Conjure by Lea Nolan Page A

is more complicated than I thought. “But I didn’t do that purification thing. Will that ruin the spell?”
    “No, I’m working the charm. You’re just assisting. Besides, I’ve got a little something to help cheat when time’s short. Give me your hands.”
    I extend my fingers toward her on the countertop. She flips them over so my palms face up and reaches for a small green bottle then works to unscrew the top, but it doesn’t budge. Without a word, I gently take it from her hands and push down hard, twisting to the left, and open it. With a grateful smile, she lifts it from my hand and drips oil on my wrists. She rubs it in, releasing its citrus scent, and dabs a bit of the residue behind my ears and down my neck.
    “Hmm, what is this?” I can almost taste the lemon, butter, and grassy notes that swirl around my head. I know I’ve smelled it before, I just can’t remember where.
    “It’s citronella, one of the basic cleansing essential oils. We use it to repel evil.”
    That’s it. The patio candles at Cooper’s house. So now not only will I be free of evil spirits, but I shouldn’t have to worry about mosquitoes, either. Bonus!
    She reaches for a small white ceramic pot with a top that’s sort of like a sugar bowl. “This is a pot de tête ,” she says in a French accent. If my ninth grade translation skills are correct, it means “head pot.” Thankfully it’s not big enough to literally hold my head. Not that I think Miss Delia’s into that sort of magic. “Every apprentice gets one when they’re initiated. I’ll keep it here for as long as I need your assistance. When our work is finished, you’ll get it back.” She grabs a pair of scissors by the sharp end and points the handle toward me. “Snip off some of your hair and put it in.”
    Ah, so that’s why it’s called a head pot. I stare at the scissors, unsure of what to do. It’s not that I’m vain, but my hair is probably the nicest thing about me. “Um, how much do you want?” I twist a long strawberry-blonde strand around my finger.
    “Not much, but enough to know it’s yours.” She must sense my hesitation because she arches her brow. “Child, you’ve got plenty enough that no one’s going to notice. Cut it.”
    I reach back to the nape of my neck and separate a small section. Draping it over my shoulder, I snip off a piece about ten inches long and drop it into the pot.
    Miss Delia nods. “Now clip your fingernails and add them. too.”
    That’s easier to do. My nails are usually on the short side, anyway, since they get pretty filthy from my charcoals and pastels. I snip the few nails long enough to peek over my fingertips right into the ceramic pot.
    Miss Delia places the lid on top then removes a long, multicolored beaded necklace from around her neck and wraps it around the jar, several times, crisscrossing the strand. “Now you’re under my protection.” She grasps another, much shorter beaded strand from the counter and holds it out to me. “And this here’s your necklace. It’s a collier , and shows you’ve been initiated into my house.”
    The tiny beads are grouped together in blocks without an obvious pattern. Although the colors might ordinarily clash, there’s something powerful in its simplicity. I slip it over my head. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. Are these your colors?”
    “The order is mine. But the colors, and even the number of beads, represent the powers we need to work hoodoo. You see these red and white beads? They’ll give you the power of spoken word and prayer. And these clear and white beads? They’re for seeing spirits.”
    Seriously? What kind of a charm are we working here? Do we have to see spirits to break this curse? Anxious to push the possibility out of my mind, I spin the necklace around to the block of purple, white, and black beads. “And what about these?”
    “They’re for communicating with the dead.”
    I gulp. That’s so much worse. “Let’s hope we don’t