The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(34)

Their eyes met, and in the speck of a human second there passed recognition, a flinty spark between witches, as each identified the strength and weakness in the other.

The bierhexe swung the perfume box playfully from her fingers and said ever so pleasantly, “Please tell me what this unfortunate woman has done to get you boys in such an uproar.”

Bastien flushed. He removed his black felt homburg and pointed it at the inspector. “Yes, Inspector, what do you want with her?”

Nettles retrieved his charm and dusted it off. “I’m investigating the use of illegal magic, and this goatherd knows more than she ought about certain dark practices. I was about to question her about it when she assaulted me and escaped down the alley.”

The crowd murmured, pointing fingers and whispering about dead cats. Elena shrugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, wishing it were armor.

Bastian smoothed his hair back and replaced his hat on his head. “She’s no goatherd, you fool. She’s a vine witch.”

“Her?”

“That’s Elena Boureanu. She’s a vine witch. And a damn good one too. Or at least she was.”

The inspector’s eye shifted between Gerda and Bastien, testing. “One of yours?”

“Mine, actually.”

Elena turned toward the voice and nearly cried out from relief. Jean-Paul sat atop his horse, his jaw set for a fight. He slid out of the saddle and landed firmly on his boot soles. His eyes raked over her torn skirt and the trail of blood that led from knee to ankle.

“Are you hurt? My God, you are.” He flew at the inspector, grabbing him by the lapel. “Explain yourself, monsieur.”

“It’s concerning a covenant matter.” Nettles balanced on the tips of his toes, displaying his badge as Jean-Paul hauled him up by his jacket. “And she attacked me first.”

Gerda interceded. “She used a small, innocuous charm to defend herself. Its shadow is still circulating in the air.” She pointed to where a wispy gray cloud floated at the top of the abbey’s bell tower. “It was nothing threatening, Monsieur Nettles. Not even a real spell. There was no law broken. Just an illusion.”

Jean-Paul leaned on the inspector. “Is this true?” Nettles admitted as much. “Then you have no more business with her,” he said, letting the man go. “Come, Elena. I’ll take you home.”

“Home?” Bastien pushed the inspector aside to stand toe to toe with Jean-Paul. “What’s the meaning of this, Martel? You’ve never used a vine witch before.”

“And I’ve never made good wine before. But if she’s as talented as you say she is, it’s high time I got started.”

But the crowd hadn’t entirely dispersed when Elena took a last threatening step toward Bastien. “I want you to know I came back to ruin you for what you did to me,” she said, keenly aware she could show no more weakness in front of the bierhexe. “No more jinxes, no more falsifying the tax records to try and steal Chateau Renard. We’re going to produce wine so exquisite the world will forget about Domaine du Monde. And if you come within ten feet of the vineyard again I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

“Elena, it wasn’t me.” Bastien looked to his wife. “Tell her it wasn’t me.”

The bierhexe merely stood with the perfume dangling from her grip, her jaw locked, her teeth grinding.



The automobile rumbled down the road as Jean-Paul retrieved his horse. He walked slowly back to Elena, never taking his eyes off her. “What made you come to the village?” he asked.

She patted the horse’s neck, letting it get the smell of her. “I didn’t want you staying away because you were afraid.”

He glanced over the top of the saddle. Inspector Nettles leaned against the post office wall watching them, as if to say he wasn’t yet satisfied. “I’m not afraid. Not anymore,” he said. “Confused and bewildered, perhaps, but that’s not as rare as you might imagine.” He put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself onto the horse.

She smiled at his confession and took his hand when he offered it. Though unladylike, she hiked her skirt up and swung her leg over the saddle behind him.

“What changed?” she asked. She’d not seen him like this before, resigned yet resolute.

“Let’s just say I spent the night smelling God’s feet.”

“Ah, so Brother Anselm is still at the abbey, then. The All Knowing favors him.”

“Will you tell me about it? The things I saw? What you do? I want to know everything.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, then shivered as much from her cursed skin as the prospect of what his change toward her might mean.

“You’re cold.” Jean-Paul twisted in the saddle to speak to her. “Your hands are like ice. Do you want my jacket?”

Her first instinct was to pull back, protect herself, but his body was so warm. And the closer hers was to his, the more the magic stirred back to life inside her. The sensation was tiny, a speck of dust floating in a ray of sunlight, but it was there, still alive, somehow being nurtured by this man’s nearness, like no magic she’d experienced before, not even with Bastien in the early days of their courting. She slipped her hands inside the wool pockets of his jacket and said she’d tell him anything he wanted to know.