Flipping onto her back, she propped her head on a pillow and forced her thoughts away from the man she’d like to have here beside her. Sybilla’s words kept flooding her mind. Had her magic really begun to strengthen at Belle Chene?
She was almost afraid to try. But then, magic not used was magic lost. The tale making the rounds of her circle of friends last year had been about a powerful witch who’d given up her witchcraft to marry a mortal man four years previously--a man who couldn’t bring himself to accept her magic. The man died in an accident a few years after they were wed, and when the witch attended a ceremony after his death, her magic wouldn’t even light the candles on the altar.
Of course, the witch’s magic would return with time and practice. But Wendi needed her magic to be as strong as possible now, in order to take advantage of every bit of time she had left before she was forced to leave Belle Chene. She held her hand up, holding her breath as she gazed around the room. Pointing a finger at a candle on the mantel, she barely whispered the incantation before a flame sprang up on the wick. Continuing to lie quietly on the bed, she lit the other three candles, then snuffed them out.
Scratching sounded in the corner of the room, and a tiny mouse scurried around a small hole in the baseboard, as though afraid to get too far from safety. It eyed the doorway into the hall, then sat up on its haunches and glanced at where Wendi lay, whiskers twitching in excitement and anticipation.
A second later, a sleek panther paced the room, and Wendi gaped in astonishment. She changed mice into a small cat before when she practiced her magic, but never a wonderful creation like this. Silky, shining and black, the panther stalked back and forth beneath the window for a few seconds, tail coiling and whipping behind it. Then it sat down and threw back its head, opening its mouth and preparing to announce its new-found form to the world.
Wendi hurriedly reversed her spell to squelch the roar before the sound drew the entire Belle Chene population to investigate. The mouse scurried off, racing past the bed and into the hallway just as a crash by the armoire on the other side of the bed jerked Wendi’s attention to it. She sat up in surprise as Lucian picked himself off the floor, cheeks flooded with embarrassment and eyes wide with fear. The child had been hiding in the armoire, probably with the door cracked to peer out at her.
“I--I--” was all Lucian could say. After quickly looking at Wendi, he stared around the foot of the bed, at the far corner where the mouse/panther had paced. Then he followed the path the mouse had taken out the door with his gaze.
“Where did it go?” he asked in an awestruck voice.
“What?” Wendi asked, feigning puzzlement and trying to maintain her poise. Hopefully, Lucian would think he’d fallen asleep and dreamed the scene. “And what were you doing in the armoire spying on me?”
Lucian faced her defiantly. “You practice magic. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched.”
“You’re wrong, Lucian--”
“No! No, I’m not!” He clenched his fists at his side. “I’m not a liar!”
Wendi scooted to the edge of the bed.
“Lucian--”
But when she held her hand out, he screamed and raised his hands as though to ward her off. Then he raced from the room, his bare feet slapping across the floor and down the hall, down the rear stairwell.
Forgetting the height of the bed, Wendi jumped from it, twisting her ankle when she carelessly hit the floor. Pain stabbed her, and she fell in a crumbled heap. The rear veranda door slammed shut with a resounding thud, and she scrambled to her feet, limping over to the bedroom window facing the gardens in time to see Lucian disappear through the back gate. Instead of heading toward the barn, he ran toward a patch of woods on one of the few undeveloped areas of Belle Chene--the same area where she and Sybilla had tried to work their spell the previous night.
Testing her ankle, she found the pain bearable. It was only a slight sprain and would probably heal quickly. She chewed her bottom lip for a second, trying to decide whether to go after Lucian or wait until she saw him again. Knowing the damage the boy could cause if he spread the tale of what he’d just seen around the plantation, she realized she had no choice.
She couldn’t fly after him in the daytime. While she had at times been able to perfect the flying spell, it didn’t include the ability to make herself invisible at the same time. All she’d need would be for one of the workers to look up and see her in the sky! She wouldn’t have to find her own way back to New Orleans. Nick would throw her all the way.
A couple minutes later, she slipped into the woods after Lucian. Hopefully, the boy was too upset to do more than follow the path through the brush and trees. Suddenly she stopped beneath a huge oak and frowned, recalling the pattern of magnolia leaves she’d seen beside Lucian on the porch.
How could she have forgotten? She and Sybilla had considered that Lucian himself might have some magical powers, but neither of them had had time to follow up the possibility. If he did--
But he couldn’t have. Surely Sybilla would have mentioned it if she thought his mother, Cecile, had magical powers. And it went beyond the realm of possibility for Nick’s uncle, supposedly the boy’s father, to be a warlock.
Shaking off the contemplations that could reach no logical conclusion without further investigation, Wendi closed her eyes and concentrated. It took only a second before she tuned into the confused thoughts of the boy. He didn’t appear to be still moving. Instead, his thoughts were centered on one certain area. Almost as though she were looking through his eyes, she saw a shaded spot beside a pond, smelled a pleasant dampness in the air unconnected to the ever-present humidity.
Opening her eyes, she walked on into the woods. There had been a pond close to where they’d attempted the thwarted ceremony. She followed the path, pausing at a fork in the trail. It looked different in the daytime. She closed her eyes again, attempting to connect with Lucian’s mind and see which way to go.
The world exploded into brilliant stars, then blackness.
#
Nick swept up the last tiny piece of china plate, threw the broom in the corner, then limped over and tossed the dregs on the dustpan into a waste tin. Grabbing a wet dishtowel out of the sink to wipe up the tomatoes from the floor, he went back over to the spill.
The scorched smell lingered in the air even now, after he’d scrounged enough food to at least curb a portion of his hunger. While he’d stared furiously and futilely after Wendi, the ham had burned, the potatoes had boiled dry and charred, and the succotash had overcooked into hard kernels of corn and stringy green beans. Fortunately for his stomach, unused to missing a meal, he’d found a loaf of bread on the windowsill and one lonely slice of edible ham.
When he straightened after wiping the floor, two brown, soulful eyes gazed at him from the other side of the screen door.
“Horses eat hay,” he told the puppy, which had been his stallion the day before. “But I suppose it’s not your fault you’re a dog now.”
He got the skillet from the stove and carried it out onto the porch. He’d put both the hound and the pup out when the pup kept jumping up onto one of the chairs, then the table, reaching for his food. The darned animal had behaved and obeyed better when it was a horse!
He didn’t see the hound anywhere, and he set the skillet down and let the pup have at it. Someone else could worry about washing it later, perhaps Cecile.
He couldn’t believe the woman hadn’t come down when she smelled the food burning. Even Lucian hadn’t been able to get his mother to leave her room, and according to the boy, he’d been trying ever since the day after the funeral. Nick had left the business of comforting Cecile and also caring for the household chores to the women, but it didn’t appear there were any women left now to handle either of them. He supposed he should go see what sort of shape Cecile was in.
The hound bounded onto the porch, barking wildly. Mistaking the dog’s fury for an attack, Nick threw up an arm, but the hound raced back off the
porch, then turned around. It bounded onto the porch again, gripped one of Nick’s trouser legs in its teeth and pulled, toenails scrabbling on the wooden floor. The material ripped, and the dog sat down with a thump, a piece of cloth dangling between its teeth.
The cloth fell to the floor when the dog opened its mouth, threw back its head and howled wildly. The sound tore through Nick with a wrench, and Wendi’s name filled his mind.
Something had happened to her. He knew it with an irrefutable certainty he could not ignore. He hadn’t paid any attention to where she’d gone after they fought, but she was in danger now.
“Go!” he ordered the hound, flinging out an arm.
The hound obeyed, heading for the patch of woods behind the kitchen house. Nick followed as fast as he could, never more disgusted with his disability than at that moment. When he tried to run, his toe caught on a stone in the trail. Stumbling, he crashed forward into a tree trunk, his shoulder hitting so hard it split the bark. Cursing his clumsiness, he gritted his teeth and staggered on down the trail, one hand on his injured shoulder, the other massaging his leg.
The hound raced ahead, and each time Nick thought he’d lost sight of it, it appeared again to lead him onward. Nick knew the area, as he knew every square inch of Belle Chene’s four thousand acres. Hopefully, the hound would wait at the fork up ahead until he caught him again. Otherwise, he doubted he’d be able to follow its footprints in the spongy dead leaves littering the trail.
He didn’t need to. Around the bend, where he could see the fork in the trail, he also saw Wendi. She lay on her back, but with her head turned away from him. Incongruously, she looked as though she were asleep on the trail, beneath a dancing pattern of sunlight filtering through the leaves. The serene scene heightened Nick’s dread.
The hound bounded forward and stood over her, washing the side of her face with its tongue. When it looked back at Nick, it whined deep in its throat and wagged its bushy tail.
As soon as he reached Wendi’s side, Nick went to his knees. He reached out a hand, then drew it back. Afraid. He was so damned afraid he’d turn her over and her sightless, dead face would stare back at him. He was too distraught to try to see if she were still breathing.
One other time he’d seen a woman lying like this. Only he’d been lying beside her, not kneeling over her. When he’d opened his eyes, for a brief instant all he’d seen had been a strange, bloody grin staring back at him before he realized he was looking at Sabine Chastain’s gaping, slit throat.
He gagged, pushing himself backward on the dirt floor--away from the horrible sight. Vomit spewed between his fingers, leaving a smelly path in the wake of his body. He came up against the barn wall with a thud, managing to gain his knees with its support, but knowing if he tried to stand, he’d lose the battle.
Turning his head, he emptied the rest of his stomach, the vileness of the gall giving him dry heaves for long, tortured minutes, which seemed like hours. When he finally gained control, he couldn’t bring himself to turn his head back toward the body.
And it had to be a body. She couldn’t conceivably still be alive with a wound like that. Yet could it be possible?
Reaching deep down inside him to a place where he didn’t ever realize he had stored strength, Nick slowly turned his head.
Blood. There was blood everywhere. It covered the front of her, her breasts, her stomach, even her skirt. It had soaked into the ground, leaving a spongy and slick wide circle in the dirt. Turning the dust a sickening rusty color.
The smell. Oh, God, the smell. He’d cleaned animals he’d killed before, and helped butcher hogs on the plantation. But their blood had never smelled like this. Maybe it was because there was so much of it, but then, even the deer he helped butcher weren’t any smaller than Sabine. And they didn’t give off this metallic odor, this nauseating, almost sweet sourness.
He forced his gaze to her face. Her head lay back at a sharp angle from the rest of her body, and a glance showed him her spinal cord had been severed. More than likely, she hadn’t suffered then. At least he had that much.
But. . . had he killed her? Or had--he shook his head. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even follow the thought to a conclusion. Had there been anyone else in the barn? Or was he falsely recalling another voice, hoping there had been. Otherwise, there was no doubt who had done the deed.
Nick threw back his head, covering his face and howling in pain. Emotional pain, a much deeper, slashing pain than physical pain. Finally realizing he had to look at Wendi, he took a deep, hollow breath and dropped his hands.
The hound growled viciously. It sprang, right at Nick, and he jerked in reaction, tumbling to the ground when the hound’s body hit him. The animal leapt on past him, though, heading into the woods. Brush crackled, but it could have been the hound instead of whatever it was chasing. Or whoever.
Wendi moaned, catching his attention and filling him with relief.
He rose to his knees again and gently touched her shoulder, cupping her chin and turning her head toward him. He couldn’t stop himself from examining her throat, releasing a sob when he saw it smooth and clear. Her head lolled, but her eyes flickered open, then closed. She was alive.
But how badly was she hurt?
“Wendi?” he said anxiously.
She didn’t respond. God, he needed help. His damaged body wouldn’t permit him to carry her all the way back to Belle Chene by himself. Cursing his weakness once again, he brushed a silky strawberry tress from her cheek, seeing the discoloration the curl had helped hide.
He bent forward and examined her more closely. The opposite side of her head was stained with blood, encrusted with dirt and leaves. Someone had hit her with something heavy, which had injured but not killed her.
Which had the attacker meant to happen?
But now wasn’t the time for questions. Now he had to get Wendi back to Belle Chene and send for a doctor.
From the opposite fork from the direction the hound had taken, Nick heard a sound. His head sprang up alertly, and he staggered to his feet, prepared to protect Wendi if necessary. He hadn’t brought a weapon, except for the pocketknife he carried for small chores now and then. Taking it from his trouser pocket, his snicked the blade open.
Lucian came into sight, his face wet with sweat and etched with concern. He hurried over to Nick while Nick closed the knife blade.
“I knew she was hurt,” Lucian said with a frown. “I don’t know how, but I knew it.”
“Thank God you’re here,” Nick said. They could discuss anything else later. “Get back to Belle Chene and fetch a wagon from the stables. Bring some blankets, too, and tell your mother she has to come with you. If she doesn’t, tell her I’ll wring her neck when I get back, because Wendi needs her right now. She’s been injured badly.”
Lucian started off, but Nick grabbed his arm. “And tell one of the stable hands to find Julian and have him send someone into New Orleans for a physician. Someone who’s able to handle the fastest horse we have.”
“Yes, sir,” Lucian replied.
A second later, he disappeared down the trail, and the hound emerged from the woods. Nick ignored him, kneeling beside Wendi again and taking off his shirt. He gently lifted her head and cushioned it with the shirt, then stared helplessly at her. There was absolutely nothing else he could do until help arrived. She moaned again, moving her head from side to side, and he carefully cupped her chin once more to still it.
“Shhhhh, Wendi,” he soothed. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t let anything else happen to you. Help’s on the way.”
He didn’t know whether she lost consciousness or his words soothed her, but she stilled. The hound walked over to the other side of her and sat down, whining in its throat and drawing Nick’s attention. Reaching out, he snared a piece of white cloth caught on a burr in the dog’s coat.
He rubbed the cloth between his fingers. Coarse, it felt like the material used to sew every-day shirts, the ones the plantation own
ers and their sons wore when supervising the various chores on the plantation. He spread it out on his palm, noticing the irregular shape. Evidently the hound had caught part of the shirt of whomever it had chased in the woods, proving the noise had been made by a human.
And proving it had to be someone of the upper class. None of the workers wore white shirts. If they wore any at all, they were blue broadcloth.
Wendi moaned again, and Nick stuffed the piece of material into his pocket. He didn’t dare pick Wendi up, as he longed to do, fearing he would do more damage. But God, how he wanted to pull her into his arms and comfort her. He satisfied himself with lifting her hand and holding it for the seemingly unending period of time it took before he heard the wagon coming down the trail.
When he glanced over his shoulder, he was half thankful, half worried to see Cecile beside Lucian on the seat. The woman looked as ravaged as though it had been her injured instead of Wendi.
Chapter 18
“I don’t give a good goddamn what people think!” Nick roared at Cecile in the hallway. Glancing through the open door to where Wendi lay on the bed, with the doctor examining her, he lowered his voice. “I still own this damned plantation, and my word is law. I want a cot set up in that room beside the bed, and I’ll be staying in there until Wendi wakes up. If there’s one available, get one of the workers’ wives who knows something about nursing to come and stay with her, also.”
“I doubt very much any of the women on the plantation will agree to nurse Wendi if you continue to stay in the room, Nick,” Cecile said. “For heaven’s sake, think of propriety. Think what you’re doing.”
“Propriety be damned. I’ll care for her myself if no one else will.” No way in hell was he going to leave her until she came to. Until he could tell her what he could barely make himself believe. How he felt as soon as he saw her lying injured and as pale as death on the trail.
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