The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(71)
Jean-Paul’s mouth fell open at the sight of the jinni in her shiny silks and gold jewelry.
“It’s a wine cellar,” Elena assured her. “And I’m in need of a favor, if I’m still due one.”
“Already? You didn’t get very far.” Sidra’s eye traveled down the length of Elena’s costume. “Prophets protect us, what are you wearing?”
She’d forgotten about the unfortunate apparel. “Never mind that,” she said, fighting the urge to cover her partially exposed midriff. “We have only a minute.”
Ignoring the threat of combustion from Sidra, she explained the need for a quick escape that only her magic could provide.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” the jinni asked. “Leaving this one with the authorities would save you a favor for a more worthy moment.”
“Oh, that’s gratitude for you.” Yvette crossed her arms. “And maybe I should have tossed the matches out the window and let you feel the kiss of la demi-lune against your neck.”
“Ladies!” Elena pointed to the cellar door as a reminder of what was at stake.
Sidra rolled her eyes. “Fine, but I choose the method of her escape.” Elena and Yvette grudgingly agreed, and the jinni pushed back the sleeves of her robe and raised her arms. “You know, I could take you both,” she said with a glance at Elena.
“I know. But I have to stay and settle this. I can’t have a shadow of guilt trailing me for the rest of my life. I have a home at Chateau Renard that I hope to return to. If its owner will have me.”
Jean-Paul slipped his hand in hers as his answer, and she gripped it with all her might.
“Very well. Peace be with you both.”
“And with you.”
Sidra narrowed her eyes at Yvette. “Come, let’s get this over with.”
The young woman stepped forward, still woozy but able to stay on her feet. The jinni removed the sash from her caftan and tied it around Yvette’s wrist, singing her magic so that the melody echoed through the cavernous space. Outside, the inspector’s voice rose in irritation, shouting orders to search the outbuildings. Soon he would discover the door to the cellar. Sidra finished her singing. Her body shimmered like a heat wave above a desert until she disappeared, taking Yvette with her. In their place a gray sparrow flapped its wings in a cloud of smoke as it perched atop the winepress, waiting for the cellar door to open. A red string trailed off its leg. Whether the transformation was real or merely an illusion planted in the mind by the jinni, Elena did not know, but she raised her hands in the sacred pose, thankful to see both women on the cusp of freedom.
Jean-Paul hugged his ribs and sat on the cellar steps to wait. He was still gaping, hand over mouth in amazement at what he’d witnessed, when Elena left him. Taking the witch’s candlestick, she followed the smeared blood trail on the flagstones. Bastien’s cellar was a vast catacomb of interconnecting corridors and individual rooms that had stood for centuries. Perhaps a thousand years. Each generation of winemakers had dug deeper into the earth, searching for the ideal temperature and humidity to perfect the aging process. The result was a warren of irregular rooms and narrow passageways.
And Gerda could be hiding in any one of them.
The blood loss had slowed, but an intermittent line of drops and dragged-foot smears pointed toward the oldest part of the cellar. Elena followed as it led under an ancient lintel with a wedged keystone. The corridor sloped noticeably downward, growing narrower than the main cellar. Cobwebs heavy with dust laced the ceiling. She lit a wall sconce to mark the way, leaving it to burn as she descended into the passage that bore more resemblance to a dungeon entrance than a storage space for wine.
Holding the candlestick out in front of her as a weapon as much as a torch, she ducked her head into each anteroom she passed. Some were no larger than a niche with a dozen dusty bottles; others held several racks of wine, where the air was half-damp from the expended breath of the bottles. To her recollection there were perhaps five or six similar rooms this deep in the cellar. She moved cautiously, knowing each one she passed left fewer places for the witch to hide. A moment later she held still. Breathing. Listening. There was a subtle shift in the air. The scent of dead flowers just below the exhale of the wine. Then a muttered whisper rose out of the darkness in a pattern every organ in her body recognized. Gerda was casting a spell.
Elena let the sound lead her as she crept forward on the balls of her feet to a small crypt-like alcove on her left. The room held two racks of very old wine. The bottles were caked in mold and dust, and white spores grew out of the corks with tiny tentacles that wafted on the slightest air current. Though decrepit looking, she knew the wine inside would be perfectly protected.
Unlike Gerda, whom she found slumped against the back wall between the shelves.
The witch’s leg was bent akimbo so that her mutilated foot rested in her lap. Remarkably, her hair had filled in again. Though still gray, it hung in waves to her shoulders. The cataracts, too, had vanished from her eyes, though she did not look up as she continued chanting her spell.
“Blood of vigor, vitality, and life. Whether suckled by tooth, or drained by knife. Transfuse your grace into the vein. Till the verve of youth be all that remain.” The witch dipped her finger in her own blood, then wiped it on her tongue. “You can use your own if nothing else avails, but you have to keep doing the spell over and over again until it takes hold.” Her eyes closed as she leaned her head back against the wall. “Quite exhausting.”