The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  “You lie!” he hurled the jagged bolt, barely missing the man’s head. “Now tell me where she is?” he commanded once more as the shower of sparks sputtered on the ground.

  Taylor fell to his knees, blubbering like a babe. “Dunno, I dunno. Don’t let the divvil kill me, please L-ord. I swear, I won’t do the healin’ lay no more. I’ll give the money to the orphans and stop cheatin’ on th’ missus.”

  “See that you do,” Damien said. “I will spare you for now, but remember, I shall be watching. Help him on the road to redemption, Angel.”

  The mastiff bared his teeth and Taylor scrambled to his feet and ran with the hound of hell baying after him.

  “Why did you let him go?” Adam asked angrily.

  “Because he was telling the truth,” Damien replied wearily. “He has no idea where Miranda might be.”

  Adam leaned against the wall, shaking his head. “Then where is she? I had managed to throw them off, but she was not here in the carriage to meet me.”

  “Perhaps she went searching for you?” Lawrence suggested, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to Adam. “Best to staunch that nose, m’boy. ‘Tis bleeding something fierce.”

  “I went back, but there was not a trace of her. Then Taylor spotted me,” Adam said, a groan of despair in his voice as he dabbed absently at his bloody nose. “Someone took her, Uncle Lawrie. Her reticule was left in my carriage and this.” He pulled her emerald pendant from his pocket, letting it dangle from his hand.

  Lady Wodesby gasped. “Her naming jewel.”

  Lawrence put a soothing arm around her shoulder.

  “You are quite correct, Brand,” Damien said, his expression dire. “My sister would not have voluntarily abandoned that pendant. That stone was given to her when she received her name, and it has never left her body since. She was taken by force. The question is, by whom?”

  Thorpe hissed.

  “The man in the bushes.” Dominick shook his head. “My mother has him locked in the pantry.”

  “If anyone can make him talk, it’s Tante Reina,” Brand declared.

  Chapter 12

  A whirlpool of light, blinding brightness with eddies of glare, like the summer sun on still water. A voice called her name. “Miranda . . . my love . . .Miranda . . .” Adam . . . Adam was calling her from somewhere within the dazzling chaos. She felt fingers upon her skin, in her hair, but it was not his touch. Paper-dry, a lizard’s reptilian caress, the touch of Death. The unseen hands wandered to her neck, lingering on the column of her throat, sliding downward. She tried to move, to brush the unseen creature away, but she heard the clink of chains. A manacle held her wrist.

  Miranda’s eyes flew open. She was lying on a divan, fixed by a length of iron to the floor.

  “I thought that might bring you around,” Ropwell jeered. “In any case, it was a delightful way to while away the time. No one else here but the two of us.”

  She tried to get up only to fall back when the room began to sway. Once more, she closed her eyes trying to still the spinning sensation and steady her thoughts. Recollection returned, along with a sense of dread. It took no witchcraft to determine that Ropwell was desperate and therefore dangerous. Only dire need could have spurred the man to kidnap a Wodesby witch, and witch he believed her to be. Was this the doom that Hecate had set for her then? To die for lack of sorcery just when she had found true magic? Chained, at Ropwell’s dubious mercy, there was no weapon left her.

  Save illusion. She nurtured that small spark of hope. If she could use Ropwell’s belief in her to her advantage, play upon the fear that was companion to his faith in her power, she might be able to purchase some time. A dangerous masquerade, a dance on the razor’s edge, the least slip would likely prove fatal, but it was the only chance she had. Her restrained hand slipped to a hidden pocket as she felt Ropwell’s breath on her cheek. Brandy . . . if he was somewhat foxed that might prove to her advantage.

  “Touch me again, Ropwell and you are a dead man,” Miranda warned, shoving him aside with her free hand. The unexpected blow sent him flying off the divan. She rose with languid grace as he got unsteadily to his feet. From the look of it, he had taken a heavy dose of Dutch courage.

  “You are in no position to make threats, Miss Wilton. I have it upon excellent authority that iron negates a witch’s powers,” Ropwell said angrily.

  “Some of them,” Miranda informed him with every appearance of icy disdain. “‘However, you are still in mortal jeopardy. Obviously you have been possessed by some demon, else you would not have taken so foolish a risk. The wrath of the Wodesbys is not usually hazarded unless the stakes are high. You may have thwarted me, but my family will find me. And you.”

  His sneer was frozen on his lips and while he was not yet trembling, the whites of his eyes had enlarged perceptibly. Fear. She would build on it. “Why are you daring my anger, demon?” she asked, though she could guess the answer. “Answer and know you this, my brother the Mage has never been known to take insult lightly. So even should you prove to be a satanic shade with powers greater than mine, my brother Damien will pursue you to the very halls of Hades. He has more than a passing acquaintance with the master there.”

  The image of an angry Lord Wodesby pounding the gates of hell was quelling. It took some moments before Ropwell found his voice. “You did not seem so adept at self-defense when we were in Gutmacher’s Hall, Miss Wilton.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a knowing smile. “I was content to let Brand defend me. Men always prefer to believe that they are stronger and in control. Adam does not believe what I am, and for the moment it suits me so. But you believe, don’t you, Ropwell? Else, I would not be here. So, tell me what you want or let me go about my business.”

  Ropwell looked at her in confusion. Her reaction was entirely unexpected, as was her demeanor. Despite her stained, torn, clothing, she had an arrogant air of royalty. “You are the witch,” he sputtered. “Why do you not tell me?”

  Miranda forced a laugh, her fear tinging it just the right maniacal shade. “It would appear that you do not know as much about witches as you would think, milord. We are not all Seers and Readers of thoughts, but I think I can guess what you are seeking. This.” She raised her free hand, plucking at the air above her as if gathering fruit from a bough and threw a shower of gold, silver and copper at his feet, the entire contents of her hidden pocket. Once more she laughed, this time at his open-mouthed awe. “It always comes down to money with mortals. You wish me to find your late wife’s jewels. However, you are mistaken if you believe that you have won my favor with cold iron.” She picked up the length of chain and rattled it distastefully.

  Ropwell looked down at the fallen coins, moving one of them with the toe of his boot. “I made your brother an excellent proposal, far more than the original five-hundred pounds that I suggested at Lady Pelton’s séance” he said, his tones those of a recalcitrant schoolboy.

  “You offered him money?” Miranda said, with a throaty chuckle. “Ah, Ropwell, the devil must favor you, for I’ve seen Damien transform men into mice for lesser insults. As you can see, we have no need for paltry bits of shiny metal. Besides, you should have come to me.”

  “Then what do you want?” Ropwell asked suspiciously.

  “For the jewels?” Miranda tapped her chin in a gesture of consideration. “First-born sons are preferable, though Damien has been known to accept a daughter should she prove uncommon pretty. But you are without issue, so you have naught to barter there . . . hmm. I suppose I could ask for your immortal soul.”

  “You did not ask for Lady Pelton’s soul,” Ropwell protested. “You would not even take her diamond necklace.”

  “She was my Grandmere’s friend and summoning her lord was not a difficult task. Pelton’s shade actually wished to see her. However, I suspect that your Felicity might be somewhat reluctant to do anything to assist you,” Miranda explained with scorn. “Uncooperative ghosts can be almost as unpleasant as an
gry mages. When you put that into the cauldron, I doubt that your soul would be worth the trouble, tarnished as it is. Moreover, Damien might consider it forfeit anyway under the circumstances.” She quirked a brow, observing him carefully. She dared not push him beyond fear and into the realm of anger, or she was lost.

  “P . . . p . . . please, Miss Wilton, I meant no harm. It is just th . . .th . . . that those jewels are my last hope,” Ropwell told her.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “I suppose that your soul will have to do, though Damien will be sorely vexed with me. Between Parliament and the Exchange we have had a surfeit of souls come on the market of late. Now, we must get it all right and tight, in contract form of course, before my brother’s arrival.”

  She sounded as if she truly believed it imminent and Ropwell hastened out of the room in search of writing implements.

  As his footsteps retreated, Miranda collapsed on to the divan, drawing a ragged breath. From the layer of dust, it looked as if this room had not been visited for some time. She got up and walked the full length of her tether, searching for something that she might use as a weapon, but the tower room was bare, save a small, cracked mirror, warped wardrobe, a plain wooden table and a bed. Moonlight shone silver through a large window that rose from floor to ceiling. The river winding below was likely the Thames, though she could not be sure. As she tried to puzzle out her location, she heard a curse and the sound of stumbling on the stair. Miranda found herself praying that her captor would not put an end to himself before she could win her freedom.

  With a triumphant flourish, Ropwell produced a portable writing desk.

  “Not quite parchment, but it will do,” Miranda pronounced, donning the mask of bravado once again as she pulled out a sheet of yellowed vellum and a quill. She picked up the sharpening knife. “If you will just give me your left thumb.”

  “For what purpose?” Ropwell asked suspiciously, taking a step back.

  Miranda put down the knife with exasperation. “Honestly, Ropwell, do you think I could gut you with a wee bit of steel such as this? All soul contracts must be made out in blood, or else they are invalid. Now, if you wish me to summon your wife, then we had best get on with it before the night wanes. Surely you can spare a bit of claret with a fortune at stake?”

  Ropwell stuck out his hand and averted his eyes.

  . . .

  Warm in his place by the hearth, Thorpe glared ferociously, as Damien entered the library at Wodesby House, Angel at his heels. Adam stalked across the floor to confront the Mage. “What did you get from the man that Miranda shot?” he asked.

  “His employer supplied no name, but from the description that he gave me, we can now be certain that it was Ropwell that hired him,” Damien said, looking down at Brand with a forbidding expression that would have stilled the tongues of most men.

  Not Brand’s.

  “A revelation!” Adam said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “How many spells and incantations did it require, Wodesby, to confirm what I posited nearly an hour ago?”

  “No sorcery at all Brand, but science,” Damien replied, holding up a bruised hand. “Physical force was sufficient and, if I might say, somewhat satisfying.”

  “But not at all illuminating,” Adam maintained, his jaw setting stubbornly. “While you have been scraping your knuckles, I have been to Ropwell’s apartments. A crown was all it took to get his valet talking. It would seem that his lordship’s man has not been paid for some time now. But when Ropwell left this evening, he promised that the fellow would receive all that was owed him before the week’s end.”

  “Did you find out where Miranda could have been taken?” Damien asked.

  “Do you think I would have returned here, Wodesby, if I knew that?” Adam shook his head. “The servant has only been with Ropwell for a quarter. He knows little beyond the fact that his master owns several properties, for his lordship is always complaining that the income they produce is paltry. My uncle is at White’s now, trying to ascertain the locations of Ropwell’s lands.”

  “If he is going to ground in his own burrow?” Damien speculated, slumping wearily into a chair, his head in his hands. “And we cannot even be certain of that.”

  “Dammit man,” Adam said, grabbing Wodesby by the shoulders. “Ropwell is going to force Miranda to raise a ghost. She may be able to cozen him for a bit, but what do you think her chances will be when she cannot locate those jewels that he seeks?” Like a terrier worrying a bear, he shook Miranda’s brother. “Is that all you can do, oh Mage of Albion? What about that much vaunted magic of yours?”

  “Magic has its limitations,” Damien admitted, looking candidly into Brand’s eyes and seeing his love for Miranda writ there plain. He had wronged this man and his sister both. Fate was not always to blame for misfortune. If Damien had simply blessed the match as his mother had wished, all might have been well.

  But he had chosen to interfere and now all his pride and all the power of the Blood could do nothing. “Before history began, the world was filled with mages and witches, our legends say. No different were we, than any other men or women in our lusts and greed. We fought each other in our struggle for power, laying waste to lands and peoples. So it was that Hecate placed restraints on the forces of magic, so that it could not be bent to such horrendous destruction again. When we use our powers for ourselves, they may well go awry. Visions are muddied and vague; a summoning may prove the conjuror’s doom, the messages of the cards are oft misleading to those of the Blood.”

  “So you are saying that your powers cannot help you locate Miranda,” Adam stated flatly, his hold relaxing. “Then what is it worth, all your thunder and lightning?” His hand swept the vast contents of the shelves in a dismissive wave. “What is the use of all these books and all your magic, if I lose her in the end?”

  Brand’s fists fell to his side, tensing into knots of despair and Damien felt a strong kinship to the Outsider. Indeed, for Miranda, the Blood might prove her undoing, unless . . . Reaching into his pocket, the mage pulled out his sister’s pendant, staring deep into the crystalline depths. “Do you love my sister, Brand?” he asked distractedly.

  “This is scarcely the time to probe my intentions, Wodesby,” Brand complained bitterly. “Now if there is naught you can do in the supernatural realm, I am going to begin my hunting in the usual manner. I will find Ropwell somehow and when I do, I might save a bit of his guts for you. But first, I am going to seek my uncle and find out what information he might have unearthed.”

  “There may be a better way,” Damien said, his excitement growing as new possibilities opened before him. Brand’s destiny was clearly entwined with Miranda’s. Such strong bonds could work both ways and the marquess’s love had called his sister back from the brink of the Light itself. “You are not of the Blood.”

  “Uncommon bright you are tonight,” Adam commented, grabbing his hat from a chair. “Nonetheless, Wodesby, I fully intend to marry your sister as soon as I find her. She has no need of your consent at her age. If the mage that you have already pledged her to wishes to turn me into a maggot, then let him do his worst, but have him wait until I find her, if you please.” He turned toward the door.

  “I cannot do magic for Miranda,” Damien said, the worried crease in his brow relaxing in relief as the solution presented itself. “But I can conjure for you, Brand, and I will, if you would give me a token.”

  Adam turned shaking his head in disbelief. “A token? By heaven, man, she is your own sister.”

  “It must be for you that I conjure,” Damien insisted, his expression inscrutable. “Or else her sanguinity may interfere with my spell. A pledge of some kind is necessary.”

  “Anything, if it will help me find her. Name it!” Adam declared.

  “A dangerous offer, sir, if you would deal with witches and mages,” Damien cautioned. “Be wary. For our price is rarely gold and silver and the cost of magic must be in proportion to the service rendered.”

  “Tell me wh
at you want, Wodesby, and let us be done with it,” Adam demanded, his patience waning. “‘tis your sister’s life at stake.”

  “Not my sister here, but your love,” Damien told him smoothly. “A mere matter of semantics though it may seem, it will make all the difference. Very well, my price is my consent to my sister’s marriage. You must agree to abide by my decision.”

  Adam tried to read Wodesby’s expression, but no longer was he the worried brother. In the space of a few seconds he was every inch the Mage. By pledging his word, the marquess knew that he would likely lose Miranda to the man that her brother had already chosen. But if that was the price of her life, then he would pay it.

  “Done!” Adam replied, his expression grey and hard as granite.

  “So shall it be,” the Mage intoned, his voice deep as the knelling of a bell. He rolled up his sleeve once again, tucking the folds in his runic band and went to the shelves. “Look for maps, Brand. Particularly London and its environs. ‘tis my guess they could not have gotten too far.”

  Though Adam wanted to question, Wodesby’s brisk professional manner precluded any explanation. Obediently, the marquess searched through the section that the Mage had indicated. “Here they are, maps. The Land of Hungary, Greece, Genoa, France, Finn’s Land, England. . . “ He pulled out a series of folios, spreading the volumes of copperplates and engravings upon the library table.

  “Now, do exactly as I tell you,” Damien commanded, unfolding Brand’s hand and placing Miranda’s jewel in the marquess’ cupped palm. “Hold this by its chain, moving it back and forth above the volumes. Concentrate on my sister and let the motion lead you.”

  “Dowsing?” Adam asked, looking doubtfully at the pendant. “I have heard of such divining for water or metals, but never for people.”

  “‘Coscinomancy’ it is called, but it employs the same principles,” Damien explained. “Miranda has found records of the practice dating back to Greek times using diverse devices. To find the missing, some personal item is usually the best, but it is not the tool so much as the wielder.” Once more, he shifted from forbidding mage to worried brother, fixing the marquess with an appealing gaze. “You must believe, Brand. If ever you have believed anything in your life, believe in your love now.” With the tip of his finger, he set the emerald swinging and began a rhythmic chant.