanging?
There was a man in town who might have more information. Grace folded her arms. Did she really want to see him again? Resigned, she walked down Antiques Alley. Did she really have a choice?
L’art de L’occulte sat at the terminus of a dead end street off the Alley. The small Queen Anne Victorian was painted black, trimmed with red. Warm light flickered in the windows. Grace considered the shop more of a tourist trap than anything else. It was everything you wanted from Salem, but never got. On the other hand, she had always suspected the proprietor of being a dealer in stolen antiquities. On several occasions, she had assessed pieces for insurance purchased from the shop. Paperwork authenticating the provenance seemed forged, even if it checked out.
In the case of the mirrors, they were most likely stolen anyway, even if the crime occurred nearly three hundred years ago. She walked up the porch. The sign over the door indicated the shop was open between sunset and sunrise. Cute.
Grace entered L’art de L’occulte. The place was lit by hanging lanterns and candles. Despite the ambiance, open flames and antiques never mixed. Several tourists hovered in the aisles, whispering. There were many shelves of books; jars of typical spell ingredients including graveyard dirt, bat wings, and bones; a spinning rack of hoodoo products; baskets of crystals—the usual mumbo-jumbo of a mystical shop.
But Grace’s trained eye spotted some legitimate antiques in locked cases. A hand of glory was on display, a hanged man’s severed hand holding a candle; a golden boy, or kuman thong—the gilt-wrapped mummy of a child said to protect a home from evil spirits; a binding tablet, essentially a slab of lead with a spell written on it that was to be submerged in a body of water to activate the curse; burial shrouds, voodoo poppets, human skulls, sacrificial blades, papyrus scrolls. It was the whole host of black market black magic.
“Grace Longstreet—how lovely to see you.”
She jumped, her skin breaking into goose flesh at the low, liquid voice. Slowly, Grace faced him. He stood well over six feet, his head shaved, his long goatee black streaked with red. A Mephistophelian nose anchored strong features, violet eyes twinkling beneath heavy brows. “Jack Stoughton. We meet again.”
“I see your interest in my golden boy. It’s hard to imagine that you need more spiritual protection than that cameo.” He eyed the jewelry on her neck. Or maybe he was discreetly ogling her?
His eyes met hers again. “Actually, I was hoping for some information.”
“You? A Longstreet, and an archaeologist as well, looking for information from me? Well, it must be something evil.” His face broke into a smile, lines creasing around his hooded eyes, dimples forming. He transformed from a looming vampire into a very attractive man. The effect was disconcerting. “Let’s go back in my office.”
He touched her shoulder to guide her, his fingers cool. Grace had second thoughts as they moved through a door to a storage area. His office, though, looked a lot like the back of her own shop. Workbench, shelves of ancient, bound ledgers and books, full spectrum lamps, cleaning tools, all of these were familiar to her, putting her at ease. Jack nodded to a stool on one side of the bench. Something in the middle was covered with a cloth, and he adjusted it so that she couldn’t see.
“I must admit I’m intrigued. What brings you to my humble shop, Grace?”
For a moment, she almost bolted. Already jumpy, his little shop of horrors, this little island of familiarity, his closeness made her pulse race. Grace steeled herself and took a breath. “Have you ever heard of Mirrors of Manasa?”
He put his elbows on the workbench, folded his hands and rested his mouth against them. Violet eyes gleamed, though he tried to dampen his interest. “Actual intact mirrors? A pair? Outside of a museum, no.”
“So you don’t know anything about them?”
Jack might have smiled behind his hands. “That’s not what I said. Do you have access to such artifacts? I have many clients who would be interested.”
“Legitimate clients?”
One shoulder shrugged. “They pay me legitimate money.”
“Maybe I should go—”
“How about this,” his voice stopped her. “I’ll tell you what I know about the mirrors. You give the owners of the artifacts my card. Rare objects like Manasa mirrors, even individually, are worth a great deal. Especially to the right buyer. Joining the two is my forte.”
“No guarantees they’ll sell, no pitch from me, just a card.”
“In an envelope. With an opening offer.”
Well, what could that hurt? “Okay, deal.”
He unfolded his hands and stuck out his right. “Deal,” he said. Grace shook.
Chapter 19
“The mirrors date back nearly to prehistoric northern India,” Stoughton lectured. “They are not a part of Manasa Devi worship, as they predate the Hindu religion. Ceremonial mirrors, probably placed to produce infinite regression within a temple, are the paraphernalia of a much older deity—Nag Manasa Nityā.”
Grace interrupted. “Most of my schooling didn’t include obscure Indian gods.”
“Sorry, I do tend to go on. The traditional story of Manasa is that she is an outsider, luring people into worship so that she may become part of the Indian pantheon. Historically, she is a goddess outside the Hindu religion, included for the sake of unification. Originally, Nag Manasa Nityā is the mother of the Naga.”
“The mother of snakes.” Grace recognized the word.
“No, not snakes. Nāgá is the Sanskrit word for snake. Naga are semi-deities, beings that are half human, half-snake in form. They are considered guardians by many cultures, from ancient Cambodia and Laos to Malaysia and Indonesia.” Stoughton turned and retrieved a heavy volume from the shelf behind him. When he set it on the workbench before him, it opened. Without paging through, he turned the book so she could see.
“The Manasa Devi of Hindu tradition was associated with the cobra. But Nag Manasa Nityā originated in the northern part of the subcontinent. They associated her with the python.”
Grace shuddered at a woodcut image of a half-snake, half woman, the lower half of her coiled beneath her, her mouth wide and filled with sharp teeth.
“Those ancient people built secret temples to worship her, and devised sacred objects in her name. To my knowledge, only a single Mirror of Manasa exists, in the Indian Museum at Kolcata. Worshipers of Nag Manasa Nityā kept their religion secret, from the Hindus at first, but especially from the British colonial authorities. The British, as you know, have discriminated against snake worshipers since the days of St. Patrick.”
“But what do the mirrors do? What are they for? I’ve never heard of a pair of mirrors in religious practice.”
Jack pursed his lips. “A few Manasa temples still exist, but they are of the period after Nag Manasa Nityā sects were absorbed into what we think of as Classical Hinduism. Still, the layout is suggestive. The main chamber in the temples are very long and very narrow, the sanctum accessed from hidden doors in the middle of this aisle. This is just a theory, but I can imagine the original temples having a mirror at the each of the ends. Infinite regression is a signature of snake worship, like ouroboros, the infinite, a snake devouring its tail.”
Grace nearly jumped, remembering the amulet on the floor under Tibby’s body. “I’m not sure if any of this is helpful.”
Closing the book, Jack tilted his head thoughtfully. “Something to consider is that while Naga are considered protectors, as snakes, they are also very dangerous to huma
ns.” He took a business card from a holder and a small envelope. After scribbling something on the back of the card, he sealed it and pushed it over to her. “Given the recent tragedies in the Myerscough family, they may be open to my offer.”
“I never said anything about the Myerscough family.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s a small town, antiquarians a smaller community.”
Grace supposed it was no secret she was working for the family. She had to confess. “I’ve only seen one mirror, Jack.”
“One is highly valuable, two, in good condition, would be priceless.”
Fleetingly, she thought of the entry in the journal. No price had been placed on the objects. “If the mirrors were stolen—”
“I don’t ever deal in stolen goods—”
“Hear me out. If, three hundred years ago, European traders looted a temple, would the Naga, as guardians, have an issue with that?”
“If you had evidence of this supposed looting, it would only lend to the provenance of the artifacts. But, yes, I can see the guardians of a temple getting pissed off that their sacred objects were looted. Wouldn’t you be?”
She supposed she would. But really, angry temple guardians striking out, murdering people? Why now, after three hundred years?
Grace had seen some strange things in her career. A beautiful ring with a perfect natural ruby that turned a kind and rational woman into a violent raving lunatic was currently locked away in a drawer of her workbench. A Royal Mail flintlock blunderbuss, a precursor of the shotgun, that absorbed the memories of every highwayman it killed and transferred those thoughts to anyone wielding the weapon now resided in the locked bottom drawer of her filing cabinet.
“I’m familiar with strange objects,” Grace said, “But a pair of mirrors?”
“Haunted mirrors are common. Just last week, I sold one that contained the spirit of a little girl to a collector in Florida.”
“You did—what?”
Jack raised his brows with a nod. “It’s my bread and butter. Your mirrors, on the other hand, I have no idea about. Except an offer.” He shoved the envelope closer.
After a moment’s hesitation, Grace put her fingers on the envelope. Maybe this was a simple solution. If the Myerscoughs were cursed by these mirrors, maybe selling them would solve the problem. If the new owners didn’t befall the same tragedies, that was.
Stoughton seemed to read her mind. “Any collector would fully understand the care of such artifacts—and the dangers.”
With a nod, she put the offer in her pocket. “Okay. Thanks, Jack.”
“Thank you, Grace.” He stood and led her back into the strange shop. “Oh, and by the way, should you ever wish to make a visit involving something other than business, I would be completely open to that.”
She squinted at his strangely handsome face. Was Jack Stoughton hitting on her? Grace had no response.
Chapter 20
Tourists still mingled in the shop although it was nearly two a.m. The candlelit inventory of the grotesque, evil and bizarre loomed, seeming to move within shadowy pools. Muted voices, nervous giggles, and whispers filled the space. Grace hurried her pace to the front door until a white-faced woman jumped in front of her.
“Wow, you know all the hot guys in town.”
Grace nearly jumped out of her skin. She put a hand over her racing heart. “Holy crap, Paisley, what the hell are you doing here? I nearly peed myself.”
“I’m practicing my stakeout and shadowing skills—they’re vital tools for an investigator. You never even saw me, did you?”
“You’re following me?”
“Well, duh.” She gave Grace a face. Then it brightened. “Do you actually know Jack Stoughton personally? He’s a direct descendant from a Salem Witch Trial judge, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, we’ve been acquainted for a while. We’re sort of in the same business.”
“Is he single? Naw, a hottie like that? He’s totally do-able.”
“If you’re into evil, I guess.”
She got an are-you-serious face from Paisley.
Grace smirked. “Pretty sure he’s single.”
“Oh wow, is that a real kuman thong?” Paisley hurried over to the case, staring at the mummified horror within. “This can’t be legal, can it? You know what this is?”
“Yeah. It can’t be a real human mummy.”
With an assessing frown, Paisley stepped away. “Sure looks real. I wouldn’t want one in my house.”
“That’s hard to believe.” Grace headed for the door again.
“Really? You know what happens if you don’t give those things Oreos and strawberry Fanta every day? Poltergeist City, baby.”
Grace had had enough of the creepy shop. She pushed her way outside and across the porch. Humidity hung in the air, the breeze gone. Still, she felt she could breathe easier than she could in L’art de L’occulte.
“That place is so awesome.” Paisley clunked down the steps behind her. “I’ll have to visit in the daytime.”
Grace found her car and leaned on it. “It isn’t open in the daytime.”
Grinning from ear to ear, Paisley rubbed her hands together. “That just makes it so much awesomer.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here. Do you know anything about snakes, Paize?”
The Goth’s head tilted a question, but she didn’t ask it. “In fact, I do. I own an albino ball python. She’s a beautiful lemon yellow color. Very affectionate. I think she’d like you.”
Grace suppressed a shudder. “Of course you have a pet snake.”
“Most people don’t know this, but constrictor snakes like Patricia don’t actually strangle their prey.”
“Of course they do. I’ve seen it in movies.”
Paisley shook her head. “No, they don’t—and this is really cool. What happens is, they constrict so hard that the blow flow in their prey comes to a complete stop. Isn’t that wicked?”
For a moment, Grace thought she might toss her cookies. But the flash of an idea came to her. “Is that constriction, the blood flow stopping, consistent with Ischemia?”
Paisley thrust out her lower lip in thought. After a moment, she fished in her pack for the iPad. After a few moments’ scrolling, her face brightened. “It is, in fact, the very definition of Ischemia”
Grace took a deep breath.
Lowering the tablet, Paisley scrutinized her suspiciously. “You think a snake killed Prudence Myerscough?”
“I don’t know what I—”
The Goth practically hopped up and down with excitement. “The track on the transom, on the wall of the cottage—holy crap, yes, it did look like a snake track. But…”
“But what?”
Paisley tucked the iPad away again. “How do you train a snake to kill someone? I mean, I can’t train Patricia to do anything. I’m lucky if I can get her to eat at all. She’s kinda petulant.”
“I haven’t completely thought this through yet,” Grace admitted. Although a trained snake wasn’t anywhere in her thoughts. “I’m too exhausted to think anymore. I’ll see you whenever.”
“Oh, well, I have to be honest here. The thing is, when you dropped me off, I went into Judy’s for another cat poop coffee. Judy’s pretty interesting, and we got to talking. The thing is, I was in there so long, that I didn’t notice it had gotten dark out.”
“Okay?”
“The thing is—”
“Just say what you need, Paize.”
“Since it’s dark out, I kinda need a ride home.”
Was Paisley afraid of the dark? “There’s a light on your Vespa, right?
“Yeah. The thing—I mean, yes, there’s a light. But I still don’t think I can get across the Essex Bridge.”
“Oh, right. It’s one of the rational things you’re afraid of. But you’ve been following me around every day. How do you usually get across the bridge?”
Folding her arms and frowning, Paisley said, “Usually, I close my eyes an
d gun it.”
“That’s Route 1A.”
Paisley made a weary face. “It’s only a half mile long.”
“I thought you were only afraid of rational things.”
“You know how many times they replaced that bridge?”
Grace was pretty sure it was every century and a half or so.
Paisley gazed at the black house behind them. “This is wicked embarrassing. I’ve been trying to act professional this whole time. But bus drivers are usually too scared of me to let me on board, especially at night, and you can’t sleep in your car when you car’s a scooter.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Paisley let out a long breath.
Chapter 21
They walked back to the Prius parked outside the shop, drove south to Beverly Harbor and across the span now known as Veteran's Memorial Bridge. It was fairly innocuous, low to the water, the surface in good repair. Still, Grace noticed Paisley shut her eyes tight and held her breath. In thirty seconds, they were in Salem.
When the sound of the tires on the road changed, Paisley opened her eyes. “You know where Aunt Vickie lives?”
“Yep.” Grace made the left onto Bridge Street. “So what were you and Judy talking so long about anyway?”
“Oh.”
They purred down the Salem Neck into the town proper. “Spill it, Paize.”
“We were talking about you.”
“That seems impolite.”
“She told me what happened. How you found your mother’s body when you were in high school. How your father disappeared six months before that. The thing is, I get it. I understand. You don’t want to talk about it.”
For a moment, Grace wanted to be furious. Another emotion crowded it out. She remembered Paisley’s reaction when she asked what her brother did for a living. She walked off the beach and drove off without a word. “Because of your brother?”
Paisley held up a hand. “Let me just say that on the tragedy scale, you might think I’m a few degrees lower because you found your mother’s body, and I didn’t find Will’s. However, I think the playing field is leveled since I was already an orphan at the time. But I get it. Sometimes, it just creeps back into your head, messes you up. Talk to all the shrinks you want, but you have to deal with it yourself.”
The Sinister Secrets of the Snake Mirror Page 7
