“It’s nothing personal.” She smiled out of the corner of her mouth, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. She sunk a wine thief inside the barrel to obtain a sample, suctioning up a vein of red into the tube.
“This is absurd. Untie me.”
“I think not.”
Angered, he thrashed his body against the wood, but it did nothing to loosen his restraints.
“I really do need you to stay put, Monsieur Martel,” she said, filling the silver tastevin hanging from her waist chain with the wine from the barrel. She gave the cup a slight swirl and studied the contents.
Jean-Paul stared at the ceiling. His shoulder hurt from the dull ache of a bruise, and his temples throbbed from the lingering effects of the drug, but it was his growing fear that disabled his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded with God for all of this to be a wicked dream. But when he opened them again he saw once more the face of his unlikely captor. Only something had changed. Was it just a trick of the candlelight, a smudge on his glasses, or was there something different about her face? He lifted his head to see her at a better angle. Yes, he thought, her skin sagged jowl-like around the mouth now, and her eyes appeared heavy and hooded. Even her hair had lost its luster, frizzing and dulling as strands came loose from its tight updo. The change so intrigued him he lost his fear long enough to recoup his wits.
The witch, for he remembered in earnest that’s what she was, sniffed the wine in her cup. “I was always better at brewing ale,” she said after running her tongue over her teeth. “But this red will have an enviable life once it’s had time to mature.” She stepped up to the press and held out the cup. “Care for a taste, vigneron?”
The wine, a deep red that clung to the sides of the silver tasting cup, had the hue and vigor of blood. He recoiled with new understanding as his mind made the connection. “It was you, wasn’t it? The cats, the blood, Monsieur Du Monde.”
She stuck her finger in the wine and stirred. “It’s always been me,” she said, then licked the wine off and straightened. “And will be again.”
She picked up the candle and carried it to the center of the cellar floor. The light from the candle illuminated a circle of symbols drawn on the flagstones in chalk. He didn’t recognize any of the marks, though they set off a tremor in the roots of his instinct when he saw them for what they were: symbols of wicked, illegal magic.
He was not going to live through this. She was going to kill him and drain him of his blood. Bile rose in his throat at the thought. But then why hadn’t she done so yet? What had she been waiting for? Was there some ritual she must perform?
And then he recalled the note.
“Before. In the conservatory,” he said as she incanted words so foreign to his ears he thought them gibberish. “You said Elena escaped.”
“Mmm.” The witch didn’t bother to look up from her work as she drew three new symbols above the rest. “Which is why you’re going to be my staked lamb.”
Just as he feared, the witch knew Elena would try to find him. “But why? Why involve her? Why not just escape? Get as far away from here as you can.”
“Because she knows who I am now and how to find me. And I have ever so much more living to do.”
The witch knelt in the center of her macabre scribblings and then poured the wine over the stones as if in offering. He squinted at the circle of candlelight. Her hair had been bleached of its blonde sheen, paling to dull silver, and her hips had lost their curve. She smiled, knowing he was watching the transformation, and let out a sly laugh as her knuckles gripped the wine cup with knotted joints.
Terror shuddered through his body, knowing he was at the mercy of a murderer’s magic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Yvette watched Elena draw a circle with a stick in the dirt. She added a cross in the center and then stood back to judge the balance of the four quarters.
“You’re sure you can find him this way?”
“I have to try.” She knew the chances weren’t good, but it was all she could think to do. She had to warn Jean-Paul before