by Laury Falter
Without any warning, every candle in the room, including those behind us, ignited. It was as if someone had coordinated the synchronized flip of light switches. As this happened, I came to understand that her primary ability was manipulation of the elements, and it had been well-developed.
In the very center of the greeting room, draped in an ankle-length, salmon-colored, chiffon dress, was a woman who seemed only slightly older than us. Strands of glossy dark hair curled down around her slender, tanned arms which she brushed aside while standing from a red velvet lounge in a single, graceful motion.
“At last we meet,” she commented, as her almond-shaped eyes took in a sweeping view of Jameson.
I had the feeling she was speaking directly to him, although he seemed unaware of it.
“Please…,” she motioned to the arrangement of velvet sofas on each side of her. “Relax….”
“We’re fine,” replied Jameson, bluntly.
One of her finely-shaped eyebrows rose, but she didn’t press the issue. And then, suddenly, her expression changed to one of fear and rage. I wondered what triggered it until I realized she was no longer focusing on Jameson, but was looking behind him.
In the tense silence that followed, I glanced behind me and found that Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia had stepped around Jameson and me, into full view of our hostess.
Lacinda’s mouth quivered before a terse smile appeared. “Mabelle,” she said, the cordiality in her tone disappearing instantly. “Celia. I didn’t extend tonight’s invitation to others.”
While that was a blatant request for them to leave, neither one of them moved. Instead, Miss Mabelle replied, in a contrived manner, “We they escorts.”
Lacinda didn’t budge, apparently assessing this change of plans. While clearly unhappy with it, she didn’t seem to have the motivation, or possibly the courage, to push the issue much further. Instead, she sighed delicately and muttered, “Well…,” and left it at that.
Miss Mabelle didn’t seem bothered by our hostess’ rejection of her, but then she never is. “Ya sho’ have risin’ up them ranks as ya wanted.”
Lacinda remained reserved, watching the two of them closely. “Quite a bit has changed since we last met,” she remarked, emotionless, her seductive mannerisms gone entirely.
A slight pinch of Miss Mabelle’s lips told me that was an understatement, making me wonder when they had last spoken.
“Not everythin’ changed,” remarked Miss Celia. “You be lookin’ the same.”
“Fo’ sho,” added Miss Mabelle.
Their observation didn’t seem to be a compliment judging by their puckered brows.
“Well…once you’ve reached the level of ability I have, it’s quite easy to retain your youthful skin,” she replied offhandedly. “A lift here, a tug there. You understand….” Her eyes flitted back to our housekeepers to quickly assess them and deliver a cutting evaluation. “Hmm, no, I’m afraid you don’t.”
Jameson, appearing more offended than Miss Mabelle or Miss Celia, interrupted Lacinda harshly. “The truce, Surveyor.”
She had strolled behind the lounge where she had been sitting and was gently drifting her fingers over the fabric. “Now what did I say earlier,” she admonished, returning to the same softly teasing tone as before.
Jameson struggled to contain the irritation clearly rising in him. “Lacinda,” he uttered, with difficulty. “Do The Sevens want to discuss a truce or not?”
She paused and narrowed her eyes at him, feigning offense. “So testy…” But after a poised sigh escaped her, she added, “I suppose that is to be expected, however. A warrior is, by nature…rough.” The corner of her lips lifted at what seemed to be a tantalizing thought, and I had the urge to knock the expression off her face.
I must have released my own sigh of frustration, because Jameson’s hand took mine, intending to quell my anger.
While it worked with me, the sight of our hands together wiped the smug expression from Lacinda's face instantly.
“Yes,” she stated stiffly. “I have been called upon to negotiate the terms.”
She straightened her back, pushing her chest forward and tilting her chin up, as she made her way around to the front of the lounge. After sitting, crossing one leg over the other and folding her palms daintily over her raised knee, she began to speak, proper and unapologetic.
“A truce will be called upon if these conditions are met,” she stated. “Both Jameson and Jocelyn will surrender.”
I saw Jameson bristle, and I knew why. He had no intention of seeing me be given to The Sevens.
“Jocelyn will travel from province to province performing as a witch doctor. This will appease the masses and channel respect back to The Sevens. She will be heavily guarded by a selection of our Vires at all times and her schedule will be dictated strictly by the ministry.”
I considered asking about holidays, sick days, and health insurance, but refrained. Not only would my sarcasm not go over well, this wasn’t a job they were offering. It was a sentence to slavery.
“You, however, Jameson, have put us in a bit of a quandary. You’ve already begun uniting the provinces, placing The Sevens in a precarious position. But there is a place for you. If the person that united them switches sides, then the unity he led them by dissolves. So…” she said, relishing the idea, “…Jameson will become one of us.”
“No,” I blurted, my response driven entirely by emotion.
“Jocelyn-” he started to caution, but I cut him off.
“No, Jameson. I won’t allow it.”
Lacinda’s voice broke in, snide and without remorse. “I am not done.”
She drew our attention back to her, where I found her scowling at my interruption. Very slowly, a sneer formed, overpowering her delicate features and looking like a fairytale heroine gone wicked.
“Jameson and Jocelyn will never again see each other, living entirely separate lives choreographed by the will of The Sevens.”
As she said this, it dawned on me that this farce of a truce wasn’t only to get Jameson and me alone in the same place at the same time for an unexpected assault. It was to play with us, to make us a spectacle. But one can’t be made a spectacle without an audience, which meant…
Somewhere inside this house, were The Sevens.
“You’ve forgotten one crucial factor,” Jameson calmly stated. I wasn’t sure whether he’d come to the same conclusion about The Sevens proximity as I had, but he wasn’t showing it, either way.
“Which is?” prompted Lacinda.
“Our powers dissolve when Jocelyn and I are separated.”
This didn’t seem to come as a surprise to her. She simply hadn’t reached that point of the plan yet. “At which time, you will be of no more use to The Sevens.”
A year ago, when my innocence was still intact, I may have believed that The Sevens would simply let us go. But now I knew better. Those who were of no use to The Sevens ended up imprisoned or, more often, murdered.
“Wow, sounds like a deal we can’t refuse,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
“No,” Lacinda replied, smugly. “You can’t.”
“And in return?” asked Jameson, at which point I realized he was buying time, assessing the situation. The Sevens had no intention of giving us anything in return, and he knew it.
Lacinda played along, however, and replied, “Peace…there will be no war. Your prisoner army will return to the penal colonies from which they came; their punishments will remain unchanged. Those who have assisted you, your families included, will return to their homes and be given immunity in exchange for never discussing what they experienced. Simply put, life will return to normal.”
“That seems fair,” said Jameson blandly, managing to keep his disgust over this charade to himself.
“We think so.”
“When do these terms expire?”
She blinked as if she hadn’t thought of it.
Of course she hadn’t. She never expected the
truce to be fulfilled.
Her quick response showed how adept she was when facing a dilemma and why she was chosen for such a lofty role. “You have one day to appear at the ministry. If you fail to show up, this truce offer is null and void.”
Jameson lowered his head as he contemplated the offer. When he lifted it, he wore a steely expression. “I think we have your answer.”
“You do?” she said, intrigued. She wasn’t expecting it.
“Yes…you can tell The Sevens….” He paused, taking the time to grin back at her. “Why don’t I go ahead and tell them directly?” he offered casually, as if it were a foregone conclusion that he would.
Jameson stepped into the room, and Lacinda swiftly stood, sensing danger.
She seemed confused, bewildered by Jameson’s movement and his suggestion of speaking directly to The Sevens. She relaxed only once Jameson stopped moving.
His voice boomed then, across the room, and it was clear he was no longer speaking to Lacinda. “Peregrine…Hippocrates…Flavian….”
Bookcases began to rotate, trap doors lifted the rugs that were hiding them, and panels in the walls spun to reveal hidden corridors. As black uniforms – all of them pinned with moldavite stones - flooded into the room, Jameson continued, unflinchingly.
He did know The Sevens were here, listening. I bet he expected it even before we arrived.
“Sisera…Caligula…Diomed…Sartorius.”
Jameson fell silent, punctuating a very still room. And we waited.
Then a door to our left opened and, from it, seven individuals filtered out…the very same ones who had sat on thrones at the ministry.
Strangely enough, I felt relieved. I had left The Rope of The Sevens at the village, and therefore, it was inaccessible to them. My next thought was that standing before us now were The Sevens, the individuals who had subjugated our secret world and now intended to do the same with the rest of humankind.
I scanned them, one by one, recognizing them all. Peregrine wore the same white robe and Sartorius was dressed in his standard, custom-tailored business suit, his cane with its robust moldavite stone resting easily at his side. The remainder of them wore their chosen style, ranging from a kimono to a turban headdress. Strangely, the only similarity between them was their pasty-white, translucent skin.
I moved up beside Jameson, not willing to let him face them alone. From behind, the rustle of cloth told me that our housekeepers were staying close, too.
“So,” Peregrine began, “this is the girl who will take your life.”
I opened my mouth to retaliate with furious words of rejection, ones that would certainly have escalated the situation. But Jameson’s hand reached out and squeezed mine.
“We accept your offer under one condition,” Jameson stated coolly.
“Bow,” Peregrine commanded in a growl.
Ignoring him, Jameson carried on with his answer. “We will say goodbye to our families. When that condition is fulfilled, your side of the truce will then be honored.”
Peregrine didn’t take Jameson’s rebelliousness well, becoming so heated that his sagging cheeks turned ruby red. Yet, he didn’t repeat his order. Instead, he made a gesture to the Vire closest to Jameson and the man strode toward us. But he didn’t make it very far.
A commotion erupted around us then, drawing my attention to the windows and the door leading to the entryway. I was only vaguely aware that Jameson remained absolutely still, never once cowering from it, not even with glass shattering and flying through the air or with the footsteps crunching the glass and rattling the house around us.
Suddenly, the room filled with more black figures, although these intruders wore cloaks. From beneath the dark shadow of their hoods, I recognized Eli, the defectors, and Theleo, who came to stand between Jameson and the Vire who Peregrine had summoned. Each defector paired with a Vire, increasing the tension in the room to an almost unbearable level.
The Sevens showed no reaction to the arrival of our defenses other than weary irritation, and they gave no credence to the Vires who had turned on them. I determined this was because they had so many more at their disposal.
It seemed like both parties understood that the truce meeting was now a provisional ceasefire.
“Why now, Peregrine?” asked Jameson, breaking the silence. “Why call a truce now?”
“You don’t honestly believe our terms would have been met.” Peregrine seemed astonished that Jameson would believe it himself.
“Not for a second,” confirmed Jameson. “But your truce was elaborately detailed. Why?” He shrugged. “You would have found us just as entertaining without having offered one so well planned. Why now?” he pressed, his stare never leaving Peregrine.
Peregrine’s swollen lips lifted in a reflective grin, emanating confidence as if he was formulating a powerful move in a strategic game. “You haven’t found Kalisha yet, have you?”
My body froze at this statement, with a single thought moving across my consciousness: He knows we are piecing together the records.
Peregrine went on without waiting for an answer. “If you had, you would have reached your allies before we did.”
Allies? I thought and then remembered the record Cornelia had recounted. She had mentioned an ally.
“We no longer need a truce,” concluded Peregrine. He stood waiting for a response, his grin twisting into an obnoxious sneer.
Quickly understanding his insinuations, I realized they had planned on some form of a treaty, albeit a very likely bogus one, which had since been discarded. They no longer needed it because they had something else of greater value…
“You have our allies,” Jameson repeated in a low snarl.
“How does that taste in your mouth?” taunted Peregrine. “About as bitter as our pursuit of you has been, I imagine.” He leaned forward, intending to ridicule Jameson further. “And now we have you, too.”
“No,” Jameson replied calmly. “You don’t.”
As the last word left his lips, Jameson swung open his cloak and withdrew a dagger, slicing it through the air and holding it against Peregrine’s neck.
It had been so swift that no one had time to react.
“Your Vires and the other Sevens will leave the room now,” Jameson instructed, his voice even and confident. “Once they are gone, we will leave. At that time, I will decide whether to end your life…or spare it.” And then it was Jameson who leaned in with a taunt. “You see, Peregrine. You do not have us. You will never have us.”
“Oh, yes,” Peregrine hissed, before jeering at him. “We will.”
Then Peregrine’s hand swept up and reached the handle of the blade. I wasn’t immediately certain of what came next, whether Jameson had pulled it across Peregrine’s throat or Peregrine had done it himself. It wasn't until I saw the blood spilling from the jagged, cavernous wound, flowing down the white robe covering Peregrine’s chest, that I knew for certain. Because it was at that moment, as the fear should have entered the man’s eyes and life should have been departing his body, that Peregrine’s grin deepened. He then tossed his head back and released a howl of laughter.
From this reaction alone, I knew…It had been both of them who drew the blade across his throat.
The room became a battleground then, an ominous swirl of black, miserable shrieks of pain, and a whirling tornado of bodies, glass and wood.
Peregrine reached for Jameson’s throat with a fanatical craziness unlike anything I had ever seen before; but his fingers clutched at empty air.
Jameson had already maneuvered away from him, taking hold of my waist in a steely grip, and heaving me up off my feet. He carried me through the maelstrom, ducking and weaving through explosions of fire and shattering furniture. Either the Vires or The Sevens, or both, were using their abilities to stop us, but we reached the door to the entryway just as Miss Mabelle’s voice screamed over the commotion.
“Incantatio cohibere!"
Cohibere…My mind raced as every
Vire was slammed suddenly against the wall, some shattering on impact. Cohibere - I finally recalled – translated to restrain.
I was then bombarded with realization: Our attackers were now pressed to the walls surrounding us, a foot or more above the ground; I’d never heard Miss Mabelle use an incantation before; and she had her cane pointed at the ceiling and was drawing a slow, meticulous circle around the room with it.
Jameson only released me after he understood what had happened.
Miss Mabelle had singlehandedly conquered the Vires.
The Sevens, however, were nowhere in sight.
The defectors removed themselves from the grip of the Vire holding them and moved to the doorway where Jameson and I stood, skirting our housekeepers on the way.
Once they were safely gathered at the exit, Miss Mabelle and Miss Celia could have joined us. The Vires were restrained, probably better than expected. But they didn’t. It seemed they had unfinished business.
In unison, as a small army of two, they marched across the room where a single salmon-colored dress was compressed over the fireplace.
Lacinda stared down at them, dread etched across her genteel features.
“I came to you for your help,” she whispered.
Miss Celia tipped her head back so that Lacinda wouldn’t miss a word she said. ““Ya used two innocent lil’ girls fer yer own purpose.”
Miss Mabelle went on to correct Lacinda further. “Ya told us it was a obligation. Came right inta Celia’s house n’ told us it.”
Lacinda swallowed and the courage in her ebbed.
“Didn’t give us any choice.” Miss Celia shook her head in recollection. “No choice at all.”
Lacinda had apparently heard enough. “I made you the best Voodoo priestess in the world,” she hissed. “A simple ‘thank you’ would be fine.”
Jameson glanced at me then, and I knew he had come to the same realization as me…This woman, Lacinda, had convinced our housekeepers to become Voodoo priestesses and intercede in our lives. But I couldn’t understand why until Miss Mabelle spoke again.
“The joke be on you, Lacinda.” She defiantly jutted out her chin before leaning in to deliver the final blow. “We didn’t become da’ best Voodoo priestesses in da’ world ta serve yer agenda. We did it…to stop it.”
