The Witch of Tin Mountain(64)

“How did you get here?”

He shrugged. “I walked in the door. With all the other eager young men downstairs, it was easily done.”

Gentry clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth. Gone was the simple country pastor, along with the slow as molasses drawl. Instead, he held a veneer of city polish, a brash confidence befitting a well-to-do gentleman. He was ever a mimic, blending in wherever he found himself.

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve only come to help you. That’s what pastors do, Deirdre. They help.”

Deirdre lifted her chin and laughed. “Is that so?”

“There are pressing matters to discuss. Like that poor girl you poisoned, two floors down. The ambulance won’t arrive in time. There’s been a streetcar accident downtown, and many people are injured.”

The sick feeling twisted in Deirdre’s gut. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Ah, but you did! You have a vengeful streak, Deirdre. All the Werner women have it. But you, my dear—you have it in spades.” He waggled his finger at her. “They’ll hang you for it, you know.”

“You said you were here to help. I ain’t seen much help in what you’re saying at all.”

“First things first. Your spinster schoolmistress wishes to see the grimoire, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s see it. Bring it out.”

“I’m not supposed to show it to anyone, leastwise you.”

“But you’ve already broken the rules. Showed it to Esme. You’re not in a position to quarrel with me, Miss Werner, as I’m your only ally. I’m the only one who knows what you’ve done, and I’d wager you’d like to keep it that way. The clock is ticking. Remember poor Phoebe.”

Driven by guilt, Deirdre knelt at the foot of her bed, keeping a wary eye on Gentry. She pulled the tapestry satchel out and took the grimoire from it.

“Open the book and tell me what you see.”

Deirdre took a breath and opened the cover. The page was blank. She turned the next page, then the next. All were empty of their spells and charms. Instead, there were only the neatly written and festively illustrated recipes. Not for poison at all, but for gingerbread and spiced cider, kuchen and schnitzel. It was just as she’d told Miss Munro—a journal with family recipes. But how? Deirdre almost laughed with relief.

“What do you see?” Gentry asked slyly.

“Nothing. Nothing at all apart from a few recipes. Did you do that?”

He chuckled. “It’s a mere glamour. A trick of the eye. It won’t last long, but it will last long enough to save you.”

“But Constance looked at it. She told Miss Munro there were poison recipes inside.”

“That silly girl didn’t see a thing. When she tried to open the grimoire, the clasp cut her finger and she jumped to her own conclusions. The grimoire does protect itself . . . and its owner.”

“If that’s so, then why did it let me poison her?” Deirdre asked.

“Free will is free will, and you willed that girl to suffer.” He shrugged. “Your father tried to warn you to come with intention. The grimoire merely bowed to your urges.”

“If I show it to Miss Munro, then, it will look as it does now?”

“Yes. That prickly schoolmarm will never know it’s more than a rustic country cookbook. But that’s only half of your problem solved, my dear, because your rival is still dying.” Gentry walked to her and offered his hand, helping her to her feet. His earlier effusiveness had fled. A sober look shone in his gimlet eyes. “Do you know what regret feels like, Deirdre? True regret? Because I do. I let someone die once, when I might have saved them. You will regret it if she dies. It will haunt you all of your days.”

“It’s too late for me to do anything about Phoebe. There’s no antidote. What’s done is done.”

“But it’s not too late for me to save her . . . if you’ll make me a promise and bind it with your blood.”

“What kind of promise?”

Gentry circled her. “What I desire most, little rabbit. Give it willingly, only once, and I will trouble you no more, until I return in half a century to reap what I have sown. Fifty years is a long time, Deirdre. You’ll grow old and live out the simple country life you’ve always wanted.”

“You want me to barter my soul. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Gentry laughed. “No. I do not want your soul. I want something much simpler. Something much sweeter.” He trailed his fingers over the mark on her back, where her ballgown dipped low, then wrapped his arms around her possessively, his breath hot on her neck as his hands roamed up her bosom to her throat. “Think of the noose, Deirdre.”

Deirdre nearly swooned, her knees weak with sudden, shameful desire and fear. What would it hurt? To give in to his seductions, only once. Then she’d be free to live out the rest of her days, unblemished by the stain of murder.

“Yes. Yes. I’ll do it.” Deirdre turned in his arms, trembling. “I’ll lie with you. And I’ll do so willingly.”

Gentry smiled. “Good.”

And then he kissed her.

All Deirdre’s rationale, all her tenuous morality, crumbled completely in the wake of that kiss. He claimed her mouth with a hunger that sent fire through her body, made her arch her back and whimper. She curled against him, her every nerve alight. More. She wanted more. What had come over her? Only the day before she’d feared him—been disgusted by his presence. And now, she ached for him with a fervor that frightened her.