Jean-Paul clipped a pair of redundant buds, then removed his flat cap. The work was physical, dirty, never ending, but there was no place either of them would rather be than standing among the vines, except perhaps lying in their wedding bed. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and took a drink of water from his flask. As he drank, his eye caught sight of something on the hill.
“There it is again,” he said, pointing. “That dog I was telling you about.”
Elena followed his gaze but saw only the brown curl of its tail as the animal ducked behind the row of plants.
“He’s been hanging around the place for three days now.” Jean-Paul put his cap back on and grinned. “One of yours?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but transmogrification was always conceivable. Elena shielded her eyes and watched for movement in the vine row. A leaf shook, and she spotted the animal staring at her from the top of the hillside a hundred yards away. His movement seemed unnaturally fast, even for a dog.
“Three days you say?”
“Might be coming from the old Du Monde place. A new owner moved in.”
“Possibly.” Elena lowered her hand and went back to work training the vines so they’d lean against the stakes in the most comfortable position for the long growing season. Her gold wedding ring glinted in the sun as she smoothed her hand over the canes. After the events of last fall that had nearly stripped her of her livelihood as a vine witch, she took more care with each task, appreciating every new leaf and bud that opened to the world. She’d nearly succumbed to the pull of her mother’s bloodline, delving deeper into the art of poison until the knowledge coalesced at her fingertips at the mere touch of the underside of a toadstool or the hard shell of the belladonna seed. In the end she’d resisted the call by renouncing her mother’s influence. And now the positive flow of energy she’d fought for met no resistance as it swam through her heart and hands to encourage the vine and coax the fruit forward.
Still, something kicked inside, demanding her intuition’s attention. She looked up again at the dog on the hill. The animal stared straight at her. His ears remained relaxed yet wary until the left one suddenly twitched. He’d heard something. He turned his nose in the direction of the sound to sniff the air. Elena stretched her neck to see what had aroused the dog’s attention. There on the road walked two figures heading straight for the vineyard. One, at least a foot taller than the man beside him, was dressed in a black pinstripe suit and hard-topped derby. The other wore a long white tunic and straw field hat.
Ah, Brother Anselm.
“Your intuition is as good as Grand-Mère’s was,” she said, letting her voice ride on the back of a spell until it reached the dog’s ear. The animal startled when the words landed and squared his head to watch her again.
“What’s that you said?” Jean-Paul asked.
“We have company.”
The couple set their sécateurs in a basket and walked out of the vine row to greet the visitors in the courtyard of Château Renard, the name of which implied a much grander estate than the modest six-room house that overlooked the Chanceaux Valley. Before the men were within speaking distance, the dog on the hill trotted away, his head and tail dropped low.
Jean-Paul wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief before tying it around his neck. Brother Anselm waved from the road, though the man with him made no similar attempt to be friendly. No, that one carried the whiff of bad news on him, Elena thought, seeing how stiff and uncomfortable he walked in his suit.
She returned the wave, then wiped her hands on her apron, not that it did much good for the green grime that permanently resided under her thumbnails from pinching off leaves.
“Bonjour,” the monk said when he reached her. He removed his hat. A fringe of gray hair stood on end above his ears.
Elena kissed him on each cheek, welcoming him. As usual, the old man smelled of yeast and vinegar and aged cheese. She stepped back and waited while Jean-Paul embraced the monk and shook his hand. The stranger’s eyes, judging by their slight squint, watched her with a hint of suspicion.
“I do apologize for showing up unannounced,” Brother Anselm said, “but the gentleman says his business is of an urgent nature.” The monk turned the brim of his hat around in his hands. “May I introduce Jamra—”
“You are Elena Boureanu?” The man didn’t extend a hand in introduction or even a friendly gaze.
“It’s Elena Martel now,” she said, looking up at his unusual height.
“Ah, congratulations, madame.” He cleared his throat and quickly moved on. “Pardon the intrusion, but I am hoping to find someone you’re familiar with.”
“Certainly,” she said, though already her instinct was telling her lips to say as little as possible. She did not read omens like Grand-Mère had, but she could imagine the old woman clutching her chest at this man’s arrival. What was it about him that sent her intuition into alarm? On closer inspection the man’s complexion had the sheen of spoiled meat—greasy, sallow, poorly nourished. Or perhaps he suffered from an ulcer, and the pain of all that sour bile had risen to the surface, where the effect showed in his skin. If he’d come for healing advice, there were witches better attuned to that particular craft than she with her herbs.
“It is you I’ve come to speak with,” he said, almost as if he’d trailed her thoughts.
Brother Anselm attempted to explain. “Jamra is a businessman. From the city. I believe he—”
“Sidra,” the man said, cutting the monk off in his impatience again. “It was you who helped her get out of the city, was it not? You must tell me now where I can find her. It is most urgent.”
The scent of charred earth rose from the place where the man stood. She’d thought at first the smell had come from the ashes of a brouette they’d dumped at the foot of the old vines in the winter. But no. The smell came from the man. She took a sharper look at his frame. No aural spectrum but supernatural all the same. He must be a jinni, though not one like Sidra. Where her fire gave off genuine warmth, his was reminiscent of a blazing roof caving in.
Jean-Paul stiffened. “What kind of business did you say you were in again?”
“I was not speaking to you.” Jamra stared at Jean-Paul with a look that warned against further interruption before returning his attention to Elena. “Where is she?”
So, he’d come with bad tidings and a worse temperament. “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” Elena said, cooling quickly to this stranger.
Jean-Paul’s jaw clenched as he took a step to position himself beside Elena to confront the man if need be. Sweet, really, the way he always felt he could protect her better than she could protect herself, but then mortal men always did have high opinions of their rather ordinary abilities.
“You will tell me what you know,” the man said. Elena felt a pinch against her instinct, as if the stranger were trying to tap into her memories. Well, that was downright rude.
Brother Anselm cleared his throat in what Elena had come to appreciate as assertiveness from the monk. “It appears I’ve made an error in judgment,” he said, braving a stern look at the stranger before speaking again to Elena and Jean-Paul. “I apologize if I’ve caused any trouble by coming out here today.”
Before the men could do more than posture at each other, Elena asked, “How do you know Sidra?”
Jamra’s coal-black eyes turned to Elena’s. “She is my sister through marriage. I fear she is in trouble she cannot handle.”
Hmm, possibly. Yet she didn’t get the feeling he was telling the entire truth. “I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing,” Elena said. “Sidra doesn’t keep me informed of her comings and goings. If she left the city, it was of her own accord.”
“No, witch, I assure you she could not have done that.” The man glared as if he believed her to be a liar.
Jean-Paul had had enough. Hospitality did not include putting up with rudeness from strangers standing on the paving stones of one’
s own courtyard. “She told you what she knows,” he said. “Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
The acrid scent of sooty charcoal permeated the air. Jamra smiled, a snake about to spring on its prey.
And then his mood turned vengeful.
Jamra pushed past Jean-Paul, bumping him hard in the chest. Jean-Paul followed, his anger and bruised ego showing with each hard step against the stones, but he couldn’t keep up with the fast-moving man in the black suit. The jinni stopped in front of the nearest vine row, the old canes Grand-Père had planted in his youth. “You will not tell me what you know? Very well.” The jinni waved his hand, fingers spread, palm outward.
“No! Please,” Anselm called out.
The row of vines withered, shriveling brown and black like a shed beetle carapace, until they crumbled to the ground in a heap of brittle leaves that disintegrated into a million pieces.
The space under Elena’s ribs clenched sharp, as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her. The sheer maliciousness of destroying something so grand and revered caught her off guard. She had to stand for a moment in her shock, blinking at the vision. Once the tally of loss became clear, she gathered her anger into a funnel of energy. It churned inside her, forcing itself higher and higher until the kinesis electrified her skin. Jean-Paul, as if tingling from the energy radiating off her, stepped aside, his arm raised over his eyes. Anselm, too, backed away in awe.
“Wind and fire, twist and spin, release this power held within.”
Elena’s hands shook as fire materialized in one palm and the power of the wind in the other. She rotated her hands, mixing the two until they spun in the air, then cast the tornado of fire at the man with all the force her magic could sustain. When the thrust of her energy had been expelled, she swept the hair out of her eyes, ready to strike again before the jinni had recovered. Instead she found him standing ten feet to the right with his hand stretched out, deflecting the force of her spell onto a second row of vines, smiling as half an acre of mature canes caught on fire.
Jean-Paul, his hands clutched to the top of his head, made a noise like a wounded animal at the sight of the damage.
“You cannot use witch fire against me and hope to win,” Jamra said, slowly rubbing his palms together. “I will ask one last time. Tell me where to find Sidra.” He narrowed his eyes, as if studying Elena’s openmouthed horror at the destruction her fire had done. “Tell me, and I will spare you further infliction of the pain the destruction of these living things seems to cause you.”
What magic was he conjuring in the heat and static between his hands? What thoughts was he reading that she hadn’t been able to keep veiled from him? They could still recover from the damage if he left now. She and Grand-Mère had suffered worse from hailstorms, replanting after the vines had been smashed to a pulp. She and Jean-Paul could do so too.
Brother Anselm placed his hand at her elbow, as if encouraging her forward. “If you know where this Sidra woman is, might it be best to tell him?” he asked. “At least spare yourselves any more harm.”
“I can’t tell what I don’t know.” And even if she did know, she wouldn’t tell, she thought as she glared at the madman in the black derby, willing him to leave.
“Then you have made your choice,” said the jinni. With the speed of a falcon diving for prey, he swooped over Jean-Paul, clapping his hands on either side of his head. Jean-Paul struggled to free himself of the jinni’s grip, but before Elena could utter a second feckless spell, her husband crumpled to the ground.
CHAPTER THREE
The pungent fragrance of mimosa in bloom floated on the air. Acrid, stinging, prodding memories. Sidra shook free of the shimmer of sliding from one world to the next. She blinked and was overtaken by dread. Water doused the fire in her veins as her surroundings came into focus. Red roof tiles, palm trees stretching up to kiss a generous sun, and the vast stretch of a coastal horizon, one that touched sea to shore with her homeland. If her heart wished it, she could make her eyes see that long-abandoned continent in the distance. Instead, she wrapped her robe around her and turned away.
“I can’t believe he threw us both out!” Yvette shook off her gown where dirt from the dusty earth had collected on her hem. “My own grandfather.”
He’d seen something in the water. Sidra had taken the old king for a fool, but Oberon’s eyes saw more than he let on. What image swam in the font that made him send her here? And with the yellow-haired girl? Would she never be free of this chained fate with fools?
“Wow, would you look at that.” Yvette shaded her eyes and gazed out at the distant sea sparkling under the midday sun. “Where do you reckon we landed?”
Sidra didn’t need to guess. They’d been deposited on a hill twenty miles inland, one where the glimpse of the calm blue sea could break your heart if you lingered too long on the view. “We are in the south of your country.”
“Do you smell that? Roses and oranges, and—”
“Jasmine.” Sidra had almost forgotten the strange mix of the crosswind when it gathered up the scents of the fields at bud break and carried them to the hilltop. The scent had embedded itself in her memory like no other substance. The tether between the fragrance and grief inseverable no matter the years.
“Right, the flower fields. And the cathedral bell tower. The mountains. I know where we are now. We used to swing through here when I worked the carnival.” Yvette scrunched up her nose. “So, why did he send us to a village where they make perfume? What’s he expect us to do here?”
“We?” Damn that meddling Oberon. “There is no ‘we.’ Go back to your misty, damp home. You’re not needed here.”
“I haven’t learned how to slide between realms yet.” The girl crossed her arms and glared. Her skin glowed with temper. “So, you poof off. I don’t need your complaining, either.” Yvette gave her the once-over with her eyes. “Well, can you?”
Could she?
The bonds of the spell that had kept her confined inside the city couldn’t still have their hold on her, could they? She’d escaped. Slipped through the crevice of time and space. Clever that, smuggling herself into the Fée lands. Fate and fortune had seen her through to a safe place where she could curl up and forget. And, she’d hoped, be forgotten. But Oberon’s interference had brought her back to this place with its scented memories. Already they twined around her heart, making her suspect she’d been bound all over again.
“Well?” The girl rolled her eyes and began walking down the hill. “Thought so.”
“I can leave whenever I wish it.” But even Sidra knew her words were as hollow as winter gourds that rattled in the wind. She was caught at the ankle by the past and future. Returned to a place that had proved the birthplace of her downfall.
Yvette spun around. “You know, I was happy where we were. Best I’ve ever had it. I was just learning how to master my glamour. Until you ruined everything by getting us tossed out.” She pointed a finger. “You owe me now.”
Curse that girl and her family to Jahannam and back. She was right. Always the wheel of fate kept turning, tipping the balance from pauper to prince back to indebted fool.
The scrub bush poked between the straps of Sidra’s sandals, irritating her even more. “We don’t need to walk like mules through the brush,” she said. If it were mere sand, she would cherish the feel of the grains of warm quartz against her skin, but she didn’t like the scrape of sticks and prickly thorns.
Yvette yelled over her shoulder. “What are you going to do, fly us down to the village on a magic carpet?”
The thought of taking to the air was tempting, though she didn’t trust herself not to drop the girl headfirst on the steepest rooftop. And for good or ill she must have needed the blonde-haired one to see this unfortunate foretelling to its end. Otherwise, fate would have left her behind.
“No, girl,” she called. “Come take hold of my sleeve. There’s another way.”
Yvette hesitated before climbing back up the hill and
grabbing a handful of silk. “You better not turn me into a bird again or I swear I’ll—”
Silencing the pest, if only for a brief shift in time and space, was a pleasure all its own. The transformation was nothing. Fire and smoke. Mist and air. It was what jinn were made of. The source of their being. The girl would feel nothing but light-headedness when she reanimated. But where to land? Was the apartment still safe? Was the old one still nearby?
Sidra and Yvette glided over the rooftops of the southern village, appearing as nothing but a wisp of cloud. In this state it was difficult to know the risk they’d meet on the ground. If not for the girl, Sidra would stay hidden, watching, waiting from the shadowy corners, as all jinn prefer, but she couldn’t carry the Fée one in their present state for too long. If Yvette were still the filthy street witch Sidra once believed her to be, it would be nothing to leave her body to wither in the ether like a dried fish, but that wouldn’t do for one who belonged to Oberon. And one’s balance in this life and the next was something to consider always.
Curling like a trickle of smoke from a doused candle, Sidra guided them through a narrow street lined with two-story buildings, their plaster walls painted the soft ocher color of sand and shells. She slipped under an arch that connected the buildings, emerging on the other side where the corner apartment loomed above. The shutters were closed against the bright light. No scent of bread and oranges escaped beneath the door from the kitchen. No residual whiff of oud lifted from the caftan still hung on the peg. Still, she had to enter, if only to keep them safe for the night.
Spilling through the keyhole in the heavy oak door, she entered the stale space and circled the room, feeling out the darkness. The energy was cool to the touch—in the corners, under the eaves, above the bed. The apartment was as it should be, but she was saddened to know the room had been empty long enough for the heat to have dissipated. She sighed and reanimated, bringing the girl into the room with her.
The Conjurer (The Vine Witch) Page 2