Cast a Lover's Spell

by Claire Thompson

  ~*~

  “Anah rrrrathra. Anah hebuk. Woiyek, woiyek, wigafey, Anah rrrrathra. Anah hebuk. Woiyek, woiyek, wigafey.” Anne sat on a bench at the park, focused intently on a pigeon pecking near her feet. She had been trying to immobilize the bird for several minutes, to no avail. She was about to give up, promising herself only one more try when the pigeon for some reason looked up at her. She caught its eye just as she spoke the strange, magical words. The bird stiffened, frozen in place by her spell.

  “Oh my God,” Anne said aloud. A woman nearby turned to look at her. Anne smiled and ducked her head, waving her hand as if to say, excuse me, please ignore me. The woman looked away. She hadn’t noticed the perfect replica of a pigeon at Anne’s feet. The other pigeons seemed unconcerned as well, brushing against the frozen little fowl as they swiped the crumbs nearby.

  “I guess the trick is to look the subject in the eye,” Anne said to herself. “At least I’ve had one success today.” For Anne had tried her hand at the truth powder, carefully measuring and heating the ingredients, following the directions to the letter. The mixture had boiled down to a thick paste that she’d left to dry for a few hours. When she returned to examine it, it had dried to a powder but it was a bright purple rather than the pale lavender Paul had said was essential.

  Paul… Since he had left two days before, Anne had done little but think of him. She’d tried to busy herself, cleaning her apartment from top to bottom, practicing her immobility spell, mixing the ingredients for the truth powder, going to the market to look for some of the more common ingredients, like ginger root and oil of orange.

  Paul had remained in her thoughts, in her heart, lingering just below the surface. He had left a T-shirt in her bedroom of soft dark gray cotton he had worn the day before he’d left for France. When she’d found it, inadvertently kicked under the bed, she couldn’t contain the cry of pleasure as she brought it to her face, inhaling his lingering scent as she rubbed the soft fabric along her cheek. Paul. Why did I send you away? I want you now. I do. I miss you.

  On the third day, Anne went into her study. She began to examine the canvases Paul had claimed to admire. Was it time to paint again? It had been several years since she’d lifted a brush to the canvas, drawing that first defining line of color along the pristine white canvas.

  The idea of painting again. It was almost like doing something forbidden—a luxury in which she had no right to indulge. Painting was a frivolity, a pastime for wealthy idle girls with no real talent. Paul had tried to get her to talk more about her reluctance to paint, but she herself hadn’t been entirely clear. He’d suggested gently she no longer needed to carry her father’s misguided, outdated messages in her brain. If she chose to paint, it was her business and hers alone. She was a grown woman who certainly had the time now to “indulge in this idle pastime” if that was how she insisted on thinking of it. With Greg’s insurance money and her own substantial savings, Anne didn’t need to work again as long as she managed her money wisely going forward. She had literally all the time in the world to paint, if that was what she wanted to do.

  She realized a part of her was afraid—what if whatever talent she’d once possessed had disappeared? Paul knew so much about art—he would see her pathetic efforts and it would diminish her in his eyes. “Stop it,” she said aloud. “An artist doesn’t paint for someone else. If you want to paint, paint for heaven’s sake.”

  She wasn’t even sure where her easel was, though she realized it was probably at the back of the closet in the study. She recalled she still had several blank canvases and a large box of tubes of paint. Half of them were partially used, most of them probably dried up and worthless. She would buy more paints tomorrow, she decided, feeling positively bold.

  Anne picked up the red lacquer box from the desk. Paul had given it to her the night before he’d gone. Inside was a beautiful set of handmade Russian sable brushes, each one nestled in its own groove, the smooth wooden handles fairly begging to held, the brushes longing to be dipped in color. Anne lifted one of them from the case, drawing the soft sable tip along her cheek. She would do it. Now twelve years older than when she’d first begun the exercise, though not necessarily any wiser, she would again attempt a self-portrait. This time she would hold nothing back—painting what she saw, seeking the essence of herself by blending colors on the canvas, creating the lines and planes that would bring the image to life however imperfect, however vulnerable, however mortal.

  ~*~

  The next day passed in a dream as Anne, newly armed with fresh tubes of paint, a clean palette, plenty of rags and paint cleaner, began her work. She wore an old T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a large mirror set up alongside the easel. Happily, none of her skill seemed to have deserted her and knowing she was alone with no one to step in and oversee her work, she painted freely after first sketching her features with charcoal.

  She forgot to eat, sipping from a bottle of water from time to time, too engaged to even stop and go to the bathroom until the pressure on her bladder became too insistent to ignore. As the sun began to set, Anne had a very good start, the face and hair blocked in with some detail around the eyes and mouth. She’d only painted the outline of her neck and shoulders. The last several hours had been spent on the eyes and at last she was satisfied they captured something of her essence.

  Exhausted, she began to clean her brushes, the smell of the turpentine causing her to open the window. The early evening air felt cool and inviting compared to the relatively airless room. She would finish cleaning, shower and take a stroll as the sun set over Washington Square. She would buy a hot dog and a soda and pretend Paul was next to her, laughing as she made a mess of the chili, reaching out to wipe her chin with his napkin…

  Anne pulled on Capri pants and a tank top, slipping her feet into sandals. She put her wallet, cell phone and a lipstick into a small shoulder bag. Locking her door, she dropped her keys in as well. She emerged from her townhouse, her mind occupied with daydreams of the man she’d let travel halfway round the world without her. She didn’t see the figure again lurking, waiting, biding his time, finally ready to make his move.

  Chapter 12

  Robert Langley gripped the syringe, feeling for the plastic cover to assure himself it was secure. The serum inside would surely be enough to knock her out once he’d got her in the car. The little bitch was going to get what was coming to her at last and she wouldn’t be able to prove a thing, not if he played his cards right.

  Robert prided himself on many things—his vast wealth, his killer instinct in business, his good looks, his ability to seduce women, but most especially his patience when he wanted something. The wealth he’d been born to—but he’d taken his father’s millions and increased them tenfold with sheer determination and only a minimum of trickery and foul play, none of which could be traced back to him, most of which was actually legal, if somewhat underhanded. His looks had always been an asset—he was tall and strong with thick blond hair and nice even features. Women were always attracted to him and men respected him.

  Occasionally he ran into types like Anne Kaliner and that stuck-up European creep she’d glommed onto before her husband’s corpse was even cold. Women like Anne thought they were better than men. They thought they could compete in the workplace and in sports, but in reality they were simply tolerated, and that only because the law demanded it. If Robert had had his way, women like Anne would do what women were supposed to do. Either stay at home and take care of the children or do something seemly for a woman, like be a teacher or a nurse. Women were nurturers—men were achievers. To pretend otherwise was to buy into all this feminist bullshit.

  Robert often wished he had been born a century earlier. His family used to tease him he was a throwback to another era but it was true. He’d never liked to see girls in pants, women doing men’s jobs or women being assertive or demanding. There was just something unnatural about it. The women he chose to date learned quickly to be submiss
ive to him in all things or get the hell out. With his looks, money and power, Robert Langley didn’t usually have a problem. He could have his pick of beautiful women.

  Why then had he even bothered with Anne? Truth to tell, there was something so sexy about her he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t attracted. It wasn’t her unusual beauty that had captivated Robert—he had dated two fashion models. It certainly wasn’t her brains, though he grudgingly had to admit the deal she’d brokered for him had earned him quite a bit of cash but he knew her husband was probably behind it, tutoring her at home so she could look good at the office.

  No, it was something else. Something passionate, something vulnerable, behind those huge gray-green eyes, something he wanted to possess, to claim, to crush. If only he’d heard about Greg’s death sooner, it could have been him instead of that English bastard with the mysterious and lovely Anne Kaliner on his arm.

  When she’d behaved so coolly toward him, both at Granger Finch and at Donner’s party, he’d wanted to hurt her. To smash that pretty face, to rip off her clothing and defile her. He’d had more than he realized to drink at the party obviously, since he’d come to on a couch in the hallway with a pounding headache and a vague memory of having cornered her at the bathrooms, eager to wipe that smug expression off her face.

  He’d given her another chance. He’d bought her the most expensive roses he could find. He’d come with his tail between his legs, humbly asking her forgiveness for his behavior the night before. And how did she greet him? Was she gracious? Did she accept the flowers, accept his apology, accept his invitation to get to know him better? No! The bitch said she was seeing someone. As if he didn’t know who that someone was. As if that someone could possibly hold a candle to Robert Edward Langley III, one of the most sought after bachelors on the Manhattan list of Who’s Who.

  He’d given her a chance but she’d blown it royally. Now he wouldn’t take that cunt out if she paid him for the privilege. No, Anne had lost the opportunity of being the lucky girl on his arm at the U.S. Open, at Wimbledon, at Hollywood new release parties, at the most elite clubs in the city and around the world. You didn’t reject Robert Langley and not live to regret it.

  Which brought him to his greatest virtue—his patience. Robert would always take revenge, but he would do it in his own time, carefully working out the details so it wouldn’t come back to bite him. He had always liked the saying, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  Discretion was key. One had one’s reputation to uphold after all. People wouldn’t take kindly to their car turning up in the Hudson River or their taxes being audited because of an anonymous tip. He’d done both those things and worse, but what he’d planned for Anne was his grandest scheme of all.

  He’d watched her in the weeks since the party, tracking her moves, observing when she came and went. At first that limey asshole had been with her constantly. Robert had followed them to the guy’s ritzy penthouse on Central Park West and back again to her Village townhouse. They were so goo-goo-eyed over one another, they hadn’t noticed a thing. He knew his plan would be difficult to execute with lover boy always underfoot but Robert would find a way. All he needed was a few minutes when she was alone to start things rolling.

  Then to his delight the boyfriend had disappeared. Either they’d split up—hopefully—or he had to go out of town on business or something. Whatever the reason, he’d stopped coming round the last three days and she’d been staying at her place, coming out once or twice a day to shop or hang out at the park in Washington Square. She was clearly a loner—he never saw anyone else come to visit her, never saw her meet anyone on her forays.

  The gods it seemed were shining on him. They wanted him to exact his revenge, to punish the uppity bitch for rejecting him, for humiliating him, for insulting him. She was alone, the Brit was history and the time was ripe. Robert had always had excellent timing and he was certain this would be no exception.

  Reaching up he touched his toupee, a very expensive rug that looked like the real thing. It was dark brown and matched the mustache he’d grown since Anne had seen him last and dyed to just the right color, along with his eyebrows. His dark brown contacts completed the disguise as he knew it was the details that could unravel a scheme however well planned it might seem. He couldn’t disguise his height alas. He could disguise his voice to a point and hopefully she would be so disoriented by the drugs she wouldn’t recognize it. Even if she did, she couldn’t prove a thing.

  Robert moved back against the wall as the front door to her townhouse opened. There she was. This was it. He took the syringe from his pocket, flicked away the plastic cap and moved toward her, his step light, his muscles alive with anticipation. Let the games begin.

  “Excuse me, miss. You dropped this.” Anne turned to the sound of man’s voice. Near her stood a tall man with dark hair holding a woman’s ring. It looked like a wedding ring. Reflexively Anne felt her own ring finger with her thumb. It was bare, but then she’d stopped wearing her wedding ring since she’d let Greg’s spirit finally rest in peace.

  Of course the ring he held wasn’t hers. Her rings were in a safe deposit box at her bank. “No,” she said. “Sorry, it’s not mine.” The man had moved closer to her, too close for comfort. She tried to step away but he gripped her forearm suddenly.

  “Hey! Let go of me!” Anne tried to jerk away. He released her arm but at the same time lifted his other hand, jabbing her bare arm with something. She felt the prick and a stinging sensation. The man had stuck a needle into her arm. “What the hell? What did you do? Oh! My arm!”

  Terror swirled through Anne’s mind as images of smallpox and bubonic plague came hurtling into her imagination. The man pulled her close, putting his arm tightly around her as he said soothingly, “There, there, it’s all right. It’s all fine. You’re going to be fine, just fine.” A man walking by with his dog looked over at them, his expression one of concern.

  “Everything okay?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Sure, sure. My wife is just feeling a bit dizzy. We’re parked right over here. Thanks, though. Since 9/11 it’s nice to see how New Yorkers care again.” He kissed the top of Anne’s head. The man with the dog smiled and nodded, walking off as Anne tried to shout after him.

  Instead of screaming, she only managed to mumble, her head suddenly heavy, her vision blurring. She stumbled against the stranger as he propelled her toward his car, his strong arm wrapped tightly around her. Opening the back door, he half shoved, half lifted her into the car, slamming the door closed. Quickly he slipped into the driver’s seat. The last sound Anne was conscious of before passing out was the clunk of the doors locking as the man sped away.

  The room was dark when Anne opened her eyes. She was stiff, the arm she was lying on asleep. She was on her side on a mattress, her hands somehow tied behind her back. As she pulled against the binds, she realized they must be rope.

  Anne remembered the stranger, remembered the shot. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be true. “God, help me,” she moaned, and then louder, “Hello? Please. Where am I? What’s happening?”

  “Welcome to hell, little girl.” Anne felt a peculiar recognition. The voice was familiar though she couldn’t quite place it. The light flicked on and Anne squinted in the brightness. Before her sat the tall dark-headed man who had given her a shot of something. She could barely breathe, terror snatching the air from her lungs.

  “Please. What are you doing? Let me go, please! Let me go,” she pleaded.

  As if she hadn’t spoken, the man said, “You’ve been very, very naughty and you have to be punished. I’ve brought you here to give you what you deserve. Don’t worry, I won’t kill you—if you behave that is.” The man smiled cruelly, his face eerily familiar to Anne though she didn’t know why. His words chilled her to the bone. She knew from reading crime stories that the kidnapper wouldn’t let his victim see his face if he planned to let them go. This man was going to kill her, she was sure of it. But first he w
as going to torture her. Anne began to breathe very rapidly, unable to catch her breath, unable to stop the hiccups of terror.

  “Please, please, please,” she begged. “Let me go. I won’t tell. You need money? I can get you plenty. I promise. Just let me go. Please!”

  “Shh, hush now. Stop that. I’m not going to kill you. I certainly don’t need your money. Just calm down. The injection was Phenobarbital, just a little something to make you agreeable to the drive. I gave you enough to keep you out while I changed you into something, er, more comfortable.” He stared down at Anne’s naked body as she closed her eyes, feeling her blush cover her skin. “I’ve got more where that came from if it becomes necessary to sedate you again.”

  The man stood and moved toward her. Anne shrank back against the wall, bumping her head in the process. He sat down next to her, taking hold of her shoulders. She jerked and writhed, trying to get away from him. “Calm down, I tell you. Calm down or things will go worse for you.”

  She stilled as he gripped her hard, unable to control her whimpering. He stared at her, his brown eyes boring into hers. His expression softened as he asked, “Are you thirsty, little girl? Shall I give you some water?”

  Anne nodded. She was horribly thirsty. The man stood and came back with a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and held the bottle at her mouth, tilting it so some of the water spilled onto Anne’s bare breasts. She shivered and pulled away from him, acutely embarrassed at her nudity but unable to hide herself.

  “Come on now, cooperate or you won’t get any water. Here, let me help you sit up.” The man lifted Anne into a sitting position and with her hands knotted firmly behind her, she was powerless to stop him. As she sat upright, dizziness assailed her and she leaned heavily against the headboard of the single bed. This time when he tipped the bottle, she made an effort to drink from it, trying to get as much as she could. He let her drink for a few moments before withdrawing the bottle.