The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(74)

She handed him the jar of cream and turned her head so that her neck was exposed to him. “Just dab it on the worst of it.”

“Do I say something?” She smiled and had him repeat the incantation. As he applied the salve and spoke the words, he felt the familiar static run over his skin. He didn’t think he’d done any real magic by saying the spell—he understood his place on the spectrum—but an enchanted energy seemed to envelop them just the same.

In the luster of that magic he studied her face. Her golden eyes, which on another woman might advertise a sultry nature, held only warmth and wisdom. Her hair, her skin, her lips—he was bewitched by his need to caress the supple feel of her. He felt the pain in his ribs subside, only to be replaced by an even stronger ache to hold her. He lifted his hand to cup the soft edge of neck and cheek. She didn’t pull away. When the urge to press his lips to hers grew so strong his chest heaved from the craving, he stole his chance and kissed her. And when her body yielded, as hungry for the taste of him as he for her, he let passion guide his hands, pushing off the silver-beaded bodice.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

She absorbed the weight of his bare arm draped over her hip and the warmth of his breath on her neck as he slept beside her on the bed. Love magic, she was learning, could be a powerful curative. As it spread through her body, filling in the last tiny crevices left cold and empty from the curse, her instinct led her to ruminate on the melancholia infecting the vines. It was as if the roots had suffered an injury. Like a stone bruise or ulcer of the stomach. But that wasn’t quite right. It was more emotional. Like the pain of a broken heart. And yet the cause evaded her. In the morning she would pull out Grand-Mère’s old grimoire from the early planting days and see if there was anything to be gleaned on the emotional state of plants.

Satisfied with her thoughts, she nestled in closer to Jean-Paul. She’d just settled into a dreamy state of happiness when a scratching at the door made her lift her head.

Jean-Paul stirred awake and kissed her neck softly. “What is it?”

“I think there’s someone at the door.”

He sat up, listening. “Stay here—I’ll get it,” he said, grabbing his glasses. He tugged his trousers on and then opened the door a crack. His shoulders relaxed as he looked down. “It’s only a bird.”

Elena lifted her head to see a pigeon bobbing back and forth. “No, it’s a message. It must be from Grand-Mère.” She propped herself up on one elbow and called to the bird. It obediently flapped its wings, landing on her hip. “Odd she used a pigeon,” she said, looking over the dingy gray bird. “Grand-Mère swears by doves.”

“Naturally,” he said. He picked up his dirty shirt and shook it out. “But where’s the message? I don’t see any note tied to its leg.”

She gave him a pitying stare before coaxing the bird to speak by rubbing her finger under its beak. It cooed its message like a perfect gentleman, until Elena sat up so quickly she startled the bird into retreat. It dropped a pair of feathers as it flew back out the door.

“The pigeon spoke to you?” He shook his head as though the exchange were just another bewilderment to add to an already rich pile. “Is something wrong? Is it from Madame?”

“No, it’s from someone else.” But she hardly knew how to explain. She collected the feathers and kicked off the blanket. “It was from the barkeep at the tavern. I have to go,” Elena said as she dug through her trunk for something to wear.

“Tavern?” Jean-Paul shrugged on his shirt. “You’re going out? Now?”

She paused as she rolled up her stockings. “Yes. May I borrow your horse?”

“May I come with you?”

She clipped a stocking in place. “It would be better if you didn’t.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she kissed him before he could speak. When she felt the argument go out of him, she pulled away, ready to acquiesce. “Very well,” she said, wondering how she would ever deny him anything he wanted again. “Get the horse.”



The sun had faded to a gauzy pink over the hills as they stood outside Grimalkin & Paddock’s. Her heart fluttered with the intensity of a moth’s wing against a lantern, knowing what had brought her there.

Jean-Paul tied the horse’s lead to a post with an iron frog for a finial. “How is it I’ve never seen this place before?” He looked around as if to get his bearings.

“Did you feel spiderwebs against your face as we rode up?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Spellwork often feels like walking through a web for a mortal. This end of the road is protected by enchantments to make it less interesting to nonmagical passersby, but since you’re with me you’re seeing it as I do.”

“The rats aren’t enough to keep the curious away?” He stomped his foot in the face of a large rodent that had come to inspect him from the alley.

She nudged her chin at the rat and pointed, and it scurried away. “This is a witch’s tavern. I let you come this far, but it really would be best if you wait outside while I do this.”

“I can’t let you go in there alone if it’s dangerous. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

She tried to peer through the window, but the usual dingy, yellowed grime coated the glass, obscuring the view. “I’ll be all right,” she said, patting her pockets. “I’m prepared.” And she was. She’d brought every protective talisman, amulet, charm, and herb she possessed. This time she would not be blindsided.