Poison Priestess

by Lana Popovic

  “We may have some trappings in common, I suppose. But be assured that what you only play at, I actually do,” I fling back at him. “You may perform your infernal little tricks onstage, but I part the veil in earnest. And then I make their tawdry little wishes come true. How does what you do compare?”

  “Fair enough. You might be a true oracle, and I only an illusionist barely fit to grovel at your skirts.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender, his teeth snaring his lower lip as he smiles at me. “But we are both on the side of the devils, are we not? Granting these spoiled scoundrels their hearts’ corrupt desires. Leading them ever closer to the pit, each in our own way.”

  I turn away from him, still fuming, refusing to look at him even when he leans so close his breath tickles my cheek.

  “Though given what I have heard of your talents, my lady,” he murmurs, “I wager you could take them far deeper into damnation. If only you cared to give your methods just a touch more thought.”

  By the time I’ve formulated a proper retort, I turn back only to find him vanished like a gust of wind.

  It isn’t until I get home that I find the flower and feather he left tucked behind my ear, though I never felt him touch me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Maiden and the Apple

  I stew over the maddening magician for days after the ball.

  How dare he judge me and my methods, I fume as I sit brooding by my fire between clients, when I managed to elevate myself from a modest tradesman’s wife to a royally sponsored sorceress? And worse yet, why am I dwelling on his words at all, allowing them to slide under my skin like questing needles? Can I truly control myself no better than this?

  But once I regain some measure of calm, I begin to grudgingly consider that he might be right. Perhaps I have become too reliant on parlor tricks, instead of pushing myself to become ever cleverer and better, as he clearly has with his act. I do have a talent for nurturing evil just as he suggested, perhaps because I take such care to live by Agnesot’s parting words, to guard the pulsing little venom sac in my own heart.

  And though I fare well for the moment, how long can I keep the fickle noblesse interested in me before their fancy inevitably fades? They are no more than gadabouts, after all, forever chasing fads like cats hunting their own tails. At any rate, if I am to continue besting infuriating magicians who play at being the devil, then I must at least begin to think ahead.

  I turn to the grimoire for inspiration.

  Something tickles at me from years ago, the words Agnesot used for whatever spell she intended to cast for my freedom. I cannot quite remember what she said, but I do remember the mention of noir, as if whatever enchantment she intended to use was of the darkest nature. And I know there is a section toward the end of the grimoire titled “The Darkest Rites,” which I have always steered well clear of, having no intention of meddling with something styled so foreboding.

  When I flip to it that night in my study, by the wavering light of my candle, even the inscription sends an icy rill down my spine.

  If you seek that which is buried beneath the soil that lies at the very bottom of your heart, then gather what courage you may and turn the page.

  Biting my lip, I flip through the pages, a chill blooming in my belly like some wintry flower, part fear and part ineffable thrill. There are spells here to summon Lucifer himself, along with a host of other, seemingly more minor demons. And there are even spells to call upon the host of angels, though the grimoire makes clear that this is an even dicier proposition—such sacred and lofty beings apparently take far greater exception than a demon at being summoned on mortal whim.

  Reading further, I discover that each of the enchantments seems to be built upon a common foundation, a base ritual the grimoire calls La Messe Noire.

  The Black Mass.

  I pause in my perusal, threading my fingers around my goblet of wine and taking a long, contemplative sip, unease arcing through me. While I am not sure I truly believe the devil can even be summoned—what sort of divineress could command such a force as Satan himself, and through what kind of massive magic?—Agnesot did vanish from the fabrique somehow. And a few years later, Antoine appeared to free me as if by magic. If indeed it works, it is not the sort of enchantment I have any desire to trifle with. Especially if it means gambling with my soul, just as Marie once feared for me.

  But while I have no intention of taking such a risk as holding a mass in earnest, the spells do give me a delicious idea.

  A smile spreading over my lips, I consider what Adam said to me at the ball—speaking of us both as pied pipers of a sort, playing an infernal song, dancing the already depraved noblesse ever closer to hell. Why not indulge their taste for danger by taking a step further, offering access to the devil himself?

  And if my ritual happens to be an outright fake, well, they will certainly never know the difference.

  I wait until the night of the next full moon to host my first “Messe Noire.”

  By the time my handful of invitees files in, hooded and dressed in black at my request, my library has been meticulously transformed into a sorceress’s opulent lair. I’ve lit bushels of candles everywhere and rolled the carpet back to paint the parquet floor with runes—most of my own invention, and a few legitimate, drawn from the more sinister-looking but innocuous sigils listed in the grimoire. Largest is the menacing pentagram in the middle of the room, a candle set at each of its points, an altar at its heart. The skylight directly overhead illuminates the altar with the full moon’s silvery pour. The room roils with curls of incense smoke, enough to steep into every page of the books that line the walls above like brooding sentinels.

  I’ve also scattered rose petals and raven feathers all about, my own little private joke. A sly thumbing of my nose at Adam himself, who stands among my gathered guests. I had to invite him, of course, to witness my new handiwork. To show him I can draw whatever inspiration I like from him, and grow it into something far darker and more tantalizing than his own act.

  The rest of the guests I carefully selected from the marquise’s inner circle, inviting only those I know to be debauched and wanton beyond any redemption. While most of the noblesse at least play at piety, these few are among the very worst the court has to offer. A handful of the most jaded and profligate, those who would readily sell their own mothers in pursuit of the next gilded excitement.

  When I offered them the chance to whisper their desires in the devil’s waiting ear, they could not have agreed any faster.

  “Welcome, my guests,” I intone, dipping my head so that my hood casts a shadow over my growing smile. The candle I hold in both hands throws a wicked light up toward my mouth like a dragon’s kiss. Alecto coils languidly around my neck, completing the effect.

  “Thank you for trusting me enough to join me here in this corner I’ve carved out for us and hidden from the eye of notre Dieu. So that we may, together, court a very different kind of light. The kind shed by a darker star.”

  I whisk the damask cloth off the altar table with a dramatic flourish, drawing a sharp gasp from the attendees as I reveal the nude form of the courtesan I’ve hired for tonight.

  “Tonight, the pure vessel of this maiden’s body will serve as our living altar,” I continue, and I swear Camille’s sensuous mouth curls just a whit, amused by the allusion to purity and maidenhood. “The centerpiece of an arcane ritual of worship ancient as the grave. Our offering to Lucifer Morningstar, banished from heaven and reigning king of hell. Hallowed be his shadowed name.”

  My guests shift from foot to foot with a whispering of robes, still captivated but now a touch unnerved. They all attend entirely of their own volition, of course, but nothing could have prepared them for this darkness I’ve curated for their entertainment.

  Nor could they have anticipated the splendor of Camille.

  She lies perfectly still, just as I have instructed. Moonlight sluices over her fine skin like some forbidden sacrament, limning the contours of h
er body with an inviting silver glaze. Her dark tresses pool over the tabletop and cascade to the floor, shining in the firelight and twining like ivy around the table legs. She is every bit as lovely as the sleeping beauty from the tale. The sight of her stirs even me, who arranged her there.

  I take a pause, drawing a breath to quell the faint flutter in my belly. While I aim to stoke my guests’ own lust, I cannot afford any distractions tonight myself.

  Not when I am to serve as their sacrilegious prêtresse.

  “Are you ready for this worship?” I demand, raking them with an austere gaze. “Do you stand willing, with bloody hearts beating in your hands?”

  “We are ready,” the marquise pronounces on the guests’ behalf. She exchanges sparkling little looks with the maréchale and the sly Monsieur Philbert, one of the king’s most favored court musicians, all three incandescent with excitement. The lecherous Vicomte de Couserans is here as well, alongside the king’s own Master of the Wardrobe, the hatchet-faced and vain Marquis de Cessac. I had considered asking my attendees to come masked, but now I’m glad that I did not. They could never betray one another’s presence here without revealing their own participation, and this way they can freely catch each other’s eyes, mutually savor the experience.

  “Then join me in this prayer to our shadow sire,” I go on. “In which we call on Lucifer by his many names. Mephistopheles, Belial, Asmodeus, Legion. Prince of darkness and daystar of the damned.”

  Their voices merge with mine as I lead them through the prayer, a simple call-and-response I devised only this morning. It is ridiculous, of course, pure invention.

  And yet, watching their rapt faces, I see they believe me anyway. It makes me feel brazen and powerful, a gout of fire searing through my veins. As if I myself am the shrewd and seductive evil they think to enjoin.

  “Are you ready to pay obeisance?” I demand. “To offer up a draught of your own spirit before you partake of the dread lord himself?”

  The guests murmur that they are, though I can feel their tension spike until the room fairly vibrates with it. They are nearly where I want them, I think as satisfaction waxes within me, full and round as the risen moon.

  Now to take them even more firmly by the hand.

  “To fuel this prayer, there must be pain,” I inform them, approaching the altar and setting my candle down, then taking up an apple and a wine-filled copper chalice from beneath. I take care to keep each movement languid and hypnotic, purposely captivating. Just as I would if I were charming snakes.

  “After all, gaining the shadow sire’s regard always demands a sacrifice.”

  I set the chalice down above Camille’s heart. Her pale hands drift up like little ghosts to curl around its stem, keeping it in place. Then I take the candle back up, walking slowly around the altar with it raised above her body, tilting it to drip forth a steady stream of wax. She swallows a gasp as each droplet strikes her skin, though I have negotiated all of this with her in advance. What I may do during the ritual, what she will accept from the guests. For all that she is paid handsomely, I would never ask her to endure anything other than what she might happily invite herself.

  Once the wax begins to harden, I set the apple, a crimson so dark and gleaming it looks nearly black, into the dip of Camille’s navel. It rises and falls, trembling a little with her every breath.

  Though I have planned all of this down to the last detail, I am struck by how she must appear to my rapt guests. Speckled with wax and with the chalice clasped between her breasts, a forbidden apple cradled on her belly.

  A fallen Eve in repose, flawless and indolent.

  I sense the weight of Adam’s eyes on me, glancing up to find them glinting like spun coins from the shadows pooling in the corner of the room. His lips curled with admiration, he tips me a sardonic little nod, as if to say, Well played.

  Pleased by his reaction, I look back to my guests. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I beckon them forward with a curl of my hand.

  “Come forth,” I invite them with a smile like light shining off a blade. “For he requires your sacrifice as well.”

  They creep forward single file, wary yet drunk on danger, torn between enchantment and trepidation. I reach first for the marquise, who was bold enough to venture closest. When she gives me her hand, I flick out a knife from the folds of my cloak, mutter some nonsense syllables over it, and slice shallowly into her palm.

  To her credit, she barely hisses in a breath as I hold her hand above the chalice and squeeze a few drops of her blood into the wine.

  “Merci, madame,” I murmur to her, folding her fingers closed over her palm. “Rest assured, your willingness will not go unrewarded.”

  She inclines her head to me, a silken smile playing on her lips before she steps away. The rest of them follow suit much more easily in her footsteps, coming forward biddable as lambs. Almost as if eager to be lanced. And though I do not show it, it gives me a vicious pleasure to cut them, to leave them with my mark.

  This brief slice of pain is the least of what they deserve, for all their betrayals and travesties.

  Once they’ve all been bled, I take the shining apple from Camille’s belly and the chalice from her hands. Then I pass both to the guests, inviting them to nibble and sip, as a twisted inverse of Holy Communion. I’ve laced the wine with damiana, and glazed the apple with sweetened bishop’s cap, both powerful aphrodisiacs.

  To ensure they will go home all aglow, intoxicated with the veiled wonders of this night.

  “Now that you have partaken of the Morningstar, I invite you to entreat him,” I say, setting a small pot of pigeon’s blood and a quill on the floor beside the altar. “Write him your wishes, with this maiden as your parchment and this blood as your ink. Then seal your desire with a ceremonial gesture of your choosing. A holy defilement, if you will, rather than a sacrament.”

  I sink to my knees behind the altar, to let this last part unfold beneath my watchful eye. Though all of them have been told what is allowed and what proscribed, I remember that Marie once called them beautiful barbarians. My role now is to make certain that they indulge without transgressing too far.

  The marquise approaches first again, kneeling to carefully write her wish along Camille’s thigh, nibbling on her lip in thought. She chooses to seal it with a gentle kiss pressed to Camille’s hip, running her palm lightly down the length of the girl’s leg.

  The gesture takes me aback a bit, surprises me with its boldness. It isn’t what I would have expected of the marquise. But it is a good reminder that no one is quite as they appear.

  And that even these overindulged savages cannot always be predicted.

  Less than an hour later the ritual is done, leaving Camille a cream-and-crimson scroll of wishes. I lead the guests through a closing chant before dismissing them with suitably solemn farewells. Then I transcribe the wishes into my journal, taking careful stock of each before I send Camille off to bathe.

  For how better to play these nobles’ wicked dreams to my advantage than by collecting and studying them?

  When a knock sounds at my study door, I’m still deeply engrossed. “Dieu merci, what is it, Simone?” I ask a trifle impatiently without looking up, assuming that only the chatelaine would think to disturb me at this hour. “The hour is late, and I’m rather occupied at the moment.”

  “Not Simone, I’m afraid, but I do promise to be brief,” Adam responds, his voice lilting with humor. Startled, my eyes fly up to see him draped against the doorjamb, a hunter’s smile hovering on his lips. “Might I come in?”

  “I suppose you may,” I say with a cool composure I do not feel. I flip my journal closed and set it to the side, leveling a gaze at him. “What are you still doing here, Adam? How did you get back in?”

  “Forgot my cloak,” he replies with a wink that implies he did no such thing. “I’m forever misplacing the blasted thing. Or is it that I never brought it in the first place? Impossible to know. Whatever the case, I managed to prev
ail upon one of the more amenable of your strapping young footmen out there to allow me to retrieve it.”

  He pushes off from the doorframe and strolls into the study, still smiling. “And you’ll forgive my presumption, but I found I couldn’t take my leave a second time without paying you my compliments.”

  I press my lips together, resolving to have a stern word with whichever footman had let him back in. Though I find that I am rather pleased by his return, almost as if a part of me had hoped against reason that he might linger after the rest of them had left.

  “Wine, perhaps?” I ask, rising from the desk, my heart fluttering like a sparrow against my ribs. “I noticed you did not care to take my communion at the end.”

  His wolf’s smile widens at the mock solemnity in my tone. “Of course not. Not without knowing what … choice enhancements you might have thought to add. But I’ll happily take some with you now.”

  I move to the walnut sidebar and pour us both a glass of pale Bourgogne wine. His warm fingers linger on mine a touch too long when I hand him the goblet, and he tips his head wryly as he raises it in a toast.

  “To your ingenuity, my lady,” he proposes. “And a truly masterful performance. I’m especially pleased to find you took my advice on artful devilry to heart.”

  “And how do you know I did not have all this planned long before we even met?” I demand, even as I clink my glass to his and allow myself a smile. “Or do you always take credit for others’ success?”

  “Only when it’s due.” He sets his glass down on the sidebar, tilting his head quizzically at the sight of Alecto, who is still at her usual perch around my neck. “She is beautiful, your little friend. Might I say hello to her?”

  I nod, making an effort to stay still as he traces a finger down Alecto’s sinuous length with unsettling slowness. She lifts her head curiously at his touch, tongue flickering.