On instinct she backed inside the witch’s circle, hoping it held some protective energy against the thing. But the moment she stepped across the line, tendrils of murky energy crept up her legs, seething with dark magic. A current of energy ran over her skin, sleek as snakes. The demon held back, studying her, watching for what she would do with the magic.
She took the gamble. Elena drew the bierhexe’s magic into her hands as a thread of saliva slipped out of the demon’s mouth. Miraculously, the magic held together like a ball of static that bit at her skin. The beast crouched, legs ready to lunge. With fingers quivering, she unleashed the sphere of crackling energy. The blast hit the creature full in the muzzle, but instead of setting it afire as she hoped, the energy enveloped the demon’s body in glowing green light.
The thing’s hair thickened, its snout elongated, its teeth and claws curved and sharpened, and then it stood on its hind legs, displaying the full height of a grown man. The fiend roared at her, its breath reeking of spoiled meat.
Her mouth convulsed as if to scream. It merely grinned back. And though the demon didn’t speak aloud, she understood every word directed at her as it inched closer. “That old hexe’s instincts were right about you,” it said, unfurling a pair of leather wings. “Your cursed blood only enhances the dark energy.” It licked its lips, tasting her magic in the air. “Pity you won’t be joining us in everlasting life, but you’re going to taste deliciously wicked when I tear your throat out.”
Jean-Paul let out an agonizing yell as he scraped his chest against the press to free himself of its grip. She heard a rib snap. The demon heard it, too, and just for a second seemed to consider which was the better of two meals.
Her eyes darted from Jean-Paul to the beast. It growled low and hungry. She pulled the cochoir from the small of her back and waved the curved blade in front of her as she inched backward. There were no more magic spells. “Get out,” she shouted to Jean-Paul, not daring to take her eyes off the demon a second time. “Take Yvette with you.”
“Elena!”
The beast pounced, fangs bared. It pinned her against a row of barrels, its teeth sinking into the triangle of flesh above her collarbone. She’d thought she’d known pain when Old Fox took her toe, but it was nothing compared to the electric stars that flashed in her eyes. Jean-Paul’s voice shouted at her to hold on. Fight, Elena, fight! She swiped the curved edge of the knife against the thick hide of the demon, and it answered by sinking its teeth deeper. A strangled animallike shriek crawled out of her throat. She tried to push the thing off, to wriggle loose, to flee, anything to be free of its bite. But its grip was too strong, its teeth too practiced at their purpose. Her blood was being drawn into its mouth.
She would be drained like a cat to feed the desecrated body of a demon.
But as sudden and vicious as it had struck, the hairy devil abruptly let go. Its tongue thrust in and out of its mouth, as if trying to rid itself of the taste of her. White froth foamed on grotesque lips. It clawed at its face, gagging for breath, spitting her blood on the floor. Elena shoved the beast away, thinking it possessed, when a putrid stream of yellow bile oozed out of its mouth. The demon dropped to its knees in a spasm that racked its body in marionette-like contortions. The golden eyes dilated in disbelief.
“What have you done to me?” it begged. And then the monster slumped into stillness, leaving her bewildered and without answer.
Jean-Paul, finally free, limped madly toward her from the winepress, one hand clutching his ribs. “Christ, is it dead?” he asked.
The demon was definitely dead. But how?
Rivulets of blood trickled from the puncture wounds near her neck. She wiped a smear of it on her hand and rubbed it between her fingers. Could it be? For seven years she’d ingested toxic toad skin to break the curse. Was it possible the bufotoxin still swam in her blood after all this time? It must have, though the realization gave her no comfort.
“It’s been poisoned,” she said and wiped her hand on her costume.
“You’re bleeding,” he said. “Are you hurt badly?” He reached up to her collar, groaning from the pressure it put on his ribs to raise his arm.
“I don’t think so.” Though if it was possible for her to infect the beast, she had to wonder if it could have done the same to her with its vile, hell-born mouth. No fire burned inside her veins, and her head and eyes were clear. Still, she would need to visit Brother Anselm to be sure.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Jean-Paul asked.
“What for?”
“For not being able to protect you.”
“Stop.” She held a finger to his lips. “There was nothing on your mortal earth you could have done.”
He removed his shirt and pressed the cloth against her wound to stop the bleeding. “Can you at least tell me what in hell just happened?”
“One of its denizens used a human bridge to pay us a visit,” she said. “Oh, Yvette! Is she all right?”
They hurried to the other side of the barrels and found the young woman lying on the floor, unconscious. Elena thanked the stars there wasn’t much blood except for the small trickle coming from Yvette’s nose and a scratch on her arm.
“I performed a protection spell on her before we entered, but she wasn’t supposed to come down here.”
Jean-Paul tapped the woman’s cheeks and got no response.
“Let me try a little of this,” Elena said, digging in her pocket. She’d saved a bit of lavender and bay from Brother Anselm’s bundle. She passed it under Yvette’s nose several times. The young witch’s eyes fluttered open, and Elena held her hands in the sacred pose to thank the All Knowing.
“What happened?”
“You were knocked out. I’m afraid you’re going to have a terrible headache later.”
“Where is she? And that devil? Did they get away?”
Elena glanced over her shoulder at the cellar passageways cloaked in darkness. “The demon is dead, but Gerda is still here. Hiding in one of the barrel rooms.”
Yvette sat up. “Let’s get her. Where’s my . . .” The young woman swayed unsteadily and fell over to the side. Jean-Paul caught her shoulder, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out at the cost to his ribs.
“You’ve had a nasty bump to the head,” Elena said. “It’s best if you rest.”
She stopped and put a finger over her lips. The clatter of horse hooves beat upon the cobblestones. She crept closer to the steps leading out of the cellar and heard the rumble of motorcycles. “They’re here.”
Jean-Paul helped the girl to her feet. “Who?”
“The inspector. And, I imagine, the matron.”
“You have to get out of here. They’ll lock you up. Both of you.”
“I’m not going back,” Yvette said. “There has to be a way out. A window or something.”
The authorities would search the house first. Only after finding it empty would the men expand their hunt to include the outbuildings and cellar. She and Yvette had a moment, albeit a brief one. Elena had no choice. She had to get Yvette out. She owed her that much.
“Right. No windows, but there is one other possible way out. At least for you.”
Elena took a step back and raised her arms in the sacred pose again. She closed her eyes and brought the image of flames and incense into her mind, the nearest she could align with the jinni’s spirit. Then she called out Sidra’s name three times.
“What! No, not her. Anyone but her. She hates me.”
After a long pause, the scents of charred citrus and frankincense trickled into the cellar. As the aroma grew stronger it infiltrated the space, pushing out the odor of death and sulfur. A trail of smoke seeped in through a tiny crack in the cellar’s foundation, a passageway only a spider ought to know of. The smoke built into a column, and the jinni stepped out, her skin still shimmering with magic.
“What is this place?” she demanded. “It’s as dark as Jahannam in here. Did you summon me inside the walls of a jail?” Sid
ra wore a scowl that would have frightened the demon back to hell if it were still alive. “If this is a trick, I will curse your offspring for all eternity.”
Jean-Paul’s mouth fell open at the sight of the jinni in her shiny silks and gold jewelry.
“It’s a wine cellar,” Elena assured her. “And I’m in need of a favor, if I’m still due one.”
“Already? You didn’t get very far.” Sidra’s eye traveled down the length of Elena’s costume. “Prophets protect us, what are you wearing?”
She’d forgotten about the unfortunate apparel. “Never mind that,” she said, fighting the urge to cover her partially exposed midriff. “We have only a minute.”
Ignoring the threat of combustion from Sidra, she explained the need for a quick escape that only her magic could provide.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” the jinni asked. “Leaving this one with the authorities would save you a favor for a more worthy moment.”
“Oh, that’s gratitude for you.” Yvette crossed her arms. “And maybe I should have tossed the matches out the window and let you feel the kiss of la demi-lune against your neck.”
“Ladies!” Elena pointed to the cellar door as a reminder of what was at stake.
Sidra rolled her eyes. “Fine, but I choose the method of her escape.” Elena and Yvette grudgingly agreed, and the jinni pushed back the sleeves of her robe and raised her arms. “You know, I could take you both,” she said with a glance at Elena.
“I know. But I have to stay and settle this. I can’t have a shadow of guilt trailing me for the rest of my life. I have a home at Château Renard that I hope to return to. If its owner will have me.”
Jean-Paul slipped his hand in hers as his answer, and she gripped it with all her might.
“Very well. Peace be with you both.”
“And with you.”
Sidra narrowed her eyes at Yvette. “Come, let’s get this over with.”
The young woman stepped forward, still woozy but able to stay on her feet. The jinni removed the sash from her caftan and tied it around Yvette’s wrist, singing her magic so that the melody echoed through the cavernous space. Outside, the inspector’s voice rose in irritation, shouting orders to search the outbuildings. Soon he would discover the door to the cellar. Sidra finished her singing. Her body shimmered like a heat wave above a desert until she disappeared, taking Yvette with her. In their place a gray sparrow flapped its wings in a cloud of smoke as it perched atop the winepress, waiting for the cellar door to open. A red string trailed off its leg. Whether the transformation was real or merely an illusion planted in the mind by the jinni, Elena did not know, but she raised her hands in the sacred pose, thankful to see both women on the cusp of freedom.
Jean-Paul hugged his ribs and sat on the cellar steps to wait. He was still gaping, hand over mouth in amazement at what he’d witnessed, when Elena left him. Taking the witch’s candlestick, she followed the smeared blood trail on the flagstones. Bastien’s cellar was a vast catacomb of interconnecting corridors and individual rooms that had stood for centuries. Perhaps a thousand years. Each generation of winemakers had dug deeper into the earth, searching for the ideal temperature and humidity to perfect the aging process. The result was a warren of irregular rooms and narrow passageways.
And Gerda could be hiding in any one of them.
The blood loss had slowed, but an intermittent line of drops and dragged-foot smears pointed toward the oldest part of the cellar. Elena followed as it led under an ancient lintel with a wedged keystone. The corridor sloped noticeably downward, growing narrower than the main cellar. Cobwebs heavy with dust laced the ceiling. She lit a wall sconce to mark the way, leaving it to burn as she descended into the passage that bore more resemblance to a dungeon entrance than a storage space for wine.
Holding the candlestick out in front of her as a weapon as much as a torch, she ducked her head into each anteroom she passed. Some were no larger than a niche with a dozen dusty bottles; others held several racks of wine, where the air was half-damp from the expended breath of the bottles. To her recollection there were perhaps five or six similar rooms this deep in the cellar. She moved cautiously, knowing each one she passed left fewer places for the witch to hide. A moment later she held still. Breathing. Listening. There was a subtle shift in the air. The scent of dead flowers just below the exhale of the wine. Then a muttered whisper rose out of the darkness in a pattern every organ in her body recognized. Gerda was casting a spell.
Elena let the sound lead her as she crept forward on the balls of her feet to a small crypt-like alcove on her left. The room held two racks of very old wine. The bottles were caked in mold and dust, and white spores grew out of the corks with tiny tentacles that wafted on the slightest air current. Though decrepit looking, she knew the wine inside would be perfectly protected.
Unlike Gerda, whom she found slumped against the back wall between the shelves.
The witch’s leg was bent akimbo so that her mutilated foot rested in her lap. Remarkably, her hair had filled in again. Though still gray, it hung in waves to her shoulders. The cataracts, too, had vanished from her eyes, though she did not look up as she continued chanting her spell.
“Blood of vigor, vitality, and life. Whether suckled by tooth, or drained by knife. Transfuse your grace into the vein. Till the verve of youth be all that remain.” The witch dipped her finger in her own blood, then wiped it on her tongue. “You can use your own if nothing else avails, but you have to keep doing the spell over and over again until it takes hold.” Her eyes closed as she leaned her head back against the wall. “Quite exhausting.”
“I’m not sure your spell is working.” Elena trailed a finger over the dusty bottles and then blew the dirt off with a puff of breath. “My guess is you’ll be nothing but dust yourself soon.”
The witch kept her eyes closed and began the chant again, dabbing her finger in the bloodstain on her skirt.
“Your demon is dead, by the way.”
Gerda’s eyes opened, calculating truth or lie. “Impossible.”
“Apparently the cure to my curse left my blood poisonous,” she said, raising the candlestick to show off the bite wound on her collar. “But I’d be happy to donate a few drops to your cause.”
The witch managed a defeated laugh. “Your spiteful side is why I thought you might be one of us.” A pain hit her and she grimaced, sucking in a breath. When it passed, she swallowed hard as a faint blush returned to her cheeks. The wrinkles on her face smoothed out and her teeth reappeared, polished and white. She turned her hands over front to back, checking for age spots, pleased with the results.
A vague thud echoed at the far end of the corridor. Elena adjusted her stance to lean against the wall, shifting the candlestick to her other hand as a distraction. There was precious little time left. “Was it Bastien who had me cursed?” Even now she needed the certainty.
Gerda touched her face, delicately probing the tautness of her skin. “Have my cheekbones filled out?” Elena nodded, and the witch gave a half smile before letting it fall again, as if the weight of it was too heavy to hold in place. “He often wondered what happened to you. I believe . . . he was still in love with you.” It cost her to admit it, as if revealing the shadow of a vulnerable and childish heart that had once coveted love above all else. “Your absence carved a hole in him. That piece of him was still missing when we met. It’s what made it so easy to reel him in. I merely molded myself to fit the shape you left.”
The candle flame blurred as tears rimmed Elena’s eyes. “Why kill him like that? Why kill him at all?”
The bierhexe’s face hardened into a Medusa stare as she spit out her venom. “Because after you returned, he never looked at me again.”
The blood magic seemed to pump through Gerda’s veins quicker, encouraged by the heat of her temper. She suffered a last bout of pain, and then her youthful appearance was fully restored. She stretched her leg out straight, turning the bloody foot from side to si
de. “I thought it might grow back after the change, but it must require a different form of blood. A rabbit perhaps.” Gerda licked her lips and stood with surprising agility. “Never mind that. It’s all for the best anyway.”
“How’s that?”
“Now that you’ve ruined everything, I’m going to take great pleasure in making sure what remains of your life is nothing but misery. This foot shall be my evidence,” she said, limping toward Elena to make her threat face-to-face. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the authorities I hear coming, and I can’t wait to show them what you did to me with your fiendish devil magic.”
On cue Inspector Nettles showed himself, stepping out of the narrow passageway, his face flushed from the chase. “Make one move and it will be your last,” he said, waving his torch at them. The flame glowed eerily blue, burning with a ferocious desire to leap at them.
Gerda crumpled, feigning weakness. “Oh, Inspector! Thank the All Knowing you’ve come. She forced me down here and nearly killed me.” She backed away from Elena and revealed the ghastly foot.
Elena dared to meet the inspector’s eyes, uncertain what he would do next. He made no move toward her, but perhaps uncertainty kept him rooted to his spot, despite his flamethrower. After all, what charm could he possibly possess that could deflect a demon’s sorcery?
“Reeking, foul magic it is,” he said, choosing wiles instead of amulets. “Can you walk to me? You’ve nothing to fear from her while I’m here.” He held out a hand to Gerda as if she dangled off a high ledge.
She went to him, limping and sniffling. He cooed at her with comforting words, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders as he escorted her safely out of the storage room.
Elena waited, wondering if she should have fled with Sidra after all. If she’d miscalculated, misjudged . . . and then he beckoned her forward with a stern look and a tilt of his head. She inhaled the scent of the old wine one last time and walked out of the room.
The Vine Witch Page 22