When they did, I saw her move into the shadows but she came back into the circle of weak light pulling an elegant armchair with her, positioning it close to the bed.
Without a word, she again disappeared into the shadows. I stared in the direction she disappeared, my focus on her and what might come next in this bizarreness, only vaguely noting that I was on a somewhat large bed with an arched footboard that had light-colored padding on it which was just as elegant as the armchair. I also noted the coverlet I was lying on was quilted, it was satin (satin!) and it looked in the dim light like it might be some shade of blue.
She reappeared carrying two wineglasses filled with red wine. And they were not just any wineglasses. Like the chair, footboard and coverlet, they were elegant—finely etched and gracefully blown.
I knew nice things. I had champagne tastes and studied the finer things in life with great energy and rapt attention. Pol was just like me and lived a life where he was certain to get them for himself, and, by extension, for me.
So I knew everything around me was most definitely not my shabby, cheap, furnished apartment in a crappy neighborhood.
I just didn’t know where I was.
Or how I got there.
She set one glass of wine on a nightstand by the bed and seated herself probably like a ballerina would take a load off (not that I’d ever seen that, but still). She slowly crossed her legs and her knees dropped to the side but her back and shoulders stayed straight so she looked like she was posing for a picture, not relaxing for a chat.
“Fleuridian wine,” she murmured, tipping her head slightly to the glass on the nightstand all the while lifting hers close to her lips. “Have some. It’s superb.”
I’d never heard of Fleuridian wine.
I didn’t ask. I also didn’t reach for the wineglass.
I held her eyes.
She took a sip of wine not releasing my gaze.
Then her hand slowly fell so she could rest it against the arm of the chair and she continued to hold my eyes.
Finally, she announced, “I am Valentine Rousseau. Like you, I’m not of this world. I live in New Orleans. And I’m a witch.”
I stared at her, feeling my lips part and thinking one word.
Fabulous.
Chapter Two
Deep to Extremes
“Not of this world?” I asked quietly when she didn’t continue.
She nodded her head but said, “I would advise, beautiful Ilsa, that you listen closely and quickly come to terms with all I’m about to tell you. I have little time before Ulfr gets back. He’ll want to make certain you’re seen to, but he’ll not want to be separated from you for long.”
I ignored that and repeated, “Not of this world?” Then I kept at it without giving her a chance to respond. “What is this world? And you’re a witch? What does that mean?”
“We’ll start at the beginning,” she offered.
“That’d be a good idea,” I replied, pushing myself up in the bed so my shoulders were against the headboard and I managed to do this only flinching a little bit at the pain.
She watched me as I moved and her eyes narrowed slightly, like I’d surprised her.
But she didn’t mention that.
She started from the beginning which should have been a blessing but it turned out to be somewhat of a curse. Or, if not a curse in the strictest sense, it was definitely bizarre, confusing and maybe not so good.
“I am a witch from a long line of witches,” she began. “And when I say that, chérie, my people have practiced the craft in New Orleans for centuries, and before that we practiced in France. Before that Rome. And before that…Egypt.”
Visions of faces forming out of sandstorms and massive armies of huge-ass beetles crawling all over the place a la the movie The Mummy collided in my head even as I blinked in shock at what she was saying.
Then I made the best decision I’d made in a long time. I reached out to the wineglass, nabbed it and took a big old sip.