Sibyl shrugged unconcerned. “Fog can play tricks on the eye. Surely you know that, living a life at sea.”
“I heard voices too. Your voice and a man’s.”
“Really? I can assure you no man was with me. Fog can play tricks on the ear as well. It bends every sound and bounces it back as something else, sometimes as words we want to hear.”
“I’m not mad, Sibyl, and don’t mistake me for a fool either. I heard your voice and someone else’s.”
“You’re tired, Portuguesa.” Sibyl walked into the hut and straight to the hearth. “Why don’t I make the tea? You rest.”
Sibyl pulled out a fine china cup and spooned in a healthy measure of leaves.
The golden girl was right on one account. She was tired and no longer thinking straight.
Luísa looked over at Sibyl as she poured the hot water into the cup. Were her eyes playing tricks on her again? She must be tired. Now Sibyl’s earrings were long dangling bits of white coral.
Sibyl bade her to sit down and drink the tea. Tired, Luísa thought. She was just tired. The tea would help.
“Drink it slow, Luísa. And breathe deep. You’ll feel better soon.”
Luísa took one sip and then another, allowing the fragrant steam to weave itself around her. So tired. She could hardly keep her eyes open. When she swallowed again, she realized her mistake.
The wench had drugged the tea.
She was too numb to move, and the cup tumbled out of her hands and onto the floor, smashing it into bits. Sibyl seemed to fade in and out, and for a moment Luísa was sure the woman had no substance at all.
“What’s happening?” Now the room whirled around as shadows and sprites danced in her periphery. The only way to banish them was to close her eyes.
Sibyl helped her to the mat where Daltry lay sleeping. “Rest, Portuguesa. And dream of home.”
When Luísa awoke, she found herself perilously close to Daltry. Sibyl had thought enough to drape her with a shawl, but the dreadful wench set her down right next to her brother. At least she wasn’t under his covers.
She woke to the sound of humming. Still groggy, she thought at first the rocking chair was rocking by itself. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. Luísa blinked and looked again. Now Sibyl was sitting in it, weaving a new rope.
“You put a sleeping potion in my tea.” Luísa scrambled to her feet.
“I’m sorry, but you gave me no choice. I knew you’d never sit still long enough to allow my brother to recover.” She tossed the rope against the arm of her chair. “It’s evening now. Too dangerous to go out.”
“Evening! You let me sleep all day?”
Sibyl got up and offered her a seat, but Luísa would have none of her courtesies. “You’ve wasted valuable time. Saint-Sauveur must be on the island by now.”
“He is. But he can’t enter Sanctuary. No one can.”
“Are you mad or just stupid? I could have gotten away.”
Sibyl dragged her by the arm to a wicker bench in front of the only table in the hut. “Sit,” she ordered. She pushed a bowl of fruit in front of her. “Now eat.”
“Why did you poison me with your sleeping potion?”
“To give my brother time to heal. I knew you’d want to be on your way as soon as you were able, but Xander was in no condition to travel and he’d never forgive me if I let you travel alone.” She handed her a mango and a knife. “So I made sure you both rested.”
“I don’t feel very rested.”
“I’m not surprised. You whimpered in your sleep.”
Luísa felt a flush come over her face. “I don’t whimper.”
Sibyl only smiled. “Whimpered like a lost kitten.”
“Look, wench—”
“Shh, you’ll wake my brother.”
Luísa looked over at Daltry. “How is he?”
“He’s not regained consciousness. That’s the way of it when he’s healing. His body spends all its vigor repairing itself.” Her face was lined with worry. “He was badly hurt this time.”
Daltry stirred.
“He’s waking,” Luísa said hopefully.
Sibyl scurried over to him. “Are thee awake, sleepyhead?”
A moan was the only answer.
Sibyl snapped her fingers at Luísa. “Some tea, Portuguesa.”
Luísa didn’t appreciate being ordered about, but she brought the tea without complaint. As she sat down next to Sibyl, Daltry opened his eyes.
“How long?” he rasped.
Sibyl wiped his brow with the hem of her skirt. “Not long, Xander. All is well.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fibber. Tell me the truth.”
The two women looked at one another before Sibyl spoke again. “It’s nightfall.”
Daltry’s eyes flew open. “Bugger me. Why did you let me sleep so long?”
“Easy there, Capitán,” Luísa cautioned him. “No one let you sleep. You’ve been unconscious. It’s a little hard to wake the dead.”
“Humph. Not on this island.” Daltry’s hands tangled in his coverlet. “My clothes, ladies. I want my clothes.”
“You’ll have nothing of the sort,” Sibyl scolded. She raised his head then placed a china cup to his lips. “Drink, Xander. And then we’ll talk about your clothes.”
Daltry obeyed and the hot tea seemed to calm him. He was a ragged soul, his eyes bloodshot, his skin scratched and scarred. Luísa could see something was willing him to get up, but there was no strength in the man.
“We have to get her out of here, Sibyl. The blood moon…” His words slurred into a snore, and he fell back to bed.
Within seconds he was sound asleep again.
“What is it you put in that tea?”
Sibyl only smiled. “Let’s give him a few more hours of sleep. His body will replenish itself if he’s given enough time.”
“Time is something I have in short supply. I must find my father before the blood moon.”
“Your father is the least of your worries, Luísa.”
“I’ll decide that if you don’t mind.” Luísa pointed her peeling knife at Sibyl. “Look, you have your brother, and now I must go and find my father. I’d welcome your help if you’re so inclined to give it. But I’ll go on my own if I have to.”
“Don’t be reckless, girl. You don’t even know where to look.”
“Aye, I’m on foreign soil here.”
“More to the point, you risk being caught by that French devil. He’ll not let you slip away again. He’s a man possessed.”
“You know Saint-Sauveur?”
“I know him.” The words spat out like poison.
The golden girl hated him. Something they had in common. “You could help me, Sibyl. I did bring your brother to you, didn’t I? That must be worth something to you. You could draw me a map of this island, or tell me where I could get information on my father.”
Sibyl fidgeted, and she snuck a peek at her brother, snoring like a drunkard. She grabbed Luísa by the arm and pulled her toward the hearth. “Because you didn’t abandon my brother, I will repay you in the only way I can. I don’t know where your father is, but the cards might.”
“Cards?”
From a pocket she pulled out something wrapped in fine red silk. Deft fingers unrolled the smooth scarlet fabric to reveal a set of colorful cards. Tarot cards.
Luísa’s spirits dampened. Was she the only person with any practical wit? She needed real help, not spells or demon readings. “No thank you, Sibyl.”
“You don’t believe in the Tarot. Is that it?” She fanned the cards in front of her. “It was the cards that told me you existed. It was the cards that told me you were coming.”
“Rubbish. Children and idiots believe whatever is fed to them. I won’t live my life on a soothsayer’s natter.”
“Is that what you tell that brown man who watches over you? Even now he rattles his little bones, looking for you.”
“Paqua,” she whispered, her heart achin
g, knowing what he had suffered.
“He reads the future with bones and entrails. I prefer something a little less…messy.”
“I humor the old man. I don’t believe in magic and fortune tellers.”
“You didn’t believe in werewolves either. Until you came here.”
Luísa swallowed hard. Much as she hated to admit it, the golden girl had a point. She threw her hands up in resignation. “Fine! Fine. Let’s see what your cards tell you.”
Sibyl grinned with delight. She tucked her cards back into her pocket then handed Luísa the bowl of fruit from the table. From the cupboard, she pulled out a plain black cloth and a white candle.
Luísa just stood there, not knowing what to do with the fruit. Sibyl waved her fingers at her. “Put it away, silly. To get the clearest reading, I must prepare the room.”
Sibyl lit every candle in the hovel then unfurled the drape at the lone window to darken the room. The fire at the hearth was freshened with more kindling, and she hopped up on one foot to pull down a great sheave of rosemary from the rafters.
Near the fireplace, she stole a smudge pot hidden by a bellows. It was then she slowed down, taking one sprig of rosemary and stripping it of its leaves. Carefully she fed the smudge pot and lit it.
“For clarity,” she said.
The rest of the rosemary spray was offered to the fire where it warmed the room with its heady fragrance.
Sibyl bent over the smudge pot and blew into it, chanting words Luísa didn’t understand.
White smoke rose into pearly tendrils, and she lifted the pot and waved it across the table. She motioned to Luísa to sit on the wicker bench while she took the only chair.
She shuffled the cards, pulling several out and reinserting them in different places. When she seemed content with the shuffle, she placed them face down.
“Light the candle, Luísa, and ask the cards your first question.”
Luísa pulled a piece of straw from the floor and lit it from the fireplace. She sat back down and thought carefully, lighting the candle as a question formed.
Despite the mad chase by Saint-Sauveur, ghouls, bats and werehyenas, and despite not knowing the outcome of her crew, only one question plagued her night and day.
“Where will I find my father?”
Sibyl raised the smudge pot in front of the cards and blew the perfumed smoke over them. The smoke kissed the cards, and only then did she touch them. She fanned the deck in her hands and told Luísa to pull out one card, and one card only.
Luísa slid one card from the deck, but she could no more read the painted card than she could decipher Paqua’s little bones. It was the picture of a man, naked from the waist up, holding a sword in one hand and a set of scales in another.
Sibyl took the card and placed it on the table before them. “The card of judgment,” she says softly. “Your father is trapped.”
Luísa leaned over the table. “Where?”
Sibyl offered her the deck again. “Choose.”
This time the card drawn was the eight of swords.
Sibyl’s face darkened, her expression dour. Her small cherub lips pursed into silence.
“What?” Luísa pressed her. “What does it mean?”
“He’s on this island, guarded heavily. You won’t find him without help.” She turned over another card, but it slipped out of her hand before she laid it down. She gasped as if it were some great sorrow. “I’m sorry, Luísa.”
“For what? Tell me!”
Her slender brows knitted together, making her look far older than her years. “Your father is diminished, weak and most certainly near death.” Her face warmed in regret. “He’s running out of time. And I’m afraid, so are you.”
She turned over another card.
“The Fool,” she said with an eyebrow raised. “It seems you lust after someone.”
“What?”
“The cards, Portuguesa. They say there is lust in your heart. It could get you into trouble.” A soft smile tweaked the edges of her lips.
“That’s ridiculous!”
Nimble fingers turned over another card. “But the Fates have granted you protectors. A blessing.”
Sibyl gathered the cards once more and reshuffled. This time she didn’t ask Luísa to choose.
The first card on the table was a knight, the second, the nine of spears. Whatever its meaning, it stunned Sibyl to silence. She swallowed visibly and glanced back at Xander. “My brother has many enemies.”
The golden haired woman traced her fingertips across the picture with the spears. She pushed the cards back into the deck, then shuffled again. This time a picture of a skeleton carrying a sickle came up.
If it was possible, Sibyl’s fair skin paled even more.
“You are safe here, Luísa. At least until the blood moon. I must go and seek allies for my brother. I am entrusting you to take care of him until I return.”
“I’ll have bollocks for breakfast before I stay any longer. I have to find my father.”
Sibyl shrugged and walked over to her brother. She knelt and planted a kiss on his forehead then took the shawl Luísa had used as her coverlet.
“I’ve no time to explain everything to you, Portuguesa. You’ll have to trust me.”
Luísa stepped in front of the pale girl and blocked her path. “Aye, well, we seem to have a difference of opinion on that matter. You’ve been kind, but I’ve no reason to trust you, not when you’ve filled my head with doubts and sleeping potions.”
“You wanted answers, I gave them to you. It’s not my fault if it wasn’t the news you hoped for.” Sibyl gave her a cross look. “Take care of my brother. Tell him I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“Supposing I don’t?”
Sibyl snickered, looking her up and down like a china doll under glass. “I’ve no doubt you can handle the sea, Luísa, but you’re no match for the inhabitants of this island. If you want to find your father and leave this island alive, you’ll need my brother.” She nodded in his direction. “And he’s in no condition to travel for a while.”
Luísa didn’t want to admit that she was right. Without a guide, she could miss her father completely and get captured in the process.
“How long will you be gone?”
“That depends on what I find. Xander has done a fine job isolating himself from every friend he’s ever had. But if I do not return by the blood moon, you and my brother must run from this place. It won’t be safe—not for any of us, when the full moon rises next.”
Sibyl brushed a lock of hair off Luísa’s shoulder. “This wasn’t your burden, Portuguesa. I’m sorry the curse made it so.” Her eyes brightened and she clicked her tongue inside her mouth. “But by God, you do take after the old woman. There’s no denying that.”
“What old woman? What are you talking about?”
“Izabel, of course. The Sorceress. You have her eyes and her hard ways. Is that why you became a pirate?”
Every muscle in Luísa’s body tensed. She could flay the skin off this wench with a spoon yet Sibyl studied her with the carelessness of a dolt.
“Speak plainly, Sibyl. If there’s a sorceress here, perhaps she could help me find my father.”
Sibyl laughed. “I don’t doubt it. The Sorceress knows everything that happens on this island, not that she cares to soothe anyone’s misery.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “But for you… Aye, she might for you. If you are who we think you are.”
“And who do you think I am?”
Sibyl rolled her eyes, as if the question was daft for the asking.
“Did my brother not explain why so many hunt for you?” She looked back at him and then to her. “Ah, he didn’t tell you. And you didn’t know. More’s the pity.”
“For what?”
“For your birthright.”
She reached over to touch Luísa, but Luísa jerked away, stumbling on the bench behind her.
“If you’re the one, you’ll bear the birthmark. Every da
ughter of that wicked woman has worn that mark.”
“You’re mistaking me for someone else, fortune teller. My people aren’t from these islands.”
“That you know,” Sibyl cut her off. “There’s one way to find out for sure. Take off your shirt.”
The woman was mad. “I don’t think so.”
Sibyl didn’t press the issue, waving her hands down in a calming gesture. “Then answer me this, pirate girl, and make me a liar. High up on your right breast there is a star-shaped birthmark, a star with five tips like a pentagram. You have one, and your mother had one. And her mother before her.” She crossed her arms and waited for her answer. “Am I right?”
Luísa could have picked her jaw off the floor. “How did you…”
“Two hundred years ago, a witch lived on this island. Powerful and vain she was, and more than once she cuckolded the native shaman in front of his people. In a jealous rage, the witchdoctor killed her with a poisoned dart, striking her on the chest—right where that little mark is,” she said pointing to her own breast. “Yet before the Sorceress died, she cursed the island and all its inhabitants.”
“What sort of curse?”
“An everlasting one.” Her lids closed slightly. “Those who die on this island never go beyond and never bathe in God’s mercy. They are trapped on the earthly plane for eternity.”
Sibyl’s eyes turned misty in the telling. “Terrified of the curse, the villagers buried her in a sealed tomb.” She sighed. “It didn’t help.”
“What happened to the villagers?”
Sibyl glanced around the room, her skin glistening like soapy bubbles. “Don’t you understand, girl? They’re still here. Who did you think those ghouls were?”
Luísa rubbed her forehead, trying to ward off a throbbing headache and the daunting feeling that what she was hearing was true. “Dios mío. What sort of place is this?”
“An unhappy place, my lamb. No one who dies here, leaves here.” An unearthly pallor swept over her face. “Legend has it that only a descendent of Izabel can break the curse, and Saint-Sauveur will not let that happen.”
“That’s madness! Any God fearing man would gladly see the dead find their rest.”
She laughed. “Saint-Sauveur fears neither God nor Satan. If he can use the scion to free the werewolves from turning involuntarily or becoming addicted to the wolfsbane, the pack would make him lord forever. The moonstone is a conduit and you, my dear, are the catalyst. Saint-Sauveur must have you both. That fiend has the chance to reign between God and the devil, and he will take that chance if he can.”
Mistress of the Stone Page 11