Our Lady of the Various Sorrows (Voices of the Dead Book 2)

by Victoria Raschke

  She had planned to spend the evening and night with Henry. She assumed it would be their last. Instead, she and Henry and Leo would all sleep alone.

  Chapter 10

  Goran handed Vesna a small bundle of stained muslin and climbed down from the stepladder. She started to peel back the layers.

  “Stop. Don’t open that here. We don’t know what’s in it.” Goran took the bundle from her and placed it in a black bag he produced from his pocket. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  She had seen the thing peeking out of the gap above Jo’s door where the old transom had been boarded up. It had given her pause, and Goran had pronounced it a hex as soon as he’d seen it.

  She followed him down the stairs and into his shop. He headed straight for the back where he had his less-mundane workshop.

  “Goran, what do your customers come to you for?”

  He turned to look at her as he opened the door at the back of the shop. “What do you think my customers buy?”

  “Not antique end tables.” She laughed.

  “You’d be correct.” He pushed the door open. It was brighter than it had been when she had been in last for an impromptu, at least on her part, ritual. Electric lights recessed into the plaster ceiling cast cooler light over the space, and it lost some of the otherworldly feel it had in golden candlelight. Goran walked to the back of the room and opened a door into another space that must have been behind the always-closed accountant’s office next door.

  “Do you rent the accountant’s office, too?”

  “No. My storage room is behind it.”

  She nodded as she followed him in. There was a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. It illuminated shelves stuffed with jars and boxes of herbs and stones and things she would rather not know about. A battered work table was crammed into the far corner. Candles lined the wall at the back of it, and a circle was carved into the top.

  “If this spell has a spirit attached to it, I’d rather not let it out into the world until I know what it is.”

  “You can do that? Trap a spirit in a spell?”

  “Some witches can. I think it’s barbaric to imprison something against its will.”

  She held her breath. Surely he didn’t think it was wrong to imprison demons.

  He must have sensed her concern. “Unless it’s dangerous. Some things don’t belong in this world.”

  She nodded again.

  He placed the bundle in the center of the carved circle and lit the candles with a long match as he mumbled in Latin. He took down a jar from the nearest shelf and scooped out a handful of small black crystals.

  “Black salt.” He filled the groove of the carved circle with it, ending where he began. “It’ll keep whatever is in there inside the circle until I release or destroy it.”

  She shivered. Who would shove such a dark thing above Jo’s door?

  He started to unwrap the muslin. Inside was a more tightly bundled package bound with black velvet ribbon. Goran unwound it and laid it next to the muslin inside the circle. The inner package opened under his deliberate movements to reveal a blindfolded, dead sparrow. Under the sparrow, “kurba,” which translated to bitch, was printed in neat, square letters in what looked like red lipstick. Goran brushed his fingertips over the sparrow’s face, and a glowing ball no bigger than a spark from a fire hovered above the workbench and bounced around inside the circle. Goran waved his hand below it, and the ember flew through the door into the back room.

  Vesna gasped.

  “Sparrows have such small souls.” He prodded the fabric the bird had been wrapped in and ran the ribbon between his fingers as if he could read the intention of the spell like Braille in the warp and weft of the velvet.

  “What does this do?” It couldn’t be anything good. That someone would try to hurt her friend, and kill an innocent bird to do it, was unforgivable.

  “It’s a complicated curse, and not one I’ve seen before or heard of. At least not in this way.” He bent over the bird and wrappings and sniffed. “Flowers, more than one.” He ran his fingers through his short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. “Would you hand me that book on the bottom shelf next to you? The green one?”

  She bent to find the book among a shelf of battered, leather-bound volumes and a few random paperbacks.

  He opened it to a page filled with illustrations of southern European birds. A little, brown sparrow like the one on the bench, like the ones as common as leaves along the river, was drawn in careful pen and ink in the right-hand corner of the page. There were markings underneath that looked like words, but not in any alphabet she knew.

  He closed the book. “What do you know about sparrows?”

  “Not much. I mean they’re everywhere here, and Jo has a tattoo of one inside her left wrist.”

  He looked taken aback. “Do you know why she has it?”

  “She mentioned one time it was to remind her that if it hadn’t been for Gregor she would have been a sparrow. I assumed she meant begging for food along the river like the little birds at cafés.”

  “Maybe. Prostitutes were once referred to as sparrows. French prostitutes in the 19th century wore black ribbons around their necks.”

  “Why would someone go to so much trouble to call Jo a whore?”

  “She wasn’t intended to see this. Whoever put this spell together wasn’t calling Jo a whore. They were trying to make her one, or, at the very least, make her careless about who she brought to bed.” He pulled two long hairs from around the sparrow’s stiff legs. They were dark blonde like Jo’s.

  “You can’t make someone a sex worker. That’s not how it works.”

  “I don’t think that was the intent exactly. This wouldn’t compel her to do anything, but it would definitely cloud her judgement.” He looked concerned.

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Good question. Someone who knows her well enough to procure her hair and unprincipled enough to wrap up and suffocate a live bird.” It sounded like he had an idea, but he didn’t share. He scooped up the bird and all the fabric and tucked it back into the black muslin bag he had carried it down in. “And familiar enough to be here without raising suspicion.”

  That was definitely not good. Dušan wasn’t the likely hexer. He hadn’t seen Jo to get any of her hair. Had her friend broken the heart of one of those idiots she picked up at Niko’s? How many witches were in Ljubljana?

  “They shouldn’t be able to get back in with the new wards in place.” He dusted his hands in the air and snuffed out the candles.

  “I wish I were more relieved by that thought.” She looked at the bag on the table. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Throw it in the river. Running water will dissipate any lingering magic.” He pushed the bag into the pocket of his coat. “Are you going to turn me in to your witchfinder uncle?”

  “No. He knows you’re a witch. He couldn’t care less. You aren’t slinging curses and sacrificing goats. You’re not, right? Sacrificing goats, I mean?”

  He stared at her. “You aren’t serious?”

  A self-conscious laugh escaped with her hasty “no.”

  The bird and all the things it may have set in motion swarmed Vesna’s mind as she walked back up to her flat. There was no way Leo was going to make it back tonight. Snow falling in town meant it would be snowing harder in the mountains. How long did magic last? Would Jo do something she’d regret while he was there? Did it even matter? Maybe they needed to get it over with and out of their systems.

  Vesna dragged her stepladder from where she and Goran had left it at Jo’s door. She parked it in front of her own door and thoroughly inspected the recesses around the top of the frame and then down each side. She picked up the doormat and shook it out. Something silver flashed and skittered across the flags. She put her foot on it before it went over the edge of the balco
ny and down into the courtyard.

  It was a charm from a child’s bracelet, a broken heart with a jagged line down the center. She turned it over. A “V” and an “I” had been scratched into either side and then scratched through with rough Xs. The broken line on the back had red wax caught in the shallow groove. Someone was hell-bent on causing as much commotion in their corner of the city as possible. Maybe the white nationalist crap on the shop was part of the same.

  She pulled the stepladder inside and locked the door behind her. She walked straight to the bathroom and flushed the charm down the toilet. She’d fallen too hard for Igor to let some shitty čarovnica interfere with her relationship or mess with her friend’s head any longer. She looked up at her reflection in the mirror. As much as she distrusted Lichtenberg and all he stood for, he should know what was going on under his nose. All that power he and the Observers wielded should be good for something. He could at least give her a list of names.

  Chapter 11

  Jo was standing in a field surrounded by green, rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Stone fences ran in meandering lines, slicing the countryside into clean pieces of emerald-iced sheet cake. The field around her was less idyllic. The bodies of men and horses, torn and run through, lay bleeding at her feet. The stench of death with its fetid bouquet of piss and shit and gore burned her nostrils with each breath. The cheeriness of a bright sun and a blue sky mocked the slaughter around her. She pulled her tam from her head, and the air thrummed like bees in clover. The shock of the dead registered like no other sound. Their cries and moaning resonated in her bones.

  The shades of the dead closed in on her, but there was no fear. They came for a kind of absolution. They called their names to her and she echoed them, her voice carrying across the field. The doors opened behind her, one for each broken man. She couldn’t see them, but there was a pull in her breastbone — like her heart wanted to follow the bloodied men into whatever lay beyond the door. She knew, as she always did, if she turned to see the opening provided for them, it would disappear. It wasn’t meant for her, at least not yet. She wasn’t comforted by knowledge of the beyond. Before coming into her abilities, she would never have believed that knowing there was life beyond death would be more unsettling than not knowing.

  The shades came, some touching her hair or clothes without leaving traces of the blood and viscera that covered them. She was no longer sickened by the sight of them, but she was unable to forget what swords and daggers could do to human flesh. The last man came to her still clutching his sword. He didn’t speak. She looked into his face to ask his name. His eyes were black and filled with the faraway stars of a moonless night. The pull inside her chest turned to fear in the pit of her stomach for the first time.

  “What is your name, sir?” The words fell out of her mouth and disappeared into the space between them.

  “Winifred Wiley.”

  “That is my name.” And she knew he had not come to be mourned.

  He raised the sword above her and brought it down where her neck met her shoulder.

  Jo gasped awake. Her neck was stiff, and her mouth felt like the Russian army had marched through it in stocking feet. Her head was in Leo’s lap, and he was sprawled over the end of the couch. His legs splayed out into the living room, and his head lay at an uncomfortable angle on the back of the couch. Two empty bottles sat on the table in front of her with two wine glasses stained red at the very bottom of each bowl. At least they hadn’t done anything stupid or irreversible. Her head had been a little clearer since her conversation with Dušan. She wouldn’t have trusted herself with Leo and two bottles of wine even a week before.

  She sat up, hoping not to disturb her guest. He stirred and shifted, but his eyes didn’t open. Maybe he was used to sleeping in uncomfortable places.

  She wiped her hand over her face and adjusted the tam, thankful it hadn’t fallen off. She needed to get back out with Henry and take advantage of Leo’s car to head home. It was still dark outside, but the black of night was already losing to the deep blue of pre-dawn. She stood, knees and ankles popping, and headed to the bedroom to put on cleanish clothes to brave the cold and the ravaged faces of the soldiers up on the mountain.

  Henry was sitting on the bed when she got there. “I was trying to figure out how to wake you without waking your guest.”

  “Thanks for not trying. I’m not ready to explain all this to anyone, especially Leo.”

  “You lead an interesting life, Jo.”

  “Interesting is a word.” She swapped the previous day’s clothes for clean silk long johns and fleece-lined pants. The last image of the dream came back to her. Was Henry the knight sent to take her through the door? “Let’s go do this. I have to go home today.”

  “We aren’t going to finish.”

  “I know.” She zipped her sweater up and looked up at him.

  He wanted to ask her if she would come back. It was as clear in his face as if he’d said it, but he wouldn’t.

  “I’ll come back as soon as things are settled there.” She had to. She had a duty and a purpose now. There was a real reason for this “gift” she’d been given.

  He laughed. “I don’t think ‘settled’ will ever apply to you.”

  “Probably not. But I will come back. I promised you, and I promised those people out there.”

  He nodded and stood. “Let’s go.”

  There was a light knock at the bedroom door. Leo was awake. She motioned for Henry to go and mouthed, “I’ll meet you there,” before opening the door.

  “Are you okay? I heard you talking to someone.”

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  “Is Helena here?” He looked past her into the empty room as if he would be able to see her guide.

  She shook her head. “I need to go do something, then I’d like to go back to Ljubljana with you.”

  “What could you possibly need to do up here?”

  “Can we talk about it on the way back?” She picked her scarf up off the bed and walked past him to the living room.

  “You’re going to go out there now? It’s freezing.”

  “I know. I’ve gotten fairly used to the cold.” She didn’t tell him why.

  “Is that where you were yesterday?”

  She nodded and wound the scarf around her head. She crammed the toboggan she’d worn the day before into her coat pocket. She looked at his skeptical face. “Can you trust me on this one thing? I’m not in any danger, I promise.” She had always been a bad liar. That she had become more comfortable with bending the truth wasn’t a source of pride. Her aunt told her it was part of the package: You can’t lie to your guide, but no one wanted to know everything a Voice knew.

  He flung himself on the couch. “I guess. But we’ll need all the daylight available to get back to the city.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I just need to grab a few things when I get back and we can go.” She slung the camp chair over her shoulder and grabbed the pile of blankets on the bench and went out before he could say anything else.

  Henry stood on the snowy drive. The sky was royal blue behind him with the first traces of pink gold showing between the peaks. He had the strangest look on his face.

  “Go to your son. Go do whatever it is you need to do, and then come back when you can.”

  “But, I promised. I–”

  He took her free hand. Every word looked like it hurt him to say it. “The needs of the living are more important than the needs of the dead. We will all be here when you come back.”

  She shook her head. “You, they … you’ve all waited so long.” What if some of them faded and ended up in that place with Dušan while she was gone?

  “And we can wait longer.” His face didn’t match his words.

  “I don’t believe you. You aren’t hiding the pain on your face.”

  H
e closed the distance between them and put his cold hands on either side of her neck. “I thought I would always wait. I thought the side of that mountain was a hell I built for myself. And now I know it is not. I can wait. You will never forgive me, or yourself, if you don’t go now.”

  She nodded. Maybe Henry wasn’t the shade sent to slay her. He ran his hand down her hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Go.”

  He was gone. Like Helena, like her father, there was no evidence of his departure or that he had been there at all, except that her hair settled back onto her coat. The air wasn’t even troubled by his presence, or the sudden lack of it.

  She turned to go back inside and gather the few things she needed. Leo stood watching from the window.

  ——

  Leo walked to the window after she closed the door. He couldn’t believe she was going to walk off into the snow by herself, for any reason, or that he was going to let her. But she was determined, and he knew her well enough to know arguing was pointless. He debated following her, but a man more than two meters tall in a black cassock didn’t blend well into a white landscape.

  She stopped near the car. He couldn’t hear anything, but it looked as if she’d stopped to talk to someone.

  Maybe Helena was there. Or had another spirit joined her at the farmhouse? Her posture changed. She leaned her head back for a moment and then dropped her chin before turning around abruptly and looking into his face.

  Jealousy was the first emotion that washed over him, though he had no idea if it was Helena or another spirit. It shamed him more than his aborted attempt to woo her the previous night had. She had told him she was attracted to him, and he had been too much of a coward to act or to say all he truly felt. He was afraid to step out onto the ledge until he knew it was completely safe, but he knew there were never any guarantees in life, not when other people were involved and certainly not with love.

  It had been easier to keep his emotions at bay when he had convinced himself it was only lust he felt for her. But they had spent too much time together and shared too much for him to continue pretending. His niece’s observations had also pierced his charade.