The Vine Witch - Luanne G. Smith Page 0,17
second sister, who used an obvious enhancement spell to keep her long golden hair curled in perfect ringlets, crooked her finger. “Two-for-one special, if you’re in the market. Fresh too. Dug them out of their holes myself just this morning.”
Grand-Mère and Elena both leaned in to see what they had buried in the back of the cart. There, perched side by side beneath the seat, were two hedgehogs bottled up in separate jars with holes poked in the lids for air. They pawed and sniffed against the glass, desperate to be free.
“What are you keeping them for?” Grand-Mère asked.
“Me, I skin them and sell the quills along with my voodoo dolls,” said the second sister. “City folk’ll buy my souvenirs by the armload on market days, but I can always get another pair if you’ve got a stew brewing to throw them in. I know where the little hotchi-witchis like to hide.”
The sister showed her fake smile again, and Elena’s disgust hit a flashpoint. “I’ll take them.”
“With pleasure, if you’ve got the coins.”
Elena reached in and removed the bottles by their necks. The witches demanded their money again as she checked each animal for shadow. When she detected none, she gently laid their bottles on the ground.
The witches grew more agitated but kept their stained-teeth smiles. “I said you’ve got to pay for them first.”
Elena knelt and freed the hedgehogs from their glass cages, then rose up. “How about I give you a case of boils on your face instead? Have you no conscience, trapping and selling animals for profit?”
The witch sisters lost their smiles. “Oh, always so high and mighty, you vine witches. Not above stealing from a pair of defenseless cart women, though, are you?” The golden-haired witch took a shriveled badger’s foot from the wagon bed and spit on the ground in a feckless attempt to throw a hex. “I want my money.”
Elena felt a warning pinch from the spell. “So be it.” She reached in her pocket as the sister righteously nodded. But instead of coins, she took out the rabbit hairs she’d collected earlier and a leftover strand of wolf’s fur. She quickly twisted the hairs together, drawing up the magic she had left in reserve, then recited a favorite childhood prank. “Hunter and prey, be on your way,” she said and blew the hairs at the mule’s feet. The animal took off, dragging the women’s cart behind as the spell kicked in. The Charlatan sisters fought to hold on to their seats and rein in the mule, but it was no use. His legs wouldn’t stop running as long as the wolf’s hair chased the rabbit’s, which ought to last a good twenty minutes or more.
“You’ll be sorry you done that,” shouted the golden-haired witch as she held on to the runaway cart. “May your fields rot before the harvest!”
But Elena wasn’t sorry, not one bit, as she watched the wagon disappear over the hill. On the ground the hedgehogs sniffed and darted, uncertain which way to go. She whispered where to find some grubs under a fallen log and gave them a gentle nudge in the direction of the forest. She straightened as they scurried off, feeling the weight of the old woman’s stare against her back.
“You know I couldn’t let them kill those poor creatures.”
Grand-Mère scoffed. “This from the woman plotting murder?”
The schism in her intentions baffled even herself for a moment. “Yes, well, some mortals are a different animal altogether, aren’t they?” she answered, hardening her heart again before turning uphill to gather the brouette and head for home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jean-Paul shut the door to the post office and removed his cap, tucking it under his arm. He’d already included the cash for the catalog item in an envelope, which he produced from the pocket of his tweed jacket. All he required was the correct postal code and a stamp. The clerk met the request with a sardonic glance over his spectacles before bringing out the large reference book and letting it thud loudly on the counter. The man ran his finger down the page in careful examination before stopping and tapping it on a probable candidate. Jean-Paul quickly wrote down the number on the envelope, nodded his thanks, and then slid the letter forward. With luck he’d have his new vinoscope in a month.
He’d dropped his change for the stamp on the counter and turned for the door when the clerk stopped him. “Ah, Monsieur Martel?” he said, reading the name