Dance of Flames

by Janni Nell

  “Ignacio.”

  Suddenly the design of the brand made sense—an I in the circle, not the number one.

  Professor Chavarria went on, “Ignacio liked to mark his victims with his initial.”

  “What a fun guy. Was he a priest?”

  “A monk. He lived during the time of Torquemada, but he was never part of the official Inquisition, which was mainly concerned with the orthodoxy of those who converted to Catholicism. Ignacio’s obsession was witchcraft, and he did all he could to eradicate it from his own small community.”

  “No one tried to stop him?”

  He looked at me as though I was one of his less bright students. I guessed torture was a growth industry in the Middle Ages and there were so many things I didn’t know about the profession. What kind of training was required? Was torture a lucrative occupation? Did they have a pension plan? Did they burn out (no pun intended) after a few years? What were the job prospects for an ex-torturer?

  Unaware of my admittedly frivolous thoughts, the professor went on, “Ignacio’s order was a small one in a very superstitious age. Although I believe he would have been encouraged to expose witches, I do not believe he cared whether the women he accused were practicing witchcraft. In my opinion, Ignacio was a serial killer who used the church to legitimize his crimes.”

  It was all very interesting, but there was one thing I didn’t understand. “With the greatest respect, Professor, why did you invite me to Madrid? You could have emailed this information.”

  He glanced at Kiki, who positively glowed when their eyes met. “There are some things that shouldn’t be put in an email.”

  Reluctantly she stopped drooling over Quinto and turned to me. “I wanted to meet you first. To make sure I could trust you.”

  Gee, I hoped Quinto hadn’t shown her the email where I admitted lying to him. I tried to look honest, but she wasn’t buying it.

  “Can we trust this woman?” she said to Quinto. “The family’s reputation is at stake.”

  Whose family? His? Hers? I wanted to shake her until she told me everything, but I sensed violence would make her more stubborn.

  “Kiki—” I began.

  Quinto’s phone rang, interrupting us. He checked caller ID. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” He left the room.

  Kiki eyed me warily. I figured she might be more open to the paranormal than Quinto so I took a chance on telling her the truth.

  “I’m a paranormal investigator. I had the dream, not my friend, but you’ve already guessed that, haven’t you?”

  Kiki didn’t confirm or deny it. She just said, “Tell me about your dream. Don’t leave anything out. Not the smallest detail.”

  I told her everything. By the time I’d finished, I was half a breath from hyperventilating. So much for my image as a tough investigator.

  Kiki said, “Show me the burn.”

  I pulled up my skirt, revealing the I in the circle. Dead silence. Except for the sound of her jaw hitting the floor.

  “Does this convince you I’m telling the truth?”

  She put on reading glasses and studied the burn. “You could have done it yourself. I’ve had worse sunburns.”

  “Fortunately I woke up before he could press the iron too deep.”

  “So you say.”

  Once again I wondered if shaking her would do any good. Instead I decided to move on to Plan C, or was it D?

  I covered the burn, smoothing the material of my skirt to give me time to think. Kiki sipped her soda. In another part of the house, I heard Quinto talking on the phone, although I couldn’t make out the words. “Quinto’s a nice guy,” I said. “You’ve got good taste.”

  “Is it so obvious I like him?” She studied her fingernails, suddenly shy.

  “I think he likes you too.”

  She blushed and began to thaw. Who didn’t want to talk about their crush? “If only our relationship wasn’t so difficult. He was a good friend of my late husband’s. It’s been three years since I buried Carlos. Sometimes I think Quinto likes me, but is afraid to make a move because of Carlos. Other times I think Quinto’s not that into me. I’ve given him lots of hints. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Want a few tips?” When she nodded, I said, “I’m staying in Madrid tonight. Meet me at my hotel. We’ll have dinner and plan how you can get Quinto to make the next move.”

  Her eagerness would’ve been touching if she hadn’t immediately squashed my own hopes. “This doesn’t mean I’ll tell you my family secrets.”

  Okay, now I had to shake her, but Quinto returned before I could resort to violence.

  “Well,” he said to Kiki. “What do you think? Is Allegra trustworthy?”

  She hesitated, unwilling to disappoint him, but more unwilling to share her secrets. “I’ll think about it. Allegra isn’t leaving Madrid until tomorrow. I’ll decide by then.”

  I figured there was nothing to be gained by hanging around at Quinto’s place, so I asked him to call me a taxi.

  On the sidewalk, I thanked him for the information he’d provided. “I’d like to show my appreciation by taking you to dinner tonight. Are you free?”

  We agreed to meet in my hotel restaurant at seven, which was the exact time I booked a table for Kiki and me. You’ve probably guessed I had no intention of turning up, but I had several hours to wait until I knew whether my plan had worked.

  I’d eaten a delicious steak from room service, and was trying to make sense of Spanish TV, when Kiki and Quinto arrived at my room holding hands. I invited them in and they sank into the chairs near the window.

  Kiki said, “I’ll tell you everything.”

  I gave myself a mental high five. “That’s very generous of you.”

  “It’s the least I can do.” She shot Quinto a flirtatious glance before reluctantly dragging her attention back to me. “You must understand Carlos was a good man. He treated women well. All the men in his family did. I would not have left my hometown and moved to Spain if I were not convinced I was marrying into an honorable family.”

  “Your husband was a historian?”

  “A businessman, but he had a great love of history, which is how he and Quinto became friends.” Kiki knotted her fingers and stalled. Quinto touched her shoulder and nodded encouragingly. Kiki smiled at him. Then her smile faded. “Carlos was a direct descendent of Ignacio’s brother, Eugenio. I know why Ignacio did those terrible things.”

  My stomach fluttered, excited that my curiosity was going to be satisfied. Or was it? “Is this a story that’s been passed down through the family?” If you’ve ever played Chinese Whispers you’ll have guessed how accurate that would be.

  But my luck was in. Kiki said, “Ignacio wrote an account of the events, which he gave to Eugenio. It was passed down through the generations as a warning not to piss off witches. The original no longer exists, but I have a copy. It’s in the original language, which is different to the Spanish we speak today, but Quinto has provided me with a translation.”

  “Before you go on—” Quinto held up a hand, “—I must point out that this is to be taken with the grain of salt. It is not a valid historical document. Too many of the events cannot be verified.”

  Unable to wait for me to read the full document, which ran to several pages, Kiki retold the events in her own words. “It all began when Ignacio fell in love with Blanca, who was the only child of a count. In those times daughters were little more than bargaining chips to be married off. A blacksmith like Ignacio could not have chosen a more unsuitable woman to love.”

  “This is pure speculation,” Quinto put in. “There is no historical proof that Ignacio was in love with Blanca.”

  “There’s no proof he wasn’t either.” Brushing away his arguments, Kiki went on. “All would have been well if Ignacio’s l
ove had been unrequited but, against the odds, Blanca fell in love with him. Of course there was no happily ever after. When Blanca was five years old, she had been betrothed to a duke’s son, which was a big deal for the daughter of a count.” Kiki fixed her eyes on Quinto. “Her betrothal is a matter of historical record.”

  Not to be outdone, he shot back, “There is no evidence she fell to her death because of Ignacio. And there is no record of her being imprisoned in the tower from which she fell.”

  “But think about this, Quinto. Why was she climbing out a tower window if not to run away with her lover?”

  “There is no historical record she was climbing out of the tower when she fell. Perhaps she was looking out the window. It would give a good view of the surrounding countryside. She may have been watching for her betrothed. She may have leaned too far out and fallen. An unfortunate accident, nothing more.”

  “On the eve of her wedding? Honestly, Quinto, stop interrupting,” she chided gently before picking up the threads of her story. “Ignacio went crazy with grief. He carried Blanca’s body into the great hall of the castle. ‘This is the result of your objection to our marriage. Now you have no daughter and I have no wife.’

  “Blanca’s father drew his sword and plunged it into Ignacio’s chest. Ignacio later claimed that he’d hoped for death, but Blanca’s mother denied him that release of pain. As a secret descendent of witches, the countess had the power to curse and used it. Whispering in Ignacio’s ear, she told him the horrors that were in store.”

  “If this sounds like a fairy tale—” Quinto began.

  “Hush,” Kiki said. “Believing Ignacio was dead, the count denied him a decent Christian burial, ordering his servants to dump the body in the woods. By chance, Ignacio was left close to a monastery. When the monks found him alive, they took him to their infirmary. As the wound in Ignacio’s chest responded to the monks’ care, a strange thing happened to the rest of his body. His limbs twisted and deformed just as the countess’s curse predicted.

  “Eventually, despite his twisted limbs, Ignacio was well enough to leave his bed. He became a monk, learning to read and write while he planned his revenge on witches. The last thing he did before he embarked on his killing spree was to give Eugenio a written account of what had happened.” Kiki tapped the pages she’d given me. “These are Ignacio’s own words.”

  I could hardly believe I held his actual words in my hand. “Thank you,” I said, folding the pages to stow in my bag.

  “You can’t take those with you. This story is a secret. We keep it within the family as a warning. Not so much against witches, but how evil can flourish in a good man like Ignacio. The senior member of our family is the only one who has access to the written work.”

  I couldn’t help asking, “What if there’s a fire?”

  “There is more than one copy. They are in safe places. Now, if you want to read the original account, go right ahead. But you must give it back to me before you go.”

  I hoped they’d leave me alone so I could photograph the pages, but they hung around, keeping quiet so I could concentrate. There was nothing in Ignacio’s account that Kiki hadn’t mentioned. One moment I was moved by his love for Blanca, the next I was appalled by his hatred of witches. I was kind of biased since my best friend was a witch, although not the kind who cursed people.

  By the next evening I was back in Málaga in a tapas bar overlooking the Mediterranean. I was on my second piña colada, my notebook was open in front of me and I was trying to make sense of what I’d learned from Quinto and Kiki. I now had a name and history for the skinny guy I’d seen in my dream, but that had raised more questions.

  What did the obsidian have to do with Ignacio?

  Was it some kind of conduit into a person’s dreams? Had Ignacio’s ghost used it to terrorize Consuela and me?

  If so, why had he targeted us? Was she a witch? (Note: ask her). But even if she was, I certainly wasn’t.

  Right then I didn’t have answers to any of those questions, but I did have a headache. Massaging my temples, I stared across the bar seeking inspiration. Movement caught my eye. Someone was walking toward me. I groaned. Another imagined sighting of Casper. Honestly, if I had a euro for every time I’d seen him lately…well, I’d have enough for another drink at least.

  I didn’t bother acknowledging the mirage. Instead I dug into my bag for some headache pills. Probably shouldn’t have taken them with alcohol. Don’t try that at home, kids. I ate a fried shrimp just to make sure the pills stayed down.

  When I looked again, the vision of Casper had moved closer. Not that he looked exactly normal. His neck was transparent, lending credibility to the mirage theory. Without a neck, his head looked kind of detached from his body. A guy with a goatee blinked at Casper and stared suspiciously at his drink. Gee, if he could see Casper, maybe it wasn’t a mirage. I watched Casper come closer, unable to believe he was real until he slid into a chair at my table. I poked his shoulder.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said. “In the flesh.”

  “Except for your neck.”

  He raised his hand, which went right through the space between his head and shoulders. The guy with the goatee dropped his drink and ran out of the bar.

  “Perhaps you should sit in the corner. At least until your neck reappears.” We swapped seats. I made sure I blocked the view of Casper from the rest of the bar. “What happened to you? Why did you disappear? Was it the obsidian? Are you allergic? Is this a Superman/Kryptonite thing?”

  He grunted, less than thrilled with being compared to a comic book character. “It’s not the obsidian that affects me. It’s what’s inside.”

  “And that would be? A seam of uranium? A prehistoric fossil? A peppermint cream center?”

  He didn’t even crack a smile. “None of the above.”

  “Go on, surprise me.”

  “An evil soul.”

  Suddenly I was one step ahead of him. “Let me guess. A medieval monk called Ignacio.”

  “You’ve done some investigating in my absence.”

  “When I dreamed I was in a torture chamber and woke up with this mark on my thigh, I figured I’d better find out why.” I raised my skirt so he could see the burn.

  “I’m so sorry you were hurt,” he said. “If I’d been able to pull you out of the dream, I would have.”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it, I’m a big girl. How did Ignacio get inside the rock?”

  “During the Middle Ages a Spanish coven developed a process for imprisoning evil souls. They tried many different types of prison but obsidian was the one that worked best. It was a controversial technique that was never fully accepted by other covens. In the Middle Ages there was no such thing as a global community for anything, let alone witches. The Andalusian coven was free to continue the practice without censure. Ignacio was the first soul to be imprisoned but not the last.”

  “Why didn’t the witches just kill him?”

  “They wanted him to suffer for all eternity.”

  “Nice.”

  “Once the souls were imprisoned,” he went on, “the lumps of obsidian were kept in the witches’ houses, but that practice was discontinued when…well, you know what happens. You’ve experienced the nightmares and injuries. So did the witches. It appears that although the soul is imprisoned, some of the evil leaks out. The only way for the witches to stop it was to bury the obsidian prisons away from inhabited areas.”

  “That was all well and good back in the day, but those uninhabited areas are now inhabited. I guess I’ll have to find an isolated place and bury it deep.”

  “Not quite,” he said. “Angels don’t agree with the witches’ practice of imprisoning evil souls. We believe they must be removed from their earthly prisons and taken to the afterlife to face the Powers-That-Be. It’s our solemn duty to make that
happen. And that’s why I need your help.”

  I choked on my drink. “You need my help?”

  He nodded slowly. “I know it’s a radical idea and, frankly, not a good look for a guardian angel, but there you have it.”

  “This is priceless.” I chuckled. “What can I do that an angel can’t?”

  “Smash the obsidian.”

  “Hmm.” I studied his broad shoulders. “With those muscles you should be able to smash it yourself.”

  He blushed, which was kind of cute. “I would if I could, but angels can’t be anywhere near the obsidian when it shatters. It’s too dangerous.”

  “But not too dangerous for me?” I liked the sound of this less and less.

  “First, you’re not weakened by the evil that will be released. Second, you won’t die if a splinter pricks your skin. Anyway you’ll be wearing protective clothing.”

  “And angels are allergic to protective clothing?”

  “Even the strongest clothes might not keep out all the shards. You could suffer minor cuts, but to an angel a cut from obsidian could mean death.”

  “Okay, I get it, but much as I hate to point out the totally obvious—angels are already dead.”

  He considered this for a moment, choosing his words with care. “What I meant to say was that they’d cease to exist. Forever.”

  My heart clenched. There was no way I’d put him in that kind of danger, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to get a little something for myself along the way.

  “It would be dangerous for me too,” I said. “Did you know they used to make scalpels from obsidian? Maybe they still do. That stuff is sharp. If a piece severed my jugular—bye, bye Allegra.”

  “I can’t force you to help me. If it comes to it, I’ll smash the obsidian myself.”

  Wow, what a guy! But I couldn’t let him do it. “I’m not saying I won’t help, Casper, but if I’m going to risk my life, the least you can do is give me a little sweetener.”

  “I have nothing to offer.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t say that,” I murmured, running my eyes over his big warrior’s body.