Cantrips: Volume #2: Minor Magics Crafted to Amuse and Entertain

by Joey W. Hill

  She had a mesmerizing voice, the voice of a priestess. Grace's attention sharpened on her like the blade Mary used to cut her own arm. She positioned her wrist over the cup and let the blood flow into it, massaging the area below the cut to keep it coming. "Do you like any flavoring with it?" she asked conversationally. "I have a variety of cooking seasonings I could use."

  Grace shook her head. "I did not ask for your blood."

  "No. But will you refuse it?" At Grace's silence, Mary nodded. "My Agnes is not the only one who does not trust easily. I expect your journey has been difficult, on your own as you are. Are you old for one of your kind? You feel...younger to me."

  "Not too young." She was eighty, and fifty was the demarcation line for fledgling to young adult vampire, though she'd still be fair game to older vampires. She'd managed to stay ahead of them and free to make her own choices. Mostly.

  "Hmm." Mary gave her a mother's look, one that said she knew Grace wasn't telling her the whole truth. She hadn't been mothered...ever. Grace would have smiled at it, but it brought back some empty memories. Her mother had been a human whore. Her father had been a vampire indulging in a night of pleasure and a meal of blood he'd wiped from the whore's memory. Grace supposed she should be glad her father had been in the area long enough to hear the woman was pregnant. When he found out the babe was his, he'd stolen Grace away before the afterbirth could be cleaned off her flesh. Before the woman could set her new child to her breast and realize what she'd spawned was going to use infant fangs to seek blood, not milk.

  Leo was not father material by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd been a decent sire, protecting her and guiding her in vampire ways until she was fifty-four, at which point he cut her loose, indicating he had his own life to lead.

  Mary wrapped a cloth around her wrist and used the knife to chop up some herbs more finely. Grace rocked Agnes as the child murmured in her sleep and burrowed closer. She was a comforting weight in Grace's arms. But while Mary could tend to Grace like she did her child, that wasn't what Grace was. Grace spoke low, an unmistakable command. "Come here so I can tend your wrist."

  Mary glanced up at the tone and met Grace's eyes. Grace didn't blink. Mary needed to realize what she'd invited into her home, what held her child. Setting aside the knife, Mary brought the cup of blood and placed it on the rough table next to Grace. "Unwrap the bandage," Grace directed her. When Mary did, she closed her fingers over her forearm and brought her wrist to her mouth. Pressing her lips and tongue to the cut, she healed and cleaned it at once with the anti-coagulants all vampires possessed.

  Mary's fingers twitched, her breath drawing in. Arousal was a natural reaction to a vampire's attention, one of the many abilities they had, but Grace had no designs on her that way. She was grateful for the gift of the blood and didn't want the woman's arm to get infected. The protectiveness she felt toward her, and especially toward the child she'd rescued and now held in her arm, unbalanced her, motivating her to restore a sense of primacy.

  When she was done, Mary eased Agnes out of Grace's arms. Grace lifted the cup to her lips as Mary sat in the chair across from her, bending her head over the child to kiss her brow and hum to her. For a time, they sat that way, two women and a sleeping child by the firelight. Grace drank her meal and, for the first time in a while, she experienced a sense of safety.

  At length, they began to talk. Conversation wasn't something Grace had done in recent weeks, yet with Mary, the words began to fall like the soft rain that came that night and pattered on the thatched roof. It had a couple leaks, but Mary rose, putting Agnes in her bed and placing pots to catch the water. When she sat back down, the women talked long into the night in low voices. Mary's husband had died some time ago, so she cared for Agnes with the help of others in the village. Over time they talked of what they were, witch and vampire, and Grace wondered aloud that Mary had reacted to her nature so matter-of-factly.

  “You are a creature of the night," Mary said practically. "I am a witch, like my mother, my grandmother and my great-grandmother. The power of the elements course through me. In ritual, the Goddess enters my body and I feel the scope of all She is, her and the Great Lord. Why shouldn’t there be beings different from us?”

  “Your priests would say I am a creature of unholy darkness.”

  Mary’s eyes sparked with bitter humor. “They would say the same of me, wouldn’t they? And not just because I’m a witch. For that lot, all you have to be is a woman. Or have a single thought different from their narrow view of the world.” Leaning forward, she closed her hand over Grace’s. Vampires didn’t often allow the spontaneous touch of a human, particularly when that human knew what they were. But she stayed still beneath Mary’s close regard. “You wondered that I did not fear you. I am not foolish; I know your kind can be as brutal and ruthless as humans. But that isn't what I read from your nature. It is not what you are that means something to me. It is who you are, and I see your heart is good. You saved a human child from the wood when it would have been a simple matter to most of your kind to leave her to her fate, the way our hunters ignore a fallen baby bird as the inevitable cruelty of nature." A faint smile touched her lips, sadness crossing her face. "Though my Lars would have climbed the tree and put the bird back in the nest. He had a kind heart, too, and did not always assume Nature intends to be cruel, any more than I intended to let my child wander away in the wood tonight."

  Her fingers tightened on Grace briefly, then she drew back. "You may stay as long as you wish. Become a part of our world, and see if Sanctity can become your home, if that is what is meant to be.”

  * * *

  Out of politeness and necessity, she'd told Mary she would stay just one daylight stretch in Mary's cellar. One day became another, then another. With the unconscionable ignorance and brutality she’d encountered in the human and vampire worlds up to now, leaving such an oasis was difficult.

  She’d quickly proven her usefulness. She kept the constant threat of wolves well outside the perimeter of where they tended crops, hunted and gathered. When a band of cutthroats had tried to strong arm them into giving them food they couldn’t afford to lose, she’d dealt with that as well. Quietly, viciously and efficiently, the bodies gone before the villagers had to worry about what she’d done or how she’d done it. They'd given her their protection. She would do the same for them.

  Now, four decades later, having done myriad things to provide for and care for them, there was not a person in the village who didn't accept her as one of them, or have a mostly amicable relationship with her, though she had remained closest to Agnes, Mary, and the women of the coven. She could have moved on years ago, probably should have, but she’d never had a home, and had quickly discovered it was the outer expression of the soul, something necessary to thrive.

  All this time, she'd protected them from anything that threatened them. Unfortunately, she hadn’t anticipated an enemy from within their own bodies.

  Rumors of the sickness had come with a passing peddler, and hours after his departure, it had arrived, striking Millie's weak son first. While the peddler had said it was worse in the cities, the carnage there a vision from Hell itself, Grace couldn't imagine anything worse than this. Two moons had passed, and during that time they'd lost so many. There had to be something she could do. Something.

  Coming back to the here and now, Grace went into the dwelling she most dreaded entering, for fear that the plague would be advancing on the one who mattered so much to her. Agnes’s mother had died some years ago, at thirty-nine. Her face had been creased by the elements and her body permanently bent by hard labor, but as her daughter and the protector she'd brought into the village a decade and a half before bent over her, she'd given them the same warm smile in her hazel eyes before she slipped behind the Veil. Grace had held Agnes in those first few heart-rending moments, the woman's hot tears bathing her bodice.

  Her daughter was proving more long-lived, because Grace had done all Agnes would all
ow to ensure it. She'd given Agnes two of the three binding marks a vampire could give a human. While in the vampire world it made Agnes her second-marked servant, this wasn't the vampire world. Grace had explained the marks as a convenient way to help Agnes and her find one another, no matter the circumstances, with the added benefit of being able to speak in one another's minds as needed. Agnes had stepped into her mother's shoes seamlessly, and was the de facto leader of their community. With Grace helping as needed to maintain the well-being of the village, being able to communicate so closely was a boon Agnes had accepted.

  Agnes had learned a great deal about the vampire world over the years. In the subtle shadows of the heart where forbidden emotions dwelled, Agnes understood what those marks could mean, if other factors weren't involved. Grace had long suspected that summed up why Agnes had balked at the third mark, which would have made her Grace's full servant, binding her mortality to hers.

  Grace had respected her decision, though now she wished she’d overridden the woman's will and forced it upon her, no matter how unconscionable that would have been. Because while the second mark had prolonged her life, it hadn’t been able to resist the Black Death any more than anyone else. Though for the moment Agnes’s case seemed less virulent. It gave Grace hope, but in the face of so much desperation, hope came hand-in-hand with fear.

  Please don’t let me lose you. Please. She kept such thoughts blocked from Agnes's mind. But because her emotions about it were hard to contain, the block had to be stronger than usual. Which meant she could feel Agnes’s life essence, but until she stepped into the hovel and saw her on each visit, she didn’t know if the disease had progressed or not.

  She ducked into the small shelter with its earth-packed floor and straw and mud walls. The room smelled of the pig snoring in the enclosure in the corner, but Grace had been keeping him and his straw clean, so the scent was like a cozy barn. She hoped the friendly creature gave Agnes some company when she was lucid, since Grace could not help fill the significant silence in Agnes's home during her long hours of tending to others.

  She’d been the one to remove the bodies of Agnes’s husband and son from this space when they succumbed to the disease. Burning their corpses had been like being stabbed in the chest by a rough stake, over and over. She and Dan had always had an uneasy relationship, probably because he knew his wife was in love with Grace, and had been since Agnes had become a woman. Grace had never taken anything from her that belonged to Dan, however, and Agnes herself had done a fine job helping him understand her impossible love for Grace didn't diminish her love for him.

  It didn't hurt that Agnes had fallen head-over-heels in love with Dan at nineteen, and no wonder. Not only was Dan a handsome man, he was brave, hardworking and gave his heart fully to Agnes and his son. He had all the traits of alpha leadership needed to support, respect and stand toe-to-toe with a strong woman like Agnes, and his possessiveness toward his wife was something Grace respected. She felt it toward Agnes herself, after all, and could not fault him for it. If Agnes had ever consented to the third mark, Grace would have been far less accepting of Dan's claim than he was of hers. As possessive as humans thought they were toward their loved ones, it was nothing compared to how vampires could feel about their servants. Well, at least how she assumed they did. Truth, she didn't have a whole lot of experience around other vampires and servants, but she knew the way she felt and figured it wasn't much different.

  Grace wondered what it had felt like, being in love the way Agnes and Dan had been. The law outside the village might say Agnes was little more than Dan's property, to be treated as treasure or trash according to his whim, but their village was different. Men and women were partners as well as lovers here, the men in a unique position to see the strength of women exercised fully to mutual benefit.

  Agnes was on her pallet. She'd thrown up again, and made a valiant attempt to use the basin at her side, but it had slipped from her fingers and fallen to the floor. Grace swallowed over a spike of fear as she saw the blood. When she laid a cloth over the mess and knelt by the bed, she put her hand on Agnes's head. The woman was burning up. Damn it. Her temperature was so spiked, Grace was surprised to find Agnes lucid when she looked at Grace with bright, pain-ridden eyes. She managed a weak smile, so much like her mother’s it choked Grace with anguish.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she rasped, by way of greeting.

  “There’s a first time for everything, moppet,” Grace said. They’d always teased one another thus. Bending, she brushed a kiss over her lips. She had a cluster of large, blackish blisters on her throat, one of which had burst. Grace was repelled by them, but Agnes herself didn't repel her. It was the sickness that offended and enraged her, not the woman it was attacking. She quelled her reaction to the former though, not wanting Agnes to think it was the latter. Agnes would see nothing in her eyes but care for her, though Grace kept her mind firmly battened down, since it was a riot of worry and anxiety.

  “It’s Yule tomorrow night," Agnes said. "Did you realize?”

  Grace shook her head. She didn’t even know what day of the week it was. She’d been so exhausted yesterday, she’d almost stepped into full sunlight. Since then, unless it was the dark of night, like it was now, she’d used the tunnels to get from hut to hut. Over the years, they'd realized the benefit of the system for giving her access to their homes if needed. Since most of the community went to bed early and rose even earlier, it was also a way for her to find her meals quickly in the dawn hours. The women of the circle had taken turns feeding her, so those in the village initially uneasy with her did not have to confront that aspect of her nature.

  “The Lord and Lady must be honored," Agnes mumbled. "It will give us answers, help us find our way, make sense of this. Give us a sign of hope. Perhaps a sacrifice can be made. A penance for sins.”

  Grace gave her a sharp look. Usually the first thing Agnes wanted was an update on everyone in the village, no matter how painful hearing those updates were. She'd also offer whatever suggestions she could, being a skilled herbalist and healer herself. But as the sickness had increased, her mind had been less focused. Since the fever caused delirium, as well as proved acceleration of the disease, Grace tried to quell the cold fear in her belly. Instead, she made her tone as caustically teasing as it always was, to bring Agnes back to earth. “Is this a new side effect? You've been infected by that shite Father Baldwin preaches when you have to suffer a visit from him and pretend to be dutiful peasants without a clever thought in your heads? He'll be delighted.”

  “No.” Agnes grimaced at her, reassuring her with the expression. “But we all carry within us…wrongs, hurts and angers. Regrets.”

  Agnes's hazel eyes held Grace's. She also had her mother's peculiar way of seeing into a soul as if it were an open room. The unexpected depth of that gaze resurrected the lives Grace had taken, forcing her to push away their untimely intrusion into this moment. She'd made mistakes as a fledgling, exposing herself in places she shouldn't have been and had had to clean up her own messes. She'd been pursued by ignorant humans, forcing her into situations where taking lives was necessary to protect herself and her anonymity. She also had the annual kill. A vampire had to kill and drain at least one human every twelve months, a sacrifice different from their normal blood needs. It was required to stay in a peak mental and physical state. The annual kill had to be a person of worth, to ensure the blood was properly nourishing.

  She hadn't given those sacrifices much thought until now, probably because she'd been given no reason to particularly value humans outside this village, but Agnes's unrelenting look made her think of how many of those souls were like these here. Decent, good humans, their lives cut short thanks to her. She'd also killed one of her own kind. She'd made that kill here, when she'd encountered a vampire who was going to cull his annual kill from Sanctity's ranks, and he'd refused to be dissuaded by more reasonable arguments. Yes, she supposed it was hypocritical of her, but these people belong
ed to her. They weren't fair game for other vampires' needs.

  But that was her. What penance would be enough to bring life back to the humans in this village, to their hearts? How did one recover from so much loss? Nearly two-thirds of the village was dead. The last child had died a week ago. Consigning their little bodies to the flames had been the hardest. Seeing Lucille hand over her fourth with nothing but a look of dead, lost hope had been worse than the wailing grief when the mother had lost the first two. Or the helpless desperation in her face when Grace had to pry the third from her shaking fingers. Lucille had died four days ago, and Grace could only think of it as a desolate mercy.

  "I'm sorry," Agnes rasped, drawing her out of that dark place. "For the mess on the floor. I couldn't...get up, else I'd have...cleaned up."

  "And I would have thrashed you within an inch of your life."

  Agnes coughed. "Think we're within an inch now, aren't we?"

  “Hush. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Grace said quietly. “We need to put some food in you.” Starvation could sap Agnes’s already failing strength.

  “Penance is possible,” Agnes croaked, back on the same topic again. Grace feared it heralded fever delirium, but she let her ramble as she retrieved clean towels. “Calling down the energy to revitalize us, heal us, quicken our wombs once more. But only by a woman strong enough to bear it for us all. Not by any of us. Only by one who lives in the shadow of night, who feeds on the blood of others.”

  Her eyes glazed, as if in trance, and Grace’s heart hitched. While delirium was a result of high fever, Agnes also had the Sight. Grace just didn't know which held sway at the moment. “You, Grace,” Agnes said. “You must do the Great Rite.”

  Okay, delirium was in charge. "I don't know how, moppet. I've only ever watched all of you do it. Plus, there’s not a man here strong enough to stand with me and call the Lord down into him.”