Temple of Indra's Lies (Time-Traveling Bibliophile Book 3)

by Rachael Stapleton

  “No way,” I said, looking straight into Sandra’s eyes.

  “She will be able to control magic much like you but, my dear, she is not you.” She hesitated. “She is too much like him. In every life drawn together and ruled by darkness.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My spirit guide says this. He says…she is just like her father.”

  “I won’t let her do anything bad—we won’t let her. Cullen and I will raise her right. Wait a minute. What did you say?”

  She didn’t move. Her eyes were downcast. “Give me the book, then, Sophia. I will protect it and keep it safe. It is the only other way. She must never have the book.”

  The crystal ball had begun to glow, to fill with a mist.

  Sandra stared at it, and I found myself unable to look away.

  “Sandra, tell me. Why would being like Cullen make her do bad things?”

  “Look into your heart, Sophia. Think about the past, can you say for sure that Cullen is her father?” Sandra pushed back from the table, rising to her feet. She wasn’t smiling. “Were you alone with Liam at any time?”

  Startled, I looked at her and nodded. “But I was...unconscious.”

  Keep reading for a special preview of the fourth book in Rachael Stapleton’s Time Traveling Bibliophile Series.

  Temple of Indra’s Witch

  COMING SOON FROM Solstice Publishing!

  Prologue

  Sugar and Spice & Everything Sacrifice

  Poland, 1783

  A draft whistled through the joists, carrying with it a chill. Alexandra Cuza pulled the shawl of her deceased friend tight around her own withering shoulders. The cottage had yet to warm despite the growing flames that licked at the hearth. If she remained much longer the village people would come for her as well.

  Time to start over. She drew a deep, cleansing breath as she stripped and crushed herbs, measuring and counting out ingredients, and chanting as the brew began to boil. She was substituting ingredients, but times were scarce and with her friend, Sandy, burned at the stake, she was on her own once again. You’d think after two hundred and eighty-nine years she would have grown used to loss but it still prickled just the same, feeding the bitterness that clawed at her heart.

  Her familiar, a black raven, flew in the door; he carried with him the carcass of another small white dove. At least she still had him. She moved quickly, plucking the dove’s pure white feathers and then slicing, cracking and prying it apart. The entire cavity was brimming with blood. Its coppery stench hung heavy in the air. The dark magic felt natural to her. And she supposed it was no wonder.

  Not anymore.

  This was the second time she’d used this spell and it wouldn’t be the last.

  The rest of the ingredients waited on the table: talismans consecrated and charged with the New Moon; pentacles, powerful crystals and stones, and a few small totems. Various entrails and the final and most powerful element—the ashes of another witch—that was the only benefit to all of the burnings that used to take place, easy access to her most revered ingredient. She glanced at the other table again, and her chest tightened. She was loathed to admit but she was tired of this. Damn the high priestess for meddling with the perfectly good spell she’d cast. What good was immortality if she was old and decrepit?

  Now, upon including everything in the bubbling cauldron, memories washed over her, heightened by the steam of the brew, of the last time she’d been in a witch’s cottage like this one, the catalyst moment in Romania that had changed life as she knew it. She remembered pounding on the door until it finally opened, revealing her husband—Vilhem Ioan Cuza. The bastard had drew her inside and bade her take the seat by the hearth, as if she was a guest in the home of his whore. She could still remember the feel of the course material as she’d whirled and grabbed her husband’s pale, red-haired mistress, gripping the front of her nightgown in white-knuckled fists.

  Anger twisted in the old woman’s belly just as it had that night. She hated that woman—the Reddish Wolf—with every fiber of her being, hated the woman’s daughter, and she especially hated her own husband. That bastard had broken her heart. But she had had the last laugh, hadn’t she? She’d cursed them all and now she waited for them to reincarnate. Plenty of time to travel the world sniffing and snuffing them out—Ireland sounded decent enough. She’d liked it there before and not many witches were being killed over there. She’d need to find a new identity, of course, and adjust once again to the accent but that was the easy part. Not long now—maybe another sixty years before they were born. She winked at her good friend, the Raven, and pounded the pestle into the mortar, grinding up the dove’s beak, feeling giddy with excitement. She’d have her revenge.

  Chapter One

  Suddenly There Came a Tapping

  Dublin, Ireland, 2031

  It wasn’t quite nine in the morning but Dublin’s Creative Quarter was already buzzing. I waved to my neighbor who ran the café across the lane and stepped inside The Mysterious Ink Spot. The bell above the door jingled and my business partner and best friend, Leslie Lovari, shifted her position on the ladder in front of the book shelves.

  “Happy Tuesday!” She sang out in her bubbly yet monotone voice.

  “Maybe for you.” I grimaced. My head ached and my body was in a pre-caffeine fog, aggravated by the cat carrier I juggled along with two vanilla chai lattes and a container of cold eggs.

  “Better put those down before you have an accident,” Leslie said.

  I took her advice, then dragged the table of featured books outside, and flipped the sign to open. Leslie, now hanging dried herbs from the rafters, looked cute and perky in a floral slip dress. Ever since I’d met her, she’d been fascinated by three things—plants, books, and food—so I wasn’t surprised to see a half-eaten sugary cupcake in her hand.

  “What are you eating now?”

  “Choco-coco. You should try it.” She licked the last of the shredded coconut from her fingers.

  “You know I don’t like sweets.” I swallowed hard, worried that my drool might betray me. Besides who eats cupcakes for breakfast? My inner adult prevented such behavior; mind you, with Alana working at the Cupcake Shoppe part-time, I had been indulging a little too often, which was strange, considering I’d never had a sweet tooth before.

  I turned away from the treats and surveyed the inside of the shop. I’d modeled it after a bookstore from London circa 1920. It was a throwback to the Victorian era with wide-planked floors, velvet drapes, and antique shelves.

  “Something wrong, Sophia?” Leslie asked, climbing down the ladder.

  “I have a headache.”

  “Again? Try letting your hair down.”

  I carefully plucked the elastic loose, freeing my long dark hair from its messy bun. “I can’t even remember what it feels like to sleep through the night anymore.”

  “You’ve been getting those headaches for a month now. Did you try the sleeping pills?”

  “I did. I’m going to make a doctor’s appointment soon.”

  Leslie gave me a sympathetic look and made a beeline for the cat carrier. “Come here, girl.”

  She didn’t pretend to like animals but she loved my black cat, Daphne, which was why I bothered toting the feline along twice a week—Leslie’s shared custody privileges.

  The jangling of the bell brought our attention back to the front of the store. My teenage daughter, Alana, had burst in, cheeks flushed, holding a white-and-pink bakery box.

  “Mum!” she barked, mobile phone glued to her ear.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Ah, praise the almighty. I thought ye’d gone deaf.”

  I frowned and shook my head. At least she had graciously taken the time to pause and acknowledge me—a rare occurrence these days. “Very funny, Alana.”

  “Well I was callin’ after ye like a mad woman…oh, hey, Les,” she added sweetly. “Mrs. Walsh sent these over.”

  I made a mental note to ask Les
lie about the voodoo she obviously worked on my daughter. It was the only explanation I could come up with on why she was nice to her and not me, since we both bossed her around.

  “Are those the new mint buttercreams?” Leslie demanded.

  Alana nodded. “Peppermint patties. There’s a lemon tart in there for ye, mum.”

  I looked at the counter where Alana had set the bakery box next to the last one. The Walsh’s slogan daintily sprawled across the top: A little magic in every bite.

  I rolled my eyes. “Rather like heroin. These things are more addictive than cigarettes and coffee.”

  “Definitely,” Leslie said with a grin. “But don’t worry, I’ll share.”

  I turned to Alana, who was now furiously texting somebody. “What is it you wanted, dear?”

  “Hannah needs me at the shop—back in two shakes.”

  I shook my head, looking at the Grandfather clock next to the stained-glass window. It was ten past nine. “Weren’t you just there? Besides, you’re supposed to be working here.” Alana was far from lazy, but she’d been bailing on her shifts at the bookstore ever since she started working for the Walshes’ bakery. “What does she need?”

  “How should I know?” Annoyance flashed in Alana’s young eyes. “She said she needs to show me somethin’.”

  “That’s vague. Something as in…porn, drugs, a new dress?”

  I could tell Leslie was fighting to keep from laughing.

  Not my daughter though. She rolled her eyes and more than likely readied her insults.

  “Fine. Go! But I want you back…” I looked up at the jingle and realized she was already gone.

  “Grrr…What is it with that damn sugar shop?” I asked, turning to Les. “I just don’t get it. Why would she rather spend her time sweating over those hot ovens?”

  “Is that a real question?” Leslie mocked. “Hell, I’d live there if I could and I’m part-owner here.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a sugar addict with a tape worm. Alana’s like me, she doesn’t even like sweets.” I paced the length of the store and almost tripped over an empty box. I looked up and saw more. “What’s with all the boxes?”

  “Come here and I’ll show you.” Leslie led the way to the back of the store and handed me a book titled Doorway to the Occult.

  “It’s a book on the ancestry of the Ouija board,” I said, stating the obvious.

  She looked at me with a guilty grin. “Welcome to our new Witchcraft Section.”

  I picked up another and read the title aloud: “The Truth about Wicca. This one looks expensive.”

  “It was an online request.”

  I frowned. “It’s a little early for Halloween.”

  “Maybe some people are genuinely interested in the occult year-round.” She stroked Daphne who gave a little purr in return.

  I shrugged. “Still, you thought that warranted a dedicated section?”

  Normally I didn’t question Leslie’s decisions. She was an amazing business partner, but there were a lot of new books and we needed to spread our purchases out.

  “The book looked interesting so I ordered a copy for the store in addition to the client’s requests and boom—in came this whole shipment. I called the distributor. Apparently one of the warehouse staff made a mistake and it wasn’t worth the money to ship them back so we got a free load of books on magical traditions. Our lucky day, right?”

  I acknowledged her with a lift of my chin. “It does cramp the space but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. They’ll sell in October.”

  “I’m going to move amulets back there. That should draw some of the right people.”

  “We’re relying on amulets to draw people? Is this in the official business plan?”

  Leslie barked out a laugh, which was actually more of a squeal given Leslie’s pitchy voice. She walked to the front counter and grabbed one of the coffee cups.

  “I think you need this.”

  I held my hand out, accepting it gratefully.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of merchandising, smarty pants. It’s June. People will want the amulets for Solstice to read the future. If we place the amulets near the books, then maybe customers will be inclined to grab a book, too.” She set Daphne on the floor.

  Peeling back the plastic tab on my cup, I inhaled the sweet, vanilla scent of the latte. My headache finally subsided and, feeling relaxed for the first time in hours, I allowed myself to believe that today would be better. Apparently not: a dark shadow darted in and out of my peripheral vision, setting the cat in motion. Daphne sprang onto the counter, knocking over a copy of The Satanic Bible.

  “What the hell was that?” I bent to pick up the thick, black book, and spilled a few drops of my coffee down the front of my shirt.

  “Damn it!”

  Leslie scoffed. “Relax. The bird is on the outside of the glass. The delivery guy said it followed the truck here. It’s been hanging out since yesterday morning.”

  She handed me a damp cloth and I dabbed at my chest. Luckily my shirt was dark and patterned.

  “Why is it just hovering there, beating its wings against the glass?”

  As if on cue, the bird landed on the window sill.

  I took the first sip of my latte, closing my eyes and waiting for the caffeine to power my bloodstream. The cat mewled at the bird as if she could reach it through the glass, making my head pound again.

  “That’s enough, Daphne. Come here!” I scolded, which might have worked if she’d been any other animal, but she was a declawed black diva. I turned to Les, who sighed, and clapped her hands fiercely together, calling the cat’s name. Daphne sprang down from the shelf and purred at Leslie’s feet.

  Clearly Leslie’s magical voodoo charm extended to more than just angry teenagers.

  “There you are, pretty girl,” Leslie said, bending over. “Now you leave that birdie alone,” she told her, in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “It’s a black bird,” I said, eyeing it through the window.

  “You own a black cat but you have something against black birds?”

  “I-I mean it’s a raven. Aren’t they a sign of death?” I was growing more frazzled.

  “No . . . I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “They were cursed for not returning to Noah’s ark…but…actually…they are associated with darkness.”

  I frowned, not that Leslie noticed; she was now frantically searching through one of the new piles; on the prowl for a book to quote from, I was sure. Her nerdiness knew no bounds. If she wasn’t reading a book, she was usually writing about what she’d read in her journal. It was an endearing and yet predictable quality.

  “Here it is. Both witches and the Devil were said to take the shape of a raven.” Leslie picked up another book, this one black and gold, “The raven symbolizes the void—symbolic of the black hole which draws in all energy toward itself and releases it in new forms.”

  “That doesn’t sound terrifying at all.” I snorted. “No reason to fear the random void sucking energy that’s stalking our window. Speaking of which, why aren’t all of the drapes pulled back? Are we afraid of the light? Should I expect a section on vampires next?”

  “Actually that’s not a bad idea. We could do it for Halloween and use that beautiful castle painting that Alana did to add ambiance,” Leslie scoffed. “Transylvania and all it has to offer.”

  “Don’t you dare,” I protested. Still, I did like her idea. We’d joked about doing a Halloween castle tour forever. Unfortunately, we hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Maybe this year. “We’re at capacity now.”

  “I know. I know. Time for a break! You want a cupcake?” Leslie said, getting to her feet.

  “No, I’ve got my coffee. I overdosed on those cupcakes last night. Mrs. Walsh,” I said through gritted teeth, “loves to send my favorite kind home with Alana after her shifts.”

  “That bitch! How dare she try to be nice?” Leslie mocked.

  “Oh there’s more to
it than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember how I told you Cullen’s Da has a new girlfriend?”

  Leslie’s mouth kicked up in a reluctant smile. “Mrs. Walsh?”

  “Yep.” I returned her smile.

  “Cullen can’t expect his dad to remain celibate.”

  “Celibate, no. I think what Cullen objects to is the fact that the woman is Alana’s employer. She’s widowed and so Morei introduced the two, coincidentally after one of Alana’s shifts.”

  “What does Alana think?”

  “How should I know? She barely speaks to me.”

  Leslie wrapped her arms around me. “She’s still giving you a hard time?”

  “Understatement of the year—I’m officially in the running for worst mom in the world.”

  “Oh please, don’t be so dramatic. You’ll never beat out that reality mom who encouraged her daughter to pose nude.”

  “Well that’s a relief,” I said sarcastically.

  “Alana’s turning sixteen, that’s all. Teenagers know best,” she said with a chuckle.

  The beating returned but it was now coming from the other window. I crossed the store and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains. Behind them was a pair of eyes, and I jumped back, startled.

  “No more caffeine for you,” Leslie said.

  I stepped away from the window, just as the door jingled. In walked the woman I’d seen through the glass.

  “Sophia! It is you.”

  “Hello?” I said, taken aback.

  Daphne scrambled down from the shelf and shot to the back of the store, in a hurry to catch whatever imaginary creature she was chasing. I drew my attention back to the front. This woman looked familiar.

  “The Mysterious Ink Spot. What a clever name.”

  I nodded.

  “Have you forgotten me already?”

  Chapter Two

  Beginning of the End

  1494, Romania

  Alexandra Cuza formulated her plan as she watched her husband once again enter his lover’s home. Shivering beneath her clothes, she reached up to hold her shoulder where he’d last touched her. How she missed his affection. No! She scolded herself. She could no longer allow herself the luxury of loving him.