River jerked his hand away from Alexandria's cheek as though he'd been burned by a flame.
"I'm not with Bran," Alexandria blurted.
River looked at her. "What?"
Alexandria felt herself shrinking down into her seat, groaning inwardly. "Nothing. I don't know why I said that... Just forget I said anything. It's hot in here, isn't it?" she said, trying desperately to change the subject. "Are you hot? I'm hot..."
"Very," he replied, a smile finding its way to his lips as Alexandria shrank farther down into her seat.
"Buttermilk blueberry pancakes with cream and maple syrup, and two cappuccinos," the waitress announced, placing the plates and two mugs of steaming coffee down on the table. "Enjoy your meal. Anything else you'd like, just give me a shout."
Chapter 7 – Gypsies, Vamps & Spells.
Alexandria chastised herself all the way home from the pancake parlor, her cheeks still burning every time she thought about what she had said about Bran. And now there was River… What with a house to fix up on a meager inheritance, a ghost as a friend, a vampire as a boarder, and a new school, the last thing she needed was boy trouble of any kind.
She slowed the car as she drove through the gates of Witchwood Estate. In front of the house stood a quaint Gypsy wagon and, nibbling from an overgrown flowerbed along the side of the house, was a beautiful piebald stallion with a long, flowing mane and white feathering covering its lower legs. She turned off the ignition a short distance away, not wanting to spook the animal, and slid out of the car. Did they still call themselves Gypsies? she wondered. As a child, she'd always been enthralled by the stories her father had told her about Gypsies. She had always imagined their lifestyle to be romantic and exciting, in a mysterious kind of way. She walked slowly towards the feeding animal, her hand outstretched. "Beautiful boy," she murmured, checking to make sure the horse was, in fact, a male. "Big boy," she murmured. The horse slowly lifted its head to look at her nonchalantly, continuing to munch lazily on a wad of grass. The horse nodded his head in an agreeable way as she ran her hand across his cheek, then combed her fingers through the beautiful, white mane. He stomped his hoof then, making her giggle.
"I will leave you to your food," she said, patting him on his broad chest. She glanced at the wagon again, fighting the urge to take a quick peek inside. Standing at the front door, she pushed it open apprehensively, wondering whom she might find waiting for her inside.
"Here she is now..."
She followed Andrew's voice into the kitchen.
"God, what happened to you? You look like you've been pulled through a bush backward," Kat exclaimed with a contemptuous look, her hands on her designer-swathed hips. As always, Kat looked as though she had just stepped off the covers of a glossy fashion magazine, regardless of the amount of alcohol she had consumed the night before. Her skin glowed beneath perfectly applied makeup, her long, dark hair shone, but it was her eyes that Alexandria noticed above all. Kat's eyes seriously sparkled, as though a light had been switched on. Did they sparkle because she was in love with Bran, too, Alexandria wondered, feeling an ache in her chest.
"I got caught in the storm," Alexandria said, feeling like a drowned rat in Kat's presence. She raked strands of her damp hair behind her ear, sending a shower of limp jasmine petals onto the floor. She tilted her head to examine the fair-haired woman sitting at the breakfast bar with Andrew. "Do I know you?" she asked, recognising the woman from somewhere. Colourful bangles decorated her arm, and long strings of beads hung jumbled around her neck. A real life Gypsy, Alexandria thought, excited by the notion. She motioned towards the front door with her hand. "Is that your horse and wagon outside?"
The woman stood up, walked towards her, and opened her arms, her bangles clanking noisily as she embraced Alexandria in a firm hug. "Yes and yes," the woman said joyfully. "The last time I saw you, you were tearing out of Kat's front door as though you had a demon hot on your tail." She held Alexandria at arm's length. "Let me take a good long look at you, child."
Alexandria stared at Kat over the woman's shoulder and shrugged.
"Meet Aunt Mindy," Kat said, leaning against the breakfast bar and tapping the lip of her empty mug with a perfectly manicured fingernail painted fire engine red. "A girl could do with a refill, Andrew."
"What did your last slave die of?" Andrew muttered, snatching the mug off the bench. "Anyone else for coffee?" he asked.
Alexandria shook her head, not taking her eyes off Aunt Mindy.
"Nothing for me right now, dear," Aunt Mindy purred, releasing Alexandria's shoulders.
"You're Kat's aunt?" Alexandria asked.
"I'm your aunt, too, child. I'm your mother's little sister, Mindy."
Alexandria's eyes widened. Another relative? She really did have family crawling out of the woodwork since her return to Ferntree Falls, only this one, she had to admit, with her long fair hair, really did look a little like her mother. Kat's mother, whom she had only seen in the family portrait hanging in the Abbots’ mansion, had dark hair, and bore no resemblance to Felicity whatsoever.
"Another aunt. Wow, who would have thought? Should I be expecting any more turning up on my doorstep any time soon?" Alexandria walked stiffly to the breakfast counter, pulled out a stool, and sat down. "I will have a coffee, thank you, Andrew. A strong one."
"What happened to you this morning, anyway?" Kat asked, heaving herself up on the breakfast bench and crossing her legs. "I thought you were going to help me clean up."
"You had company," Alexandria retorted, glaring at Kat.
"Do I sense a note of disapproval?" Kat asked curiously.
Andrew pushed a mug into Alexandria's hands. "Drink," he urged in a brotherly manner.
Alexandria took the mug from him eagerly. "Thanks, Andrew."
"Well, it is done now. The house is in its usual pristine condition, ready for your mother's return," Aunt Mindy said, brushing Alexandria's hair over her shoulder, then turning around to scan the kitchen. "I have really missed this old house," she said, melancholy dripping from every word. "I left when I was just eighteen and in love with..." Her voice trailed off. "Anyway, I'm back now, and just in time, too, I believe." She spun around and looked at Alexandria. "You remind me so much of your Grandmother Savannah, and me at your age. We all have the same rotten taste—"
"Just in time for what?" Alexandria asked, cutting her off. She took a long sip of her coffee, wondering where dear Aunt Aradia and Aunt Mindy had been when she was left alone after her parents had been murdered.
"Oh, I know what you must be thinking. Where was I when your mother died? Where were any of us, for that matter? You must have so many questions."
"That's exactly what I was thinking," Alexandria admitted, putting down her mug and folding her arms across her chest, waiting for answers.
"If I told you it was for your own protection, and your being sent away from here was your mother's wish, would you believe me?"
"Frankly, I don't know who or what to believe..." Alexandria fell silent, noticing the sudden, icy look on Aunt Mindy's face, as though someone had just walked over her grave.
Mindy drew in a breath and stared open-mouthed at the kitchen doorway. Cups and dishes in kitchen cabinets and on counters rattled noisily in objection.
Everyone turned slowly to see what, or who, had captured Mindy's absolute attention. Then, just as suddenly, she said, "What the hell are you doing here, you disgusting little bloodsucker?"
Nina was standing in the doorway, her fangs bared, a deep hissing sound escaping from between her rose colored lips. Her eyes narrowed, fixed intently on Mindy, but it was impossible for her to penetrate Mindy's mind.
"Don't even think about trying to get into my mind, vampire."
"And I love you too, witch," Nina retorted, edging slowly into the room, her long, black velvet dress dragging silently on the floor behind her.
Chapter 8 – Revenge.
Carmen stood, snatching up a long, red satin robe off the en
d of the sofa in her underground lair, and slipped effortlessly into it, concealing her nakedness. "It's time for you to go. Get dressed," she said, padding barefoot over to a small table and pouring herself a Scotch from an exquisite crystal decanter. She did not offer her guest one, nor did she intend to.
"I'm not finished with you yet," Raymond said, reaching for her robe.
Carmen slapped his hand away. "Didn't you hear me? I said, get dressed and go, I'm expecting company."
Raymond pouted, pushing himself up on his elbows. "Who are you expecting? Should I be jealous?"
Carmen poured the liquor down her throat in one shot, picked up Raymond's clothes, and tossed them at him. "It is none of your business. And you can be as jealous as you wish, I do not care. Get dressed and get out. Now. I do not have time for your questions or petty jealousies."
Tiamat, Carmen's snake, slithered its way along the floor on its belly in a smooth, swaying motion toward Raymond, hissing fiercely.
"Okay, okay. I'll go," he snapped, gathering up his clothes and dressing as quickly as possible while stepping out of the path of the oncoming snake. He openly feared the snake that Carmen held in such high regard, as though it were an instrument of an all-powerful god.
Carmen put her glass down. "Good Tiamat," she purred. "My beautiful creature, gifted with such wonderful motivational skills." She smirked at Raymond, who was keeping a watchful eye on the snake as he dressed. "Don't you agree, Raymond?" The snake hissed again in chuckle-like intervals as it curled lazily up, then around Carmen's torso. Carmen held her arm out, pulling back the sleeve of the robe, allowing Tiamat to coil around her arm before transforming himself into a solid gold serpent bracelet, with lustrous black pearls for eyes.
Raymond snatched his jacket up off the floor, brushed it off, then stomped toward the narrow stairwell leading back up into the foyer of Lancaster House.
"Not that way, idiot," Carmen spat, picking up her glass and pouring herself another drink. She motioned toward the rear of the room with her free hand. "Use the tunnel, you stupid man. I cannot take the risk of someone seeing you leave."
Raymond wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. "My shrew," he said, kissing her hard before pulling back the curtain and disappearing into the dark shadows of the tunnel.
Twenty minutes later, neatly clothed in a crisp, white linen shirt and a tight-fitting black leather pencil skirt, Carmen sat cross-legged in an Edwardian wing-back armchair in the library of Lancaster House, waiting for her visitor. Her fiery red hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in long glossy waves. She tapped the toe of her high-heeled black stiletto impatiently on the floor, looking at the antique clock on the wall for the umpteenth time. Moments later, a knock on the door had Carmen ringing the tiny bell she grasped in her hand. She uncrossed, then re-crossed her legs. "Door, Henry," she called to her trusty butler, who was busy in the kitchen.
"On my way, ma'am," he replied, hunched deliberately over the counter, carefully spooning duck liver pâté into a small clay pot. Once this task was accomplished, he placed the pâté on a tray, alongside a little pot of caviar. He arranged thin slices of a baguette, which he had baked to a light golden brown, down the side of a platter, with portions of artfully placed smoked salmon garnished with capers, lemon wedges and sprigs of parsley from the garden. Wiping his hands on a starched, white linen napkin, he stood to his full height, admiring his handiwork. Satisfied, he tossed the napkin on the bench, and went to answer the door. He welcomed the old woman with a curt nod, then ushered her swiftly into the library to join his mistress.
"I shall be back in the briefest of moments," Henry said, reversing from the room in long strides, and with an exaggerated, low-sweeping bow. The tall, rakishly thin man was comical-looking in a black suit that barely covered his wrists or ankles. White socks, neatly turned down at the top, protruded from black, glossy, lace-up shoes.
"Welcome, Clamenza," Carmen said, motioning the old woman to the chair opposite her.
Clamenza's gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and on her head she wore a black hat, which she promptly removed. "We have a problem," she said gruffly, sitting down. Placing the hat on her lap, she leaned her walking stick against the round, mahogany table that separated them. A cockroach scrambled out from the sleeve of her purple coat and ran across the table.
In one fluid motion, Carmen's hand came crashing down on the insect, splattering it on the table.
Clamenza gasped in horror, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as the bug dragged its misshapen body across the table, minus its two back legs.
Henry floated silently back into the room a short time later with his tray of delicacies balanced perfectly on one hand. He slid the tray into the centre of the table without disturbing a single item.
Carmen was wiping her hand on a napkin. "Dispose of that, will you, Henry," she said, motioning towards the mangled corpse of the cockroach. She turned to look at Clamenza. "If you insist on bringing vermin into the house, I shall have Henry spray you with pesticide on your next visit."
"Most certainly," Henry said, looking down his nose at Clamenza. He picked up the insect by one of its antennae, then dropped it unceremoniously into the napkin Carmen held out. He quickly folded the napkin, taking it from Carmen's hand, then shoved it into his jacket pocket with revulsion. "Enjoy your snack, ladies," he said, spiriting from the room in the blink of an eye.
Clamenza squirmed in her seat, quickly composing herself after the loss of her little friend. There were plenty more, after all, where he had come from. "Such unnerving, unnatural creatures, vampires," Clamenza said as the door to the library closed silently behind Henry. With a silver spoon, she piled a mountain of caviar onto a thin slice of the baguette. "Beluga?" she enquired, biting into the crisp, tiny black beads heaped on the triangular piece of toast.
"Of course it's Beluga," Carmen spat. "What else would it be, some disgusting cheap knock-off? Now," she said, bringing closure to any further discussion about food, bugs, or vampires. "Tell me about this latest problem we have with the witch."
"Witches," Clamenza corrected between bites. "Two witches. But it is the Rosenberg witch that we should be most concerned about. She is one of the Saken Circle. The very circle determined on destroying us."
"I know all about the Saken Circle," Carmen growled, the serpent bangle on her arm hissing and quivering. "Have you managed to locate the other witch imprisoned in the red bottle? The one that you lost."
Clamenza shook her head. "It is near. I can feel the—"
Carmen crashed her fist down on the table, silencing the woman. "Near is not good enough, old woman, and I don't care what you feel. It is only a matter of time before they free the girl from the bottle. And if that happens—"
"I know what happens. With four witches from the Saken Circle, it is only a matter of time before they locate the fifth."
"You have a spy in the Witchwood House, do you not?"
"I do," Clamenza agreed. "A boy."
"Then I suggest you use him to find out how close they are. Do you know if they are in possession of the book?"
"No," Clamenza said sharply, unfolding a linen napkin on the table and arranging an assortment of food in the centre of it. Folding it up, she placed the laden napkin in her coat pocket. "I know what I have to do," she said rising, starting towards the door.
"You have forgotten something," Carmen said, tossing the walking stick at the old woman.
Clamenza spun around, and snatched the tossed stick out of the air, without so much as a flinch.
Carmen picked up her bell and shook it, summoning Henry.
"Never mind," Clamenza drawled, turning her back and walking out of the room. "I can see my own way out without the aid of a sneering vampire looking down his nose at me."
"You must be Clamenza," Vera said, walking up to the old woman leaving the library.
Clamenza looked the woman up and down and sniffed the air. Mothballs. The
poor woman reeked of mothballs, for goodness' sake. Unlike her perfectly accessorized sister, who smelled of a woman fresh from her lover's arms, Vera smelled of mothballs and wore a dowdy, floral house frock and flat, brown, lace-up shoes similar to those worn by men. She was rubbing her hands nervously together, her face pinched painfully as the old woman glared at her.
"And you must be Carmen's skinny kid sister," Clamenza retorted, taking a step backward, repelled by the smell of mothballs. "Tell me," the older woman said, "have you seen your husband this afternoon? I would keep an eye on him if I were you. A man could easily get lost in a house of this size, and, well, with your sister looking like... like she does, well, it can't be easy living in a shadow cast by the likes of a woman like her..." Clamenza shrugged apologetically.
Vera's face contorted into an angry scowl, then she turned abruptly on her heel and scurried away in the direction from which she had come, mumbling and cursing, her flat shoes slapping the white marble floor.
Once alone in the spacious foyer, Clamenza shook her leg in its thick black stocking, freeing a small militia of cockroaches which scurried along the cold, polished floor toward the library. "Go forth, my little beauties, and seek your revenge," she chuckled, pushing open the front doors of Lancaster House and walking out into the sunlight, her little black hat shading her face from the late afternoon sun.
Moments later, Clamenza threw her head back and chuckled again, her shoulders jumping up and down as she heard a piercing squeal followed by a tinkling bell and Carmen shrieking for Henry to come quickly. "Well done, my little friends," Clamenza said, a broad smile spreading across her face. Then suddenly her smile fell away and, for the briefest of moments, another scent, a pretty scent, piqued her interest. It was a floral scent, or perhaps the scent of sugar and cream, if sugar and cream had a scent. It was emanating from the white Range Rover pulling out of the driveway and driving away, then, just as quickly, the scent was gone. Clamenza shook her head in frustration. "Impossible," she muttered, her feet crunching noisily on the gravel and twigs as she disappeared into the long shadows cast by the nearby forest. Moments later, a dark cloud of bats rose in the air above a thick canopy of branches, and flittered away.
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