Elena. A witch. It must be true. And yet the prospect no longer frightened him. At least not as it had. The revelation was astonishing, certainly, but no more so than discovering some never-before-seen creature on an uncharted continent. Something rare and deserving of protection and understanding.
Now, if he could just get past the crowd on the street so he could get home and explain to Elena the fool he’d been.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Got her.”
The musty scent of the wine cellar clung to Bastien’s coat, his hair, and his breath, swirling around Elena as she struggled against his grip.
“Let go of me.”
The inspector muscled his way between a pair of gawking waiters. “Hold her for me. Thank you. Pardon me. A matter of CRB business. If you’ll just let me pass.”
Panic squeezed against her lungs. She was caught. Trapped under Old Fox’s paw again. She had to get away. If only she hadn’t used up all her strength on that useless illusion. She struggled against Bastien’s grip, unable to conjure even a spark to jolt him off. But then she remembered the knife in her belt, and an animal instinct kicked up from some secret place deep inside her. She wrapped her fingers around the haft, willing to cut off her own flesh to be free if she must. Or, more gratifyingly, Bastien’s.
The inspector, out of breath, doubled over with one hand pressed on his knee while he held up his badge with the other. “Inspector Aubrey Nettles. Hold her please.”
Emboldened by the weapon, she turned and faced Bastian head-on. “I said let me go.”
“Elena?” He blanched as if he stared at a dead woman.
Nettles straightened. “You know this woman, monsieur?”
“She’s my . . . or, rather, she was once my fiancée.”
Elena tried to yank her arm free once more, but Bastien held on as if afraid to lose her again. “I was never your anything,” she said, staring at the place where his heart should be, fingers tightening on the knife.
The inspector leaned in, ready to take her into custody, but Bastien waved him off. “Where have you been all this time? What happened to you?”
The hatred she’d been cultivating for this one moment finally erupted, and she bared her teeth at him. “What happened? You ruined my life with that damnable curse of yours, and you have the nerve to ask me what happened?”
“What are you talking about? What curse?”
“Do you have any idea the hell you put me through? For seven years my mind had to tread water inside that creature so I wouldn’t lose who I am. I was nearly eaten alive.”
“Look, I admit I was angry when you left, but I would never—”
“All because I said no to your scheming and lying. Do these people know all the deceitful ways you’ve profited?”
Bastien pulled Elena a fraction closer, squeezing her arm as he took in her disheveled appearance. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
Her body began to shake. The knife handle grew slippery in her hand. The crowd hovered closer. This wasn’t how she’d planned her revenge. If only she could plunge the blade through his heart and be done with him for good, but pressed against him she couldn’t summon the nerve. Her magic wouldn’t rise. And she was no common murderer who drew blood with mortal tools. She slid the knife back into her belt and pleaded one last time: “Let me go.”
“Bastien?”
The crowd parted as if moved by an unseen hand. A stately woman stepped forward like a queen through the open space, wearing a dress made of blue silk and lace. A gift box from the perfumery, wrapped in lavender paper and tied up with string, dangled from her delicate fingers. “What on earth are you doing? Unhand that woman this instant.”
“I . . . she . . .” Bastien let go and took a step back to stand beside the woman.
With Elena free, Nettles reached in his pocket for a protective amulet of rosemary and cedar tied with jute. “Careful, this one knows a trick or two. She assaulted me in the alley not ten minutes ago.”
“Ach, quatsch.” The woman advanced on the inspector, plucking the charm out of his hand and tossing it on the sidewalk. “I think the more likely scenario is the two of you teamed up on this poor creature and hounded her until she was run ragged. Just look at the state of her.”
Elena stiffened. She recognized the bierhexe at once—the flaxen hair, the rose-petal complexion, and the air of superiority—but there was something else. An aura of undeniable power. She understood immediately why the men obeyed her. They didn’t dare not. But then Elena caught the scent of the perfume wrapped up in the box. The combination of fragrances, though oddly accompanied by a subtle whiff of spoilage, suggested a potion to lure back a lover who’d turned cold. The information opened a small crack in the bierhexe’s facade, revealing a pool of doubt that lurked beneath the confident surface.
Their eyes met, and in the speck of a human second there passed recognition, a flinty spark between witches, as each identified the strength and weakness in the other.
The bierhexe swung the perfume box playfully from her fingers and said ever so pleasantly, “Please tell me what this unfortunate woman has done to get you boys in such an uproar.”
Bastien flushed. He removed his black felt homburg and pointed it at the inspector. “Yes, Inspector, what do you want with her?”
Nettles retrieved his charm and dusted it off. “I’m investigating the use of illegal magic, and this goatherd knows more than she ought about certain dark practices. I was about to question her about it when she assaulted me and escaped down the alley.”
The crowd murmured, pointing fingers and whispering about dead cats. Elena shrugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, wishing it were armor.
Bastian smoothed his hair back and replaced his hat on his head. “She’s no goatherd, you fool. She’s a vine witch.”
“Her?”
“That’s Elena Boureanu. She’s a vine witch. And a damn good one too. Or at least she was.”
The inspector’s eye shifted between Gerda and Bastien, testing. “One of yours?”
“Mine, actually.”
Elena turned toward the voice and nearly cried out from relief. Jean-Paul sat atop his horse, his jaw set for a fight. He slid out of the saddle and landed firmly on his boot soles. His eyes raked over her torn skirt and the trail of blood that led from knee to ankle.
“Are you hurt? My God, you are.” He flew at the inspector, grabbing him by the lapel. “Explain yourself, monsieur.”
“It’s concerning a covenant matter.” Nettles balanced on the tips of his toes, displaying his badge as Jean-Paul hauled him up by his jacket. “And she attacked me first.”
Gerda interceded. “She used a small, innocuous charm to defend herself. Its shadow is still circulating in the air.” She pointed to where a wispy gray cloud floated at the top of the abbey’s bell tower. “It was nothing threatening, Monsieur Nettles. Not even a real spell. There was no law broken. Just an illusion.”
Jean-Paul leaned on the inspector. “Is this true?” Nettles admitted as much. “Then you have no more business with her,” he said, letting the man go. “Come, Elena. I’ll take you home.”
“Home?” Bastien pushed the inspector aside to stand toe to toe with Jean-Paul. “What’s the meaning of this, Martel? You’ve never used a vine witch before.”
“And I’ve never made good wine before. But if she’s as talented as you say she is, it’s high time I got started.”
But the crowd hadn’t entirely dispersed when Elena took a last threatening step toward Bastien. “I want you to know I came back to ruin you for what you did to me,” she said, keenly aware she could show no more weakness in front of the bierhexe. “No more jinxes, no more falsifying the tax records to try and steal Château Renard. We’re going to produce wine so exquisite the world will forget about Domaine du Monde. And if you come within ten feet of the vineyard again I will make you sorry you were ever born.”
“Elena, it wasn’t me.” Bastien looked to his wife. �
�Tell her it wasn’t me.”
The bierhexe merely stood with the perfume dangling from her grip, her jaw locked, her teeth grinding.
The automobile rumbled down the road as Jean-Paul retrieved his horse. He walked slowly back to Elena, never taking his eyes off her. “What made you come to the village?” he asked.
She patted the horse’s neck, letting it get the smell of her. “I didn’t want you staying away because you were afraid.”
He glanced over the top of the saddle. Inspector Nettles leaned against the post office wall watching them, as if to say he wasn’t yet satisfied. “I’m not afraid. Not anymore,” he said. “Confused and bewildered, perhaps, but that’s not as rare as you might imagine.” He put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself onto the horse.
She smiled at his confession and took his hand when he offered it. Though unladylike, she hiked her skirt up and swung her leg over the saddle behind him.
“What changed?” she asked. She’d not seen him like this before, resigned yet resolute.
“Let’s just say I spent the night smelling God’s feet.”
“Ah, so Brother Anselm is still at the abbey, then. The All Knowing favors him.”
“Will you tell me about it? The things I saw? What you do? I want to know everything.”
“If you’re sure,” she said, then shivered as much from her cursed skin as the prospect of what his change toward her might mean.
“You’re cold.” Jean-Paul twisted in the saddle to speak to her. “Your hands are like ice. Do you want my jacket?”
Her first instinct was to pull back, protect herself, but his body was so warm. And the closer hers was to his, the more the magic stirred back to life inside her. The sensation was tiny, a speck of dust floating in a ray of sunlight, but it was there, still alive, somehow being nurtured by this man’s nearness, like no magic she’d experienced before, not even with Bastien in the early days of their courting. She slipped her hands inside the wool pockets of his jacket and said she’d tell him anything he wanted to know.
He tapped the reins, and they left the village behind as the sun went down over the surrounding vineyards.
“My people have been making wine in this valley since the earliest vines were planted thousands of years ago. It’s our particular talent. Others excel in similar arts.”
“How many witches are there?”
She watched him swallow the word, knowing how foreign it must taste in his mouth. “It isn’t just the vineyards. There are witches who are experts with scent, like the perfume sorcerers that work the lavender fields in the south. Others experiment with healing waters and gemstones. And a great many have mastered the art of flavor and texture in food,” she said, restraining a smile, “as you’ve perhaps already noticed in our local pâtisserie.”
“It’s true about the desserts?”
“Oh, there are bakers who can create a scent so provocative it will make your head reel with passion. Cake so succulent you want to hold it in your mouth and savor each swallow as if it’s your last. Some say they are the most dangerous witches of all.” She laughed so he would know she was only teasing. “But only if you’re in love. Or so they like to say.”
“Is that so?” Jean-Paul cleared his throat, and she was grateful he could not see her face turn crimson as she remembered the heady smells of cinnamon and chocolate. “I’d heard rumors about the witches here since I was a boy,” he said. “Everyone in the city has. But I always thought it was just a ploy to lure tourists to the valley.”
“Some do earn their living off strangers. Most, though, work at their trade the same as anyone else.” Elena lifted her head to speak directly to him. “And before you ask why we don’t all just cast spells and reap gold out of thin air, you should know there are laws we have to abide by.”
“The Covenant Laws. Yes, I read through them last night.” He held his hand up defensively as she leaned forward to see if he was telling the truth. “I’m trained in the law,” he said. “It’s what I do. Or did, rather, in my other life back in the city.” It seemed he wanted to say something more, but he took a breath of country air instead, his chest expanding until she felt his back press against her. “And Madame is a vine witch as well?” He shook his head. “All this time, she never once made me suspect she was anything but a little eccentric, maybe a little superstitious. Well, except for that thing she does by rubbing her thumb and fingers together.”
“Her magic has worn thin with age. The gesture is how she checks for spells. Like reading by braille, only . . . metaphysically.”
“And Du Monde’s wife? She’s a foreigner, but she’s a vine witch too?”
“Oh, no. She’s quite different. She’s a bierhexe from the north.”
“Bierhexe?”
“They’re formidable at spell magic, but they don’t usually dabble in winemaking. They typically concentrate on potions and curatives when they’re not making beer. Think big cauldrons and clouds of rising steam. Though some do venture into wine nowadays. They’ve done well with the Riesling.”
“Am I wrong to think that there are more of your kind here in the Chanceaux Valley than other places?”
“It’s the terroir,” she said, breathing in the scents of distant rain, chalky soil, and verdant growth springing open on the vine. “I’m not sure there’s anywhere else to compare in the world. The place carries its own magic. Difficult for my kind to resist.”
He nodded as if he understood, taking in the scenery like a country gentleman out for a bit of night air. The same things had likely lured him to the valley. Grand-Mère had been right about him. She saw that now. He had the heart of a true vigneron building inside him.
“I was pledged to the vineyard at Château Renard as a child after my parents died,” she said, wanting him to know the truth. “I’ll always belong to that plot of earth, no matter the owner.”
“Are you saying you were sold into the business? Is that how it works?”
“I’m bound but not indentured. I could have easily ended up working on the streets as a card reader or pickpocket if I hadn’t been taken in. Madame and Monsieur had no children of their own, no one to take over when they were gone.” Elena paused, wondering if she sounded like she still blamed him for losing the title to the vineyard. She no longer did. “When they offered to teach me the magic of making wine,” she continued, “it was like planting a new root in old soil. Because I was so young my knowledge was shaped around the unique characteristics of the Renard terroir. That bond is why I’m so protective of it. It’s why I can’t imagine making wine anywhere else.”
They rode a moment in silence before he shifted in the saddle and asked, “What I saw last night. The lights. And that thing.”
“The gargoyle?”
“Yes, that. Is that normal? Is there really an entire world I can’t see?”
“Not even all witches can see what walks in the shadows.”
“But you do.”
She looked around, astonished at how quickly her energy had recovered in his presence. She pointed to a wall marking the boundary of an abandoned vineyard on their right. Above it loomed the ruins of a stone castle. Only one turret remained upright. The rest of the fallen stonework sat buried in overgrown moss and ivy. “There, on the hill. Do you see the arch above the old gateway?” He pulled on the horse’s reins, and she pressed her hand over his. “Now what do you see?”
He looked down at their clasped hands, then squinted at the distant castle. “Do you mean the blue light? It appears to be moving. I watched a demonstration in the Palais de l’Électricité at the World Exhibition a few years ago that created a light like that. But they couldn’t possibly have electricity up there? Why would they?”
“No, it’s not electric. Not exactly.” She fumbled for a way to describe it. “It is energy, but the source doesn’t come from any generator. It’s more atmospheric in nature. It’s been glowing above that gate since I was a child.”
“What’s it for?”
She slid her thumb over the back of his hand, thinking about the witch who had cursed her and stolen her warmth. “It was a fort once, and later they kept a few witches there who’d broken the new Covenant Laws. Celestine is the one most people remember.”
“I’ve ridden up there. The whole place is falling apart. There couldn’t be anyone there still.”
“No, not for ages, but I wanted you to see the ruins aglow with spell magic.”
He stared up at the place, eyes focused in morbid fascination, then tucked her hand back in his pocket and patted the outside of his jacket, ready to be rid of the image. “Thank you for showing me.”
She wished she could thank him as well for the magic returning inside her, but how to explain the change when she didn’t understand it herself? She had her suspicions, of course, but she wasn’t yet ready to let those words free. Words carried power, more so for witches, so she closed off the thought. With a sigh, she tipped her face to the evening stars just coming out, mystified at the way the All Knowing sought to bend her life in the one direction she had not thought she’d ever go again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tiny green tendrils explored the canopy with curled fingers, eager to find their anchor point. Humans were not so different, Jean-Paul thought, as he thinned the vines to rid them of excess growth. To find your place and hold on—wasn’t that what everyone wanted? She’d said the terroir anchored her to the vineyard. There were days he felt it slip inside him—the soil in his lungs, the chlorophyll under his fingernails, the atmosphere crackling with the scent of rain—binding him to the place as well. He could build a good life on it. The grapes would give under her care. He could tender a heritage, one he could pass on to a son or daughter when he was too old to walk the vine rows anymore.
The Vine Witch Page 11