Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2)

by Lorelei Bell

  “Yes!” she said overly loud. “Even better ones than the last he brought me.” She leaned into Zofia conspiratorially and added. “He goes to First World, you know, and buys in bulk. Tells me that he can get us anything we need for even better prices than we can ship in from anywhere on Euphoria!”

  “I see,” Zofia said. No wonder Saint Germain traveled to First World so much. It would seem that he was the sole importer of their village. Possibly he exported a few other goods as well. What a racket. If someone had any idea of how he did it they would probably try to gain control over his Teleport Machine. Something told her that Saint Germain didn't let out to too many people exactly how he achieved this. It was quite likely everyone thought he was a wizard, and not a mortal, or that he was quite the expert in importing goods.

  “That's very good news, then,” Zofia said, wondering if she could safely get away from her, now.

  “Why are you out and about on such a beautiful spring evening by yourself?” Doreen asked.

  “I was going to dinner.”

  “I was too!” she blurted. “Why not I join you? Women of our beauty should not be sashaying into taverns alone, my dear,” she said as she promptly looped her heavy arm around Zofia's and yanked her forward. Zofia stumbled a few steps and gained her feet as Doreen trundled her along, their heels clicking quickly over stone as they went. A wagon, pulled by two horses, clattered by. Music filtered out of an open door, or window, from somewhere.

  “I was going to The Golden Dragon Inn,” Zofia said hopefully, noticing the direction they were taking—the opposite direction of The Golden Dragon.

  “The Golden Dragon?” her fruity voice filled Zofia's ears. “Oh, no, no, no, my dear! Out of the two places, Ravenwood Inn is a finer establishment—if you would call it an establishment—than The Golden Dragon. Believe me, I've lived here for thirty-six years. I should know.” They walked toward Ravenwood Inn, not very far away from where they stood. “Besides,” she went on, “The Golden Dragon has the worst collection of scum and rogues you could ever come across.”

  “Really?” Zofia pictured Dorian's scruffy beard and hair, and his choosing The Golden Dragon over Ravenwood Inn for the very reason he was on the look-out for the scruffiest types in the area. It now made sense.

  “Oh, yes, my dear! Vampires and Weres collect there nighty. Plus, I happen to know that the owners cater to them. Even purchase that synthetic blood for them, and serve it at the bar, and tables, right out in the open like it's an everyday thing.” She made a small, scathing noise in the back of her throat.

  “I see.” Unfortunately, that was where she needed to go. But Zofia could see no way to ditch the older woman, who had her arm firmly wrapped about hers like a python. She had no choice but to go along, since she didn't want to tell her she was meeting someone there.

  The Ravenwood Inn was not quite as rambunctious this night as it had been the other night. The Gypsies had moved on, apparently. Three musicians played quiet, but happy tunes in the corner on a mandolin, fiddle, and drum. The drum was large around, and not very deep, and had a nice sound to it. The man who played it had long, stringy black hair, and it hung down in his face, nearly hiding it from view. She wasn't entirely sure he wasn't a full-fledged werewolf. The other two musicians looked normal enough, but wore bright clothes. The one playing the mandolin wore a green and orange hat with a frothy feather died orange—which also matched his long hair and beard. Flamboyant would be the best to describe him. His green vest had large brass buttons down his jacket and pantaloons, and the buckles on his shoes looked made of the same metal—which was common, and used usually in place of silver when the person was either poor, or allergic to it. His stockings were also striped orange and green. It wasn't likely he was a leprechaun, as he was too large a fellow. But he could be a cross-bread were-person.

  Upon her entry, Doreen was greeted by the bartender, and the three barmaids, as well as several customers. It wasn't surprising to Zofia that in such a small village everyone knew everyone. It was just that it had been so long that she had experienced this. Doreen introduced Zofia to people she knew as they passed. There were too many names to keep in her head, and Zofia was happy when finally they were seated at a far table, almost away from everyone.

  The barmaid, dressed in a black bodice and skirt, the sleeves of her chemise pulled up to the elbows, and the neckline down off her shoulders in a sexy way, sashayed up to their table. With heavily kohled eyes, she gave Zofia a brief once-over, and then said to Doreen, “'Ello, Dor. The usual then?” in that distinctive southern Ogenthow accent.

  “Yes. Please,” Doreen said. “Zofia will you join me in a little libation?”

  “I wouldn't mind,” Zofia said, flicking her gaze from Doreen to the barmaid, and then back. She suddenly recognized the barmaid from the other night when Saint Germain had brought Zofia here. She was the waitress who had greeted him with a big smooch on the cheek, and collected several gold coins from him.

  “We 'ave the roast boar and chutney, or lamb stew,” the waitress informed, hand on hip, the other held her tray braced against her side.

  “Oh, you know how I just love Estel's lamb stew,” Doreen said, with a wave of her hand.

  Zofia was not a lamb stew fan. “I'll go with the boar,” she said, looking up at the barmaid, wondering why the woman was avoiding looking directly into her eyes.

  “One lamb stew and a boar, and two glasses of Black 'Ollow, then,” she said, and whirled away leaving a trailing wisp of scent that caught Zofia off guard. Brimstone, mingled with some heady perfume—no, not perfume, but incense. There may have been some other essence she had tried to hide it with, but ever since Zofia had spent time down in Place of No Return, she could always detect the smallest whiff of brimstone.

  “Thank you, Abigale,” Dorian managed to trill as the bar maid swished away on four-inch, break-your-neck heels.

  Zofia's eyes zeroed in on the shoes. Even in the limited light, the barmaid's shoes were not, and could not be, Euphorian-made. Four-inch heels were not something they had on this planet, thus, Zofia could safely assume this bar girl had gotten these through someone who had gone to First World and bought them there. She wondered if Saint Germain also supplied the local cobbler a few samples of First World-made shoes? What other items did he import, she wondered, besides wine, candles, and shoes? Seems the list was getting longer.

  While Zofia's mind pondered this, and how she would be able to escape Doreen and get over to Golden Dragon, Doreen was off and running at the mouth about the people she'd just introduced to Zofia. One was the gate keeper who had lost his wife to another man who had wandered through here. Another was the brewer, and some others were various merchants. As usual the woman's babble was at such a rambling speed that Zofia couldn't keep up. Besides, she didn't really want to listen. Until she began telling her about how five years ago the place had burnt down. Her ears perked up.

  “No one knew how it caught fire. Fortunately everyone was able to get out,” Doreen said. “All that had been left was the fireplace, outer walls, and the storage room below.” She pointed at the massive stone fireplace where a huge spit was hung with a very well-done boar.

  “This place has a store room?” Zofia asked.

  “Oh, yes. To keep the barrels of beer and kegs of wine that they themselves bottle. They make a very good dark brew called Goblin, and a light one called Wytch Woman.” She chuckled boisterously, and slapped her hand on her thigh, making a loud sound. “I'll never forget the night I—oh—!” Stopping herself, she leaned toward Zofia and in a conspiratorial voice said, “Nicolas Estabrook and myself snuck down there and got into a vat of Wytch Woman. Oh-ho-ho! What a night that was. I'll never forget it!” she said with the look of revery on her face. Suddenly she frowned. “It was the strangest night I've ever had, too. I don't know whatever became of Nicolas, as he simply disappeared after that night.”

  “He disappeared?” Zofia asked, slightly concerned. “You mean left, after that night?
”

  “No, dear. He disappeared while we were down in the storage room.”

  “That's very strange. You reported it to the sheriff?”

  “Yes, of course, but they never found him.” Eyes large, she looked unsettled by the memory. Spooked, maybe.

  “When did you discover he was missing?” Zofia asked, intrigued.

  “Well, I was about to get myself another glass—there's a table and chairs down there, you see, for the brewer, of course—when I turned around, he was gone. Just vanished!”

  Zofia staved off the need to shiver. “You sure he didn't duck out on you? Go up the stairs?”

  “No!” she gasped. “That's what the sheriff asked me too. But to get to the stairs, he would've had to gone past me, and he didn't. He couldn't! Not without brushing against me, or my seeing him. We had plenty of light down there, too.”

  Zofia's gaze had gone to the two women wearing the white bonnets and aprons of the kitchen help, and watched them slice a hunk of meat from the boar onto a large stoneware platter. They spooned some chutney onto the plate and placed it up on the counter for pick up. The place was fairly crowded, and they were busy, so kept on slicing, or dipping into the lamb stew. Possibly the food was good to excellent, and the service was probably good too. It was the only way a place like this had customers coming back night after night. That, and the wine or the brew was quite good, too. If they brewed their own beverages, it was a good bet they made like thieves in the darkest of night, charging whatever they wanted per glass or pint.

  She watched the beefy barkeeper with a glowing red face, smiling at something a patron at the bar was saying while he poured two generous glasses of wine. It was a dark red wine. It would most likely put Zofia on her butt if she drank more than one glass. Moderation would be the key here, she reminded herself.

  Abigale picked up the plates of food and drink and set them onto her platter, and swished back to them through the crowd. She served it up pleasantly enough, only glanced toward Zofia briefly, yet never met her eyes. Whatever was up her butt, Zofia could only guess. Maybe she was a little jealous of the fact that Saint Germain had taken her up to that room that night. The bar maid had been so overly expressive toward him that night, she wouldn't doubt that the she'd had a sweet spot for Saint Germain. In fact she figured every woman in the village probably felt their heart beat a little faster when they saw him. She couldn't blame them. Not one tiny bit. He was handsome, rich, and mysterious. All three things would draw a woman to a man like hungry little bees to honey.

  Once Zofia and Doreen were left alone to eat—and they both dug in hungrily—Zofia leaned toward the matronly woman and asked low, “What do you know about Abigale?”

  Doreen sailed a glance across the tavern. Zofia looked too. Abigale was bending low at a table with four men who ogled her cleavage, one had his hand apparently glued to her butt.

  Doreen made a little one-shoulder shrug. “The local strumpet.”

  Zofia nodded. That was easy enough for her to ascertain herself.

  “I would be careful around her, my dear,” Doreen warned in a low voice. There was something theatrical about the way she said it. Zofia wanted to guess the woman had been into theater, but now was not the time to ask. She had to know more about Abigale.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don't get on her bad side.”

  “Why?”

  Doreen leaned forward, as far as her hefty chest would allow without going into her stew. “I've heard things.”

  “What things?” Zofia had leaned forward too, fork and knife in each hand, listening expectantly.

  “I've heard she has powers—shhhhh!” She sat back and took up her spoon and ladled some of the thick lamb stew to her rubied lips and deposited it into her mouth. Her jowls vibrating with her mastication.

  “Powers?” Zofia lifted her brows at this. The only people who had real powers were her people. Not Ugwumps. Only Ugwumps took jobs as barmaids, cooks, or maids of any kind. Shopkeepers who were sorcerers were alchemists, and they diagnosed conditions and sold herbs as well as potions. These were a special breed of sorcerers, going into this branch of healing, rather than the more difficult branches of sorcery or wizardry. They weren't hard to spot, unless, like Zofia, they made an attempt to hide their powers. Therefore Zofia could safely assume Abigale was not a sorceress.

  Doreen's mouth stretched into a graceful grimace as she leaned forward again. “I mean, she's part of a cult—shhhhh!”

  The shushing was becoming annoying, but Zofia watched as Doreen took a large sip of wine and presumed that the wine was going to her head. She had her glass half drunk already.

  “What kind of cult?” Zofia asked in a stage whisper behind her own lifted glass of dark red wine. It was sweet, and tasted of raspberries. No wonder it was a favorite here.

  Doreen glanced around as though she were concerned that someone could overhear their conversation. But the tavern was busy, and the musicians were stepping up the noise level nicely.

  “Don't dare repeat this,” she said almost dramatically.

  “I won't.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Egyptian Lodge?”

  Zofia couldn't stifle the chill she felt crawl from the base of her skull down her neck and then her spine, which spilled into her feet—which was really strange. She did her level best to not look half-way startled—more by her luck that Doreen actually knew something about this cult, and was willing to blab about it. Maybe it was lucky to have run into Doreen after all.

  “No!” Zofia said emphatically enough. She stifled a wry smile, recalling some of the passages that she'd managed to glean from her spy book. Drink, of course, loosened people's lips, and was very often used by the Knights to wheedle information out of their subjects—of course unbeknownst to them. “Never heard of it,” Zofia said, spearing a hunk of well-done, succulent pork on her large fork. With the other hand, she expertly used her knife to spoon a little chutney onto the hunk of meat and slid the sumptuous flavors into her mouth. Eyes sliding shut, she thanked the Immortals she was back on home turf. Nothing better than her planet's food and drink—no hormones, no injected chemicals, and everything you could get here was organic (she would always laugh when she would see the word organic on a bag of lettuce in a First World grocery store). The warm smells of the inn nearly intoxicated her as well as did the sweet wine.

  “It's rather new,” Doreen intimated, spooning more of her stew to her mouth. “I've only just learned of it myself,” she spoke through the mouthful, drooling a little bit.

  “I see.”

  Holding her drink aloft with one hand, Doreen gazed about them, and then said without moving her lips too much, “I understand some rogue wizards are the ring leaders.”

  Zofia took a sip of wine, and nearly choked. She bet she knew their names, too. The wine's sweetness was very pleasant, and she knew if she drank the whole glass, she wouldn't be able to walk a straight line, let alone keep on questioning Mrs. Scuttlebutt—er, Clutterbutt. Using her glass, to shield her mouth as she spoke, she said, “Really? What else can you tell me about it?” Since becoming a spy, Zofia had found that it was much easier to pull information out of talkative people—especially those who imbibed—than those who were quiet, or reserved.

  Doreen set her glass down, took up her fork and speared a large morsel of mutton. “I really shouldn't say too much more.” She slid the forkful of food between her teeth and chewed almost delicately, if one could chew delicately a piece of mutton the size of a walnut.

  “You know,” Zofia began with a little pout, “I'm stuck all day long up in Saint Germain's library, binding dusty old books. I hardly ever get outside, or see much except the library, and Saint Germain's stiff old servant.” She pushed her food around as she did her best to imitate her daughter when she pulled her teenager pout to get what she wanted. “It would be nice, just once to hear about some real intrigue, instead of reading about it in a book.”

  Pulling in a heavy b
reath while chewing, Doreen expelled it. “Weeel,” she said, reluctantly. “I don't exactly know that much about this—what I mean is I can't exactly swear on it, but I've overheard that this very establishment”—her voice had gone very low, and she was leaning again—“is their meeting place.”

  “Right here?” Zofia made her eyes go round with astonishment. That was somewhat of a surprise.

  “Actually—” Darting her eyes around and lifting her glass, holding it close to her mouth to hide her lips, she spoke out the side of her mouth, “I've heard that they meet in the cellar.” She took another hefty sip of wine, nearly draining her glass.

  Nodding, Zofia was adding a lot of things together. This would explain how the rogue wizards were gaining access into the lower part of Saint Germain's castle. They had another way into the bowels of the menhirs, besides the one that Zofia knew of. This may be it. It was quite possible there were many passageways down beneath the menhirs as well as the actual town itself because of the caverns.

  Abigale sauntered back to their table. “More wine?” she asked in that thick accent. She held a bottle of wine up, and when Doreen lifted her glass to the barmaid, she filled it and then poured more into Zofia's glass, before she could say anything. Now she had another full glass of wine. Dragon dung. She would now have to pretend to sip the wine. The wine was actually very tasty, very fruity, and was hard to resist.

  “Tell Estell that she's out-done herself on the stew. It's simply fabulous. And the wine—absolutely the best in the village!” Doreen gushed, her speech just a little slurred now.

  While Doreen gushed over the meal, Zofia's gaze had wandered toward the bar. There was a man seated there with longish black hair and several day's growth of beard. The hair fell down into his eyes as he brooded into his pint. There was something very familiar about his slouch. And then she simply knew it was Dorian. Probably having not seen her at The Golden Dragon, he came here to search for her. Of course her being with Doreen did not give him the opportunity to approach.