She felt a thrill as the idea took shape. Why not try it? What if adding the ash to her moisturizer, instead of merely slowing or decreasing the signs of age was, in fact, able to reverse them? It would be a revolutionary breakthrough. And it would be hers.
Sophie carefully emptied the ash into a ziplock bag and tucked it into a pocket in her tunic. She grew restless, impatient to get out of here and eager to experiment with this new ingredient. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just a little before 1 a.m. Drat. Since vampires had adapted to sunlight, the constraint of getting home before dawn was no longer an issue. This party could drag on well into midday.
How to get around that?
What could she say to get Mrs. Deveraux to allow her leave early? The obvious answer would be that she was devastated by the accident. She could offer to come back tomorrow and clean up, maybe even throw in a free cocktail party to be given at Mrs. Deveraux’s time of choosing.
Vampires, for all their accumulated wealth, were notoriously tight-fisted. The free party might just do it.
Sophie closed her eyes and willed Mrs. Deveraux to come into the kitchen. She had only to wait a minute before the woman appeared at the door, looking slightly puzzled.
She frowned at Sophie. “Now this is strange. A second ago I had a reason to come into the kitchen but now I seem to have forgotten it completely.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “The events of this evening must have unnerved me more than I realized.”
Sophie assumed a properly downcast expression. She even began to clasp and unclasp her hands like an anxious schoolgirl facing a stern headmistress, making sure her distress transmitted itself through the air and into Mrs. Deveraux’s consciousness.
Mrs. Deveraux immediately picked up on Sophie’s angst. She reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching her. Sophie was, after all, the help and a witch to boot. “Please, Sophie,” she said. “I can see how upset you are. I assure you there will be no repercussions from tonight’s accident.”
Sophie let a single tear trail down her cheek. “I just feel so awful. The whole thing is making me physically ill.” For added emphasis, she brought a fist up and pressed it against her mouth.
Mrs. Deveraux backed away in alarm. “Perhaps you should go home,” she said quickly. “I didn’t consider how this might affect a woman of your age. I can have my own staff clean up tomorrow. There is no need for you to stay.” She caught herself then and gave Sophie a sideways glance. “Naturally, I would expect a credit on the bill….”
Vampires were so predictable. Sophie kept her face a mask of unhappiness. “Naturally.”
After that impudent crack about “a woman of her age” (for Mrs. Deveraux had no way of knowing how old Sophie was), Sophie was tempted to forget about the party offer. But she didn’t have that many vampire contacts and if the ash worked…She acknowledged Mrs. Deveraux’s permission to leave with a nod. “And for your consideration, I would be happy to cater a small cocktail party for you in the future. No charge.”
That clinched it. Mrs. Deveraux practically pushed Sophie out the door with admonitions to take care going home and to put the unfortunate event of the evening out of her mind.
Sophie waited until the door was firmly latched behind her to allow a smile. She summoned her transport telepathically. She didn’t drive. Often she teleported herself, a trick she learned from her big sister. Not many witches could do it. It took concentration, though, and she found when she was distracted or excited the results were sometimes spotty. She might end up in a different county or a different state. Tonight she was both distracted and excited. Better to be safe than sorry.
Besides, she liked to support local business. The company she used was owned by a warlock with a driving service that provided after-hours transportation for supernaturals at reduced rates. Sometimes that meant waiting awhile for a car to appear. But tonight Sophie was lucky.
In a matter of minutes, the cab materialized in the driveway. Sophie climbed in, greeted the driver, and gave her address. The cabbie neither acknowledged the greeting nor the address. In fact, he hardly waited for her to pull shut the door before the car lurched away. Sophie’s head banged against the headrest.
Had a bad day, have we?, she thought grumpily, wondering if she should make it worse by giving him warts.
But happier thoughts soon prevailed. She couldn’t wait to get home and mix up a batch of moisturizer, this time with a pinch of Mr. Deveraux. How much to use would be a serious consideration. She pulled the baggie out of her pocket. There wasn’t a lot of ash. Even considering what little she scraped off the cake, the amount left would maybe fill a half-cup measure. It must be terrifically concentrated.
The driver screeched to a stop in front of her house the same abrupt way he had pulled away from the Deveraux mansion. Again, Sophie’s head bounced. Her temper flared and she raised a hand to plant a great big hairy wart on the tip of his nose when he turned around for the first time.
She let her hand fall. Great. Of all the drivers in the city I get the troll, she thought. His hairy face was already covered with warts. And trolls were notoriously bad drivers.
His guttural voice barked at her. “Here you be, ma’am. That’ll be twenty bucks.”
She clicked her tongue and forked over the cash, adding a five-dollar tip even though she knew he didn’t deserve it. She had a soft spot for trolls. They couldn’t help how they looked or their thorny temperaments. It was genetic.
At least this time, he waited for her to get all the way out of the cab before gunning away from the curb.
Sophie started up the path to her house. She lived on the outskirts of the city, a place close enough to allow access to the museums and theaters she loved, but far enough removed to allow the kind of outdoor activity witches enjoyed without attracting the curiosity or attention of neighbors. Her cottage was small but comfortable and she filled it with beautiful earthly objects—rocks, seashells, flowers, and plants. It was a place of refuge and light.
And best of all, it was a place with a basement.
Which is where Sophie headed now, pausing only to switch on a light upstairs before heading down. Her workshop was here. Her tools, her cauldrons, her herbs. She’d had an industrial sink and stove installed and shelving to hold the basic ingredients of her cosmetic line. Everything was neat and orderly and stored in a way to make her work easy.
Sophie was nothing if not organized.
She tied her hair back and an apron around her slender frame and got right to work. In forty minutes, she had a batch of moisturizer brewing on the stove. It was time to add the new ingredient; time to add Mr. Deveraux and see what he brought to the mix. Her hand was shaking with excitement as she measured out a teaspoon, then reduced it by one half. After all, she had no idea what the effect of the ash would be. And since she was going to be the guinea pig in this experiment, she felt it prudent to proceed cautiously. She could always add more to a later batch if need be.
Sophie stirred in the ash. It dissolved into the cream base instantly. Now all she had to do was wait for the mixture to cool. She could hardly stand still, her excitement and impatience bubbled up inside her like champagne waiting to be uncorked. She stuck her finger into the pan, testing, again and again only to snatch it back and dance around waving her burned digit. Why was it taking so long for the damned stuff to cool? She had spells to make things hot as fire but none that did the opposite. She’d have to work on that.
Later.
At last, the mixture was cool enough to allow Sophie to spoon a portion onto a glass plate. She swirled it a bit, approving of the texture—not too greasy, not too dry. She lifted the plate and sniffed. A nice citrusy bouquet…with just a slight undercurrent of musk. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. The citrus was supposed to be there. The musk? She wasn’t too thrilled but realized that the musk was Mr. Deveraux. He was male, after all. Perhaps in the next batch she would add a stronger fragrance—essence of jasmine, maybe, or frangi
pani—to counteract it.
In any case, the scent was not important. It was time to sample the cream, to see if what she hoped was true.
Her hand shook a little as she scooped a portion onto two fingers. She crossed the room to watch in the mirror as she smoothed the moisturizer onto her face. It felt rich and luxurious on her skin. That was a good thing. It was absorbed quickly into her skin, leaving no greasy residue. Good, again. It tingled just a little. Sophie’s inspiration for when she took the stuff public. It gave the impression that there were active ingredients in the lotion, that it was doing something. An attribute of her original formula.
They were all attributes of her original formula.
So far, she saw and felt nothing new. No flush of rejuvenation. No tightening of the skin to signal a return to youthful firmness and texture.
Maybe she needed to give it more time.
She stared at her reflection. And waited.
And waited.
Finally, after fifteen minutes, she gave up. With a shrug, she turned away from the mirror. She wouldn’t let herself be too disappointed. This was only a first attempt, after all. She stared at the pan on the stove, wondering if she should give it another try tonight. But her tired feet and tight shoulders intervened, begging to be put to bed.
Sophie acquiesced with a sigh. She was exhausted. She locked the baggie with the remains of Mr. Deveraux in a drawer, flipped off the light, and went upstairs to lay her weary bones to rest.
When she awoke the next morning, the first thing Sophie did was rush into the bathroom to examine her face in the mirror. She’d had a dream that the cream worked. Her dreams were often portents of things to come and she believed in them.
But she could see nothing changed in the heart-shaped face that stared back at her. The tiny wrinkles still radiated out from the corners of her eyes. Her hair was still touched with gray at the temples, though she hadn’t really expected the cream would change her hair. Not unless she rubbed the stuff into it. She scolded herself in impatience for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. If she wanted to change her hair, there were plenty of conventional human products on the market to take care of it. No, she was looking for something different. Something to take the years away, not just cover them up.
She got dressed and went directly back down to the basement. This time she added a full teaspoon of the ash to a new batch of moisturizer. She applied it liberally and went about her day.
There were always lots of chores for a practicing witch. Besides her catering business, Sophie had clientele who came for readings or spells. There were herbs to gather, earth summonings to perform. She was an important witch in her part of the country, and a great deal of her time was spent in correspondence with others of similar station all around the world. Generally, the time passed quickly and she was content.
Today, however, Sophie felt restless and ill at ease. She couldn’t concentrate on her readings, had no interest in her spells. She ignored the weeds in her garden and cut short her correspondence on the Worldwide Witches Web, even though one of the messages was from her sister and marked “important.”
When at last evening arrived, she allowed herself to look in the mirror. She saw no remarkable changes. Actually, she saw no changes at all. She stared at her reflection and frowned bitterly.
Then she grew angry with herself. She recognized why her day had been unproductive and knew very well what was at the root of her restlessness. She had been self-indulgent, selfish, something very out of character. She had gotten caught up in a foolish daydream. She knew there was nothing (short of becoming vampire) that could reverse the signs of age. What had possessed her to even consider it? Especially since her own formulas worked a kind of magic in themselves and didn’t rely on immolated vampire dust to work.
No, better to proceed with her original formulas. They were pretty darned good when you thought about it. Look at her. She was eighty, for goodness sake, and no one ever believed it when she told them. Besides, even if the formula had worked, how did she think she’d get her hands on more vampire ash? More birthday candle accidents? How likely was that?
She hurried down to the basement, determined to throw Mr. Deveraux right into the trash. She opened the drawer and pulled out the baggie, even had her foot on the pedal that levitated the lid of the trash can, when something stayed her hand.
The dream.
The dream she’d had last night. She closed her eyes and conjured the image. In the dream, she had been standing right in this very place, at this very counter, and when her eyes had risen to the mirror, the face and body reflected there were hers but younger, prettier. Her lashes were long and luxurious, her lips full, her body lush. She was perfect. She was beautiful. The cream had not only transformed her face but had altered her entirely.
For a woman who had always been considered “plain” (though not unattractive, she was quick to amend), it was a captivating and alluring dream. And one she was, in reality, loathe to abandon.
And so Sophie made the decision to give it one more try. This time, she would add all that was left of Mr. Deveraux’s mortal remains to the cream in the bottom of her kettle. She did it quickly before she could change her mind. Then she scooped the mixture onto her fingers and smoothed it thickly onto her skin.
She didn’t stand around this time and wait for something to happen. She went straight to bed. If when she awoke in the morning, there was still no change, she would give it not one more thought. No, she’d proceed with her original plan and contact a witch she knew in real estate to start looking for an industrial site where she could manufacture her night cream. Her night cream. No more thoughts of adding vampire dust to a perfectly good product.
Sophie first heard the voice at 2:30 a.m. At least she thought it was a voice. It—something—made her sit straight up in bed, heart pounding. She looked around, wild-eyed and gasping. She was so frightened she dove back under the covers and waved her hand to illuminate every light in the house. Only when the cottage was aglow did she again peek out, eyes darting into every corner.
She was alone.
Sophie crept out of bed. She tiptoed from one room to the other, finding nothing amiss, no one (or thing) lurking anywhere. Just to be certain, she looked in every closet and peeked under the bed and under every large piece of furniture. She went from being frightened to embarrassed and then to feeling more than a little foolish.
What was wrong with her?
Sophie trudged into the basement. She was wide-awake now. Might as well clean up the mess she’d left after her unsuccessful experiments with Mr. Deveraux. As she moved around, sending pots and utensils into the sink to be scoured, she thought how fortunate it was that none of her witch friends had been here to see that mortifying display of cowardice. She would have been drummed out of the Witches’ Benevolent Society whose sole purpose was to come to the aid of fellow witches in times of peril. No one would have entrusted her safety to a witch that showed such a lack of courage, and because of what? An imagined whisper in a stupid dream.
Sophie looked around once the chores were done. She was keenly aware that deep inside her heart of hearts disappointment coiled like a serpent ready to pump its deadly poison into her psyche if she let it. Despite her best efforts to contain her optimism, she had wanted the cream to work. It would have elevated her in the human world, something from which Sophie had always felt separate and apart. It would have been her entrée into a world of celebrity and acceptance. She would have been welcomed and sought after because she could offer what no one else had ever been able to—a veritable fountain of youth. It would—
“My god, how long am I going to have to listen to this drivel?”
The voice was right at Sophie’s ear. She started and yelped in surprise and shock. She whirled around, fists at the ready, a curse of protection on her lips.
She was alone.
How could that be?
Her heart seemed ready to burst from her chest. “Who’s there?”
she yelled, adrenaline making her voice fierce and harsh. “I am a powerful witch. If you don’t show yourself, I’ll send you to Hades in a million broken pieces.”
There was a chuckle. Once again, right at her ear. “I’m afraid you’ve fixed it so I can’t show myself. However, if you look in that mirror over there, we might be able to figure this out.”
The voice was masculine, authoritative, with a hint of a British accent.
Sophie didn’t move. She was afraid it might be a trick. There were, after all, lots of invisible beings in the spirit world and not all of them were friendly. In order to battle one, however, she had to know what she was dealing with.
“I have no idea what I am now,” the voice replied rather snippily, as if divining her thoughts. “You’ve fixed that, too. Now go over to the mirror. I’d like to know even if you don’t.”
Then, through no effort or will on Sophie’s part, her feet moved toward the mirror. She tried to stop, digging in her heels, grasping at the counter with both hands. It did no good. Her feet trudged onward, and some invisible force broke her grip. She was being inexorably drawn to the mirror like a puppet responding to a master’s tug on her strings. Her temper flared. Whatever this was might get her to the damned mirror but it couldn’t make her look.
She squeezed her eyes shut, even pressed the palms of her hands against her eyelids, refusing to give in.
“Oh, for the love of everything evil and unnatural in this world and the next, will you stop behaving like a child? You’re the one who did this. At least allow me to see what kind of hell you’ve trapped me in.”
Sophie began to panic. The voice was right. Whatever it was had taken up residence in her body. How is that possible? She knew of possession. But whatever this was did not feel like a devil, exactly. And she wasn’t levitating or spewing invective—
“Not yet anyway,” the voice said. “But if you don’t open your eyes in ten seconds, you’ll be spewing more than invective, I promise you.”
Sophie swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Okay. Let’s get this over with.
Many Bloody Returns Page 22