The Conjurer (The Vine Witch #3)(5)
The scent of charred earth rose from the place where the man stood. She’d thought at first the smell had come from the ashes of a brouette they’d dumped at the foot of the old vines in the winter. But no. The smell came from the man. She took a sharper look at his frame. No aural spectrum but supernatural all the same. He must be a jinni, though not one like Sidra. Where her fire gave off genuine warmth, his was reminiscent of a blazing roof caving in.
Jean-Paul stiffened. “What kind of business did you say you were in again?”
“I was not speaking to you.” Jamra stared at Jean-Paul with a look that warned against further interruption before returning his attention to Elena. “Where is she?”
So, he’d come with bad tidings and a worse temperament. “I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” Elena said, cooling quickly to this stranger.
Jean-Paul’s jaw clenched as he took a step to position himself beside Elena to confront the man if need be. Sweet, really, the way he always felt he could protect her better than she could protect herself, but then mortal men always did have high opinions of their rather ordinary abilities.
“You will tell me what you know,” the man said. Elena felt a pinch against her instinct, as if the stranger were trying to tap into her memories. Well, that was downright rude.
Brother Anselm cleared his throat in what Elena had come to appreciate as assertiveness from the monk. “It appears I’ve made an error in judgment,” he said, braving a stern look at the stranger before speaking again to Elena and Jean-Paul. “I apologize if I’ve caused any trouble by coming out here today.”
Before the men could do more than posture at each other, Elena asked, “How do you know Sidra?”
Jamra’s coal-black eyes turned to Elena’s. “She is my sister through marriage. I fear she is in trouble she cannot handle.”
Hmm, possibly. Yet she didn’t get the feeling he was telling the entire truth. “I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for nothing,” Elena said. “Sidra doesn’t keep me informed of her comings and goings. If she left the city, it was of her own accord.”
“No, witch, I assure you she could not have done that.” The man glared as if he believed her to be a liar.
Jean-Paul had had enough. Hospitality did not include putting up with rudeness from strangers standing on the paving stones of one’s own courtyard. “She told you what she knows,” he said. “Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”
The acrid scent of sooty charcoal permeated the air. Jamra smiled, a snake about to spring on its prey.
And then his mood turned vengeful.
Jamra pushed past Jean-Paul, bumping him hard in the chest. Jean-Paul followed, his anger and bruised ego showing with each hard step against the stones, but he couldn’t keep up with the fast-moving man in the black suit. The jinni stopped in front of the nearest vine row, the old canes Grand-Père had planted in his youth. “You will not tell me what you know? Very well.” The jinni waved his hand, fingers spread, palm outward.
“No! Please,” Anselm called out.
The row of vines withered, shriveling brown and black like a shed beetle carapace, until they crumbled to the ground in a heap of brittle leaves that disintegrated into a million pieces.
The space under Elena’s ribs clenched sharp, as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her. The sheer maliciousness of destroying something so grand and revered caught her off guard. She had to stand for a moment in her shock, blinking at the vision. Once the tally of loss became clear, she gathered her anger into a funnel of energy. It churned inside her, forcing itself higher and higher until the kinesis electrified her skin. Jean-Paul, as if tingling from the energy radiating off her, stepped aside, his arm raised over his eyes. Anselm, too, backed away in awe.
“Wind and fire, twist and spin, release this power held within.”
Elena’s hands shook as fire materialized in one palm and the power of the wind in the other. She rotated her hands, mixing the two until they spun in the air, then cast the tornado of fire at the man with all the force her magic could sustain. When the thrust of her energy had been expelled, she swept the hair out of her eyes, ready to strike again before the jinni had recovered. Instead she found him standing ten feet to the right with his hand stretched out, deflecting the force of her spell onto a second row of vines, smiling as half an acre of mature canes caught on fire.
Jean-Paul, his hands clutched to the top of his head, made a noise like a wounded animal at the sight of the damage.
“You cannot use witch fire against me and hope to win,” Jamra said, slowly rubbing his palms together. “I will ask one last time. Tell me where to find Sidra.” He narrowed his eyes, as if studying Elena’s openmouthed horror at the destruction her fire had done. “Tell me, and I will spare you further infliction of the pain the destruction of these living things seems to cause you.”
What magic was he conjuring in the heat and static between his hands? What thoughts was he reading that she hadn’t been able to keep veiled from him? They could still recover from the damage if he left now. She and Grand-Mère had suffered worse from hailstorms, replanting after the vines had been smashed to a pulp. She and Jean-Paul could do so too.
Brother Anselm placed his hand at her elbow, as if encouraging her forward. “If you know where this Sidra woman is, might it be best to tell him?” he asked. “At least spare yourselves any more harm.”