The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(13)

“So was the curse that landed me in a swamp to eat moths and snails for seven years.”

“Blood will tell, I swear,” the old woman muttered, then shook her head. “You’d do well to remember a threefold reckoning awaits those who do intentional harm.”

Oh, she knew the cost. She’d weighed and balanced it against the pain of doing nothing a dozen times. Yet her need for retribution always proved the thumb on the scale, tipping her mind toward murder. What other recourse was there for having her prime years stolen from her? She should be married by now. There should be a son and daughter learning the art of the vine at her hip. The vineyard should have long ago come under her direction. Her wine should be in the cellars of the finest connoisseurs on the continent. Instead she was alone, groveling in the dirt, cleaning up other people’s messes.

Grand-Mère drew her shawl up over her head and wrapped the ends around her shoulders, as if suddenly chilled. “What is it you’re planning exactly?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Elena said, then threw the empty wine bottle in the burn cart and watched it blacken and smoke. “A life for a life.”

Grand-Mère covered her mouth with her hand and turned away just as the jingling, clanking sound of glass jars being jostled in a wagon bed aroused their curiosity. On the road below, a covered mule cart rolled by with two women at the reins. They glanced uphill, their noses in the air, and waved.

“Greetings,” called the first as she halted the mule.

“Merry meet,” said the second, forcing a smile.

Witches.

“Charlatans?” Elena whispered, noting the city accent. It wasn’t their real name, of course, but one they’d earned through a tarnished reputation.

“The two oldest sisters, by the look of them. What on earth are they doing here? I’ll have to say hello.”

Elena wiped her hands on her skirt, cautiously wondering if the Charlatan sisters could be acquainted with Bastien. Though she didn’t know them, they seemed just the type he’d seek out for his dirty work. The old woman had already headed downhill, so Elena draped the end of her shawl over her face and followed, wanting to know more about their intentions.

As she and Grand-Mère drew closer, a pair of jars trembled slightly in the cart, clinking together like champagne glasses. The witches smiled.

“Greetings. What brings you out our way?” Grand-Mère asked, wary but not unfriendly.

The sister closest, the one wearing the embroidered flower jacket with the faded needlework, answered, “We’re headed to the village. Festival day we’re told. Caught the scent of your smoke as we passed. Hex fire, is it?”

“Remedy.”

“Ah.” The woman smiled wider, revealing a row of tea-stained teeth as she bent forward to get a look at Elena. “In that case, might be I have what you need for a good cleansing spell,” she said and lifted the tarp covering the back of the cart. “Or a little revenge.” Her eyebrow lifted when she caught Elena’s eye. “Nothing like a little newt’s eye tonic to slip into your favorite rival’s drink, eh?”

On top of their reputation as cheats, they were black-market peddlers, too, judging by their wares. Alongside the silk scarves, silver bangles, and charm bells for sale were dozens of mason jars filled with ill-gotten ingredients. Keeping her shawl drawn over her face, Elena took a closer look, spying heart-shaped gizzards, strips of fenny snake, a collection of bat ears, and a bear paw and gallbladder set. Old World novelty stuff. Medieval quackery. And a tragedy, given most of the items carried little potency for any spell she knew of. Nothing more than a cartload of cruelty for the sake of duping occult-loving mortals and gullible witches out of their money.

She was hoping Grand-Mère would tell them to get their disgraceful cart out of their sight when the jars clinked again.

The second sister, who used an obvious enhancement spell to keep her long golden hair curled in perfect ringlets, crooked her finger. “Two-for-one special, if you’re in the market. Fresh too. Dug them out of their holes myself just this morning.”

Grand-Mère and Elena both leaned in to see what they had buried in the back of the cart. There, perched side by side beneath the seat, were two hedgehogs bottled up in separate jars with holes poked in the lids for air. They pawed and sniffed against the glass, desperate to be free.

“What are you keeping them for?” Grand-Mère asked.

“Me, I skin them and sell the quills along with my voodoo dolls,” said the second sister. “City folk’ll buy my souvenirs by the armload on market days, but I can always get another pair if you’ve got a stew brewing to throw them in. I know where the little hotchi-witchis like to hide.”

The sister showed her fake smile again, and Elena’s disgust hit a flashpoint. “I’ll take them.”

“With pleasure, if you’ve got the coins.”

Elena reached in and removed the bottles by their necks. The witches demanded their money again as she checked each animal for shadow. When she detected none, she gently laid their bottles on the ground.

The witches grew more agitated but kept their stained-teeth smiles. “I said you’ve got to pay for them first.”

Elena knelt and freed the hedgehogs from their glass cages, then rose up. “How about I give you a case of boils on your face instead? Have you no conscience, trapping and selling animals for profit?”