Kiss of the Spindle

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Darkness descended by alarmingly quick degrees, and her heart sank. She took a deep, shaky breath and stood still, slapping at buzzing insects that pinched every bit of exposed skin. She was still sunburned from the island, and the sting that accompanied her slaps fueled a slow-burning anger that was much more welcome than panic. Anger was useful. It was productive. It was an active emotion.

  She took a sip from the canteen and moved forward on the path strictly by sound and touch. Her eyes eventually adjusted to the deepening darkness, but she was unable to see more than a few feet around herself. The nothing was suffocating, surrounding her on all sides. Fighting to stay angry, she shoved forward, focusing instead on the animals she couldn’t see but knew were there.

  “Little creatures,” she muttered, “take pity on a stupid human.” She stumbled and smashed her foot against a rock, cursing with a creativity that would have impressed a sailor. Without meaning to, she thought of Daniel, and her eyes stung.

  “Oh, no. No more of that.” But she wished more than anything he were there. She missed the confidence he exuded even when she knew he was concerned or stressed. She wanted to kiss him and burrow close for warmth. She wanted him to carry her on his back to save her aching feet. More than anything, she wanted him to find her a deep bathtub. She was no stranger to scrapes, bruises, and dirtied clothing, but her work as an empath felt different. She smelled like swampy water and was a filthy, bloodied mess from head to toe.

  She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, searching outside herself for some sense of direction. She moved her feet forward slowly following what felt right. Perhaps the birds overhead or the tree frogs she had reached with her empath skills had taken pity on her, but she wound her way unerringly along a path she could not see.

  She was tired, and knew she probably should have reached the manor house by now if she were headed in the right direction. She could be right atop it, though, and not realize it. She kept her thoughts fixed on the island, her happy island, whenever the darkness threatened to send her into a panic. It was only dark, after all. She’d not been afraid of the dark as a child. Only in the last year had it become her nemesis, and it made her feel ridiculous.

  Isla lost track of time, and her pace slowed. She needed to find a place to sleep, and she decided it wouldn’t make a difference one way or another if she simply dropped where she stood on the path. It wasn’t as though she was fighting heavy foot traffic, after all. She saw a large, smooth stone to her right at the base of a tree with gnarled, exposed roots. She examined the ground next to the tree and beyond the stone where the raised tree roots created a canopy. She dug out dirt, needles, and fronds, and pulled a small plant or two by the roots with a muttered apology to Quince.

  If she burrowed down just right, she’d fit snugly in the small cocoon the tree roots provided. She’d be partially hidden and protected, but if something crawled under there with her, she’d have a devil of a time getting away quickly.

  She wearily rubbed the back of her hand on her forehead, which was wet with humidity and sweat. She would be sleeping like the dead before long anyway, so it didn’t matter. On a sigh and a prayer, she burrowed down, feet first, beneath the gnarled roots, settling in as well as possible.

  Mosquitoes buzzed in her ears and flew around her face and arms, so she scooped a handful of earth and smeared it along her exposed skin. Mud would have been better, but she’d rationed her water carefully and didn’t want to use the only fresh water she had left to avoid bug bites.

  Now that she was still, she had time to think. What am I doing? What was I thinking? I am worse off now than if I’d stayed in the blasted cabin.

  Perhaps that was true, but she knew something was wrong. Nigel should have returned for her, and she’d waited in the cabin for hours. It was possible Malette had detained him; just because she couldn’t kill him didn’t mean she couldn’t make him suffer. If Nigel had taken Isla somewhere in the city, she could have found her way back to the inn, but she’d done the best with what she had. Which was little more than nothing. However, Isla knew herself well enough to admit that waiting with no information or insight concerning her own future wasn’t an option she could entertain under any circumstances. She would find Malette or die trying, and she would go down fighting to her last breath.

  It was dark by the time Daniel spotted the black stone mansion that rested on the island’s peninsula, butted up against the edge of a thick jungle threatening to overtake it. He cut the small steamboat’s engines and listened, taking in the sounds of insects at night, the occasional splash of fish in the brackish water, the ripple across the surface as a creature left the shore.

  There was no light in the house at all, and he could see it only because the clouds had cleared enough for the moon to shine down. He stood behind the wheel with Lewis, Bonadea, and Quince nearby. They all peered through the darkness; nobody broke the silence.

  “If Malette is at home, she’s not currently receiving,” Daniel murmured.

  “How would you like to proceed?” Bonadea asked.

  “We are at a disadvantage in the dark,” Lewis observed, “but perhaps that could work to our benefit. We might investigate the house without being seen.”

  “She’s a witch,” Quince added quietly. “She will know her home has been breached.”

  Daniel craned his head to see the crumbling turrets and widow’s walk that looked as though they might topple in a stiff wind. “We would be obliged to use Tesla torches, which would be visible from out here.”

  “Our only option then is to wait until daylight.” Lewis frowned. “If Isla is inside, would you prefer to mount a rescue with her unconscious or awake?

  “We don’t know what condition she’s in. It may be better to take her out asleep.” Daniel’s jaw clenched, and he tried but failed to shove an image of a wounded Isla out of his head.

  “We can do that and still have the benefit of light.” Lewis checked his pocket watch. “By five o’clock, we might have enough sunrise to work with, and Isla will still be unconscious. That would be four hours from now.”

  Daniel nodded, hating to wait but seeing the wisdom in it.

  Bonadea pointed to the far side of the house. “Take us around that way so we see the other side.”

  Daniel idled the motor and slowly trawled alongside the bank until they had a view of the opposite side of the house. Lewis whistled under his breath, and Daniel cut the engine again and followed his friend’s gaze.

  The house looked as though a giant claw had scooped away a third of the ceiling and a portion of the walls. Jagged pieces stabbed upward while other parts of it had crumbled away like an ancient ruin.

  “You’re certain she lives here?” Quince whispered. “That does not look habitable.”

  Daniel shrugged. “According to the map, it’s the only building on the family property, aside from”—he paused, squinting into the dark—“two outbuildings that way and a cabin five miles north, right through the heart of that mess.” He pointed into the jungle.

  “Perhaps she lives there and not here,” Bonadea said, eying the pile of stones dubiously. “I mean, she is human, we assume?”

  A shadow flickered across the manor’s exterior, and Daniel looked up at the moon. He thought he saw something—

  a cloud? He blinked, wondering if he was so tired he was hallucinating.

  Lewis had also looked up and then back at the house with a frown. A sound from high above—the beating of wings—broke the stillness but softly. “Bats?” Lewis mused.

  Daniel exhaled. “That would be an incredibly large bat.” He tapped his fingers on the wheel, knowing he needed to make a decision. “We’ll return in four hours, find a good point of entrance, and see who’s inside.”

  “We could try to find this cabin in the meantime,” Bonadea suggested. “Show me the map again.” He took it from Daniel and perused it, angling it in the moo
nlight. “Looks as though it’s close to the water along here, and if this is a tributary going to the interior, we might see it without too much bushwhacking through the jungle.”

  Daniel looked where he pointed, and nodded. “Certainly worth a try.” With a backward glance at the mansion, he turned the steamboat and followed the shoreline as dictated by the map. In theory, it ought to have taken twenty minutes to find the cabin, but the water branched into the peninsula in multiple locations, and nearly two hours passed before they came upon a moderate clearing that looked to be a possible candidate for human habitation.

  “Through there.” Daniel pointed. He guided the boat in carefully, having navigated the terrain enough through the years to know the dangers of a swamp.

  Lewis nodded. “I’ll go first. We don’t all need to go tromping ashore.” He gestured to where Quince slumped, asleep. “Wish he would have let us leave him at the inn.”

  Bonadea chuckled. “He is not about to be excluded from anything, especially where it concerns the doctor. I’ll come along, Lewis.”

  Lewis retrieved a rifle from a trunk at their feet and, with a shrug and a salute, left the boat with Bonadea on his heels, slogging through ankle-deep swamp water.

  Daniel readied his own pistol and trained a Tesla torch downward to alert them of anything that might either bite or swallow a person. He breathed a sigh of relief when they made it to relatively solid ground.

  He leaned against the captain’s seat and listened to the quiet, feeling solitude for the first time since he and Lewis had begun their mad dash to find Isla. He was exhausted. His eyes were gritty and his head ached with a slow, insistent throb. Beneath his physical discomfort ran a wave of fear that he wouldn’t find Isla, or by the time he did, it would be too late.

  Never one for dedicated prayer, he still sent out a plea to a God who may or may not be listening. Please, please, please . . .

  “If I have learned one thing about our doctor, it is that she is resourceful.” Quince smiled wearily at Daniel. “Try not to imagine the worst.”

  Daniel’s mouth turned up in a smile. “I thought you were sleeping soundly, Mr. Quince.”

  “I was! But then there was no noise from the motor and no rumble of voices. I believe the stillness is to blame.”

  “We shall finish here, and then I’m returning you immediately to the inn.”

  “Are you suggesting I am too old for adventure?”

  “I would never dare suggest such a thing. I, however, am exhausted. The swamp is not the most comfortable of places to spend a night.”

  Quince yawned. “I wouldn’t say that. There’s a certain charm about it, no?”

  Daniel cocked a brow. “If one finds charm in extreme humidity, multitudinous insects, poisonous reptiles . . .”

  “It smells good.”

  “I suppose right here in this spot it does. There are pockets where it is less . . . so.”

  Daniel heard a rustle in the foliage and straightened, training the light on the shoreline. Lewis and Bonadea appeared, and Daniel gave each a hand up into the boat. The two shifters exchanged a glance, and Daniel’s heart clenched.

  “What is it?” He almost preferred ignorance.

  “Don’t know if it’s a good sign or not, but Isla was definitely here. We found the cabin, and Nigel’s satchel.” Lewis slapped at something on his neck.

  “It looks like he locked her in but she broke out a window,” Bonadea said. “So we can either be grateful she escaped him or concerned because she’s not there anymore.”

  Daniel’s heart pounded. “She’s in the jungle.” He stared at the spot where the two men had emerged. “She is out there right now, unconscious, in this horrible place.” A cold tremor shot through his limbs. When he considered the sheer size of the landmass between their location and the mansion, he felt nauseous. And that was presuming she was headed to the mansion, which she undoubtedly would be if she’d uncovered even the slightest bit of information from Crowe. If she had taken to slogging in the opposite direction for Port Lucy . . . His heart sank. She had twice as far to travel before seeing civilization.

  Daniel released a shaky sigh. “Her clothing and shoes were still in her room at the inn. Surely she wouldn’t tromp through the jungle barefoot and in her nightclothes.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would she?”

  Bonadea cleared his throat. “It behooves us to remember she is a strong animal empath. While she undoubtedly faces danger, I would wager she will encounter little hostility from the fauna here.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Daniel mumbled.

  “Perhaps there is another cabin between here and the mansion, and she has been able to find shelter,” Quince said.

  “Would she return here for any reason?” Lewis posed the question to the group.

  Daniel lifted a shoulder. “I suppose anything is possible.”

  Bonadea nodded. “Someone should remain here in case she does return. I’m happy to volunteer.”

  “I’ll stay with you.” Quince nodded decisively.

  “There is a cot in the cabin where you can rest for a few hours,” Bonadea told him.

  Daniel looked at Lewis, who shrugged. “Two hours remain of our original plan. What should we do?”

  Daniel set his jaw. “We go to the mansion. I’m tired of waiting.”

  Daniel and Lewis left the steamboat some distance away from the mansion and maneuvered their way on foot through the jungle that bordered the house. Each man had a machete and a pistol, and by the time they neared the big house, both were soaked in sweat and covered with dirt. Clearing a path through the thick undergrowth had been especially cumbersome with limited light—Daniel was leery of announcing their presence so they used the torches sparingly—and he felt the stress of the situation begin to take its toll.

  Finally, they stood at the edge of the property where the house overlooked the water. The house was utterly dark, sucking in all the life around it. The air felt heavier, and he forced himself to focus on nothing but the most concrete of details.

  “In areas where there are fewer windows, we can use the torches,” he whispered to Lewis, who nodded. “We’ll begin on the lower level and work our way through each floor.”

  “Keep an eye out for the witch’s spell book,” Lewis said.

  He glanced at Lewis. “You’re certain she’ll have one?”

  “Every practitioner of any kind of magick has their own spell book. Usually bound, but sometimes they just have individual pages. If that’s the case, the pages will be kept in the same portfolio.”

  Daniel inched his way to the right and looked up at the building, taking in the missing chunk of brick and stone that once formed walls and a ceiling. “Is that an unwritten rule or something? Suppose I decide to practice magick, but I don’t want to write down my methods or spells?”

  “You’re burned at the stake.”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “I am genuinely curious.”

  “Or dunked in water repeatedly. If you drown, it means you’re not a witch so you’re not required to keep a spell book.”

  Daniel glanced at his friend with a smile, appreciating the humor.

  “Truly, though, it does seem to be an unwritten rule—witches write everything down. My mother is meticulous about keeping records. We have scores of volumes at home—collections from relatives dating back five generations.”

  Daniel gripped his Tesla torch tightly, his machete in the other hand, and motioned with his head. “We locate Isla first, if she’s here, and the spell book second, and then we leave.”

  Lewis nodded, all traces of humor fading. “We must be prepared to return, though. It may be that we’ll need something personal of Malette’s, or an ingredient that only she might have access to.”

  “Very well.” He nodded toward the back door and, inhaling quietly, snuck from the shelter of th
e jungle to the house. He was prepared to pick the lock, but the door handle turned easily. The door swung open, and Daniel didn’t know if that meant their task would be simpler than expected, or if they were walking into a trap.

  Once inside, they quietly made their way down a narrow hallway, proceeding slowly to avoid shining their torches near the windows. As dark as the house appeared from the outside, Daniel didn’t delude himself into believing they would be entirely invisible, but his efforts made him feel better.

  The house was clammy and still as a tomb. They wound their way through what was once likely a grand home: large kitchens caked in dust, an enormous formal dining room with tattered drapes that hung in shreds, and a wooden table that had rotted through. Formal parlors, a ballroom, and a grand front entrance completed the first floor. They took a large stone staircase to the second floor.

  Here they found sitting rooms and bedroom suites, all in various states of disrepair and disarray. At one end of a hallway, they came to a locked door, and upon picking it, saw the first room of the entire house that had been maintained. It was a large bedroom; there were no cobwebs, no layers of dust or broken furniture. It was neatly kept, but as cold and dark as the rest of the house. There were symbols inscribed along the massive bedframe, and Lewis eyed them before beckoning to Daniel.

  “We should leave. I don’t know the exact nature of those symbols, but I suspect they are meant to ward off her enemies.”

  Daniel frowned, but followed Lewis to the door. “Suppose her spell book is in here? It’s where I would keep something I wouldn’t want in another’s hands.”

  “It could be in there,” Lewis agreed as he closed the door. “It could also be in her library or sanctum where she practices magick.”

  At the center of the second floor were double doors, and Daniel opened them to reveal an enormous area that was open to the sky, which was beginning to lighten.

  “This would be the gaping hole then,” he said to Lewis, and stepped inside.