The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(64)

God, she was beautiful.

He didn’t want to die. He wanted to hold her, to tell her love had no real weight or value until he’d met her.

But he had to warn her. He had to tell her about the witch. If only he could keep his eyes open. If only his mouth would form the words. Instead, he seemed to drift away on a gentle wave. Sunlight warmed his face, and the pain that had racked his chest, head, and teeth slipped loose from his body, floating away on tiny filaments of radiant energy.

He no longer had a care in the world, only a trancelike memory of an exciting and alluring love that made life worth living.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

She had conjured a temporary hypnosis spell to alleviate his suffering. To see him in pain would reveal her weakness. She had to eliminate the distraction of wanting to run to him and cool his fevered body. All her energy, all her focus, had to be reserved for what waited in the dark.

Elena took the final step into the cellar. Cool air infused with the scent of oak and fruit drew her in like a familiar hand, leading her into the darkness, though the tinge of sulfur still hung in the space, as if the empty barrels had recently been cleaned with the stuff.

Only the two sconces above the press and the three-pronged candelabra flickering inside a ritual circle on the flagstones provided any light. She peered into the dimness, watching for movement. This one, she knew, liked to hide in the dark and damp. Though she couldn’t yet see her, she sensed the witch’s eyes watching from the shadows.

“Now, now, a sleeping spell like that might be interpreted as interfering with a mortal,” Gerda said. She stepped to the light’s edge, letting the sweep of her long skirt brush against a cat skull positioned on the eastern point of the pentagram. Her face remained half in shadow. “Wouldn’t want the covenant police locking you up for your little infraction, would you?”

“Release him and I’d be happy to reverse the spell.” Elena took a cautious step toward the candle, hoping to lure her adversary farther into the light. “He’s no danger to you.”

“Oh, even a lovesick mortal can be dangerous when provoked. And I rather thought I’d save him for later.”

“He came to see you in good faith.”

“To help you.”

“Let him go. I’m the one you want to hurt, not him.”

Gerda scoffed. “Spare me the martyrdom. You were merely a convenient scapegoat for my little indiscretions. Though I admit I underestimated your training. It’s been years since I’ve encountered another witch with shadow vision as developed as yours.”

Gerda lifted the hem of her skirt and turned from the circle’s edge to ascend the steps to the winepress. Elena, fearful of what she might do to an unconscious Jean-Paul, clasped her hand tighter around the crystal in her pocket and ventured nearer. The energy from the protection spell still radiated warmth against her skin, calming her.

“You can’t hope to get away with this,” she said.

“Oh, but I already have.” The witch kept her back turned as she stroked Jean-Paul’s exposed arm with her finger. “And I will again.”

Elena’s skin rippled with gooseflesh at the sight. “You enjoy this, don’t you? Hiding in the shadows. Uttering your blood magic spells. And now you’ve strapped an innocent man to a machine that looks more like it was invented for torture than winemaking.”

Gerda hissed between her teeth. “And what would you know of torture?”

“I see the pleasure you take in hurting others.”

“You know nothing.” Gerda twisted her neck to look up at the monstrosity of wood and wheel and rope overhead and raised her hand. The wheel on the press groaned. The rope squealed against the windlass, and the wooden pallet shuddered lower as if it had been magicked. A gush of air left Jean-Paul’s lungs with a sound like a pillow being punched. “If I’d desired it, you would have found his body split open like the skin of a grape under that weight. I do admit a certain curiosity about what sort of juice comes sluicing out of a man subjected to that much weight and pressure.” Gerda lifted her arm again.

“Wait!” Elena’s hands involuntarily reached out as if she had some power to hold up the weight of the press. She didn’t yet understand the game they were playing, only that she must keep moving on the board long enough to keep Jean-Paul alive. “Just tell me what you want.”

Gerda pivoted away from the press. She finally showed her face to Elena, but the shadowy light from the oil lamps seemed to play tricks on her skin, as if she wore the wrinkles of a woman twice her age. And her lustrous hair, normally held in a tight chignon at the back of her neck, had dulled to gray, frizzling in long strands that stood on end. There was little left of the elegant young bierhexe who had come to Elena’s aid in the village street. The witch before her was in the process of some transformation. But what kind of spell could strip a woman’s youth from her face as if it were a coat of varnish?

“Whatever is the matter? You look as if you’ve seen an unfortunate future.” Gerda bared a grin, revealing a row of teeth brown with rot.

Elena gripped the crystal for strength. “What’s happening? Why are you doing this?”

“It’s nothing personal. But I’m quite set on having my way.” A cool draft swept through the cellar as the rafters creaked overhead. “This ‘hiding in the shadows,’ as you call it, has kept me alive for a very long time, and I intend for it to continue.”