Chapter Eighteen

 

“You could have waited till we heard what he had to say.”

I winced. Waite’s voice hurts my head even when I don’t have concussion.

“We know what he was going to say,” Phelon answered. He added, in a light, affected tone that I guess was supposed to be me, “The Goddess won’t like that! You’re in trouble now!”

Waite muttered, “The Goddess won’t like it.”

“The Goddess is a myth just like their Jesus or any of the rest of it.”

Waite’s reply was too low for me to make out the words.

To which Phelon answered, “But you haven’t come up with a better idea.”

I unstuck my eyelids, pried open my eyes. I was lying on the floor. No, a marble hearth in front of a fireplace, and the bright yellow and red flames hurt to look at. I moved cautiously. My hands were bound. Tightly. My ankles were bound. Tightly. With rope, yes, but also with spellcraft.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to kill him. I want to kill him. I’m saying, we can’t do it here. He came by taxi. How are we going to hide that?”

“A forgetting spell.” Phelon sounded his usual blasé and slightly bored self.

“On which taxi driver? We can’t put a spell on all of them.”

“What does it matter? So what if he came here by taxi? How is anyone going to prove that he didn’t leave of his own free will?”

“On foot?”

“Why not? Anyway, they can’t check with every single cab company and every single Uber or Lyft driver.”

Oh yes they could. They could and they would. I had personal experience of that. They, whoever they might turn out to be in this jurisdiction, would check the trains too, and the buses, and truckers regularly driving this route, and random passing cars that might have picked up a lone hitchhiker.

“By the Lord and Lady, Phelon, he’s married to a police commissioner.”

“Of a different city, in a different county.”

“You really think that matters? You really think they won’t search this place from top to bottom?”

“They won’t find anything. Who cares?”

Far from calming my cousin, Phelon’s easy-breezy what’s-a-little-murder-between-family attitude seemed to be making Waite more agitated and nervous. “It isn’t just about the police. We’ll have reporters here asking questions. TV crews taking pictures. It’s the last thing we can afford.”

“No. The last thing we can afford is this little prick blabbing his mouth to anyone.”

Waite fell silent.

I eased back a fraction, trying to see if I could get some leverage so I could push myself up. A large portrait of my mother hung over the fireplace. She gazed skeptically down at me. Except, it wasn’t my mother. It was Aunt Iolanthe.

“What do you suppose his plan was?” Waite wondered from somewhere overhead.

I closed my eyes.

Phelon’s voice joined Waite’s. “I told you. Don’t you watch any television at all? He was coming to tell you that he knew what you were up to, and if you didn’t stop it, he would have to turn you in.” He sounded amused.

“What? No. That’s not—he had to have a better plan than that.”

“It’s true. It’s what mortals do. I’ve seen it on Poirot many times. Also Dateline.”

Maman would not approve of all that watching of mortal TV. Granted, Maman would not approve of any of this.

“He’s not mortal.”

“He might as well be.”

My head was thumping in sickening time with my heart.

Would Andi go straight to John? I thought she would.

Was that good news or bad news? Did I prefer John in a fury to being murdered? I would have to consider… The floor squeaked as they moved away. I heard the clink of crystal, the splash of liquid. I closed my eyes, tried to focus.

These ties that bind must fall away

I must be free to fight this day

Nothing.

The bond of blood has proven false…

Ugh. I really must have concussion if I believed there was suddenly a rhyme for false.

As though reading my thoughts, Waite said, “The Merriweather girl knows too much.”

“Worse luck for her.”

My heart skipped a beat. I renewed my efforts.

Hemp or cotton, rag or bone

Release me now from danger known

Again nothing.

Not even a twitch of the rope around my hands.

Neither Waite nor Phelon were truly adept, but they weren’t using kiddie Craft either. I needed to pull myself together.

Goddess give me strength. Goddess give me courage. Goddess give me opportunity.

“If we could make it look like an accident…” Waite said slowly.

“Well, of course. What did you think I meant?”

“That we would bury him in Jadis’s new rose garden.”

Phelon chuckled. “It did cross my mind. The trenches are already dug. But you’re right. If he disappears, it raises questions. If he has an accident, then it’s a matter of proving it wasn’t an accident, and that’s not so easy to do.”

I felt someone’s gaze upon me. I turned my head and met the unblinking burgundy gaze of a ferret. Jadis’s Familiar. Raphael, I think. Something like that.

I’m trying, I told him.

Try harder.

They say ferrets are loyal, affectionate, and smart, but give me a cat Familiar any day.

“Jadis can’t ever know about this. No one can ever know about this.”

Raphael and I exchanged looks.

Waite and Phelon really were very stupid. It would be beyond embarrassing to be killed by them.

“I wasn’t thinking of putting it in my memoirs,” Phelon drawled. “Anyway, no one is going to give a damn about Cosmo Aurelius Saville with Estelle out of the way.”

“You really do hate her, don’t you?” Waite said almost wonderingly.

Phelon made a bah! sound, which, frankly, was pure Maman. “I don’t waste my energy on the woman. She must live with her choices like anyone else.”

“Right, well so long as Mama isn’t dr—”

“When I think of all I did for her! And she treated me like…like her plaything. Me!”

“Sure. I get that. This is just…politics.”

“I was willing to make her my beloved consort. Ha! That I would have shared the trône de sorcière with that—”

“Yeah, I don’t know that Thérèse would go for——”

This was interesting. I had assumed Waite had his eye on the throne, but clearly, he and Phelon had already worked out some deal wherein Waite relinquished his supposed claim in return for…what? Riches and power?

Waite was already rich. And power is very time-consuming. Like it or not, with power comes huge responsibility and one hell of a lot of bother. Both of which Waite is severely allergic to.

Meanwhile…

“Thérèse!” Phelon exclaimed. “She’s another one. I do all the work, and she—”

From the other room, a phone rang, loud and shrill, cutting Phelon off mid-rant.

Between each slow, portentous trill of the phone fell a deep and deadly silence.

“It’s done,” Phelon said. His voice was flat.

My heart stopped.

What was done? What had these lunatics done? Was Maman dead? Was the Crone dead? Had the trône de sorcière fallen to these traitors?

Waite said nothing.

Footsteps retreated from the room. Waite muttered, “Fucking politics.” I heard the whisper of leather, the squeak of the frame as he dropped down on the sofa.

Phelon’s voice floated from the other room. “Oui? C’est moi. Avons-nous remporté la victoire?”

“You did this to yourself, Cosmo,” Waite said.

I rolled onto my side. “How do you figure that?”

Waite scowled. His eyes were blue, his teeth straighter than mine, his chin dimpled, but, yes, we could have been brothers. We were not brothers, though, and had never felt anything close to brotherly love for each other. I had always believed that was because the trône de sorcière lay between us. But it seemed that was wrong. The differences were deeper and more fundamental.

“You don’t even want the throne,” he said bitterly.

“Apparently neither do you,” I said. “And you’re half mortal. Why would you be part of this?”

“Just shut up. It’s already gone too far. There isn’t any turning back now.”

“Of course there is!” I struggled to sit up. “Think. So far you haven’t done anything a good lawyer like Pierre Sjoberg can’t get you out of. You haven’t killed anyone yet. There’s been one accidental death, one suicide, and a whole lot of extortion, which most victims will never admit even happened. But murder? Murder will destroy you in both realms.”

Waite’s mouth twisted. “As you constantly point out, there is only one realm.”

“And, if you kill me, you’ll be doing life without parole in it.”

“I don’t think so. I think Phelon is right. They would have to prove it wasn’t an accident.”

“Do you really think John is going to accept that I met accidental death here?”

He gave a stranger-things-have-happened spread of his hands, but really stranger things had not happened. No way would John accept my accidental death. And I couldn’t help feeling that if John didn’t get justice through the courts, he would find his own justice.

I opened my mouth, but the silence emanating from the kitchen suddenly sank in on both of us.

Waite half turned on the sofa. “Phelon?”

No reply.

“Phelon?”

Phelon appeared in the living room doorway. He looked ghostly white and stricken.

Waite jumped up. “What is it? What happened?”

“We’ve…failed.”

Blessed be. Blessed be.

I closed my eyes in relief. Opened them.

“What?” Waite looked aghast. “How? That’s impossible. You said it was a fait accompli.”

Phelon’s haggard eyes turned to me. “He had letters. Thérèse has been taken into custody.”

“He had letters? What letters?”

“Not him. Estelle’s—his father. He had letters written by Thérèse years ago. He kept them. Kept them all these years. Why would he do that?”

Insurance policy, I thought. I said nothing.

“What letters?” Waite demanded again.

“Letters she wrote him. She wanted him to be her beloved consort. She trusted him.”

“But…”

I said, “I’m guessing Madame de Darrieux has wanted to assume the trône de sorcière since she was a very young witch. That she wrote of love and marriage and sedition.”

Phelon’s gaze burned into mine. “And betrayer that he is, he kept every word of them.”

“He’s the betrayer?”

But really, I didn’t have time to waste on this. If Phelon had wanted me dead before, he wanted me all the more dead now. And Waite—Waite was too stupid, too venal to recognize where his best interests lay.

Raphael the ferret suddenly appeared on the fireplace mantle, squeaking loudly, which gained the attention of both Waite and Phelon.

Nothing else had worked so far. In desperation, I reached all the way back to childhood memories and Samantha Spell-casting. I tried twitching my nose—and was so surprised when the ropes binding my feet slid off, I was afraid to move. In any case, the ropes around my wrists were still tight. I tried twitching my nose again, but no. The ropes remained fastened. Waite must have tied my ankles, and Phelon, my wrists. Phelon was probably the stronger of the two when it came to Craft. When it came to anything.

I had only seconds to decide. There were two of them and one of me. My chances of escaping with my hands still tied, were slim. But would I get a better chance than this? This might be it.

I did not believe I could talk my way out of this.

Even if Andi had immediately phoned John—and I thought she would—it would still take him time to get here. Even if John had immediately phoned local law enforcement—and I thought he maybe wouldn’t—it would take them time to get here.

No. It was now or never.

I crossed my left leg, bent my right knee, rolled up and forward onto my feet. Not actual witchcraft, but with my hands tied behind me, it felt close.

“Watch him,” Phelon warned, and then, “Get him!”

Waite hurled his brandy glass at me. I ducked, and it smashed harmlessly against the stone fireplace.

Phelon went left, Waite went right, and it was clear they intended to outflank me. I continued to work to free my hands, but there was no play in the rope. I snapped my fingers, but nothing happened, so there was probably a holding spell upon me as well.

I twitched my nose at the squat brass lamp on the nearest table and sent it flying at Waite’s head. I directed the coffee table at Phelon’s knees. Neither connected with their target, but their being forced to jump out of the way gave me enough space to run for the doorway.

The round woven carpet flew out from under my feet, and I fell to one knee but managed to regain my feet. I dove through the doorway and nodded my head to pitch the heavy mahogany secretary desk against the wall, sideways.

I heard one of them crash into the secretary, but I didn’t try to look back.

I gasped, “Open a door in thin air, open a door that’s always there—”

A shining line of blue rectangle appeared—and pinched out.

So, yes, a holding spell.

I didn’t slow, didn’t falter. I kept running toward the front door, and I called out, “Ticktock, turn the lock!”

The rustic red front door flew open—and I flew out.

Someone came after me in an airborne tackle, locked arms around my waist, and we both tumbled down the brick steps to the cement drive.

I landed with the wind knocked out of me, and the next few seconds were a fight to haul breath into my lungs. Spots danced before my eyes. There was a ringing in my ears.

From overhead and behind the ringing, Phelon said, “Drag him to the pool. We’ll drown him.”

Waite, his knee still jammed in the small of my back, called, “Where the fuck are you going?”

“To my car. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, get up,” Waite panted. He pushed off me, and I rolled over and kicked him in the place I thought would do the most good—and the most harm. He howled, doubled over, and I tried to scramble to my feet. But I was a lot more tired now. Adrenaline and fear can only take you so far. I put my shoulder to the brick retaining wall, trying to lever myself up. At last, I got to my feet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Waite straighten. His face was twisted and ugly with rage. He jerked his knee back and delivered a roundhouse kick with all his strength. It caught me in the hip, knocking me over the retaining wall into the hedge.

That hurt a lot, and though I did my best to kick Waite a few more times, sweat and tears blurred my vision and there was not enough strength left in my legs to do much more than leave bruises. The smell of damp earth and dead leaves filled my lungs.

Nox, luna argentea

De potestate mea fortitudinem tuam, excidetur

Diva, tuam miserere luceat

“Shut the hell up,” Waite shouted. He slapped me so hard, my head snapped back, and as I tried to shake the reverberations out of my ears, dragged me out of the greenery.

I fought him every step of the way, but it was like punching through water. There was less and less force in my blows, and Waite didn’t bother fighting back; he simply hauled me along, one hand locked in my hair, the other in my collar.

My hands scraped on the cement. The knees of my jeans ripped. I quit punching and began to grab for anything I could hold on to. Hedges, brick, grass, gravel…

We rounded the side of the house. I had a blurred impression of shining lamplight, damp-sparkled grass, a row of lounge chairs, and a pool twice the size of the one at home. It gleamed in the moonlight like a long blue tomb.

Footsteps came running from the other side of the house.

“What took you so long?” Waite’s breath hung in the crisp autumn night.

Phelon sounded winded. “False alarm. I thought someone was coming up the drive, but they were only turning around.”

“But where the hell did you go?” Waite demanded. “This asshole nearly ended my bloodline.”

Phelon answered with an eerie lightness, “I thought we might need this.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Where in the Nine Gates of Hell did you get that?”

At Waite’s tone, I opened my eyes and saw Phelon holding a wand carved of ivory and jade. My heart froze. I had not been brimming with hope before, but I knew now I was all out of luck.

Phelon twirled the wand, said casually, “Supposedly it belonged to the Marquise de Montespan.”

“You stole that from Auntie Estelle?”

Phelon laughed. “Auntie Estelle? Yes. I still have a key to Auntie Estelle’s house. She didn’t even think I was worth changing the locks for.”

Waite couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from the wand. The lamplight from the house behind us flashed and flickered off the jewels. “That can’t be her real wand.”

“Estelle thinks it is.”

Waite swallowed. “Even if it is, you can’t use another witch’s wand. Especially that witch.”

“It’s bad form, sure, but of course you can.” Phelon looked down at me and laughed again. “Oh my. Someone’s having a bad night.” He looked at Waite. “Go get a pair of swim trunks. I’ll get his clothes off.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? Because no one goes swimming in their clothes. We’ll put him in a pair of your swim trunks, turn on the fire pit, empty out a few bottles of wine, and it will look like the three of us were hanging out here drinking and swimming.”

“He can’t swim.”

“Exactly. He fell in and drowned. That kind of thing happens all the time.”

Only an idiot would believe that scenario. How did they plan to explain all our cuts and bruises? But Waite nodded, turned toward the house, and Phelon stooped down to drag me closer to the pool’s edge.

I began to fight again, but I knew it was a losing battle.

On the edge of my vision, I saw Waite stop in his tracks. He was not having a change of heart, however.

He said in a very strange voice, “What in the name of the Goddess is that?”

Phelon instinctively turned—as did I——to gaze at the white mist slowly taking shape before our eyes.

Waite whispered, “Is that…”

“Of course not!” Phelon said fiercely.

And he was right. It was not the Goddess. Not even close. Ambrose’s grand-mère floated in the night air, between our little tableau and the house.

“Waah dis evil?” she asked.

Phelon and Waite exchanged looks. Past their initial shock, they seemed more confused than alarmed.

“Is she a ghost?” It wasn’t so much a question as Phelon thinking aloud.

Waite looked at me. “Is she?”

“No.”

“Who is she?” Phelon asked.

I shook my head.

“You must have brought her with the wand,” Waite told Phelon. His tone was accusing.

“That’s not the Marquise de Montespan.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen paintings.”

GramMa drew closer, sniffing the air. The night smelled of chlorine and woodsmoke and wet grass, but her wizened face grew tighter and angrier.

“There dark powa here,” she whispered.

My scalp prickled. For once she was right. “Don’t antagonize her,” I warned them.

Phelon threw me a look of disbelief and laughed. “Are you serious? Are we supposed to be afraid of a vagrant crone who drifted in on the night wind?”

“Me a guh end dis now.” GramMa raised her hands and, to my horror, began to cast her spell.

Four separate things happened then, though in my mind, they blended into one endless moment.

John silently rounded the side of the house, running in a half-crouch, with a gun held low.

Waite raised his hands and also began to spellcast.

Evil crone of unknown breed

End your spell or—

GramMa completed her spell and sent a bolt of green that sliced through Waite like a lance.

Phelon raised the Marquise de Montespan’s wand, pointed it at GramMa, and cried, “End eam nunc.”

“No!” I shouted.

The tip of the Marquise de Montespan’s wand glowed blue, and instantly, GramMa was encased in an unearthly blue halo.

I don’t think she noticed. I don’t think she even noticed that Waite had crumpled to the cement. She had already started a new spell, her whisper taking on volume and strength as her fingertips flickered green, then red, then green.

The blue glow around her seemed to darken and sparkle, and the entire cloudy mass exploded in thousands of glittering stars that died out before they touched the ground.

The sky was empty of all but a trace of blue smoke.

I had never seen Craft used to kill before. Now I had seen it twice in as many minutes.

John brought his weapon up. “Don’t move,” he said in a voice I had never heard before.

Phelon didn’t even hesitate. He turned the wand toward me.

“Conte—”

I swept my legs forward, trying to knock Phelon over, which I managed to do. But as Phelon pitched forward, he grabbed for me, and we both tumbled into the pool. Before the water closed over my head, I heard John fire. I opened my eyes and saw red smoke twisting through the bubbles streaming past.

Phelon was screaming. I could hear his muffled shrieks, feel the wash and push of water as he flailed beside me.

We had plunged into the deep end. When my feet did not touch bottom, I felt a rush of pure panic.

Don’t breathe in.

Don’t breathe in.

Remember…

 

“Not being able to swim is a vulnerability, but a greater vulnerability is being this fearful.”

I rested my face in my hands, breathing in the smell of salt water and chlorine. “I know.”

He pulled me over to him, so that my face rested in the curve of his neck and shoulder. He said against my ear, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

I nodded. I knew what he was saying—and what he wasn’t saying. I drew away from him, turned my face. He gently squeezed the back of my neck, stroked my back, waiting.

As I stared at the blue and green squares of “moonbeam” tile, I suddenly noted a break in the pattern. Every few squares, there was a silvery blue tile with a five-point star design. I scooted away from John to peer more closely at the nearest silver tile.

Yes. It was a star…

 

I did not breathe in.

I hadn’t had many swimming lessons. Our pool had only been completed a few short weeks before it grew too cold to swim. But John had insisted that I learn enough not to drown in our own backyard. I couldn’t use my arms, but I could kick, which I began to do with all my strength.

Something hard and relentless sliced down through the artificially bright aqua, grabbed me by my collar, and hauled me up. Shoved me up and pushed me out. I landed on the cement, coughing and spluttering, chest heaving as I hauled in gulps of sweet night air.

“You’re okay,” John said. “You’re okay now.”

“N-not really.”

He had already splashed back into the water. He was out in moment, dragging Phelon ungracefully onto the deck. I smelled blood and chlorine and something worse.

I remembered that as Phelon fell, he had dropped the wand into the water. I wriggled over, peered over the side, and I could see it lying at the bottom, winking and blinking beneath the still rippling water.

“Jesus fucking Christ Almighty…” John knelt beside Phelon, who was whimpering, facedown on the cement.

The whimpers turned into a scream as John used his belt to tie Phelon’s arms behind his back.

John left him, checked Waite with a businesslike briefness that told me everything I needed to know, and scooted over to me. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re fine.”

Well, not to complain, but I had been better. I had been knocked out. I had been beaten up. I had seen someone shot. I had seen two people die by magic. I had nearly drowned—again.

“That’s it. Coughing’s good. Clear your lungs.” John helped me sit up, scanning my face. His own face changed, eyes going flat and black, mouth compressing, nostrils flaring. “No, you’re not okay,” he said thickly. His fingertips brushed my cheekbone, and I tried not to flinch. He gently pushed my hair back to see the cut over my eye.

I already had a scar there from the first time Waite had tried to kill me.

“Is Waite dead?”

“Yes.” John pulled a knife out of his boot. “Lean forward.”

I let myself fall against his chest, tried not to move, though I was shaking with stress and shock as he sliced through the ropes cutting into my wrists. I breathed him in, listening to the swift, efficient pound of his heart.

That would have been the worst part of dying. No more John.

“I don’t think he suffered.” John’s tone was unemotional. He only cared because he knew I did. “I don’t think either of them could have felt anything.”

That answered one question. John had seen everything that happened. I had wondered if there had been time for him to register. I wondered what he made of it. He seemed unmoved. As though carnage was all in a day’s work.

“Well, I feel something,” Phelon cried. “You shot me. Remember? I’m shot.”

We ignored him.

“Thank you,” I said to John. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

I tried to make it a joke, but it wasn’t a joke, and he saw right through it. His arms locked around me. His voice sounded pained. “Of course I came for you. I’ll always come for you. But why? Why did you do this? Why didn’t you wait? I told you, we’d work it out together.”

“Do you not notice I’m bleeding?” Phelon cried.

It looked—and sounded——like Phelon was not mortally injured. But he had already been falling when he had been hit. Which meant John had not planned to shoot him high in the shoulder. Which meant…

Which meant Phelon had nearly died trying to kill me.

Waite had died trying to kill me.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to face that understanding.

“Because. Because it’s not your job to clean up my mistakes,” I told John. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful. I will be from now on. I’ll be discreet. I pr—”

“Hell yes, it’s my job,” John said impatiently. “It’s my job to protect you. To love, cherish, and protect you. That’s what I signed on for.”

“But it’s my job too,” I said. “To love, cherish, and protect you. And I hate that I keep doing things that put you in the position of having to go against what you think is right just to keep my secrets safe. You don’t even like secrets.”

“You think he doesn’t have secrets?” Phelon said with sudden poisonous softness.

John didn’t even turn his head. “Your best chance of living through the night is letting me forget you’re still here.”

Phelon closed his eyes.

“Everybody has secrets,” John told me quietly. “Yours are…a little more complicated than most. It doesn’t matter how it started or where it ends. You’re the one I love.”

“Same. Always.”

“You need to learn to trust me. We need to learn to trust each other.” His face was stern, his eyes dark with emotion.

A turning point? Yes. For him and for me.

“Yes,” I said. “You’re right.”

“Can you stand?” John asked.

I nodded, and he half lifted me to my feet, put his arm around me. I leaned into him.

“What do we do about…this? What do we do about Bergamasco?”

“Bergamasco is not a threat to you.”

He said with finality. So perhaps this was where the trust began. I would take his word that Bergamasco was not a threat.

“We need to call the local PD.” John’s mind was running in another direction. His tone was grim, anticipating the questions we could not answer, the publicity we could not afford.

I nodded. If it had been up to me… But it was not up to me, and so there was no way around it. I said apologetically, “It’s going to be a long night.” Night was being optimistic.

John didn’t reply. He studied Phelon for a long moment. Phelon’s eyes flashed to mine, and I saw a gleam of fear there.

I said, “In our silence lies our safety.”

His lips parted. He closed his mouth.

I said, “We have to get that wand out of the swimming pool before the police arrive.”

John nodded absently. “I’ll use the strainer to scoop it up.” He moved over to Waite’s body. He rolled him over, and then looked up at me. “There’s not a mark on him.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say. I had never seen someone actually die. Let alone see someone killed by magic. That night I had seen two witches fall to the Craft. It had been a terrible sight. I knew it would forever change how I felt about many things, including my own power.

John continued to regard Waite’s lifeless form. He said slowly, “I didn’t realize the two of you looked so much alike.”

“Yes. Maman and Aunt Iolanthe are identical twins.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t always…” He didn’t finish the thought. He looked once more at Waite, looked at me, and his mouth curved into an odd, wolfish smile.