Sorciére

by J. R. Erickson

  When his eyes rolled back into his head and his breath took on the ragged death rattle, Aubrey ran to his father's cottage. The other witches cleaned quickly, shoving their remedies into cupboards before they retired to the woods to wait for their friend. They did not speak. They all knew and loved Solomon and releasing him to death brought them crashing down from the mountains they'd soared to in recent months as together their power grew. Had they failed him? Were they not as strong as they believed? No answers soothed them. They huddled in the dewy, morning woods watching the slanted light of the morning sun as it rose.

  They sat in a circle, their hands clasped and eyes closed and when the father's wails found them, they prayed to the source of all light that Solomon's young body be relieved of his suffering and his vibrant soul returned to his home. Aubrey joined them in silence, her brow knitted and her shoulders bowed beneath the weight of her long night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Abby thrust her arms beneath Victor and dragged. His head drooped and he felt heavy, as if weighted with cement bricks. Her eyes watered and ran and she started to taste blood as it seeped from her nose. The air was gone, replaced by something poisonous that rolled out from the walls in visible gusts. They had triggered something when they entered the cave and the explosions beneath her and the toxic gas only felt like the beginning. She stumbled and fell over a rock, losing Victor and slamming her head into the hard earth. She could no longer see, and waves of nausea and dizziness coursed through her. She remembered her previous rescue from the Vepar's lair when Faustine found her and Dafne in the ravine beyond the cliffs. She reached for him then, pushing her thoughts towards the castle, holding Faustine desperately in her mind. No images rose up and she felt sure that he could not sense her.

  Pressing up on her elbows, she gave one more futile attempt at finding her feet, but made it only to her knees before the floor beneath her cracked from some explosion in the belly of the cliff. She and Victor began to fall.

  ****

  Vesta woke with a gurgling scream, cut off by the rancid smelling palm of the Vepar Wrath. She could see the dirt caked beneath his fingernails and taste the metallic tinge of his last blood thirst. His black eyes did not look at her, but into the distance where the tiniest cloud of dust had begun to rise in the night sky. The ring on her hand pulsed vivid white, faded and then pulsed again. Since Tane's death, its power had changed and it no longer offered reliable signals when a witch moved close by. Now it flashed at strange moments, growing very hot or cold, and at times did nothing for so long that she started to doubt whether its color would ever change again. Tonight it spoke and Vesta knew that Tobias had been right.

  Wrath did not even seem to breathe and, after several minutes, Vesta shifted forward slowly, sitting up and then finding her knees. He did not look at her, but she felt his cold fury even as she drifted near him. He hated her, but not because she had foolishly allowed a relic to be created, which later led to the death of the Vepar Tony, but because he hated all things. Unlike most of the other Vepars, even the kill did not satisfy him. He moved through it with a slow, methodical determination that did not betray any joy or frenzy in the death of his victims, but a dead obedience to some devil that even she did not know.

  Vesta was devoted to Tobias. She did not attempt to understand the mind state of Tobias. His moods were like the pendulum's swing. In one moment, she felt the sick twist of love between them and at other times, he seemed to delight in her suffering. But those emotions she understood on the most basic human level. Even in the darkness, perhaps more so in the darkness, the animal hunger of emotion reigned supreme. No peace or tranquility existed within her or any other Vepar. Their choice to destroy and consume, betrayed their selfishness, but also their self-loathing. Did she not detest herself as fully as she hated the Vepar Tony whom she hated as much as the witch who murdered him? Did she not hate herself for loving Tobias as he slowly drained the life from her only sibling Tane, or for her weakness in allowing Tane to enter their dark world to begin with? She hated too how visibly she displayed her emotions. She felt Wrath recoiling from her as she trembled beside him.

  Every muscle in her body longed to spring animal-like through the forest to the cliff edge where surely their screams could be heard by now. She licked her lips, relishing the thought of the tall blond one, Oliver, writhing in the pit of snakes, his blond hair rich with streaks of dark, coppery red.

  "Sit," the Vepar Wrath hissed at her and she realized that she had started to sneak forward onto her haunches, her nails digging into the dirt at her feet. She glared at him, so angry that he should command her that she longed to rip his throat out and drink his black blood. His eyes turned ever so slowly and locked on hers. She no longer hoped to hurt him at all, but merely to survive the next moment and the one after that.

  In his eyes, she was already dead and she felt her body lose its vitality and begin to wither and sink into itself. Then she felt the maggots and flies picking at her flesh, their tiny prickling feet on her swollen eyeballs and she tried to scream, but no voice lived in those wasted lungs. She reached up to claw at her rotted face, but the scene before her slid back into focus.. Wrath held her gaze and she turned away afraid that he might conjure the visions again, but he returned his focus to the cliff. Vesta fell back in the dirt and lay silent, staring at the starless sky.

  ****

  Oliver stood on the bank of the river below in shadow. He had watched Abby and Victor go into the cave with a sickness that he confused with guilt. When the explosions began he recognized the sensation for what it was--foreboding--and he bound up the cliff wall like an animal being hunted.

  He did not dive into the mouth of the cave, though he wanted to. He paused and peered deep into the dark passage, first listening and then smelling the opening. Before the sulfurous odor entered his nostrils, he saw the tendrils of oily air shining in moonlight, and knew that the lair would be abandoned, but not deserted. The Vepars did not play at vengeance. They destroyed everything if it meant the death of even one of their enemies. He gulped a lungful of fresh air and raced inside, hurtling himself deeper, willing his eyes to see through the blurry mess of gas. He saw Victor and Abby seconds too late as the floor exploded beneath them and they both vanished.

  The Vepars had dammed the water flowing above ground into the caverns below, but Oliver found the dam quickly and began to throw the enormous boulders aside as if they were merely pebbles. The water trickled through and then exploded, washing through the tunnels.

  ****

  Tobias joined Vesta and Wrath. They stood in shadows and Vesta bounced from foot to foot, her hunger nearly overpowering her.

  "The witches Abby and Oliver?" he asked again, stretching his clownish red lips wide. His black eyes gleamed with pleasure.

  "And one more," Wrath added. "The artist from Chicago."

  "Interesting," Tobias murmured, lifting his long, pale fingers absently to his right shoulder. Vesta knew that he touched the place where one of Oliver's arrows had ripped through his flesh only months earlier, ruining their sacrifice of Abby.

  "But so much has changed since then, my dear," Tobias told Vesta. She shrunk away from him, fearing his new ability to read the minds of those he sired.

  Vesta knew little of what had changed in the clan of Tobias. He had stopped consulting her completely and conspired only with Alva. Vesta had fed on nothing but humans for nearly two months. Her bones grew brittle and her skin sallow, but she dared not complain.

  Tobias, however, appeared stronger every day. His teeth grew sharper and more pronounced. He moved so swiftly at night, she started to think he could fly. He watched her, amused, and she realized that, again, he read her thoughts.

  "Don't think so much my child." He petted her hair gently. "You will hurt yourself."

  "What now?" she muttered, praying that he would take pity on her and allow her to feast.

  Again he smiled, but his eyes lost their mirthful sheen.

  "We are no
t here to eat tonight, my darling. We are here to collect the snakes..."

  ****

  Oliver did not have to swim far into the hole that Abby and Victor had fallen into. Already their buoyant bodies had begun to rise. He retrieved Abby first. Before his head broke the surface, a chill ran the length of his spine, lighting up at the base, but when he followed the feeling, he felt confident that no Vepars were near. He thrust his head above the surface for an instant, took in a gulp of fresh air and dove back down.

  A sharp prick lit up his forearm and then another on his leg. He searched with his hand and clamped down on the slithering body of a snake. He thrust it way and plunged deeper. This time he grabbed Victor as well. He held both witches sandwiched together beneath each arm until he felt Abby begin to wriggle beside him. In her element, she recovered quickly, but he also felt her panicking at their submersion. He locked eyes with her briefly and mouthed "stop." She quit resisting and he sensed the caverns around them. He followed the cave walls until he found a sense of empty space. There he knew they would find air and an opening of some sort. They swam deeper first and Oliver felt more snakes brush against him. Finally, they came into a large circular room where the water had already begun to drain away. He pushed Abby up so that she could breathe. She held onto a hunk of jagged wall. Then he wrenched Victor's face above the water and began to breathe into his slack mouth. He felt the air push into his belly and tasted the oily gas still on his lips. He gagged and spit as some of the water projected out of Victor's mouth and into his own. Soon both Abby and Victor clung to the wall, sputtering and disoriented.

  "What's your element, Victor?"

  "Air," Victor choked, his throat raspy and swollen.

  "Well, I'd say this is the best we can do right now," Oliver sighed, slipping under the water for a moment to find the floor. He re-emerged. "About another two feet and we'll be back on solid ground."

  The water level lowered more and soon all three of them could stand. Abby already felt better. She sensed the gashes along her back and arms healing quickly. Victor, on the other hand, grew paler as time passed and a wound on the back of his left thigh bled heavily. Oliver created a tourniquet with his sweatshirt and secured it around Victor's leg. The bleeding slowed, but did not stop.

  Despite the water, Abby's strength diminished. The fall and the poisonous air had damaged her and most of her energy went towards detoxifying her lungs and organs. Both she and Victor leaned heavily against the wall.

  ****

  When the car miraculously started, Sebastian could not believe his luck. When it sputtered, stalled and then stopped completely, on a dense, forest road that left little hope in either direction, he couldn't imagine the day getting much worse. He turned the key and listened as the motor cried out a final time. He stepped from the dead car and irrationally kicked the tire before loping off in the direction of the sun.

  A half mile down the road, he swore aloud, realizing that he might have fit into some of the clothes piled in the backseat. They likely smelled pretty bad, but they would protect him against the chilly afternoon breeze. He started to turn back and then a wonderful feeling of hope washed over him as he heard the distant sound of an engine.

  Sebastian saw the shape of a car in the distance. He stepped into the center of the road and, when the driver drew close enough to see him, he waved his arms eagerly.

  The little car drifted to a stop and a young woman with light, hazel eyes rolled down her window.

  "Avez-vous briser," she asked, smiling up at him.

  "I..." He started to speak and then stopped, suddenly not sure what to say. The words that had been so clear in his mind just moments ago were gone and nothing moved forth to replace them. It was as if someone had reached into his brain and wiped his memory clean.

  "Not French?" the woman asked. "American?"

  Was he American? He had to think about it, but yes, he felt sure that he was American, but who was he in America? His mind was blank and he felt his chest constrict as he searched the contents and found nothing.

  Why was she speaking French? Was he in France? Why would he be in France?

  "No? Not American?" she asked again, this time her face growing concerned. Her wide-set eyes took in his strange attire, the remnants of a costume perhaps.

  "I can't remember," he told her, rubbing his hand across his forehead like he might be able to bring it back. "I'm American. I think I am, but..."

  "Were you in an accident?" She asked, her words heavily accented.

  He looked down at his body, shocked by the odd attire clothing him. He wore tight-fitting black stretch pants and a tight black t-shirt. Both pants and shirt were dotted with splotches of paint in hues of red and orange. He rubbed his hands over his torso, along his legs and finally probed his head with his fingers. Nothing hurt and there was no blood, but why couldn't he recall anything?

  "What's my name?" he suddenly asked out loud. He looked at her, alarmed. "I don't know my name."

  She wrinkled her brow and paused, seeming to consider whether or not she trusted this confused stranger. After a moment, she stepped from the car and guided him around to the passenger side.

  "Get in. I will take you to the infirmary."

  He sat in her passenger seat and patted his body with growing panic, searching for a wallet, an I.D., anything. He pulled out a tiny silver ring. Strange designs were engraved on the interior, but nothing that might identify him, such as initials.

  "Isabelle," the woman told him, holding out her hand.

  "I'm sorry," he said shaking her hand hastily. "I don't know what's happening to me."

  Chapter Twelve

  August 6, 1908

  Dafne sat in the tiny cottage by the water and cried. Solomon's baby face moved in and out of her vision as the tears soaked her soft cotton dress. Dafne's Aunt Patty, the midwife, had delivered the infant Solomon and now it would likely be Dafne's father, the minister, who laid him in the ground. Despite the unseasonably chilly August morning, she felt the heat of their work still coursing through her. How much fire they had conjured trying to burn the demon out of him? But to no avail.

  The flimsy door swung in and Tobias walked into the single room, surveying her in silence. She turned her sodden eyes to his, but he looked far away and almost unconcerned with her pain. He turned and left without a word. His behavior, though unusual, did not alarm her. He struggled with great shows of emotion. His own mother had perished at a young age and so he had been raised by men and the sea. The soft freedom that women brought into the lives of boys, rescuing them from the rigidness of their masculinity, was lost on him. Still, she was never left wanting. He supported and loved her with every ounce of his being. He simply showed it in other ways.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abby had not told anyone that she was returning to Sydney's house. She had not truly believed it herself, but as she had wandered dazed and embarrassed out of the Vepar's caves, something urged her to do just that. She had left Victor wounded and Oliver watching her in disbelief, but she hadn't cared.

  Her escape ended at a bus station where she boarded a bus for Trager City. She traveled to Sydney's home through the woods. The run to her dead aunt's house took only minutes and Abby, so distracted by memories, felt not even a twitch in her hot muscles. Her body was like a machine and she found that she rarely had to direct it--it already knew where to go.

  She stood at the forest's edge and watched the house. The autumn leaves lay in heavy dark masses beneath the trees. A large, bright blue sign read 'Ronda's Realty' in tacky red lettering. The dock had been removed and hastily stacked on the shore and the patio furniture was gone, stored by some crew that Abby's mother had likely hired to do a fast job. Overhead the gray sky seeped a cool drizzle onto the earth and Abby, sick of the cold and the forlorn look of Sydney's house, jogged across the lawn and up to the patio door.

  It was locked, but one forceful jerk and it shot open, sliding with a crash into the frame. The house was warm; th
e heat kept on for home showings, but from what Abby's mother Becky had told her, there weren't many potential buyers. It wasn't just a down market. People didn't want to vacation in a house where a woman had been murdered. Nor did everyone in the city believe that Sydney was the victim of her young lover.

  According to Becky, a whole cropping of lore and suspicion had arisen after Sydney's death, including the widely held belief that a vampiric cult had killed Devin, Sydney and possibly another young woman several counties away who disappeared without a trace earlier that summer.

  Abby dropped her bag on the counter and walked through the house, flicking on lights and breathing through the tightness in her chest. All of the pictures had been removed and much of the house contained new furniture. Calming beachscapes lined the walls, and the tables and shelves were adorned with glass bowls of seashells and little nautical trinkets. None of the décor reflected Sydney, but the house did. It breathed her. Abby could feel her in the sigh of the floorboards and the groans of the roof overhead.

  She walked the interior, pausing in every room, repressing the memories that wanted to greet her. She could not afford to let the agony out--she might create a freak thunderstorm and flood the house. The already gloomy day did not need an additional downpour. The freshly vacuumed carpets and polished wood floors distressed her as she moved through each room. The refrigerator held only gleaming clear shelves and two bottles of white wine. Abby grabbed an open one, plucked the cork with her teeth and took a gulp that drained a quarter of the bottle.

  "Ugh, that's good," she told the room and continued outside to the garage.

  She was relieved to see that the garage was less together than the rest of the house. Sydney's water skis hung on the wall, along with a frayed badminton set and couple of tennis rackets. Several boxes sat on a small folding table in one corner, a note taped to the side.