“On my forehead?” I said in alarm.

“Hold still,” he reprimanded me, which I thought was a bit unfair under the circumstances. Kind of like when the dental hygienist asks you a question, then sticks an instrument in your mouth. “No, it doesn’t have to be on your forehead, Miss Daisy. Protection spells work a lot better if you employ them before you’re the victim of a magical attack.”

I squinted at his blurred face. “Cooper said she had a ward. A powerful one. Is that like a protection spell?”

“Mm-hmm.” Having drawn what felt like a couple of circles and a series of straight lines, Casimir began drawing smaller, squigglier bits. “Who’s Cooper?”

“A ghoul,” I said. “He wouldn’t touch her.”

“Really.” Casimir’s hand went still. “That would be a powerful ward,” he mused, more to himself than me.

“I think it was a cowry shell.”

He resumed his squiggly drawing. “Cowry shells have a long, rich history of occult association.”

Too much talking. The pain in my head protested by rising to a fresh crescendo. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking refuge in the darkness. I couldn’t let myself rest there, though. “Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“Would a powerful ward protect dear Emmy from a physical ass-kicking?”

“Not in the slightest,” he assured me.

“Good.”

“All right, my dear.” There were bustling sounds as Casimir fussed with his implements. “I’m going to invoke the spell. Try to keep your eyes open.”

I cracked my eyelids and peered at his vague double image as he took up the black-handled athamé blade.

“Bound be all powers of adversity from the north, south, east, and west,” Casimir chanted, touching the blade lightly around me. “Bound be all ill-wishers and those who practice violence against the bearer of my seal! Bound and sealed by my hand and name shall be all who to seek to harm Daisy Johanssen.” He pressed the tip of the athamé against the center of the seal etched onto my brow. “By my will, so mote it be!”

Light flared around me.

For a brief, blessed instant, the pain simply vanished. It went away as though it had never been, and I could have wept with gratitude for the absence I’d taken for granted all of my healthy life. My vision cleared. The Fabulous Casimir’s face sprang into sharp focus. He was wearing a bouffant wig today, looking like a 1950s housewife. I could see the pores of his skin beneath a thick layer of makeup, his shrewd, concerned eyes studying me behind the long false lashes he wore.

And then the seal on my forehead contracted with a sizzling sound, drawing my skin tight. I doubled over in agony as the pain came thudding back—the spike between my eyes, the jackhammer in my jaw.

Through blurred eyes, I saw bits of dried ink sift to the floor like rusty snowflakes.

“Well,” Casimir said, “that didn’t work.”

Sixteen