Kiss of the Spindle

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  She managed to turn her head upward and gasped to see an enormous black body with an impressive wingspan, but she was unable to see the creature’s head. She sputtered and coughed, crying out in pain as the movement wrenched her shoulders that were pierced by enormous black claws.

  She caught her breath when the thing changed directions, flew back over land, and circled above the crumbling house. The pain in her shoulders caused spots to form before her eyes, and she fought to stay conscious. She swung like a rag doll.

  The giant bird continued to circle the house but eventually descended, darting with terrifying speed to the roof, half of which had crumbled clear down to the second floor. They flew into the opening with a huge rush of beating wings, and the claws released Isla high enough from the floor that when she hit it, she slipped on mossy, rain-soaked stone, and pain jolted through her knee as it twisted beneath her. Her head hit the floor, and her vision dimmed, slowly darkening the image of beating wings, claws that dripped with her blood, and enormous teeth in a head as terrifying as a monster in a child’s fairy tale.

  Isla heard a strange sound as though it echoed from far away, down a long tunnel. It pierced her eardrums and cleaved her head in two. She struggled to open her eyes, conscious only of pain and the steady thrum of rain. Her shoulders were on fire, and her leg collapsed under her when she tried to push herself up from a cold, hard surface. Her knee was twisted at an odd angle, and a knot formed on the side of her head. That was where she had hit her head on Daniel’s ship, wasn’t it? It felt so long ago—a lifetime ago. Logic surged and retreated as she tried to distinguish fact from fantasy.

  Fantasy was an enormous bird with a head and teeth that resembled a dragon. A dragon. Not unlike the kind she’d read about when she was small. But the fact was there was no such thing as a dragon. She must be so exhausted and overwhelmed with everything her life had become in the past year that she could no longer differentiate between truth and fiction.

  The piercing sound echoed again through the room, and she squinted through the rain, her vision blurry. She tried to focus and caught sight of a figure dressed in black, holding a long staff with a small crystal ball at the top. The person moved closer, and Isla shoved herself upright against her protesting shoulders and bit back a cry of pain when she shifted her leg.

  Finally, the figure stood before her, and Isla recognized her from Nigel’s drawing in his notebook. “Malette,” she whispered.

  The woman was stunningly beautiful—long, black hair, tall and stately frame with long legs encased in sleek black breeches and boots. Her cloak flowed around her and gathered in puddles and ripples on the floor as she crouched next to Isla, her hand sliding down the staff.

  “Dr. Cooper,” she murmured. “I have been forced to deal with you from afar. What a pleasure it is to find you’ve come all this way to meet me.”

  “What do you want in exchange for a cure?” Isla shoved herself against the stone wall at her back, squeezing herself beneath a narrow portion of the ceiling that remained intact, protecting her from the driving rain.

  Malette smiled, her white teeth perfectly aligned and the bicuspids sharp. “Direct and to the point. I respect that.” She watched Isla with unnervingly cold eyes the color of green ice.

  “I cannot bring back your son, and I am sorry for your pain.” Isla fought to keep her voice even and centered herself with a deep breath. She reached outward, hoping to tap into the witch’s emotions. If she were a shifter—a giant bird, certainly not a dragon—then Isla might be able to connect.

  “Do not do that,” Malette snapped, and the eyes were no longer ice but fire. “Stay out of my head, or I will kill you this instant.” She stood, towering over Isla.

  Isla nearly laughed. “Your amusement would come to a premature end, and I’ve clearly not suffered enough for your satisfaction.”

  Malette studied her, her face hard. “You took my joy. You destroyed my son.”

  Isla closed her eyes and leaned her aching head against the wall. “Your son destroyed himself. And you had another who would have benefitted from a mother’s affection.”

  She laughed. “So, Nigel Crowe has made a friend. I don’t believe he’s ever had one of those.”

  Isla realized she wasn’t about to coerce Malette into anything. When she’d embarked on her journey, she’d imagined meeting a witch who dabbled in the dark arts but could be as greedy as anyone else. Isla had been prepared to pay her well, but her heart sank with the knowledge that Malette was an entity well beyond anything she’d encountered. Her only hope left was that Malette would keep her in the house until the curse became permanent. She might have a chance to find the spell book, escape, lose herself back into the jungle, and eventually find a way to Port Lucy.

  One thing at a time, she told herself to avoid panic and paralysis. One foot in front of the other. Her sudden burst of laughter echoed off the walls. She couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t even manage one foot in front of the other.

  She squinted, looking around, taking stock of the crumbling structure. “That’s why it’s so green in here,” she said. “The humidity and lack of a ceiling has spread moss everywhere.” She looked at Malette. “Or mold, I guess. That seems more fitting.”

  Malette arched a beautifully shaped brow. “Playful, now? Feeling snippy?”

  Please just lock me up in your dungeon so I can think for a moment . . . “You are going to do with me whatever it is you will.” Isla lifted her hand and let it fall back into her lap. “I do not delude myself into believing anything I can say will convince you to tell me the cure, how to reverse the curse. You cannot be bought, and I have nothing that interests you.”

  Malette’s eyes narrowed. “Your sister, perhaps.”

  Isla’s heart thudded. “What do you want with my sister?” She kept her voice even.

  “You’ve spent your life trying to shape hers. Perhaps you might know a fraction of my pain if you see your sister hanged.”

  Isla sighed. “My sister has brought me nothing but headaches for years. And she has utterly ruined this last year of my life. She cares nothing for what I say, she defies me at every turn, and at the first possible opportunity, she visited a Dark Magick witch in the sorcery quarter to buy a spell that rendered me nearly dead.” Her voice rose on the last, and she hoped she was convincing enough. “So you can threaten me all you like with my sister, my family, everyone in my life who supposedly loved and supported me yet left me to handle the responsibility of raising a sibling when I was no more than a child myself.” She allowed her fear to pose as anger. “Do you know what my mother believes? She thinks I’ve traveled to Port Lucy for research. She has no idea I die every night!”

  She maneuvered her strong leg beneath her, and shoved her back upward along the slick surface of the stone wall behind her. She pushed with every ounce of strength she had so she could stand and face the woman who had ruined her life because her own son had reaped the consequences he deserved.

  “Do your worst,” she spat at Malette, who watched her with eyebrows raised. “I welcome it!”

  “Stubborn, ridiculously so,” Malette murmured. “Hmm.” She tapped the bottom of her staff against the floor, creating the echoing, high-pitched clacking sound that had awoken Isla.

  “I am aware of your conflicting feelings for your family, Dr. Cooper.” She smiled. “Would you like to know the best part of the curse that afflicts you?”

  Dread settled around Isla’s heart and squeezed.

  “When you arrested my son and ensured his execution, you took from me the one person on earth I loved.” Her face remained pleasant, which was somehow worse than her anger. “Gladstone was all I had left of his father. I loved him purely and without reservation as only a mother can. And he loved me.” She paced a small path in front of Isla. “You love your family, surely, but without reservation? Without frustration?”

  Isla sw
allowed. “Everyone is frustrated with loved ones at some point or other. It is a normal part of life.”

  “Not mine!” Malette slammed the staff against the floor, and as much as Isla wished to appear unaffected, she winced and put a hand to her head.

  “I would have done anything for my son, and he for me! Your mother—would she drop everything she adores in life to see to you? Your sister? Your cousin, the rabble-rouser?” Malette relaxed, and her lips curved in a gentle smile. “So, you see, your curse can only be broken by true love’s kiss. From one who loves you deeply, and for whom your love is equally given. You have no husband or child, but, as you said, only a sister who would rather poison you than bow to your dictates and a mother obsessed with her precious boutique.” She lifted a brow in triumph. “That is not true love. From your end, undoubtedly. From theirs? Likely a shadow of your affection for them.”

  The silence between them stretched, and Isla held herself upright by sheer force of will. A single tear escaped and trickled down her face. Isla had always known her weaknesses, had studied her own frustrations and doubts as her education as a therapist had evolved. Malette knew the heart of Isla’s discontent, her fear, and had called her bluff then aimed it back at her with a deadly degree of accuracy.

  Malette moved closer and brushed Isla’s tear away with her fingertip. “When we peel away every defense, every last layer, nothing remains but the pain.”

  Isla bit her lip, furious that both eyes now burned and filled with tears. She sniffed as they fell, but maintained eye contact with Malette.

  “You have spent your young life building up the positive feelings of others,” Malette murmured. “But you can see how much more effective it is to find the one fatal flaw.”

  “That all depends on the ultimate goal,” Isla said. “If the aim is to destroy, your method meets with success.”

  “And I have broken you.” Malette’s eyes glittered in triumph.

  Isla ground her teeth together until her jaw ached. “And yet, I remain standing. Success is measured by one’s definition of it.”

  Malette’s expression hardened, stilled. A sound to Isla’s left drew their attention, and Isla looked to see Nigel standing in the doorway, slowly applauding.

  “Oh, good,” Malette said, her voice bright. “The spawn returns!”

  “Oh, Nigel,” Isla whispered. He looked to be in worse shape than she was—battered, bruised, and swollen.

  Malette glanced at her with a laugh. “You pity him? My, you are nothing but heart. Do you hear that, Nigel? You have a friend, a champion. Dreams really do come true!”

  Nigel slowly entered the room, deceptively casual in his stance, hands comfortably in his pockets. “How is the crystal ball working, Mother? Giving you fits, is it?”

  “I told you never to call me that!” Malette glanced at the opaque ball atop her staff, and her eyes transformed again from ice to fire. “You will reverse the spell.”

  “I will fix the ball when you release her.”

  Isla closed her eyes. “Nigel,” she murmured. Malette would cripple him, hurt him in ways that were worse than death.

  “You will reverse the spell,” Malette said, “or I will destroy her in front of you.”

  Isla knew he was trading his life for hers, and she would never be able to live with that. “He cast a spell on your magick ball, and you are unable to fix it yourself?”

  Malette’s eyes swung back to Isla, and Nigel cursed under his breath.

  “Isla,” he warned.

  “He must be more powerful than I realized.” Isla glanced at him speculatively. “What a fool you were for doting on the wrong son all those years.”

  Malette’s hand shot to Isla’s throat and pinned her to the wall, choking her so completely she was unable to make a sound. In her periphery, Isla saw Nigel move toward Malette, but she pointed her staff in his direction; he flew against the far wall and crumpled to a heap.

  Isla’s vision dimmed and blurred as she clawed at Malette’s hand, which was as cold and hard as granite. She would die without telling her family one last time that she did, indeed, love them beyond words. She would never say those words to Daniel. She would die, and he would never know.

  Isla was freezing. She lay on a cold, hard surface and wondered if this time she was finally dead. She had tried to be a good person, but wherever she was did not feel like heaven. “So, it’s hell for me, then,” she croaked, her voice raspy. She coughed and put her hand to her neck where Malette’s fingers had left bruises. The cold seeped into her bones, and she shivered. How many times could a person awaken from oblivion in one day? Perhaps she had gone mad.

  When she was able to focus beyond the blinding pain in her head, she realized she was in a cellar, a jail, with three stone walls and a row of iron bars along the fourth. A manacle circled her ankle, and as she moved to examine it, she cried out involuntarily in pain.

  “Find the anger, Isla!” Her hoarse sob bounced crazily off the walls, and her breath stuck in her throat as she sat upright. She coughed again, clutching her head, and considered the potential value in running into the wall with her face. Oblivion might be preferable to the pain. Everything hurt.

  A heap in the corner caught her eye, and her heart thumped when she recognized Nigel’s inert form. A manacle on his wrist connected him to the wall.

  “Nigel! Oh, no, no, no . . .” She scooted forward as far as the chain would allow, but she was still shy of reaching him by a foot or two. “Nigel, wake up!” She slapped the floor with her open palm. “Wake up!”

  She looked up at the room’s single barred window; the storm still raged outside. She couldn’t tell if the dark sky was because of the storm gathering in intensity or because several hours had passed. She didn’t know if Nigel had tried to contact Daniel and the others, she didn’t know whether help was on the horizon, she didn’t know how she’d escape from a locked dungeon. She didn’t know anything.

  She slapped the floor again. “Nigel, wake up! I don’t even have a hairpin with me to pick this blasted lock, which is entirely your fault because you abducted me in my nightgown! You had better hope you’ve got something useful on your person because if not, I will . . . I will . . .” Her voice faded on a pathetic whimper, and she almost wished for midnight.

  “You’ll what?” Nigel’s voice was low, weak, and he still hadn’t moved.

  She felt a surge of hope. “I will flay you with angry words, because I have no weapons, and I am fairly certain at least three bones are broken.”

  His shoulders shook the littlest bit, and he turned his head. He was laughing, and her relief was overwhelming.

  “You’re not paralyzed. And you’re speaking.”

  “You’re celebrating prematurely,” he groaned and caught his breath. “I haven’t tried to move my legs, and I’m not sure I remember my name.”

  “How many fingers do you see me holding up?”

  “One, and that’s not very polite, Dr. Cooper.”

  She laughed despite herself. “Why could you not have been this pleasant at home? We might have gotten along famously.”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he grunted and slowly stretched his neck. “If we cannot get out of here, I suspect I shall not be good company for long.”

  “Can you feel your legs? Do you have sensation below the waist?”

  He looked at her flatly. “In some places, yes. Less so in other areas.”

  She scowled at him. “Can you pick a lock?”

  He pushed himself upright. “I can pick a lock. I do not know that I have anything on me that will suffice.”

  She was still sprawled on the cold floor and for the moment didn’t want to move. The pain exploded volcanically whenever she moved. She rested her head on her arm. “Tiepin?”

  “Not presently wearing a tie.”

  “Metal toothpick?”

 
“No.”

  “Are any of your limbs constructed with synthetic materials?”

  “No!”

  “Telescriber?” she asked hopefully.

  “My mother took it,” he muttered.

  She snorted laughter, unable to help herself. “Your mother took your telescriber? Were you breaking the rules, contacting friends after bedtime?”

  “It’s all fun and games until we never get out of here, and then nobody is laughing anymore.”

  “At least your mother took yours. Mine never cared one way or another. Apparently, nobody in my life loves me.”

  “Enough of that. Pity does not become you, and furthermore, you should realize that Malette is nothing but a bundle of lies from beginning to end. She takes ambiguity and twists it until it suits her and is just a shade shy of truth.” Nigel’s chain rattled as he stood, bracing a hand on the wall. “I suspect we are only a few hours away from evening, and I don’t relish the thought of being locked in here with a dead woman.”

  “That is harsh.”

  “But honest.” He patted his pockets and ran a hand over his shirt. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and trousers only. Goosebumps covered his skin, and she realized he was undoubtedly as cold and uncomfortable as she.

  “Your boots!” she said and shoved herself upright with an agonized gasp.

  “What of them?”

  “Are there nails in the soles?

  He lifted the corner of his mouth in reluctant admiration. He sat back down on the floor and muscled the boot off, and then examined the sole and heel of the boot. “Even if there are,” he muttered as he turned it this way and that, “they may be too short to be of use.”

  “Certainly worth the effort. And at least you have boots.”

  He looked up at her and then at her feet. “I apologize. For everything. I thought I was doing what was best and in reality, I do not think I could have bungled it more if I’d tried.” He shook his head. “I had thought that by leaving you without shoes, you would stay put in the cabin.” He glared at her, and she frowned.