VenCo(74)

Prudence had also lived modestly, though she could have had anything she wanted. He knew that because he, high-born and with a keen eye towards his growing estate, had been first in line to provide it.

Her collarbones were the first thing he noticed, what had hooked him, as if they were lures just under her beautiful face. This was what he thought men meant by witchcraft—the way some women could completely mesmerize a man with a slight curve of bone, a quiet hint of skin. It did seem supernatural, the way a twist of hair against the nape of a neck could make it difficult to walk. It also seemed unfair. To be at the mercy of something so feral, so . . . emotional. It would make a weaker man angry. And for a while, this was what he thought of the Inquisitors, that they were those weaker men, exacting revenge over being made into marionettes. But then Prudence told him the truth.



“You think I wouldn’t find out? Your father leads the raids. He himself murdered my sisters. Do you know what it is like to collect the ashes of your loved ones?” She had him pinned to the mattress, both of them still naked from their lovemaking, his hands and legs trapped in the sheets as she sat on him, holding a long knife, but what he was most scared of was that she would leave him. “That is what I want for him. To have to sift through the dirt like the animal he is, trying to find the remains of his family.”

“Prue, I . . . I am my own man. I am not one of them,” he countered, fear making his voice shake. “I am not going to follow in his footsteps. I renounce the Benandanti and all they stand for. I want you. Only you. I swear it.” At the time, he’d meant it. He had no plans of taking on the family business. In fact, he had quarreled with his brothers just that morning about it.

She was wild with rage and holding a knife to his throat. Then she spoke the words of a spell, and his limbs seemed to change to rock—heavy, immovable. He was as scared as he’d ever been in his life, a prisoner in his own flesh.

She leaned in to his face, eyes narrowed. “You are them, not blindly, but with eyes wide open. I have seen it. I know what is to come, unless I stop you now.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you! But I am not him, not them. I am yours!”

Now that he was held by her magic, she moved off him, pacing around the edge of the bed, still holding the knife. “At this moment, they are on the way. I can hear their horses, smell their breath.” She looked around her cabin, then began grabbing up her clothes and getting dressed. “And you led them here.”

“I did not! I would never.” He was spitting with fear and the effort of trying to pull himself loose. Dressed now, she ran about grabbing jars and fabric, jamming them into a sack. “Take me with you,” he pleaded.

Ready to leave, she turned back to the bed, standing over him. “And here I have taken my very own Judas into my bed—one who would haunt generations of my own blood. Well, Iscariot, here’s your silver!” She drove the knife down into his chest. Then she knocked over every candle, and as the flames caught, she opened the door. “May your ashes never be found. I wish for your father not to even have that.”

And then she was gone.

But she had been right. The men did arrive, and just in time to kick into the room and grab him before the fire devoured him whole.

He survived. And he refused to condemn his assailant, though it wouldn’t have mattered, because Prudence had disappeared. Even now, every time his fingers touched the scar above his heart, the raised keloid of her murderous intent, he thought of that night.

He had searched for her, using the knowledge and powers she’d fostered in him. And slowly his love crystalized into hate, interest in her power changing to a jealous hoarding of knowledge. So when the time came for him to join the Benandanti, to bring down witches like Prudence who thought they could break a man and then run off into the night, he took his oath with bravado and pride—not blindly but with eyes wide open.



He crossed the grass, whistling. At the front door, he inhaled—the witch who lived here hadn’t been home for a while. He hoped she wouldn’t return for at least another day. And if she did, well, he would deal with it. There was a stained-glass moon hanging off the door, a spot of bright in the blight. Why were these women always so poor? One would think they could do better for themselves, what with their insight and all. But that was why men had always been at the forefront of commerce and development, he thought, never satisfied, always striving.

In the growing dark, he stepped back to the edge of the porch and surveyed the untamed field and the dark smudge of trees beyond it. When she got there, he would get inside Lucky’s head, see what she knew. If she didn’t know anything, he would stop her from moving forward and let the clock run out. Holding her back from helping complete the circle would be the easiest course. For now, all he had to do was climb in the window, coil up like a snake, and wait. Sooner or later, Lucky would come right to him.





24

The First Strike




They both woke up at seven o’clock, almost at the same moment. Even Stella could feel the tension of the day. They were farther from home than Lucky had ever been, which made her feel light and heavy at the same time. She could either float away or sink into the ground. Maybe she would split in two and do both.

Before saying good morning, Stella asked, “Who are we seeing today?”

Obviously, they were thinking the same thoughts.