The Vine Witch - Luanne G. Smith Page 0,16
do to him.”
Elena picked up the spade and dug a fourth hole, then stuffed a bottle inside. “Did you know there’s a spell for making a poison that moves like a snake through the blood?” she asked, pouring out the last of the wine over the dirt. “The potion is designed to avoid all other organs but its one true prey. When the elixir finds the heart, it slowly wraps itself around the beating muscle, squeezing until the blood vessels burst. I’m assured the process is agonizing.”
Grand-Mère blinked as a line of sweat dampened her forehead. “Stars almighty, Elena, that’s dangerous magic you’re playing with.”
“So was the curse that landed me in a swamp to eat moths and snails for seven years.”
“Blood will tell, I swear,” the old woman muttered, then shook her head. “You’d do well to remember a threefold reckoning awaits those who do intentional harm.”
Oh, she knew the cost. She’d weighed and balanced it against the pain of doing nothing a dozen times. Yet her need for retribution always proved the thumb on the scale, tipping her mind toward murder. What other recourse was there for having her prime years stolen from her? She should be married by now. There should be a son and daughter learning the art of the vine at her hip. The vineyard should have long ago come under her direction. Her wine should be in the cellars of the finest connoisseurs on the continent. Instead she was alone, groveling in the dirt, cleaning up other people’s messes.
Grand-Mère drew her shawl up over her head and wrapped the ends around her shoulders, as if suddenly chilled. “What is it you’re planning exactly?”
“I’m going to kill him,” Elena said, then threw the empty wine bottle in the burn cart and watched it blacken and smoke. “A life for a life.”
Grand-Mère covered her mouth with her hand and turned away just as the jingling, clanking sound of glass jars being jostled in a wagon bed aroused their curiosity. On the road below, a covered mule cart rolled by with two women at the reins. They glanced uphill, their noses in the air, and waved.
“Greetings,” called the first as she halted the mule.
“Merry meet,” said the second, forcing a smile.
Witches.
“Charlatans?” Elena whispered, noting the city accent. It wasn’t their real name, of course, but one they’d earned through a tarnished reputation.
“The two oldest sisters, by the look of them. What on earth are they doing here? I’ll have to say hello.”
Elena wiped her hands on her skirt, cautiously wondering if the Charlatan sisters could be acquainted with Bastien. Though she didn’t know them, they seemed just the type he’d seek out for his dirty work. The old woman had already headed downhill, so Elena draped the end of her shawl over her face and followed, wanting to know more about their intentions.
As she and Grand-Mère drew closer, a pair of jars trembled slightly in the cart, clinking together like champagne glasses. The witches smiled.
“Greetings. What brings you out our way?” Grand-Mère asked, wary but not unfriendly.
The sister closest, the one wearing the embroidered flower jacket with the faded needlework, answered, “We’re headed to the village. Festival day we’re told. Caught the scent of your smoke as we passed. Hex fire, is it?”
“Remedy.”
“Ah.” The woman smiled wider, revealing a row of tea-stained teeth as she bent forward to get a look at Elena. “In that case, might be I have what you need for a good cleansing spell,” she said and lifted the tarp covering the back of the cart. “Or a little revenge.” Her eyebrow lifted when she caught Elena’s eye. “Nothing like a little newt’s eye tonic to slip into your favorite rival’s drink, eh?”
On top of their reputation as cheats, they were black-market peddlers, too, judging by their wares. Alongside the silk scarves, silver bangles, and charm bells for sale were dozens of mason jars filled with ill-gotten ingredients. Keeping her shawl drawn over her face, Elena took a closer look, spying heart-shaped gizzards, strips of fenny snake, a collection of bat ears, and a bear paw and gallbladder set. Old World novelty stuff. Medieval quackery. And a tragedy, given most of the items carried little potency for any spell she knew of. Nothing more than a cartload of cruelty for the sake of duping occult-loving mortals and gullible witches out of their money.
She was hoping Grand-Mère would tell them to get their disgraceful cart out of their sight when the jars clinked again.
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