The Vine Witch

by Smith, Luanne G.

  Toss crone’s teeth and mystic rune

  ’neath Jupiter and crescent moon,

  Cast your lot into the fire

  Thou spinning heart of dark desire,

  Bow before the one bedeviled

  On cloven foot and fetlock beveled,

  Pas de chat, around you go

  Dance before the carrion crow,

  Once you’ve done the Danse Démon

  By blood and bone your fate is sewn

  “Démon dansant,” she whispered. But it was just a fable. A story to scare children. She shook her head to clear it of the frightening image before approaching the counter. “I’m looking for Jean-Paul Martel. Have you seen him today?”

  The man scratched his balding head with a pencil. “No, he hasn’t been in for a few days. But if you’re hoping to talk to him about offering your services at the vineyard, you’ll have a tough time with that one. City man. Nonbeliever. The grapes suffer because of it, if you ask me.”

  “My services?”

  The man slipped his glasses back on and smiled. “My mother worked at La Domaine Blanc as their vine witch for decades. I have her vision but, alas, not her talent with the wine.” He shrugged, as if life worked out the way it was meant to in the end.

  A faint purple aura peeked out of his shirt collar, confirming his heredity. Trusting he had a sympathetic ear, Elena tapped her finger on the counter and dared to dig deeper. “How long has the animal killing been going on?”

  “There was only one poster on the wall when I arrived five years ago. Back then people occasionally mentioned they’d found a dead cat in the road on their way to the village. About a year ago it began happening more frequently. Now it’s almost weekly. If you ask me, it’s just college boys fooling around with the occult. But they’ll find themselves on the brute end of karma’s bad side one of these days. And when they do, they’ll be lucky if they don’t lose a few vital parts themselves.”

  University students? Possibly. They’d always flocked to the village on their summer breaks, accosting any woman in a fringed shawl to read their palm or sell them a love potion. Some, though, did go looking for more, like hex stones and evil talismans to use on their enemies. The sort of items a certain pair of witches liked to hawk out of the back of their mule cart. Her skin still prickling from a roused instinct, she thanked the clerk for his help and stepped back onto the street with no better idea of where to find Jean-Paul than when she’d started. How could no one have seen him? Unless he never came to the village after their fight.

  Her mind tumbled over demons and dead cats as she turned left at the next street corner. A block later she turned left again, letting her feet lead her far from the center of the village to the low road, where the gutters fizzled into open sewers and dogs with matted fur slinked between overturned rubbish bins. The ugly business with the dead animals still nipped at the heels of her instincts as she walked past the barrel maker, farrier, and laundry shop at the end of the lane. At last she stood at the mouth of a desolate alley upwind of the last establishment in town. It meant something, all those killings. She felt it in her blood. And if Jean-Paul genuinely didn’t wish to be found, then perhaps there was another way to salvage the trip to the village. After all, he wasn’t the only missing person she was looking for.

  The old building had barely changed in the years Elena had been gone. And probably hadn’t in the two hundred years it had been standing. Or leaning, rather. The dilapidated tavern and flophouse known as Grimalkin & Paddock’s had rightfully been kept at arm’s length from the rest of the village. It was the sort of place most mortals never heard about. They didn’t dare venture into the grubby dead-end street overrun with rats and sewage and transient witches.

  These were not the sought-after vine witches who tended the vineyards and stirred the magic inside the grapes to encourage the wine. No, the spirit folk who limped through Grimalkin’s existed on the fringes, dabbling in the junk arts like erectile potions, cures for warts, and penny jinxes to inflict a rival with a case of pink eye, which they hocked on the high street to the gullible on festival days. And occasionally there were witches who practiced the darkest shades of magic out of sight of the All Knowing’s eye. Summoners of murder, whisperers of ambition in powerful men’s ears, and perhaps conjurers of transmogrification curses.

  Yellow gaslight gleamed inside the tavern. Yet even the glow had a dingy quality, diminished to a greasy haze from the buildup of smoke and grime on the windows. Elena emerged from the alley thankful she’d worn the old goatherd’s clothes. On the main street the clothes had made her invisible among the well-heeled villagers, but here she’d be scrutinized with third-eye vision by the aura readers, psychics, and overly curious. The clerk’s quick observation earlier had her dim her spectral glow to better match her appearance and mask her true identity long enough to ask a few anonymous questions.

  The hinges on the enormous door screamed like a wounded man as she entered the tavern. She skirted the small crowd seated near the fire, keeping her head down. A few raised their noses, squinted their eyes at her, and then turned their attention back on their mugs when she proved unremarkable. Having passed the first test, she sat in an alcove built for two at the back of the room. A stub of candle fused to the center of the table flickered to life as a dangling cobweb floated above her head on an invisible wave of warm air. Nearly a dozen witch-folk huddled over meals of lumpy soup and frothy brew, despite the early evening hour. Though it was nearing dusk, many, she knew, were only beginning their day, as their work often called for the cover of darkness. She looked from face to face, hoping for a spark of recognition or a sense of déjà vu, but the only sense of the familiar she picked up on was a fellow vine witch, past her prime, seated in the corner. She sipped a glass of garnet wine, smacking her tongue as she tasted. Elena inhaled the whiff of cherries, black currants, and dark coffee. A Château Vermillion? No. The minerality was wrong. More likely it was one of Bastien’s new labels. His scent was everywhere lately.

  She’d just brushed the unwanted thought aside when a gray-haired woman with gray skin and pale-gray eyes approached her table with a quill and parchment in hand. Madame Grimalkin.

  “What’ll you have?”

  The red wine tempted. “Gin . . . and information.”

  “Can you pay, étranger?”

  Elena set three coins on the table. Madame Grimalkin nodded and slid the change into her apron pocket.

  “The gin I can manage, but the information depends on what kind you’re after.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  The gray woman held up two fingers to the rotund man polishing glasses behind the bar and called for the gin. She took the chair opposite, eyes squinting as if trying to decipher the aura around her newest customer. “You haven’t been in here before—I’d know. Give me your palm.”

  Elena tried not to stare at the woman’s gray teeth as she opened her hand on the table. It was all part of the ritual, of verifying her identity to see if she was who and what she claimed to be. She hoped the woman didn’t read anything into the dampness that slicked the shallow crevice of her lifeline.

  The woman made a soft rumbling noise in the back of her throat as her third eye probed the edges of Elena’s thin disguise. She cradled Elena’s hand in hers, dragging her fingernail over the open palm and tapping briefly on the lines for the heart, mind, and fate. After tilting her head one way and then the other, she looked up with an unnerving grin. “I’d say you know your way around poisons. And you’re searching for the person who cursed you.”

  Elena shivered. Even she wasn’t that good at palm reading. “How did you see that?”

  The old woman let go of her hand and laughed. “That you’ve been working with poison? I can smell the bitter residue of freshly ground foxglove leaves on your fingertips. As for the curse, your hands are even colder than my husband’s. That part never goes away, I’m afraid.”

  The b
artender, widemouthed and slit eyed, waddled to the table with two shots of gin held on a tray. The old woman stroked his arm before he left, purring words of thank-you at him. “He’s been living with cursed skin since before you were born. Never did catch up to the witch who done it. What makes you think you can find your special someone?”

  “I heard a rumor there’ve been dead cats turning up on the roads. Could be someone trying their hand at blood magic.”

  The woman bristled at the mention of the cats. “It’s a dark heart behind that business, and no question about it. Whoever’s doing it turned their back on the covenants years ago.”

  Elena picked up her glass and swirled the gin until a blue arc of light ran through it. “Curses go against the covenants too. Could be the person who does one sort of dark magic might just as easily do the other.” She leaned in, hoping not to be overheard. “The witch I’m looking for wears a long blue robe and carries a distinct pocket watch on a silver chain.”

  “Distinct how?”

  “It’s got a green dragon’s eye with a yellow slit on the cover. She might work the high street on festival days reading cards for tourists, or sell potions out of the back of a wagon.”

  “Sounds like you’re looking for one of the Charlatan clan.”

  She’d discounted the idea after meeting the sisters, thinking them too coarse and ignorant to pull off a transmogrification curse, but maybe that was just her pride misleading her. Maybe their interest in the occult ran deeper than the novelty junk they sold on their cart.

  “Are they customers of yours?”

  “We get all types in here.” Madame Grimalkin spoke behind a whisker smile of indifference. “Can’t say as I’ve ever noticed any of them with that particular trinket, though.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  She tapped the base of her glass on the table, then locked eyes with Elena. “We make a decent living, me and old Paddock. ’Cause we don’t ask no questions. Let people come and go as they please, as long as they pay their bill. Which is why I don’t ask why a goatherd has no goats with her.” She paused to look over her shoulder at her husband behind the bar. “But witches that go about cursing each other are the lowest, and I spit on ’em.”

  “So you’ll keep an eye out?” Elena slid another three coins on the table.

  “A pocket watch like that ought to be easy enough to spot on the sly,” she answered, taking the money. Elena was about to thank her when the old woman cut her off. “But let me give you a word of advice, goatherd. Whether it’s the Charlatans mixed up in this or not, the type of witch that deals with the foul stuff like what’s going on out there with those cats don’t bother with the sort of curses you walk away from alive. Best not to go asking too many questions, if you value what skin you have left.” Madame Grimalkin swallowed her gin in one gulp, then stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other customers to attend to.”

  Elena sipped her gin and peered over the rim of the glass at Madame Grimalkin as she walked away, a definite nervous twitch in her step. She was encouraged, though. Even if it wasn’t one of the Charlatans, the witch who cursed her still might be inclined to put her feet up in the sort of tavern that didn’t ask questions. But what then? She had a plan for Bastien, but what of the witch who’d done the actual spellwork? It would take a little more innovation to get past a conjurer who prospered off forbidden spells. And for that she would need all her strength.

  Elena rubbed her palm, reminded of how the touch of Jean-Paul’s hand against hers had heated her blood, making the magic spike. It was true the cold had gotten into her skin after the curse, but she no longer believed, as Madame Grimalkin did, that the affliction had to be permanent. Even thinking about him stirred a curative pulse inside her that sent a warm thread running through the veins. So odd that a mortal could affect her and her magic that way.

  Drawn out of thought by the sensation of being watched, Elena took a sip of her gin and scanned the room. A bearded man in a black frock coat and monocle kept looking up, but he appeared to be working on a sketch in his lap. So many witches were drawn to the arts, unable to resist the temptation of seeing their spellwork preserved in paint and charcoal. But he was not the one ruffling her senses. It was another, wearing a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. He watched her from a secluded corner by the front windows. He thought he was concealed in shadow because he’d snuffed his candle out, but the weight of his stare on her neck overwhelmed like the panting breath of a dog. Unable to intuit his intentions, she tossed one more coin on the table and walked outside, eager to get home and learn if Jean-Paul had returned. She took two steps in the muddy road before her plans were thwarted.

  “It isn’t just cats,” the man in the hat said, catching up to her before the door shut. He proved no taller than a broom handle when he sidled up beside her. He tipped his hat back to reveal a full-moon face and wisps of tawny hair that poked out over his ears. His eyes, a chalky sort of blue, traced the outline of her weakened aura. “Couldn’t help overhearing your conversation in there,” he said as he handed over a business card adorned with moons and stars.

  “You’re with the Covenants Regulation Bureau?”

  “Inspector Aubrey Nettles. I’m investigating the spate of grim incidents you referred to in there. Thought I might ask you some questions.”

  “By ‘overheard’ you mean you used a cochlear charm to listen to a private conversation.”

  Inspector Nettles flicked a speck of invisible dirt from his coat sleeve, ignoring her accusation. “Would you mind telling me what your interest is in blood magic?”

  “I don’t have any interest in it. I’m simply curious about the dead cats, like everyone else.”

  “Yet you seem to think it has something to do with you, mademoiselle . . . ?”

  She couldn’t afford to disclose her name. Not yet. “I’m looking for someone, that’s all. I thought they might have passed through the tavern recently.”

  She tried to walk away, but the man followed, dogging her heels.

  “Like I said, it’s more than cats that are showing up dead.” He had to double-step to keep up. “There’ve been rabbits, squirrels, a badger even. Hearts cut right out of them. Not a drop of blood left in the bodies.” Elena stopped in her tracks. “Ah, so you do know something about the dark arts, then.” The man bared a cold smile, knowing he’d touched on magic she understood. “Not something your average goatherd has reason to be familiar with.”

  He was right. It wasn’t common knowledge, by any means. Blood magic was the darkest form of spellcasting, absolutely forbidden by the covenants. Few books even existed that described how it was done. But then Elena was no ordinary vine witch. Her shadow world vision alone was an extraordinary talent, but it had made her all the more curious about the things she couldn’t see. When she’d mastered the divine arts while still in her teens, she sought out the magic she hadn’t been taught. Not to use but to understand. For even knowledge itself was a form of magic in the eyes of the All Knowing. At least that was the argument she’d used on Brother Anselm to gain permission to study The Book of the Seven Stars, the only surviving reference held within the abbey that mentioned blood magic. Even then, she’d had to beg. The book had been locked up for nearly two hundred years out of an abundance of caution, ever since the Covenant Laws were officially signed and sealed.

  Elena clenched her tattered skirt in her hands and remembered her purpose. “I’m just worried for my goats, is all. Don’t want no harm coming to them, or me, out on the hills at night. I was hoping there’s an amulet that could protect me and my animals.”

  “You seem vaguely familiar to me. Have we met before?”

  The man peered at her hard enough with his third-eye vision that she felt it pierce her solar plexus. She had to get rid of him; he was getting too curious. And she knew from experience a man like him could easily be in Bastien’s pocket. Casting a spell using the small reserve of magic she’d recovered was going to hur
t, like swallowing with a sore throat, but she had to try or risk exposure. She couldn’t use anything direct. A member of the Bureau would have potent charms to fend off an attack. Something off-body, she decided, as she spied an object on the ground that might do.

  In the alley across the lane, a cat screeched bloody murder.

  “You don’t think?” she said with convincing alarm.

  The inspector cocked his head to the side, then told her to stay put while he stepped into the lane to have a closer look. While Nettles investigated the phantom cry she’d tossed off with a flick of her brow, she bent to pick up a black feather poking out of the mud. She placed it on her open palm and took a deep breath. With one eye on Nettles she muttered the necessary words, tolerating the hollow pain that welled beneath her breastbone.

  “Feather black on pinion hollow, take to the sky, let your brothers follow.” She blew on the feather to send it airborne, and a moment later a flock of blackbirds dropped out of the sky, swooping and diving straight at the inspector.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jean-Paul extinguished the candle flame between his moistened fingers. A small but nagging pain had settled above his right eye since he’d sat down to read. Now, in the diminished light, he closed the book, removed his glasses, and rubbed his brow. He’d found some answers in the volume the monk suggested, but, as was often the case, they only created more questions in his mind. Still, his fear had settled, replaced with a guarded curiosity that held like a shield wall against full acceptance.

  After leaving a donation in the box on the altar, he exited the small abbey library and thanked the monks on the way out. They crossed themselves and wished him a safe journey home.

  Yes, he ought to get home. But to which one? Where did he belong? That was one of the new questions he’d come to face after waking up in a different world than the one he’d fallen asleep in. The one he found himself in now was full of mystery and magic. Unseen powers. And threats. And yet his old life had perils of its own. The dull progression of an ordinary life that chipped away at a man a day at a time so that he didn’t see the damage done until he found himself sitting alone in a house with nothing to show for it but the slow ticking of a clock on the wall.