The Vine Witch

by Smith, Luanne G.

  Not finding the wolf’s fur stored with the jars of teeth and claws where she’d expected, she searched through the drawer until she located a paper envelope labeled “Hair, Tails, and Whiskers.” She found the necessary strands inside but was curious to see what else Grand-Mère may have misplaced. Half a dozen envelopes were stacked inside the drawer. One contained dried owl pellets, another the tail feather of a nighthawk, and one held a pressed primrose, sealed between wax paper. All useful for adding to various potions, but not kept where she preferred to store them. She removed the remaining envelopes from the drawer to see what other mysteries they held, when a stray slip of paper fell out from between them onto the worktable.

  More potent than anything she’d yet handled, her fingers trembled as she picked up the faded and brittle scrap of paper. On it was an ink-drawn illustration, a stately house centered under a bold font that read “Domaine du Monde,” the wine label for Bastien’s premier red, the wine she’d helped coax into existence for him just before she was ambushed.

  She’d felt the yank on her conscience to confront him the moment she returned to the valley. Even now she had to grip the edge of the table to keep from running down the road and throwing a curse-bearing brick through his front window. Time and patience, she reminded herself. Revenge allowed to ferment would carry the most power. But as she stared at the house on the label, she felt her resolve slipping. There was a way to see the place without actually going there. This, too, she’d resisted, but the longer she stared at the illustration, the stronger the impulse became to give in to her curiosity until she found herself drifting over the line into the shadow world.

  Her vision darkened, the walls fell away, and a sepia sky opened above as sight and sound distorted at the edges of her consciousness. Her mind flew her to an abandoned stretch of road in the valley four miles away. The château where she’d spent countless lazy afternoons believing she was in love materialized out of shadow. The sight struck her as familiar yet strange. The years had changed the house in unexpected ways. The main structure was as she remembered, but a pair of grand turrets now anchored each side, and a new balustrade encircled a second-floor balcony, where a stargazer might search for an impressionist’s vision of the night sky. A fence surrounded the property now too—cast iron embedded with amulets and protective spells, topped with fanciful metal finials. As Elena walked past the gate, she felt as if lightning itself had been channeled into the metal. She’d never encountered anything like it. The woman’s spellwork was even better than she’d thought. Most witches would need a lifetime to master such a graceful enchantment.

  Lamplight from a window at the top of the east tower drew her spirit eye upward. A woman’s silhouette crossed in front of the glass. She could understand why a bierhexe might be persuaded to work at a successful vineyard. For some, power was the only elixir that mattered. And Bastien had that now. It radiated off everything he’d touched, though she wondered if the witch behind the glass knew what Bastien was capable of if he didn’t get his way. Had she compromised a part of herself for him?

  Just then the window darkened. A face peered outside. Another’s third-eye vision pierced through the veil of shadow, searching for an intruder. She knew she couldn’t be seen, at least not in her physical form, but she shrank from view anyway. Still the intensity persisted, as if a psychic lantern swung its light over the yard, searching. It was her first encounter with one of the northern beer witches, and so far the rumors of their striking abilities proved true. The bierhexe’s perception practically assaulted with its vigilance. To know Bastien had that kind of protection put a frost on Elena’s hopes for easy vengeance, but she’d never give up. Not until her heart got the peace it deserved.

  Elena flew back into her body and opened her eyes. The wine label had dropped from her hand. She picked it up again, slipping once more into the trench of pain of his betrayal. With tears brimming, she held the label to the candle flame and watched it burn and curl at the edges until the paper crumpled into a pile of ash. After allowing a single tear to fall onto them, she swept up the remains and sealed them in an envelope. With a florid swipe of her pen, she labeled the outside “bitter ashes” and stashed it away in the drawer. Then she flipped the pages of her spell book and turned her mind to the study of poison.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Grand-Mère and Elena wheeled a brouette out to the field and made a show of pruning the old vines on the east slope while Jean-Paul hitched up his horse and wagon. At last he pulled onto the road and headed for the village. A trail of woodsmoke seeped out of the brouette as they waved their secateurs in his direction. Once he was out of sight, Elena removed the tallow wicks from her satchel and set to work on her counterspells.

  Four twists of wolf’s fur, one for each direction, sizzled and burned at her feet as she and Grand-Mère stood in the center of the property. She recited the spell from her book, the words flat and shapeless in her mouth, and a veil of smoke lifted from the wicks and spread over the vineyard. And though a breeze teased their skirts and rain threatened to dampen their uncovered heads, the spell seemed to hold the smoke in place above the field long enough to swaddle the dormant vines with its protective magic. To the passerby, the winter vineyard looked no different than when filled with drifting smoke from the char burners, but to any witch with her nose in the wind it was a warning that Château Renard was no longer a dumping ground for anonymous hexes.

  “Well, that’s one spell undone,” Grand-Mère said, holding her hands in the sacred pose to thank the All Knowing. “Finally the leaves should be able to breathe deep again when they unfold this spring.”

  Elena watched the wicks burn down to the ground, worried about the compression of time. “How often does he go to the village?”

  “Once a week, generally. Sometimes more if he has business to tend to.”

  That wouldn’t be often enough. Not if she wanted to untangle all the spells interlaced among the vineyard before the growing season began. “I don’t know how I’m going to keep hiding the spellwork from him. He’s going to find out he’s working with a witch, and then what?”

  “He’s been living with me for three years and hasn’t caught on, though I’m as useless as a mortal these days, so that’s not saying much.”

  Grand-Mère dug around in the brouette and pulled out a clay container the size of a small gourd, the surface inscribed with a circle that had arrows pointing out from the center in the four cardinal directions. It was one of four witch bottles the two had brought with them to ward off disease and negative energy caused by malicious spells belowground.

  “Your senses are merely worn around the edges some,” Elena said, removing a flagon of an old vintage she’d stashed in the brouette. She uncorked the top and poured a small amount of wine into the witch bottle. To that she added a snippet of Grand-Mère’s hair, one strand of her own, and a nail clipping belonging to Jean-Paul, which he’d left beside his washbasin.

  The old woman’s fingers twitched as she watched the process. “You could always keep him spellbound. That is how you got him to agree to let you stay on until harvest, isn’t it?”

  Elena cast a sheepish eye up at her mentor. “I didn’t use a spell on him. That would be illegal. I merely brought a wishing string with me and tossed it into the fire while we spoke.”

  “Must have been a strong wish to come true so quickly.” Grand-Mère handed her another bottle to bury. “Of course you were always good at getting what you want.”

  Could the old woman even doubt it? Elena’s veins practically ran red with wine from Château Renard. How could she wish for anything else but to be part of the vineyard? Its terroir was her blood, its mist her breath, its soil her bones, its harvest her unborn child. But covenants were covenants, and spells cast on mortals were strictly prohibited, though everyone fudged the rule now and then. Stars above, she’d never expected to encounter a winemaker in the Chanceaux Valley who didn’t wish for the services of a vine witch. Insulting. She could
n’t imagine how stunted life must be in the city to form such an attitude toward magic. All that stone and steel must obstruct the mind’s eye.

  Half moons of dirt rimmed her fingernails as she patted the soil above the buried bottle. She said a few quick words in the name of the All Knowing, then stood and pointed to the next location. As they walked, the smoke from the tallow wicks settled, highlighting the filaments of energy crisscrossing the field. Though she could sense such things even without the help of the smoke, Grand-Mère needed help. Elena took her hand, creating a circuit so they could both see the extent of the hex magic as it materialized like a spiderweb after a light rain.

  The old woman inhaled sharply. “Good heavens, I had no idea it was so extensive.”

  “It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Elena had them climb the hill to the highest point in the vineyard. “The spellwork is daunting, but there’s a degree of elegance to a few of them that one can’t help but admire. See the multidimensional layering holding up the shadow spell over the rows of chardonnay? That’s no easy maneuver.”

  “So he got the bierhexe to do what you wouldn’t?” Grand-Mère rubbed her thumb and fingers together, trying to feel as well as see the magic.

  She nodded. “Based on the shadow her sorcery cast, I’m almost certain it’s meant to hold the dew on the grapes to make them mold even in full sun. It shifts position as the day progresses to keep the grapes in the shade.” Elena paused to dab at the sweat building on her upper lip. “Don’t know how I’m going to counter that one yet, especially with the reverse curse complicating everything. If it is her, she’s better than good.”

  “Her name is Gerda. She showed up not long after you . . .” Grand-Mère pursed her lips hard, as if forcing herself to swallow the words she might have spoken next. “We’ve been introduced once or twice. You’d know her on first sight. A blonde like the rest of them.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen her.”

  “Seen her? When?”

  Elena began digging a shallow hole between two of the oldest vines on the property as she explained how her curiosity had gotten the better of her—not the first time she’d slipped into the shadow world for less than honorable reasons. There were days when she’d been so consumed with lust or distrust that she had to see Bastien, even when he was far away. During the year she thought she was in love with him, she’d felt as if she were under a spell herself. As if she’d been given a potion that seeped into her veins, crept into her heart, and set off a poisonous time bomb that later shattered her dreams of love. Before she was cursed, the shadow world had become an obsession, a distraction, a means to an end that had nothing to do with the grace of the All Knowing. And then it had become a trap.

  “That was a dangerous and foolish thing to do. What if she’s the one Bastien asked to curse you? You have a reckless side. You always did.”

  Elena planted the bottle in the ground, poured an offering of wine on top, and uttered the protection spell. When she stood, she considered what Grand-Mère said and then brushed her hands off. “I don’t think it was her.”

  Grand-Mère tapped the toe of her shoe on the soil over the buried bottle to pack it down. “How can you be so certain?”

  “If this is her spellwork,” she said, pointing to the tiered magic, “she’s too good at what she does to be playing with old-fashioned transmogrification curses. And certainly not one as ordinary as turning someone into a toad.”

  The old woman narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t seem like such a mundane curse when you showed up two days ago looking like wolf kill.” Elena flinched. Grand-Mère had always wielded a sharp tongue when provoked. “You should be more careful. Even if she didn’t catch you watching her in the shadow world, there are Bureau spies everywhere keeping an eye out for transgressions.” To prove her point, she snapped her fingers and a tawny-haired rabbit jumped out from between a vine row as if its tail had been lit on fire. “See what I mean?”

  “Come, rabbit.” Elena pointed her finger at the ground, and the rabbit obeyed, humbly hopping toward her until its nose twitched at her side. She picked up the animal and studied its eyes. Not a hint of shadow in them. The old woman was being unusually paranoid. But perhaps she had a point. “Jean-Paul knows I’m hiding from someone. He’s agreed to keep my presence here a secret. I should be fine as long as I keep a low profile.”

  “Even if you’re able to stay hidden, your efforts won’t. A witch with her talents will sniff out your magic eventually. She’ll know the spells are being dismantled. And when she figures out who you are, she’ll tell Bastien. And then what?”

  Elena set the rabbit down and shooed it on its way. “Then he’ll know he didn’t get rid of me as easily as he might have thought.”

  “Could you defend yourself against her if you had to?”

  “My quarrel isn’t with her.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Grand-Mère watched the rabbit dart away to a safe distance, then turned back around. “I didn’t know how to tell you earlier, but she isn’t just his vine witch. They’re married. His fight is her fight now. Maybe it would be better if you just let the past go. Start over fresh. Forget any of it ever happened.”

  Married?

  Elena slumped on the ground. He’d found affection when she’d tasted nothing but bitter loneliness for seven years trapped in that creature’s skin? He’d enjoyed love’s warmth while she sat in mud so cold it chilled her blood until her heart barely beat at a normal rhythm again?

  To avoid Grand-Mère’s scrutiny, she plucked at the rabbit hairs left behind on her skirt and tucked them in her pocket. “Her part doesn’t matter.”

  “Depends on what you intend to do to him.”

  Elena picked up the spade and dug a fourth hole, then stuffed a bottle inside. “Did you know there’s a spell for making a poison that moves like a snake through the blood?” she asked, pouring out the last of the wine over the dirt. “The potion is designed to avoid all other organs but its one true prey. When the elixir finds the heart, it slowly wraps itself around the beating muscle, squeezing until the blood vessels burst. I’m assured the process is agonizing.”

  Grand-Mère blinked as a line of sweat dampened her forehead. “Stars almighty, Elena, that’s dangerous magic you’re playing with.”

  “So was the curse that landed me in a swamp to eat moths and snails for seven years.”

  “Blood will tell, I swear,” the old woman muttered, then shook her head. “You’d do well to remember a threefold reckoning awaits those who do intentional harm.”

  Oh, she knew the cost. She’d weighed and balanced it against the pain of doing nothing a dozen times. Yet her need for retribution always proved the thumb on the scale, tipping her mind toward murder. What other recourse was there for having her prime years stolen from her? She should be married by now. There should be a son and daughter learning the art of the vine at her hip. The vineyard should have long ago come under her direction. Her wine should be in the cellars of the finest connoisseurs on the continent. Instead she was alone, groveling in the dirt, cleaning up other people’s messes.

  Grand-Mère drew her shawl up over her head and wrapped the ends around her shoulders, as if suddenly chilled. “What is it you’re planning exactly?”

  “I’m going to kill him,” Elena said, then threw the empty wine bottle in the burn cart and watched it blacken and smoke. “A life for a life.”

  Grand-Mère covered her mouth with her hand and turned away just as the jingling, clanking sound of glass jars being jostled in a wagon bed aroused their curiosity. On the road below, a covered mule cart rolled by with two women at the reins. They glanced uphill, their noses in the air, and waved.

  “Greetings,” called the first as she halted the mule.

  “Merry meet,” said the second, forcing a smile.

  Witches.

  “Charlatans?” Elena whispered, noting the city accent. It wasn’t their real name, of course, but one they’d earned through a tarnished reputation.

&
nbsp; “The two oldest sisters, by the look of them. What on earth are they doing here? I’ll have to say hello.”

  Elena wiped her hands on her skirt, cautiously wondering if the Charlatan sisters could be acquainted with Bastien. Though she didn’t know them, they seemed just the type he’d seek out for his dirty work. The old woman had already headed downhill, so Elena draped the end of her shawl over her face and followed, wanting to know more about their intentions.

  As she and Grand-Mère drew closer, a pair of jars trembled slightly in the cart, clinking together like champagne glasses. The witches smiled.

  “Greetings. What brings you out our way?” Grand-Mère asked, wary but not unfriendly.

  The sister closest, the one wearing the embroidered flower jacket with the faded needlework, answered, “We’re headed to the village. Festival day we’re told. Caught the scent of your smoke as we passed. Hex fire, is it?”

  “Remedy.”

  “Ah.” The woman smiled wider, revealing a row of tea-stained teeth as she bent forward to get a look at Elena. “In that case, might be I have what you need for a good cleansing spell,” she said and lifted the tarp covering the back of the cart. “Or a little revenge.” Her eyebrow lifted when she caught Elena’s eye. “Nothing like a little newt’s eye tonic to slip into your favorite rival’s drink, eh?”

  On top of their reputation as cheats, they were black-market peddlers, too, judging by their wares. Alongside the silk scarves, silver bangles, and charm bells for sale were dozens of mason jars filled with ill-gotten ingredients. Keeping her shawl drawn over her face, Elena took a closer look, spying heart-shaped gizzards, strips of fenny snake, a collection of bat ears, and a bear paw and gallbladder set. Old World novelty stuff. Medieval quackery. And a tragedy, given most of the items carried little potency for any spell she knew of. Nothing more than a cartload of cruelty for the sake of duping occult-loving mortals and gullible witches out of their money.