Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches

by Barb Hendee

  The ghost-woman stopped, looking up at her in confusion, perhaps at the fact that she was able to stop.

  “Karina is dead,” Céline said. “You serve her no more. Get away from my sister.”

  But the confusion in the ghost’s eyes only grew, and she wailed once, sounding like an animal in pain.

  The door burst open, and Jaromir came running in, casting about to try to see what was happening. His gaze reached the wailing ghost first, and then Amelie on the floor in her midnight blue gown.

  “Amelie!” He ran to her.

  Anton came on his heels, pale and exhausted. He, too, saw the ghost, but then the creature floated higher, staring at the men in the room with a kind of puzzled fear, and she whooshed back through the wall above the hearth, leaving only silence in her wake.

  Jaromir knelt down and lifted the top of Amelie’s body with one arm. He shook her gently. “Amelie?”

  Her skin did not look shriveled or altered, and Céline hoped she’d been able to stop any damage in time. Amelie’s eyelids opened. “Jaromir?”

  “Don’t talk,” he said.

  But Anton was staring at Céline with a tight expression on his face, as if wondering what she was doing there at the window. Slowly, he walked over, and for Céline, the reality of what she had done began to sink in.

  He leaned out the window and looked down at the courtyard floor.

  Céline had just killed his aunt, and she did not possess a shred a proof.

  “Anton, it was her,” she rushed to say. “Karina was controlling the ghost.”

  His body was rigid, and he didn’t answer. She felt the first trickle of real fear.

  “Where’s the ghost?” Jaromir asked, as always thinking first of any danger to the castle.

  “In the painting,” Amelie whispered.

  * * *

  Jaromir stood in front of the painting in Anton’s bedroom as Amelie spun out a horror story of murder and twisted vanity stretching back twenty-six years. The pale-skinned, dark-haired ghost was back inside the portrait, frozen in her pose, as if she’d never left.

  Amelie’s quiet voice went on.

  Anton and Céline both listened in silence, Anton’s face still tight and unreadable. He had loved his aunt. More, he had depended upon her.

  But Amelie’s story…

  Had it been Céline doing the telling, Jaromir might have harbored a hint of doubt as the tale grew more and more difficult to absorb. While he judged Céline to be a basically good person, he also believed she was a highly skilled liar.

  However, in recent days he’d assessed Amelie’s character numerous times, and he was convinced that she possessed little capacity for open deceit or fantastical imagination. Perhaps Anton knew this, too, and he neither interrupted nor tried to deny what she was saying. He just listened.

  As she finished, she said, “I knew Jaelle would go back inside the painting once Karina no longer commanded her, but I’m still not sure why. It’s been her prison for so long.”

  In a wooden voice, Anton answered, “When I lived with my father, I sometimes saw men being released after many years of imprisonment…men who would beg to be allowed to go back inside, to their cells. It was all they knew.”

  Jaromir had seen this phenomenon, too, but at the moment he was more concerned with whatever Anton was going to do next. Céline was frightened. She hid it well but not well enough. Jaromir’s gut told him that Anton believed Amelie’s account. The details were too pronounced: Anton’s age when Karina began writing to him, specific lines from her letters, his invitation to her during the late months of Joselyn’s pregnancy. Jaromir had never been told any of this, and he suspected the only ones who’d known such things were Anton and Karina themselves. Had Amelie gotten anything wrong, Anton would have interrupted her.

  He had not.

  But Anton’s conscience would fight. He would not want to accept that his beautiful, beloved young aunt was an aging serial murderess.

  Would he go so far as to deny the truth and punish Céline?

  Finally, Jaromir turned to Anton and asked, “What do you want me to do, my lord?”

  Anton was quiet for a moment, just looking at the painting. “Take this thing out into the courtyard and burn it.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The gathering down in the courtyard was solemn.

  Karina’s body had been quietly removed, leaving only the pool of blood from where she’d fallen.

  Although Céline stood beside Anton, she had no idea how he felt toward her anymore. His body was stiff. Between his current struggle with a dependency on opiates and the death of Karina—combined with the other revelations of this night—she could almost see the waves and waves of pain coming off his skin.

  Guardsman Rurik had come out with them, and he’d brought firewood, which he was placing in a long pile. He’d also brought a flask of lamp oil, which he’d set down on the ground while he worked. Jaromir and Amelie held the portrait between them. Amelie looked recovered from her brief touch by the ghost. At least that was something.

  But she was still wearing the midnight blue gown, and Céline could not help but notice Jaromir casting puzzled glances. He had the good sense not to ask.

  Céline could hear Anton breathing, as if with effort, and she wished he would say something, anything, to give her a chance to comfort him. She couldn’t bring herself to speak before he did—lest she try to offer comfort and discover he blamed her for tonight’s events. She didn’t think she could bear that.

  “The apothecary’s shop is yours,” he said suddenly.

  Why would he be thinking of that?

  “You completed your side of the bargain,” he went on. “You…you found the murderer, and I always pay my debts. The shop is yours.”

  “Anton,” she whispered.

  “Unless you want to do as Helga suggests, and go find your own people, go away and live with the gypsies.”

  And then she understood why he’d mentioned the shop. With the exception of Jaromir, everyone Anton cared about seemed to leave him. Did he fear Céline would leave, too?

  She’d be a liar if she told him she hadn’t considered it. This was a world beyond her understanding, of people seeking position and power, capable of great violence when they felt threatened and great kindness when the spirit moved them. But perhaps she’d come to understand that at least Anton and Jaromir were neither villains nor saints, only men who did what they thought was right at the time and muddled through as best they could like everyone else. Anton had lost his mother and his wife, and an aunt who he thought loved him. He didn’t have much luck with the women in his life.

  “Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will.”

  In that moment, had he asked, she might have sworn to stay forever.

  Rurik finished laying the long pile of firewood, and Jaromir and Amelie lay the portrait, face up, on top of the wood. Jaromir picked up the flask of lamp oil and poured some of it over the painting.

  “I’ll get a torch,” he said.

  * * *

  Although Jaromir was struggling with the painful guilt that he’d missed routing out yet another dangerous individual in the castle—and never suspected Karina for a moment—he took relief in the act of doing something, anything. He’d wanted to burn this portrait days ago, from the moment Céline described the actual killer from her vision.

  Self-recrimination would come later. For now, at least he could take solid action.

  After pouring half the oil in the flask over the portrait, he switched the flask to his left hand, walked to the courtyard wall, and lifted a torch from its bracket.

  Going back to the painting, he lowered his torch but glanced over at Anton for the final order.

  Anton nodded. “Do it.”

  Amelie and Rurik both took a few steps back, and Jaromir ignited the portrait, watching the flames burst. The act brought relief as he tossed the torch onto the fire and moved away from th
e growing heat.

  Karina was dead, and the portrait would be gone soon. No more girls would be drained to husks in their sleep.

  This was over.

  “Jaromir…,” Amelie said from beside him. “What is that?”

  Squinting, he looked through the flames to see something rising from the painting, a muted blur of black and white.

  A pain-filled wail exploded in the night air. In disbelief, Jaromir watched as the black-and-white blur solidified over the top of the portrait…into the form of the ghost.

  She wailed again and screamed, “No!”

  Her face was wild with terror, and she cast around madly until her gaze fixed on Céline. Jaromir stood helpless and useless as the ghost sailed through the air, straight toward Céline, and vanished inside of her.

  The ghost was gone.

  “Céline!” Amelie cried.

  But Céline’s features twisted to mimic the same panic Jaromir had just seen on the ethereal woman. Céline wailed, echoing the same sound.

  Anton grabbed hold of her, shouting. “Get out! Get out of her.”

  Lost, Jaromir had no idea what to do until Céline snarled and clutched Anton’s face with both her hands. Anton gasped, and his skin began turning gray.

  Jaromir drew his sword.

  * * *

  Amelie was running the instant Jaromir’s hand went for the hilt of his sword. She had no idea how far he’d go to protect Anton…but she had no intention of finding out.

  Beating him to Céline, she threw herself through the air, using all the strength in her body to knock Céline away from Anton and then pin her to the courtyard floor. Céline screamed and fought, trying to latch her hands onto Amelie’s face, but Amelie grasped her hands and tried to feel for the spark of a spirit, for whatever might still be left of Jaelle.

  She felt something, connected with something.

  And then…she began meshing her spirit with Jaelle’s, focusing on the past, on the last moment that Jaelle was truly happy.

  The courtyard vanished.

  Amelie and Jaelle were rushing backward down a corridor of white mists, on and on, while Amelie held on tightly to the spirit mingled with her own. The mists vanished, and she found herself standing in the Móndyalítko encampment near the Everfen, only this time, she did not see through Jaelle’s eyes. She was only an observer, with the ghost of Jaelle beside her.

  “Where are we?” Jaelle asked.

  “Home,” Amelie answered. “Safe at home.”

  Her panicked, rapidly executed plan was to just keep Jaelle calm long enough for Jaromir to finish destroying the painting. It was all she could think to do.

  But in the vision, the real Jaelle stood by a campfire with a small crowd of admirers. She was lovely, with glowing skin and waving, glossy hair. She began to sing, her light but haunting voice floating through the night.

  The ghost sighed. “That was me.”

  Leaving Amelie’s side, she walked through the crowd, and no one appeared to see her. Upon reaching her living self from the past, she stepped into her body. The ghost vanished, and the singing went on.

  * * *

  Back in the courtyard, Jaromir skidded to a halt as Amelie knocked Céline away from Anton, and the sisters began to struggle.

  Anton dropped to the courtyard floor, but his eyes were open, and he tried struggling up to his knees. Suddenly, while rolling on the ground, Amelie grabbed ahold of Céline’s hands and pinned her, and both women went still.

  “What’s happening?” Anton choked.

  Jaromir didn’t know, but he stood ready with his sword drawn for whatever might happen next, and Rurik came up beside him, blade in hand.

  “Don’t either of you touch Céline,” Anton ordered, still on his knees.

  Jaromir didn’t know if he could obey that order—only that he would have to be the strong one here. This was all uncertain territory, and it seemed the ghost had taken possession of Céline. His priority was to protect Anton.

  But then, a white-and-black blur rose from Céline’s body, and the ghost of Jaelle appeared again, this time walking across the courtyard as if she were alive. She stopped near the fire, and to Jaromir’s astonishment, she began to sing. It was beautiful.

  The painting was about halfway burned, and he realized what Amelie must be attempting—to just hold the ghost at bay until the painting was gone. He also realized that he was still clutching the half-empty flask of lamp oil in his left hand.

  “Stay with the prince,” he ordered Rurik.

  Dropping his sword, he turned and ran to the fire. Jaelle did not see him. She seemed to believe she was somewhere else. But he didn’t hesitate. Holding out the flask of oil again, he splashed what he could on the painting and dropped the flask. Then he began stomping on the painting with his boots, stoking the flames, using his hands once to break off pieces to be burned at a faster pace.

  The singing echoed over the flames.

  He burned his hands and one of his legs, but he just kept stomping until the last of the painting was consumed by fire.

  Jaelle stopped singing.

  She turned slowly toward him.

  * * *

  The Móndyalítko encampment around Amelie vanished, and she found herself kneeling on the courtyard floor, pinning Céline’s hands. She let go of Céline and looked back just in time to see Jaromir crushing and stomping the last of the portrait into the flames, but the sight was alarming. One of his pant legs was on fire, and he didn’t appear to notice.

  Jaelle’s voice trailed off, and she, too, was staring at Jaromir.

  “No,” she said, as the last of the portrait was devoured.

  Then she wailed again, with the pain-filled, earsplitting sound. But her feet began to dissipate, and the blurred dissipation moved upward, through her legs and her waist.

  Jaromir leaped from the fire, using his already injured hands to put out the flames on his leg.

  Jaelle continued to vanish until only her head remained, and then that dissipated as well. She was gone. The wailing echo lasted a few seconds longer than she did.

  Anton crawled over to Céline, who was coughing and trying rise, and he helped her sit up. But Amelie couldn’t take her eyes from Jaromir.

  He’d known exactly what to do.

  Somehow, he’d known.

  CHAPTER 17

  Two weeks later, Céline was out back of the apothecary’s shop, working in the herb garden. Amelie had gone to the baker’s to buy some bread.

  In different ways, they were both still recovering from the events up at the castle, but it had been a rapid two weeks, and throwing themselves into a surge of industry had helped to heal some of their wounds.

  The sisters had salvaged all the plants in the garden that they could, and today, Céline was trimming back the lavender to help encourage new growth.

  The herb garden was looking much better, and they’d started a kitchen garden of root vegetables as well, planting potatoes, onions, and carrots.

  Upon leaving the castle, they’d taken nothing except the same possessions with which they’d arrived—except for the coins Amelie had won playing cards. But the shop itself, and a home in Sèone, had been the promised payment, and neither sister had any intention of laying claim to anything else.

  Céline had made quiet arrangements for Helga to sneak the miniature of Bethany back into Anton’s bedroom. The question of the miniature itself remained a mystery, how it had ended up in their room in the first place, not to mention how it kept coming out of the drawer into plain sight, as if waiting for Amelie to pick it up.

  Céline had no answers and decided not to dwell on the possibilities. Having faced down one ghost had been trial enough.

  She and Amelie had left the castle as soon as possible.

  They’d set to work immediately, cleaning the house first and taking inventory of the pots, jars, vials, and equipment. They’d made friends with their nearest neighbors, and Amelie soon learned which butcher and which baker to patron
ize. Making their money last had been a concern, but Céline had been able to harvest enough herbs and flowers to make up some simple cough syrups and liniments for sore muscles and cleansers for cuts. These had sold quickly, as the people of Sèone had been without an apothecary for some time.

  Céline and Amelie were made to feel welcome.

  They even had a new addition to their household.

  The blacksmith’s daughter, Erin, had visited last week, and when Céline had complained to her of mice having overtaken the inside of the shop, Erin had gone home and come back with a large orange cat named Oliver. She insisted that Céline keep him, as they had an overabundance of cats at the forge.

  Oliver had gone to work immediately, but he had a bad habit of bringing his dead trophies to either Céline or Amelie so they could praise him for his hunting prowess.

  Céline wished he would stop doing that.

  Sometimes, she still had a hard time accepting the magnitude of the changes in her life. She missed some people back in Shetâna, and even had moments of mourning her mother’s burned shop. But she loved the new shop and the feeling of safety that she and Amelie enjoyed here. It seemed so strange that if they ever had a concern, they could go to Anton’s soldiers for help.

  A few people from the village had approached her, asking for a reading, but she’d politely declined—as yet. She was not healed enough to see another future. Perhaps in time.

  Clipping another dead lavender stem, she noticed Oliver torturing a worm wriggling on some overturned earth. He batted it with his paw again, watching it move with great fascination.

  “Stop that,” she told him. “Leave the worm alone.”

  Without warning, he looked toward the back door of the shop and leaped to his feet, hissing and spitting with his orange hair standing on end.

  “Oliver! What in the world is wrong with…?”

  But then she followed his eyes to the open doorway and saw Lieutenant Jaromir standing there with a large wooden box in his arms. He must have come in the front door and walked through the shop. She noticed he wore gloves, and she wondered about the burns on his hands and his leg.