The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(75)
The delighted sneer returned as the comté peeled away another page.
“It may not surprise you to learn that artists often have a difficult time containing their egos. Especially when they think they’re being clever. The man who painted the letters in this book made the mistake of boasting to a fellow painter, probably while drunk. It took a little ‘persuading,’ but he finally gave up the man’s secret.”
Henri’s head jerked up. “Tulane’s friend, Guillome. He was found dead soon after Tulane disappeared. The authorities said it was a suicide.” Henri’s face betrayed his newfound doubt.
So, he’d known all along the mother would find a way to communicate. He’d been waiting and watching for years for Yvette to claim the book the minute she was old enough. “You knew she’d receive that book on her sixteenth birthday,” Elena said, watching his breathing as he studied the pages. “You sent a man to her room that night to find it.”
The comté pushed back the hood on his robe and loosened his tie, his face damp with sweat. “Know your enemy, mademoiselle. The first rule of victory.” He turned the last page. “The Fée have their quirks. The sixteenth birthday is significant. The age of independence, adulthood. She cost me three more years of searching and waiting when she murdered the man I’d sent.”
“Good,” Yvette said.
He looked up briefly. “You can blame her mongrel blood for her impertinence.”
Elena noted the Magus Society ring on his pinkie finger, which she was certain he had not been wearing at the séance. “Until she was caught and put in jail. Then you had her. Only she escaped. Later you thought you could force me to give up her location by threatening my livelihood. Let me guess—the Minister of Records is a friend and fellow sympathizer.”
The comté drummed his fingers against the back of the book, knowing exactly how the ring advertised his proclivities and associations. “Most would not prove so loyal to a murderess,” he said.
“Perhaps not, which is why you needed to scare me into believing I was destined to meet my mother’s same desolate fate.” She shrewdly stared at his face, seeing now what he’d done. “The séance was a masterful display of ventriloquism, by the way.”
“A simple voice illusion, which you so gullibly believed.”
“Yes, but thanks to your ploy I was forced to explore my mother’s craft more deeply,” she said. “So many notions about poison I never would have considered, if it weren’t for you.”
He was beginning to catch on. His tongue darted over his teeth and his brow beaded with sweat. The comté coughed and pressed the sleeve of his robe against his neck. “You’ve done something to me.”
“I’m not sure the All Knowing favors this endeavor of yours. You look a little peaked, Marchand.”
“You’ve drugged me. With the book,” he said and dropped it as if the pages might bite his hands off.
Sirens wailed from several streets away. Soon there would be a fire engine and certainly the police. But with the whiff of spellfire still floating on the air, there was a fair chance the Covenants Regulation Bureau would send a man to investigate the illegal use of magic against mortals too.
The comté slumped to his knees. Elena bent to pick up the book, careful not to touch the corners of the pages.
“You’re not dying,” she said. “It’s merely a neurotoxin, of the batrachotoxin variety to be specific, an alkaloid embedded in the skin of certain frogs. Fortunately for you a milder version can be found on the feathers of a rare bird species from the tropics.” She spread the pages of the book open and let the feather from the apothicaire toxique flutter out. “I happened to notice on our first meeting that tendency of yours,” she said and licked her forefinger. “As a precaution I infused the book with a spell, in case we came to such an impasse. And here we are. The paralysis ought to be temporary, though I suppose I could have doubled the potency of the spell with a word or two. Lucky for you I’m a vine witch, monsieur, and not a venefica by trade. Despite your best efforts to change that.”
“Shoot her,” he replied before falling on his side, motionless.
“Boss?” The two devils lifted their masks, looking from Elena to the sound of sirens on the other side of the door. They lowered their guns a hair in indecision, and she snapped a ball of fire to life in her palm as a warning not to raise them again. After second thoughts, they stuffed their weapons in their jacket pockets and bolted for the basement, presumably to find a back way out.
The comté’s glassy eyes stared up at Elena as the front door opened and a brigade of firefighters and police officers stormed the building.
“Elena, what should I do?” the girl pleaded.
Yvette. There was no time to run. No time to hide her. If the authorities recognized her, she’d be taken into custody. Eventually executed for murder. Unless.
Elena gripped Yvette by the arms. “You’ve got the blood of the Fée in you. You must use that power now. Let your charisma shine from within. Use your charm. Your guile. Manipulate with your allure, if you must. Glamour is part of the power your mother gave you. Use it, and we may yet see our way out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Yvette braced herself as the fire brigade charged the front door to search for the source of the foul-smelling smoke still lingering in the cabaret. Les flics followed, waving their batons and ordering everyone out. She faced the men as they ran in, letting the fizzy, glowing sensation under her skin seep from her like moonlight the way Elena had said—eyes forward, a hint of a smile, and a slight drop of the hip and bend in the leg. Several of the police officers tipped their kepi hats at her and grinned as if mesmerized. She winked, and the men’s faces lit up with hope and eager desire. “Enchanté,” they said. She tried a more seductive smile, and the mortals practically melted into puddles of adoration. One of the firefighters removed his brass helmet with the feathered cockade and asked her and the others if they would kindly sit outside with the remaining witnesses. Sorry for the bother. And wasn’t it just the loveliest of evenings, despite the fire?