The Vine Witch (Vine Witch #1)(77)
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The world tilted off its axis, spinning into oblivion. A storm of stars and dust expanded inside her head as her shadow vision intruded of its own volition, forcing her to glimpse the past and the parents she’d barely known. Memory whirled her to an apothecary wagon, its shelves lined with bottles that rattled as the wheels rolled down a narrow brick lane lined with shops smelling of red and yellow spices. Jars hung above her head filled with shriveled seedpods, dried animal hearts, and scaly toes with long claws suspended in formaldehyde. One bottle, she recalled a voice telling her, held the sweet-smelling extraction from a red flower that could make a man dream of the past forever. Another contained a jade liquid that fumed with gray smoke when bits of nail clippings and hair were added with a swirl of the wrist—her mother’s wrist, which jangled with the music of a dozen gold bracelets as it mixed the poison.
The truth of her bloodline tugged at her. It knocked against the center point of her nature, beyond learning, beyond intuition, beyond instinct. It injected itself into her consciousness until she could no longer deny the truth. She’d been born a potions witch, a conjurer of poisons and curses. A venefica.
The sound of harsh coughing broke her meditation. Urgency summoned her back through the liminal space, accelerating her from the past to the present. When she opened her eyes the proof of her lineage stared her in the face. She saw it in the dilation of Rackham’s pupils, the beads of sweat on his temple, and the blue tinge of his lips. Her poison was snaking through his veins, looking for his heart. Grand-Mère had already slipped it into his wine. It would have only taken a drop or two. Nothing to taste, nothing to see, and nothing she could do for him, except give him the chance to tell her the truth and clear his conscience before death dropped him at the feet of the All Knowing.
“Apparently my mother didn’t teach you everything,” Elena said. “That toadstone might protect you from getting sick on spoiled food, but it won’t help against a tailor-made poison.” She waited while he coughed and gave the ring a twist. “And to answer your question, if you knew half of what you claim to know, you’d have understood that when allowed to build up in the body over time, some poisons—such as self-ingested bufotoxins—degrade the energy holding a transmogrification spell in place. It took seven years, but the bonds of your curse disintegrated. That’s how I’m sitting here, Professor. And why you are now dying.”
“What?”
“You’ve been poisoned,” Elena said. “It’s already moving through your bloodstream, circling your heart, waiting for the right moment to squeeze.”
Rackham’s head snapped up from his handkerchief. He stared at Grand-Mère, horror-struck. “You poisoned me?”
“Yes.” Grand-Mère tilted her glass, savoring the last of her wine.
He blinked at her in disbelief. “You’re mad. Both of you.” He tried to leave when the first spasm hit. He gasped for air and tore his silver tie loose from his neck. “Help me—damn it, someone help me.”
The room was full of witches reeking of healing herbs, but only the Charlatan sisters stopped their celebrating to push through the crowd. The one nearest reached in her embroidered jacket and brandished a useless rabbit’s foot, likely with the hope of demanding two coins for it, until she saw who sat at the man’s table. She sneered and backed off.
Elena dug in her pocket for the rue amulet she’d brought with her. “Here,” she said, dropping a pinch of the herb into Rackham’s hand. “Put it on the back of your tongue. It might lessen the pain.”
He greedily inhaled the herb, crunching it between his teeth. “Will it stop the poison?”
“Elena doesn’t use half measures, Edmond.” Grand-Mère calmly set the empty vial on the table and folded her hands together as if her work was done. “She’s Esmé’s daughter, after all, and my protégé. I’d guess your heart is going to explode in a matter of moments.”
Rackham’s voice rose in pitch as if desperate pleading might change his fate. “It was nothing personal. ‘Take the girl away’ she said, so I did.” He reached out and grabbed Elena’s wrist with surprising strength. “Now give me the antidote!”
How could she tell him there wasn’t one? Murder had always been her goal when the poison was mixed. Rackham let go and coughed into his handkerchief, staining it with bright-red blood. Panicked at the sight, he slid out of the booth to beg for help from the other witches. But by then the poison had ensnared his heart. His eyes bulged and his sallow skin drained of color. He clutched his chest, wincing in disbelief. “I am dead,” he said and folded to the floor.
One of the young tarot readers screamed, igniting a low-grade panic that spread across the room. Morbid curiosity followed, drawing the crowd nearer to the body. The effect proved temporary, however, as a green-and-black aura formed around the dead professor. The crowd recognized a revenge poisoning when they saw one. Madame Grimalkin shooed the witches back to their celebration, reassuring them a pigeon would be sent to the authorities.
Jean-Paul, however, didn’t have the benefit of reading auras. He pushed through the crowd, knocking over empty chairs and spilling mugs of beer to get to Elena.
“What happened? I heard a scream.” He paused and gaped at the body. “Is that man dead?”