The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(14)
The witch sisters lost their smiles. “Oh, always so high and mighty, you vine witches. Not above stealing from a pair of defenseless cart women, though, are you?” The golden-haired witch took a shriveled badger’s foot from the wagon bed and spit on the ground in a feckless attempt to throw a hex. “I want my money.”
Elena felt a warning pinch from the spell. “So be it.” She reached in her pocket as the sister righteously nodded. But instead of coins, she took out the rabbit hairs she’d collected earlier and a leftover strand of wolf’s fur. She quickly twisted the hairs together, drawing up the magic she had left in reserve, then recited a favorite childhood prank. “Hunter and prey, be on your way,” she said and blew the hairs at the mule’s feet. The animal took off, dragging the women’s cart behind as the spell kicked in. The Charlatan sisters fought to hold on to their seats and rein in the mule, but it was no use. His legs wouldn’t stop running as long as the wolf’s hair chased the rabbit’s, which ought to last a good twenty minutes or more.
“You’ll be sorry you done that,” shouted the golden-haired witch as she held on to the runaway cart. “May your fields rot before the harvest!”
But Elena wasn’t sorry, not one bit, as she watched the wagon disappear over the hill. On the ground the hedgehogs sniffed and darted, uncertain which way to go. She whispered where to find some grubs under a fallen log and gave them a gentle nudge in the direction of the forest. She straightened as they scurried off, feeling the weight of the old woman’s stare against her back.
“You know I couldn’t let them kill those poor creatures.”
Grand-Mère scoffed. “This from the woman plotting murder?”
The schism in her intentions baffled even herself for a moment. “Yes, well, some mortals are a different animal altogether, aren’t they?” she answered, hardening her heart again before turning uphill to gather the brouette and head for home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jean-Paul shut the door to the post office and removed his cap, tucking it under his arm. He’d already included the cash for the catalog item in an envelope, which he produced from the pocket of his tweed jacket. All he required was the correct postal code and a stamp. The clerk met the request with a sardonic glance over his spectacles before bringing out the large reference book and letting it thud loudly on the counter. The man ran his finger down the page in careful examination before stopping and tapping it on a probable candidate. Jean-Paul quickly wrote down the number on the envelope, nodded his thanks, and then slid the letter forward. With luck he’d have his new vinoscope in a month.
He’d dropped his change for the stamp on the counter and turned for the door when the clerk stopped him. “Ah, Monsieur Martel?” he said, reading the name on the envelope. “Hold on. I believe I have a letter for you as well. It arrived a few days ago. Yes, here it is,” said the clerk after sorting through several slots on the wall behind him.
He accepted the letter, noted the return address and formal handwriting, and retreated to the farthest corner of the post office lobby to read it. He knew before opening the envelope that it was from his mother. The correspondence began well enough, greeting him with the usual pleasantries about the weather, her arguments on the righteousness of the Union for Women’s Suffrage, and complaining about the ghastly condition of the city’s underground transit system as if it were a black-sheep relative gone astray yet again. He nearly smiled at the familiar news from home.
Then he read the next paragraph. The real reason his mother had written.
Your uncle sends his regards. He wishes to inquire when you think this wine business of yours will be concluded so he can make future plans. He’s had his eye on the Eichman building for years now, and it has finally become available for lease. There are, apparently, two corner offices, one of which he’d gladly provide to his nephew and law partner if he were here. Given the circumstances, he’s been quite generous overall with this folly of yours, but he deserves a partner dedicated to the law and serving the practice your father created.
In other news, I thought you might be interested to know that Madeleine has remarried. She’s expecting a child in May. So you see, there is no reason to avoid returning to the city any longer.
As always,
Mother
Jean-Paul crumpled the letter and shoved it in his pocket.
“Bad news?” asked the clerk.
“Merely an expected disappointment,” he replied and slipped his flat cap on.
The clerk scratched at his nose and shared instead his own interesting tidbit of information. “They’ve found another cat,” he said while sorting a stack of letters into their proper slots. “Head and tail gone like the others. Up on the county road above the Le Deux estate this time.”
“Another one?” He recalled the other grisly finds reported over the years. More than a dozen since he’d moved to the valley three years ago. Sometimes a rabbit, sometimes a small dog, but most often a cat. Everyone speculated who might be behind the deplorable acts, and yet no one ever seemed to state the obvious. “Tell me, why doesn’t anyone ever confront the locals at the vineyards who claim to be witches about this?”
The clerk turned around, his forehead creased. “The vine witches? Why would they have anything to do with butchered animals?”