by Steve Berry
He motioned to the room. “You invaded our private sanctuary.”
“And you stole that box over there with the potions from your brother and kicked me in the head. Then you drugged St. Benedict with them. So how about we cut the crap.”
His smile disgusted me. “Touché, Ms. Vitt.”
He motioned to the box. “My dear brother thought it his duty to retrieve it. Some sort of family heirloom. Like always, though, Antoine never could grasp the bigger picture.”
“And that would be political extortion?”
I was baiting him.
He stepped over to the table and lifted one of the bottles. “These are powerful potions. Much more powerful than anything we have today. The ancients knew their chemistry.” He laid the bottle down. “Tell me why you’re here.”
My head remained foggy from the pop to my temple, but I was pretty sure I’d correctly assembled the pieces of this deceptive game.
“Is this her thing?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We all have our secrets. The madam likes her play in a particular variety. I merely oblige her.”
“Apparently she trusts you.”
He chuckled. “Obviously. That’s the whole idea. She submits, I dominate. She trusts, I take advantage. The amazing part is that I helped bring her to within a statistical tie with the current president of France. A masterful campaign, if I do say so. She might even win—”
“If you weren’t working for the other side.”
“Precisely.”
“She’ll never know until it’s way too late, will she? Let me guess. The final debate is tomorrow night. The election less than a week away. So you’ll leak that video, what, three days from now? The internet will explode. Her image of a strong, forceful leader, a family woman, the person to lead France after the disaster of Casimir will be gone. It won’t change a lot of minds, but it could change enough to swing a few percentage points against her. That’s all you need to win.”
He pointed a finger at me. “Sit tight. Don’t go anywhere.” He smiled at his own joke. “I’m going to check on Lydia, then I’ll be back to deal with you.”
He left the dungeon.
What a mess. Hopefully, Antoine would head this way at some point. All I had to do was buy some time. But I was strapped at the wrists and ankles to an iron chair. I shut my eyes and tried to calm myself with images of Cotton. Our intimate experiences with each other couldn’t be more different than what occurred in this place. But to each his or her own. Sex for the sake of sex? For the high, the escape, the release? Something to be said for that. But there was also sex used to prove power, to show strength, to satiate physical desire, to establish position, calm fears, debase, or define. Not all of which was good. Then there was sex simply for the connection, the celebration of emotion, a way to become closer, to explore and understand another’s psyche, to delight in what two people can do to and for each other. That’s what Cotton and I shared. Sure, we took chances, but we never pushed boundaries.
Unlike Denton Lussac.
Thoughts of Morgan le Fay appeared in my mind.
Flashes from the dream.
What was happening to me? Was I actually seeing the past? If so, those visions were beginning to affect my thinking. From what I knew about reincarnation, it’s supposedly about repeating the past until you finished what was started. Fulfilling a karmic destiny. Righting wrongs. Redeeming yourself and learning lessons. What was the point of my past life? If it were mine at all.
The oak door reopened and Denton returned.
“Miss me?” he asked.
I did not answer.
“When I took the box back at Eze, I was in a bit of a rush. I failed to notice one of the bottles was gone. Antoine has the curiosity of a corpse, so I’m assuming you have it. Do you?”
I remained silent.
“Of course that was a rhetorical question. When I strapped you into that chair I noticed something in your pocket.”
He fished the bottle from my pocket. “Let me guess. You’re thinking, how do I get out of here? I need to get Madame Benedict to a hospital. Call the police. Save possibly the next president of France from herself, and the man she believes is orchestrating her political triumph, but who is actually creating her downfall. But, unfortunately, Madame Benedict will recall nothing of what just happened. A side effect of the drug-induced stupor she currently finds herself in. And the best part?”
I waited.
He displayed the bottle from my pocket.
“These concoctions are pure organic. Nature’s own. They leave no chemical residue. No signature. Nothing to find in the blood or tissue. Madame Benedict will have no idea what came over her. But you.” He pointed my way again. “You are a different story.”
“I didn’t realize I had such a reputation.”
“I made a call while I was upstairs earlier. The Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure is familiar with your reputation. You’re a known commodity. I’m told you’ve been involved in several incidents that had global implications. And wealthy too. Your family’s concerns are quite profitable. And, on top of all that, you’re building a medieval castle. That sounds impressive.”
I matched his sarcasm with my own. “Would you like to contribute to the building fund?”
“Any other time, perhaps. But I have an election to lose.”
“Was it President Casimir’s idea for you to double cross St. Benedict?’
“Actually, it was mine. But he pays well.”
His chattiness concerned me. Apparently, he did not intend for me to leave this dungeon alive. He examined all sides of the bottle he’d taken from me.
I saw something in his eye and had to ask, “You’ve experienced the effects, haven’t you?”
He nodded. “Quite the trip. I was someone of great importance. A warrior. In a fight, then in a fortress, making love to a beautiful woman.”
That sounded familiar.
“The woman have a name?”
He stared at me. “Morgan le Fay.”
I fought my disgust. “Did you have a name?”
“Kaz of Gormet.”
Fascinating. We were both in the same loop.
“Which bottle did you inhale?” I asked. He did not answer, so I tried, “How many trips did you take?”
“Two.” He displayed the bottle again. “I’m assuming you’ve been doing some sniffing of your own. Which explains why you kept it.”
Kaz of Gormet versus Helians of Gormet.
Antoine Lussac versus Denton Lussac.
Brother against brother.
In both times.
He lifted the towel he’d used to wipe my face and covered his mouth and nose. Then he uncorked the bottle and held it beneath my nostrils. “I’m afraid your time has come to an end.”
I caught the distinctive waft.
“A little induces the visions,” he said from behind the towel. “But a lot?”
His question hung in the air.
“A lot may kill.”
I held my breath for as long as I could, then I had no choice.
I inhaled.
Chapter 14
Arturius has sent a group of warriors to take my castle. They are camped beyond the walls, preparing for battle. Kaz of Gormet rides at their lead. Helians of Gormet stands in my workshop, dressed for battle. I dismiss my servant who has brought the news that the men beyond the walls seem to be readying an attack.
“Do you think these plants will save you?” Helians asks me.
“Instead of you?”
He shrugs. “Lances and swords work far better than plants.” He smiles. “But I must confess, I know nothing of the power of an herbalist’s cabinet.”
I love his open mind. So few men possess one. “Since ancient times there have been many among us schooled in the secrets of the flowers, herbs, mosses, and bark. Circe, Medea, Hecate—all the great queens—were practitioners. Great harm can be done to a great many, if one knows how.”
&nbs
p; “I’ve come to know that, if said by you, it’s a true statement.”
I smile at his confidence. “The Sorcerer, my teacher, showed me how to work with the gifts of the earth. There’s one group, the Solanaceae plants, that are especially powerful. Included in them are belladonna, datura, henbane, mandrake, and nightshades.”
I line up bottles on the table marked with those ingredients.
He watches, not in disdain or arrogance, but with fascination. “What can you do with these herbs and oils, my beautiful sorceress?”
“Defend my home.”
“Against my brother and his armed men?”
“Hopefully. You do know this is not of my making. Your brother has never forgiven me. He is using this opportunity.”
There are no secrets between us. Helians knows the history. Kaz, like his brother, carries the reputation of a brave, fearless man, but, unlike Helians, he’s insensitive as a lover and thinks little of women, expecting all to bow and please him. Roughness and demands are his staples, and he sees me only as Arturius’ half-sister, someone who might further his ambitions. Years ago, Kaz came to my home but, by the end of three days’ time an animal sense warned me that he represented a threat. So I sent him away. He was not amused at being cast off and vowed revenge. Now he’s found an ally in the anger of my half-brother and his wife.
“I didn’t start this battle,” I say to Helians again.
“Yet because of a slight that happened years ago, I could lose my brother.”
“Who has treated you less than well. Who has—”
“Stop,” Helians shouts. “He is still my brother.”
“Your enemy,” I say back.
“True, he’s chosen Arturius over me,” Helians says, sadness in his voice. “I wish this was different. A warrior owes his allegiance to the leader, over family, but if you had not cast Kaz out, Arturius would have surely chosen someone else to send. He assumes my brother has reason to fight harder than the rest. And he’s correct.”
I turn my attention to the bottles on the table and begin to mix the potion.
He watches me in silence.
“How will you use these concoctions?” he finally asks.
I point. “I’ll soak rags with this one, then set them outside, by the gates. When Kaz’s men approach, we’ll set them on fire. All who breathe the smoke will fall asleep. Anyone who makes it through the gates will be met with a spray of another potion, doled out through bellows.”
He seems intrigued. “What will those do?”
I look at him with grave eyes. “Render them helpless at first, then—” I pause. “They will forget.”
He does not react. “Forget what?”
“The entire reason why they are here.”
“I require something of you,” he says. “I have never asked much from you, but on this day I ask that you not kill my brother.”
“He threatens me. He wants to destroy me. And you ask me not to defend myself.”
“On the contrary. I want you to defend yourself, as I will do on your behalf. But I do not want him killed. He is still my brother.”
I nod.
“I want your solemn promise,” he says.
I love this man, so I have no choice.
“And you have it.”
Chapter 15
I opened my eyes.
Someone was shaking me and saying my name.
“Helians?” I asked, still seeing the vision.
“Cassiopeia?”
I tried to clear the images from my brain, but it was harder this time to be free of the incredibly vivid hallucinations. I was shaken again. By a man. Helians?
The blur cleared.
Antoine was looking down at me. “Are you okay?”
I was free of the chair, lying on the dungeon floor. Sitting up, I shook out my arms and stretched. Antoine kept me steady.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Your brother tried to kill me.” But thankfully he did not know enough about the bottles to realize that not all of them were deadly. “How long have I been out?”
“About a half hour. I had some trouble finding this place.”
“How did you find it?”
“I was watching from one of the windows when Denton and St. Benedict emerged from the fireplace. I had to wait for them to leave before coming to find you. St. Benedict looked unsteady. Denton had to help her to a car.” He looked around. “What is this place?”
My head cleared.
“A fun palace,” I said, before telling him what happened, finishing with, “Lydia St. Benedict is in deep trouble.”
The last bits of the dream stuck in my mind.
Brother against brother.
“We have to find St. Benedict.”
* * *
An hour and a half later we were driving across Paris, through more traffic. I’d called Marcher during the drive and he’d learned that St. Benedict was at her Paris apartment in an upscale building located across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower. Denton had taken my bottle, so there was no way for me to experience any more dreams. Which was frustrating, as I felt like there was something unfinished in the past. Was the castle retaken? Had anything Morgan le Fay done worked? What happened with the brothers? It all seemed incomplete, but Antoine had meant well in trying to revive me.
Marcher was waiting for us when we found the address. Though the hour was late, television vans were parked down the street, the media camped out and held back by tape draped down the sidewalk. The building’s main entrance was manned by uniformed security. Marcher stepped off to the side and started making phone calls trying to find someone to let us in. Somewhere inside was Lydia St. Benedict and Denton Lussac and the possibility existed that her entire candidacy was about to be compromised.
Marcher motioned for us to come toward him.
We hurried over.
“You’re in,” he said. “But hurry, before they change their mind. I’ll stay here.”
Antoine and I rushed across the street. The security men stopped us long enough to check IDs, then they let us pass, telling us to take the elevator to the eighth floor. There, another security guard directed us to an apartment door. Inside, Lydia St. Benedict waited.
Along with Denton.
The candidate looked quite different than in the dungeon. Now fully clothed, her hair and makeup perfect. Her face set with the countenance of a cheetah. She carried herself with a practiced air of confidence, the chin tilted slightly skyward, the lips pursed in a stern expression.
“May I help you?” St. Benedict said in French. “The police say that I should speak with you.”
I watched as the two brothers appraised one another, neither saying a word.
“You must be Antoine,” St. Benedict said. “Denton just told me you are his brother. A pleasure to meet you.”
They shook hands.
“My name is Cassiopeia Vitt,” I said. “Is that name familiar? Is my face familiar?”
“Neither is. Should they be?”
I ignored the question, which I could see irritated her.
“I must ask that you come to the point,” St. Benedict said. “I have much to do, and I only agreed to this because of police insistence. They said the matter was important.”
Her tone carried the snap of a whip.
Not a speck of recognition hovered in St. Benedict’s eyes. Either she was really good, which was a definite possibility, or she had no memory of the past few hours. Denton, on the other hand, knew exactly what had transpired.
So much about him reminded me of Kaz from the hallucination. Though I’d not seen the man, Morgan’s memories of him had flooded through my brain. His look, feel, voice, wants, desires. It was like I knew him, but I didn’t. Both Kaz and Denton were on a quest for power at the expense of a woman. Like Morgan, St. Benedict was going to be branded a witch, only of a different kind, and her enemy was going to attempt to burn her at only a proverbial stake. But a stake nonetheless, her annihilation to be wit
nessed by an entire nation.
Unless I could stop it.
The Sabbat Box lay on the coffee table.
I turned to Denton. “Where’s the video?”
“What video,” St. Benedict asked.
“Yes, Miss Vitt,” Denton added. “What video?”
I stared him down. “Is that how we’re going to play this?”
“What are you talking about?” Denton asked, incredulity in his voice.
“Does President Casimir already have it,” I asked.
“I think I should call in my security detail and have you both removed,” St. Benedict said.
Denton found his phone. “I can make that call.”
“I saw your dungeon,” I said to St. Benedict.
Shock filled her face. “How?”
“I was in your house. I saw you there”—I pointed at Denton—“with him. You were tied to a St. Andrew’s Cross. Naked.”
I definitely now had her attention so I added, “He was filming you. On a phone.”
“That’s a lie,” Denton said.
The man had not used his own phone, which he still held. Black. Wrong color.
“My apologies,” I said, in a heartfelt voice. “I am so sorry, Madame. But he did film you.”
My gaze drifted to the Sabbat Box, the bottles nestled tight in their individual compartments. The one I’d kept since Eze, the one Denton had taken, had been added back to the collection. I reached for it.
“Don’t touch that,” Denton said.
I ignored him.
“What’s going on?” St. Benedict asked, her voice strained, almost frightened.
“He’s not on your side,” I said to her again.
She seemed to be listening to me. I took a chance and asked, “Have you seen visions?”
No reply.
“I’ve seen them,” I offered. “Of the past. So real, as if I was there.”
She nodded. “I have too.”
“I need to go back there,” I said.
“For what?”
“Answers.”
“You can’t allow this,” Denton said, his mouth twisted into a sour line.
“I can do as I please,” St. Benedict told him, her voice rising.