Spellbound

by Trana Mae Simmons

  And her petite but voluptuous body could have belonged to the dead body he remembered.

  Oh, he’d had time now to realize who she was. Sabine’s daughter. She could be no one else.

  Nick opened his eyes and stared at the portrait he’d caught sight of as he made his pain-fogged way to the sideboard. He’d avoided acknowledging it since he entered the library, but he knew damned well who that was, too. Sabine herself.

  Where the hell had the portrait come from? Had those spiritual Fates moved it here from some unknown dimension? It hadn’t been here when he left ten years ago, and he probably should get up right now and burn it. It taunted him, as she had in real life.

  He tilted the brandy bottle at it.

  “Sabine,” he whispered in a mocking voice.

  Sabine. The woman at the dock, her daughter, could be her twin at that age. He would never forget the tint in those blue eyes or the look of that silky, tousled hair. Or that drop-at-my-feet-fool beauty, which had entrapped his father and resulted in his mother’s broken heart--her death. The last time he had seen the girl’s mother, though, Sabine had been lying in a pool of blood at his feet, dead beyond a doubt, her blue eyes closed forever.

  He didn’t remember the girl’s name, but he damned sure remembered her mother’s name. Sabine. Such a parody on the martyr St. Sabine of church history.

  “Sabine.” He sneered at the portrait, lifting the brandy bottle in a caustic salute once more. “Sabine. Bitch. Whore. Adulteress. Witch.” The last word stretched out in a snake-like hiss.

  Her curse had proven true. He could still hear her words ringing in his memory. Hidden in the stable at Belle Chene plantation, miles from this St. Charles mansion his mother occupied, he had listened to the curse his father’s mistress screamed. Then he’d drawn his knife from his boot and stepped out from the shadows to confront the woman who had caused his mother so much pain--and confront the man with her, whose voice was obviously disguised.

  When he next remembered anything, he woke up beside Sabine’s dead body. Heard footsteps approaching and scrambled to his feet and into the dark recesses of the barn again. A moment later, he watched his father bow his head over Sabine’s dead body, keening and sobbing desperately, and realized he held a blood-stained knife in his hand.

  He had sense enough to drop the knife before he stepped out to confront his father, pretend later the real killer had dropped it. But someone had spread the rumor that it was Nick who possibly killed Sabine, although nothing could be proven. That, on top of the exposure of Sabine as Dominic Bardou’s mistress, had driven his mother to suicide.

  He curled his lip in a savage grin. The curse didn’t matter any longer, even though he’d never forgotten the words. Nick had no desire to bring children into a world so filled with pain.

  “Sabine,” he whispered, unable to keep from repeating the name. “Have you returned in the form of your very sensual daughter to taunt another Bardou male?”

  He knew where she lived, if she still lived there, which she probably did. He’d been to more than one of the whorehouses on Canal Street, and he’d actually seen the house more than once--had it pointed out to him by a friend as drunk as he was the first time, and been unable to ignore it whenever his path took him close to it after that.

  If I co’ld find me a piece as pretty as the one your father keeps over there, his friend had slurred that initial time, I’d set her up and keep her for myself. Wouldn’t have to worry ‘bout who’d been in the bed before me. Whether this is the time I’d walk out with the pox--or somethin’ worse.

  He could go outside right now. Saddle up the stallion Justin had left in the barn. Be there in fifteen minutes of a painful ride, given the way his leg hated to be astride a horse.

  But Miz Thibedeau had mentioned going to the bayou stand, and the stand wasn’t far from the house. Besides, he’d pay for it for days if he rode a horse instead of using a buggy. But he didn’t feel much pain right now.

  He glanced at the brandy decanter. Hadn’t it been nearly full when he started? A good half of it was gone now.

  He took another long swallow, set the decanter on the floor, then lurched to his feet. He started out of the room, then paused and looked back at the bottle. Even through his clouded mind, he knew what sort of nagging he would have to put up with if Miz Thibedeau came back and found that bottle on the shining floor.

  Using the cane, he staggered back to the chair. He had to sit down to be able to reach the bottle, and it took everything he could find in his reserve strength to get back to his feet. He stepped toward the sideboard, then glanced down at the bottle with a speculative look.

  He could feel the eyes in the portrait on his back. His skin crawled, as though a hundred spiders crept across his shirt. Turning, he slung the bottle at the portrait.

  Chapter 3

  By the Goddess, when Aunt Sybilla gets back, I’m going to sit her down until she talks to me, even if it means pitting my own magic against hers!

  Fuming, Wendi paced around the kitchen. How dare Aunt Sybilla act like she had at the docks--make the remark she had at the path to Stefan’s--then escape to visit a friend with that ragged hound that followed her nearly everywhere before explaining anything. She’d been gone over an hour, and just a few minutes ago, not one, but three customers arrived on the porch.

  She finished the tomato she’d taken from her shopping bag, wiping at a bit of juice sliding down her chin. Salted, it was palatable, and at least it kept the hunger pangs in her stomach from being audible. It would have been much more satisfying sliced and between two pieces of bread, but there wasn’t a scrap of bread in the breadbox.

  She glanced at the uncut vinegar-laced sweet potato pie and shivered. She wasn’t that hungry yet.

  After washing her hands and smoothing her skirt, she turned toward the doorway leading into the parlor. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she called on the spirits to help her make the readings she was about to give accurate. Accurate readings brought repeat customers, but she felt bound beyond that. She genuinely wanted to help her customers, who sometimes became her friends.

  She and Aunt Sybilla had far too few friends in this town, due partly to their practice of witchcraft--partly to the old scandal. Neither of them could possibly give up their witchcraft, and nothing could be done about the scandal now. It was ten years past.

  They performed their readings in the parlor and kept that room as bright and cheery as the rest of the house. Funny how some people walked into it the first time and stared in confusion. She’d finally asked one of her repeat customers why she’d acted so strangely the first visit, and the customer explained:

  “I expected a dark, dreary place, and for you to come out from behind a beaded curtain in a cloud of smoke. Instead I found a bright and sunny room, filled with plants and frilly white curtains on the open windows. The only thing to remind me I’d come to a witch’s house was the smell of incense burning.”

  “The humidity makes the house dank at times, so we like to burn some jasmine scented incense, which we make ourselves,” Wendi had told her. “And the spirits like brightness and cheeriness, too. At least, ours do.”

  Shaking her head as she remembered how the woman’s eyes had widened at her casual familiarity with their guiding spirits, Wendi walked into the parlor find Cherie Bonheur standing at the reading table. The other two women would be waiting on the porch, probably sitting behind the rush shade hanging down one side. None of her customers would sit out in plain sight at a witch’s house. Once inside, they could be friends, but not in public.

  “Hello, Cherie,” Wendi greeted. “Are you here to ask about your coming little one?”

  “Oh!” Cherie’s eyes rounded. “You could tell I was with child just by looking at me? But that shouldn’t surprise me, I guess.”

  Wendi laughed. “Either by that or by your enfant gown and lack of corset. I’m so glad to see you’re one of those women who agrees you shouldn’t subject your body to a corset whe
n you’re with child. They’re torture enough the rest of the time.”

  Cherie blushed a becoming pink. “It’s Henri, as much as me. He wants this child so badly. He doesn’t care whether it’s a boy or girl, but I’d like so much to please him and present him with an heir the first time. Then I can have my girl next.”

  With the door open, Wendi easily heard the sound of a horse stopping at her gate. She started to look out and see who it was, but no doubt the new customer would join the others waiting on the porch, and Cherie deserved her attention at the moment. Darn Aunt Sybilla for not getting back to be courteous to the waiting customers or help with the readings.

  “Well, sit down and let’s see what we can find out,” she told the young woman across the table, married barely six months and already excited about her first child.

  A set of heavy footsteps climbed the porch steps, and Wendi frowned. Either her new customer was a man, or an elderly lady was being helped onto the porch by her footman, since the footsteps had a strange cadence. She hesitated for a moment, but as she anticipated, whoever it was didn’t enter the door. She could have tuned in her psychic senses to see who it was, but she guessed it didn’t matter.

  Shrugging, Wendi sat across from Cherie and took her scrying speculum from the shelf beside the table. At times her customers wanted card readings; at other times they were fascinated with what she saw in the speculum for them. She’d found her speculum

  --an old, glass fisherman’s lure--while walking along the beach one day. When it had information to impart, it glowed with just enough light to fascinate her customers.

  It didn’t disappoint Cherie today. Wendi cupped the lure and murmured a request. The glow began immediately, and within the circle of light, Wendi saw a tiny child laughing and playing with his father. The short knee pants gave her the sex of the child.

  “It will be a boy,” she told Cherie, who clapped her hands in delight. “Uh--” Another tiny child ran into the circle of light inside the lure. “And a girl.”

  Cherie covered her mouth with her hands briefly, then dropped them. “Twins?” she whispered. “Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised. My grandmere was a twin.”

  Wendi peered closer at the speculum, hoping against hope what she wasn’t seeing was a trick of the light. But no matter how hard she looked, she didn’t see Cherie in the picture. And when Henri turned his face so she could study it, she read the sadness there.

  Her heart lurched. She hated this part of her abilities. She could never tell beforehand whether the future would be good or bad for her clients. She also never told them the bad news, unless they somehow sensed it themselves and demanded to know. Today, Cherie’s delight didn’t allow for any misgivings.

  She stood quickly and said, “I must tell Mama. We’ll have to surprise Henri in six months, though, because he wouldn’t like me coming here to--”

  She caught her bottom lip between here teeth briefly, then glanced away from Wendi. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--”

  “It’s all right, Cherie,” Wendi assured her. “Just be happy with your Henri while you wait for your precious babies to be born.”

  “I will,” Cherie said. “Thank you so much.”

  She took a coin from her reticule and laid it on the table before she turned and hurried onto the porch. Wendi thought for sure she would hear Cherie tell the other women out there about her coming twins, but Cherie’s steps hesitated for only a second. Then she went on down the steps.

  Madame Burneau came in the door next, frowning over her shoulder toward the porch before she took the seat across from Wendi. Wendi started to ask her who else was waiting, then didn’t. She’d learned the first time she did a reading that her customers at times played a game of not recognizing each other.

  “How are you today, Madame Burneau?” she asked the older woman.

  “Restless,” Madame Burneau replied. “My Thomas has been dead now for over three years, Wendi, and my bed’s awfully lonely. Why is it society thinks only men have itches that need scratched?”

  Wendi blushed, and Madame threw back her head, laughing so uproariously the waiting customers were sure to hear. Her double chin quivered with merriment, and Wendi couldn’t keep from joining her. At last Madame wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and studied Wendi shrewdly.

  “You aren’t exactly a stranger to relationships, my dear,” she said. “Why, one of my dear cousin’s sons was courting you for a while, if I recall. You would have made a delicious addition to our family circle, and he still won’t tell his mother why he dropped the courtship. And there was another man--”

  “Did you want a card reading or wish me to use the scrying speculum?” Wendi interrupted firmly. She didn’t need those old wounds opened, even by a customer she enjoyed as much as Madame Burneau. One of the two men in her past had already left behind irreparable damage.

  Madame agreeably allowed the focus to return to her own visit. “The cards, if you will, Wendi. They appear to give more accurate timeframe readings than the speculum. And I do want to know how long it will be before I can end this frustration over the dreams I have at night that leave me drooling in the morning

  --and aching for a man’s arms around me.”

  Wendi shook her head tolerantly and reached for the cards on the shelf. She handled them reverently, as they were a legacy, owned by no one, but there to serve any woman in the line with the gift for prophecy. She took her time with Madame, knowing there would be a huge tip at the end of the reading, but vastly interested herself in the congenial woman’s future. Madame had been devastated when her Thomas died so suddenly in the carriage accident, but had been satisfied when Sybilla contacted the man at a seance and told Madame that he indeed was at peace.

  Twenty minutes later, Madame left, content she would find another husband within the year. The next customer was someone new to Wendi, and she realized immediately why the young woman had come. Beautiful in an angelic way, there was something sad and heart-tugging about her. Wendi smiled at her, but let her mind’s eye pick up the woman’s aura as she introduced herself as Anna Martinique.

  Deep blue, her aura indicated a desperate need for healing. Although at times this color aura could mean a physical problem, Wendi sensed both physical and emotional needs in Anna. The large, vivid birthmark marring the entire side of her left cheek accounted for both needs. She could only imagine what the poor young woman had gone through thus far in her life, with the birthmark ruining her beauty.

  “They tell me it’s from the veil over my face when I was born,” Anna whispered after she sat. “And that the veil was because my mother looked someone with the evil eye in the face while she carried me.” She lifted her gaze, desperation swimming in the azure pools of her eyes and her hands twisting together on the tabletop. “Can you take it away? Oh, can you? If you can’t, I truly fear I will not be able to keep from taking my own life. I cannot live with this even one more day.”

  “I can take it away,” Wendi assured her, and Anna’s joy was palpable. “But it will take me a little time here today. And I need you to sit quietly while I study you for a few moments first. Also, I will need you to answer any questions I ask you truthfully.”

  “Anything,” Anna said. “Anything.” Then she fell quiet, her face lit with anticipation.

  Wendi studied her, allowing her intuitiveness full rein. She saw much sadness in Anna, as the aura and her initial mood indicated, but there were sparks of something else in the young woman’s life.

  “There’s someone who doesn’t seem to care that your face is marred,” Wendi murmured. “Who is he?”

  “He’s the reason I’m here,” Anna answered in an honest tone. “John. He’s a friend of my brother’s. He says it doesn’t matter--that he loves me for who I am, not what I look like. But he’s so handsome and so gentle and kind. He deserves a wife he can be proud to have on his arm.”

  Wendi smiled as a picture of John formed in her mind. He was slight of stature and would go bald early.
But his eyes were deep brown and comforting, his manner outgoing yet caring toward others. He loved Anna with the deep, abiding love of two soulmates finding each other after many previous star-crossed lives.

  Yes, her magic would be aided by the spirits here today. The Fates meant for Anna to finally have her happy life.

  “Wait here,” she said. She went into the kitchen, hoping Aunt Sybilla hadn’t taken out the garbage. She hadn’t. Digging in the paper sack, she found the dried-up lemon she’d tossed in there that morning. Closing her hand around it, she shut her eyes.

  “Goddess and god, set my magic free.

  Do it for Anna, not for me.

  So mote it be.”

  All right, so she wasn’t a poet, she thought not for the first time. But the spirits knew her heart was true and that she deeply desired to use her magic to help the people who came to her.

  She opened her eyes, found a knife and split the lemon in half. Squeezing the juice into a bowl, she then took the baking powder from a shelf and mixed a tablespoonful with the lemon. Closing her eyes again, she called upon the spirits once more, then wet a washcloth under the pump and wrung it out. Carrying the bowl and washcloth, she returned to the parlor.

  “I want to put this on your face, Anna. Please stand up and close your eyes.”

  Anna complied, and Wendi murmured further praise to the spirits and pleas for assistance as she dipped her finger over and over again into the paste and gently wiped it on Anna’s face. The spirits liked to be catered to and shown respect for their powers, she reminded herself, recalling Aunt Sybilla’s training. She continued to whisper incantations and praise until the birthmark was completely covered.

  “It’s tingling!” Anna gasped as the paste covered the last tiny spot. “Oh, it feels . . . strange.”