Bewitching Belle

by Debra Kristi

  John leaps over the flames. Slams his clenched fist into James’s face.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  James collapses to the ground, cradling his damages. Jeanna jumps on top of John and slams her fists into his side.

  “Leave him alone,” she hollers.

  John knocks her off and over. “Both of you, stay down.” His attention shifts from them to me. His finger rising to a hold between us.

  James’s whispered spell is in full force, the fire spreading like a wall around us. The smell of burning paper choking my lungs. Only, the enemy has not been held on the opposite side of the blaze. John stands among us.

  Another jumps through the flames and stands a few feet away. The fire shifts back upon us, crowds us, in an attempt to fulfill the spell cast.

  James stirs and John smacks his steel-toed shoe into his brother’s gut. “Don’t move,” he yells, then glues his stare on me. He says no words, but the shake of his head and the sharpness of his glare speak volumes. Stand down and stay still, his body language commands.

  But how can I possibly comply when the fire moves to harm, confused by the spell and our vicinity to the enemy?

  At John’s back, Jeanna pulls her magickal emergency kit from her pocket, flips open the tin. The other man who had crossed the fire drops on her. Grabs the kit. Tosses it away.

  My friends are down, in need of help. And fire rages around us, may soon consume us, along with the enemy.

  Throwing my arms wide and tilting my face to the sky, I call to the elements. “Water, wind, earth, and fire, heal this land upon which we stand.” Shouts call out around me, and a shift of weight wiggles within my apron. My spices rise from the pockets and soar into the air.

  “Stop her,” someone yells.

  Above us, clouds begin to form.

  A body slams into me, and I take a hard crack to the side of my skull. My eyes flutter. Rain begins to fall. And the world falls dark.

  My eyes blink open and shut, capturing disjointed images. A darkened sky. Rising smoke. Falling water.

  How long was I out? five seconds? Twenty?

  I’m being carried away from the field, but I can’t focus and I have the urge to puke. One of the Bokor’s goons has me. He drops me into a box. Metal. The world disappears with a thump, encasing me in something cold, dark, hard, and smelling of gasoline. A trunk? My hand presses to the side of my head and I moan.

  “Belle.” Jeanna shakes my side. “Are you alright?”

  “Where are we?” I ask and silently wish for an aspirin.

  “In the trunk of a car.” She clenches my arm. “They took James.”

  “Took James where?” I roll over to face her and the surrounding darkness swirls. I clench my teeth.

  “No idea.” She shifts onto her back and stares up at the closed trunk lid.

  I throw my fists at the surrounding metal. “Let us out,” I whimper.

  The engine roars to life, and the vehicle lurches forward. Sparks a ringing in my head. It rings and rings, finally settling into a dull hum.

  “I hope Luna and her dad got away,” I whisper.

  “I didn’t see them,” Jeanna says. “So, there’s hope.”

  The drive of the car shifts from rough to smooth, signaling a change in the road on which we ride. We ride and ride. Sometimes, I rest my eyes. Press against the throbbing in my head. The drive continues for so long, I begin to believe it may never end and it’s a nightmare I am trapped within, not reality. Or hallucinations induced by the mild exhaust fumes. A lump rises behind my ear and the swell of blood pushes against my consciousness.

  “We’ve stopped.” Jeanna grabs my wrist and squeezes.

  The car has indeed stopped. The engine killed. The chassis rocks, likely with the removal of passengers. The milling of footsteps and mumbles moves about the exterior of the car.

  A click and tumble.

  The trunk lid flies to an open.

  “Get out,” a man orders.

  Two men reach into the trunk and yank me and Jeanna from the space, thrust us toward a bland building with nothing more than a door, a few long and short windows set high along the wall. John leads the way, James held firmly in his grasp.

  I lurch forward, bow to the ground, honoring the rising desire to vomit, though nothing comes. I heave a breath and search for my center of gravity—My grounded core.

  “You guys alright?” James asks, glancing over his shoulder at us.

  “Shut it.” John yanks James hard to his side.

  Sorry, James mouths and turns his attention forward. One of the henchmen pushes at my back. With John tugging at James and another man shoving me, Jeanna sandwiched between us, my friends and I are ushered into a semi-large and dingy room. The walls are dark wood, the windows dim with the night sky, and the floor, a hard, cold grey concrete. A few chairs fill positions along the wall, and single bulb light fixtures hang from above. Their weak illumination hardly lifting the flavor of the space. The four bokor’s men fill in around us.

  My quick assessment of the space informs me, that aside from the exit at our back, there are two more doors on the opposite wall. The doors may lead to freedom or deeper into the enemy’s maze. To our right, at what I take to be the front of the room, is a small cluster of cocktail tables and chairs, most of which are occupied. And in front of the social setting, an oversized, high-back chair, filled by one overly dramatic bokor.

  The setting lends the impression that he thinks himself a king. And maybe, in his world of dark magick, he is. But kings can be dethroned.

  Chuks the bokor has his face painted to look like a skull. He’s wearing a black suit and top hat, as well as countless beaded necklaces. He holds, at his side, in a most regal fashion, a long black cane with white, carved handle. I wonder if each one of the beads on Chuks necklaces are blessed as the beads I have gathered for Miri’s wedding and pregnancy.

  The men seated at the tables are chatting, laughing. Playing card games, I think. At our arrival, the bokor glances up from his fellow festivities and narrows his gaze across the distance. The others in the room drop their voices, and then their conversation all together.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, stand on end. A shiver fights to rake through my body. I grab Jeanna and James’s hands and, before I lose my nerve, call on the elements to protect us. I say the word and focus on the thought.

  My head throbs with dull pain, but the spices rise from my pockets. Swirl in a wall of herbal dust around us.

  James is ripped from my hold. Knocked to the ground by his brother. I refuse to allow the change to affect my casting. Still, holes like a snag in nylon appear, growing and closing in size.

  “Magick courses strong in your blood, little witch,” the bokor says. “Now, sleep.” He raises his open palm to his lips and blows. A powder swims across the room, penetrates my protective wall, and swims around us.

  I try to hold my breath, avoid inhaling his spell. But oxygen is too sweet, too necessary. Plus, my head is spinning. I inhale. Stagger. Detect a hint of lavender and chamomile.

  Jeanna lowers herself to the ground, curling up as if she plans to nap. Here. Now.

  My muscles slacken, and my eyes wish to close, but I push against the desire. John grabs my arm and presses against my back. “Stop this. You’re making it worse, and I am trying to get you guys out of here alive,” he whispers at my ear.

  I jerk. Snap my attention to him, and he steps away. Sneers. With a start, I realize he’s playing the double agent. He works for the bokor, be it directly or indirectly, and he’s trying to protect his brother at the same time. Maybe he’ll be able to help us get out of this mess.

  “You’ve been up to no good, little witch.”

  My gaze jumps back to the bokor, my breath catching in my throat and my heart jumping into overtime.

  “By whose definition?” My voice is groggy and less authoritative than I care to admit.

  “By my own, and that’s the only one that counts,” he replies. �
��I’ll tell you what...” He rises from his seat and waves his hand to the side in presentation. “You stop this nonsense, leave my business with the Flores family alone, and I will see to it that your mother is returned to you. No influence over her, other than her own, of course.”

  “You can do that?” First Caleb offers to help return Luna’s parents; now Chuks the bokor is offering up mine. Everyone in our lives is being played like a bargaining chip.

  “I can do anything I set my mind to. My power and influence are vast. I can bless your life or make it hell.” I push at my backbone, forcing myself to stand straight. Stand tall and unblinking.

  His words… Lies. Lies and threats. All of it. I refuse to let him play me like one of the pieces on his board. And moreover, I refuse to simply step back and allow him to take control of Luna and her family.

  My insides are churning and squeezing. I want to vomit.

  Nerves, I tell myself. Everything I am physically experiencing is due to nerves, and I can do better, be better. Stand stronger. I can overcome the weakness, fear, and doubt pressing upon me. I suck in a deep breath and imagine Luna forever on the run from the bokor.

  Friends stand by friends, through all the good, bad, and ugly.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake and bow my head. Raise my gaze, sharp and unhindered. “But I’ll have to revoke any authority you think you have over Luna and her family.

  His face widens, and a hint of humor touches his cheeks.

  I thrust my hands up into the air, calling with the motion my spices from their pockets. Driving my palms toward the bokor, I command the attack of my spices. “Incapacitate and stupefy,” I yell.

  The bokor whips the hat from his head and pulls it to his chest, opening out. “Within,” he says. My spices compress, sail into the opening.

  I gasp. Take a step back.

  “I, too, have tricks, little witch.” He drops his hat back into place, atop his head. He flares his hands and hisses. Speckled clouds, like salt and pepper, explode for the cuffs of his sleeves, from the opening of his mouth.

  I want to run, but my feet refuse to move. James is hollering my name, telling me to duck. Only, I don’t move. I can’t move. I’m frozen, by no magick other than the emotions of the mind.

  The clouds of black and white rush across the room, churning and swirling until it is one thick mass of grey. It slams into me with the force of a thousand and ten herculean punches. My feet leave the ground, and my body bows. The blast of energy tosses me like a toy across the space, smacking me into the back wall.

  With a slide and crumple, I fall into a heap on the ground. Muscles and bones, they all ache. And my head is ringing. Ringing loud. Copper washes through my mouth, and I swallow the blood I extracted when I bit the inside of my lip.

  Among the heavy clamor in my head, there is buzz, and laughter, and someone… James’s I think… calling my name.

  “Pick her up,” the bokor commands.

  I wipe at my eyes, try to clear my vision, note the movement of shadows and colors in the room. It is the shifting of bodies. A crash sounds off to the side. Near the areas where a door should be. Gasps and shouts, the stay of movement. Someone new has burst into the room, entered with a bang, and from the reaction I perceive, I’m guessing that someone was neither invited nor expected.

  “Belle!” The slam and slide of feet and someone bends beside me, rests their hand on my arm. “Are you alright?”

  “Michael?” I ask. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Locator spell,” he says. “You really should give a brother more time before you decide to run off and enact a crazy plan.”

  “There was no time.” I shift up onto my butt.

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  “You, sir, are an uninvited guest,” the bokor says.

  “You’ve hurt my sister…” Michael stands, turns to face the bokor. “So now you have to contend with me.”

  “Is that so?” Humor dances around the bokor’s words, making him sound far from worried. “You are no stranger to me, Michael Roussard. You and the mystic that follows you.”

  I pull myself to a stand and grab my brother’s hold. He pats the top of my hand to say all is fine and then pushes me back.

  “Do you really think your ability to reroute the energy in this room will help you best me?” Chuks the bokor says.

  I lean forward. “What is he talking about?”

  Michael tilts his face toward mine. “He thinks he has a handle on my magickal ability.”

  “Does he?” I ask.

  Michael shrugs. Glances over the room, his gaze pausing on Jeanna’s sleeping body, then shifts to James’s beaten form curled in on himself, his collar held firm in John’s grasp.

  “Get out, Belle,” Michael says between clenched teeth. He motions to the door through which he came.

  I blink, glance at James and Jeanna. “But…”

  “Get out!” His voice punches the air. I stumble toward the door and pause.

  My brother reaches for the ceiling, his fingers flared wide. Crackling lines of electricity, like miniature lightning, explode around the overhead hanging lanterns. The smaller lines of light merge into thicker strands of power, and the wild band of a bolt shoots straight at Michael. He soaks in the electricity as he would the sunshine.

  Sparking wires of energy wind around him, work through him, igniting lines beneath his skin. He drops his stare on the bokor. “You should leave the children out of your dark dealings.”

  “Refuse to let the children spread their wings, and they may never learn to fly,” the bokor says with a flair of superiority. “And these children… well, they’ve crossed me in a way I cannot forgive and forget.” His tight glare finds me.

  “If you take issue with my sister, then you take issue with me.” Michael’s fingers crackle with blue electricity. With each sizzle I detect a slight scent of sulfur.

  “That’s pretty interesting what you’ve got going there.” The bokor slashes a finger through the air to indicate something on Michael’s body. I shift sideways to try to see what he’s talking about, but I can’t get a good front view. “But your light show doesn’t frighten me,’ he continues. “I am king here. Do you not think I—your bokor—would not be prepared for all possibilities?”

  “You are not my bokor.” Michael arcs his arms wide, and swings them to meet in the center, directing them right at the bokor and his men. Dancing ribbons of electricity fill the air, zipping and zapping the bokor’s men. The room fills with yelps and crashes, tables and chairs overturning, men falling to the ground.

  John ducks, shields James from the surrounding chaos, and Jeanna continues to sleep, unaware of the fight underway.

  “Get out, Belle,” he hollers over his shoulder. “Leave your friends and get somewhere safe.”

  “Leave your friends.” The bokor’s voice booms, and my head snaps in his direction. “That is a fine example you set.”

  “Shut up,” I yell, but my mind is swimming. How is the bokor unaffected by my brother’s magick when his casting is taking a destructive toll on the bokor’s men?

  The bokor throws his head back and releases a thunder of laughter. In one quick motion, he yanks the black sleeve free from around his cane, exposing a long, silver rod. Raising the rod up high, he charges in our direction.

  The rod works like a magnet for Michael’s electrical attack. Every fiery quivering line of electricity is pulled to the staff, releasing the men… and the bokor, from any further attack.

  With a whip of my hand, I send a storm of herbs at him. “Pulverize,” I say.

  The bokor counters. “Electrify.”

  Michael’s static charge leaps from the rod, into the center of the herbal storm. The tiny plant fibers hiss and fizz. Fall to the ground, devoid of magickal life.

  The bokor readjusts his hold on his cane, swings it down on my brother’s chest.

  “No,” I scream, thrusting wind at him. He rolls the current back on me, and I fall b
ack, drop to the ground.

  The steel tip of his cane presses into Michael’s chest, sending the live current back on him. From source to destination, all the same. My brother’s body convulses and sparks. The scar on his face glows with blue, living electrical charge.

  I gasp.

  Michael’s chest jolts and his head wobbles.

  “Stop it. You’re killing him.” I push off the ground, but my limbs are weak and disagreeable. The simple action borders on impossible.

  “Am I?” the bokor counters. “Would that be so bad?”

  “It would.” My chest is collapsing, and part of me just wants to finish this ordeal. Pull my brother and friends to safety.

  The doors at the far end of the room thrust open, and strolling into the fray comes the girl from Michael’s school.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Well, if it isn’t bad girl Bianca,” the bokor says to the girl from Michael’s school. He drops his steel cane at his side, halting the electrical attack on my brother. His body calms. “Now is not the best time. As you can see, I’m a tad busy.” He tilts his head, indicating his magickal pounce upon my group.

  “Now is the perfect time.” She glances over Michael and me. Takes in the entire scene.

  The bokor’s face drops, showing clear signs of irritation. “Alright, then. What brings you marching into my business?”

  My attention bounces between the girl and the bokor. Grazes over James and Jeanna. I can’t believe Jeanna is still sleeping. She must have taken the brunt of the bokor’s incapacitating spell. James remains huddled with his head down, appearing to have accepted his defeat at the hands of his brother John.

  “Saddler has requested we retrieve that one.” Bianca dips her head toward my brother.

  “I still have business with the boy,” the bokor says. “He blatantly interfered in my livelihood. I cannot turn a blind eye to such action.”

  “Can’t you? Especially if Saddler requests such?” Four large men enter the room at Bianca’s back, stand as if at attention, awaiting her order.