‘She’s a polecat, actually,’ Hecate said.
‘Gale does not like hearing about nonbelievers and con artists. The rodent’s red eyes glared at her balefully, like tiny coals. Under other circumstances, a weasel passing gas might have been funny, but Hazel didn’t laugh. Then it made a squeaking sound from its back end. The weasel chittered and bared its teeth. Is a knife evil? Only if the wielder is evil.’ ‘Many fear me,’ Hecate said, as if reading her thoughts. If the nuns were scared of my mom, Hazel wondered, what would they make of this goddess? The nuns had muttered that Hazel’s mother was trading with the Devil.
Lifetime in New Orleans, Hazel had been tormented by the kids at St Agnes School because of her mother.
Those pure black eyes seemed to pull at Hazel, as if trying to extract her soul. ‘You are like your mother,’ Hecate decided. The black dog and the weasel followed in her wake. Hecate fixed her torches in them, then walked a slow circle around Hazel, regarding her as if they were partners in some eerie dance. On either side of the crossroads, two dark metal torch-stands erupted from the dirt like plant stalks. H AZEL WANTED TO RUN, but her feet seemed to be stuck to the white-glazed ground. We have much to discuss if you’re to live through tonight.’
