by Alys Arden
CHAPTER 27
Murder by Proxy
Isaac and I practically had to give ourselves sink baths to wash off our soot-covered limbs and faces. We probably snuck in too many kisses in the process, because by the time we walked back into the blue room, Dee and Annabelle were visibly annoyed. Whatever. We were the ones who’d done all the dirty work.
We all sat on the floor around the coffee table, staring at the unopened book.
The leather cover was the same baby blue as the ceiling, and there was a gold insignia with a scroll of words under the title, also in French: “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
“Shame be to him who thinks evil of it,” I translated.
The book was thick and the pages uneven. It seemed both like it had seen a lot of action in its day, and was also perfectly preserved. Just like Susannah’s sketchbook, Adeline’s diary, and Marassa’s grimoire.
Annabelle held her breath—I think we all did—as she slowly opened the cover. Désirée leaned in and Isaac leaned back a tiny bit, as if it might be booby-trapped.
The inside cover was lavish compared to Susannah’s and Marassa’s simple leather-bound books; it had navy-blue endpapers with silver threads woven into the design. Three lines of French were centered on the first page—handwritten with sharp, straight precision and yet with trailing loops of casual femininity. The combo made Cosette seem dangerous—very femme fatale. I thought about the pirate she’d sent plummeting to his death after he’d fondled her sister.
A look of confusion tugged Annabelle’s face. She turned the book to me, I assumed for translation.
“Non, ce n’est pas correct,” I said, reading it to myself. I flipped the page, and then the next, and the next. “This can’t be!” I flipped through the pages faster, but they were all the same: lists of names—Deveux, Lagenstein, Drake, Alsace, Thurnau—next to addresses and sums that looked like financial figures. Line after line after line of men. All men. “It’s not her grimoire. It’s just the stupid brothel ledger.”
“No!” said Annabelle. “After all that?”
Isaac turned the book his way and slowly turned the pages.
“I’m so sorry, Annabelle,” I said. “I really thought . . .” I felt heartbroken, betrayed by the magic, and it wasn’t even my grimoire.
“Come here,” he said, pulling my hand. “What if this is her grimoire, and she just liked to keep all of her secrets in one place?”
The joke wasn’t enough to make me smile, but I crawled to his side of the table and draped myself over his back, chin on his shoulder while I read the pages. On each line there were also initials—sometimes one set, sometimes multiple sets, and margin notes, all in French. Some of the words I didn’t understand at first, but there were patterns of them like a code. My back stiffened, and I sat back on my feet.
“What?” Isaac asked, turning around. “What is it?”
“Not spells!” I yelped. “It’s just notes . . . on customers. Girls. Positions. Other sexual . . . preferences.”
His lips pinched, trying not to laugh as my cheeks flushed, but then one look back at Désirée and all three of them burst.
“I hate you guys,” I said, pushing his shoulder. I moved to the velvet chair, shaking my head and trying not to smile.
“You sure you don’t want to translate it?” Désirée asked.
Isaac high-fived her.
“Quite sure,” I answered, folding my legs, nose in the air.
“It might not be a grimoire, but it certainly contains all of the secrets of La Nouvelle-Orléans,” Isaac said.
A snort expelled from Désirée’s nose, and she buried her face behind her arms. Even I couldn’t help giggling, and then the laughter went around the room in delirious waves.
“Well, this sucks,” Annabelle finally said, wiping away tears. “But it makes me so happy to know how frazzled my mother would be if she knew our fortune was started by the original madam of the French Quarter.”
Her phone buzzed, and she quickly pulled it to her chest.
“Oh,” she said. “Gotta go.”
“Annabelle? It’s like midnight,” Dee said. “Where could you possibly have to go?”
She stuttered with a response, but then Désirée continued: “Mommy and Daddy Van der Veer just go to sleep?”
“Precisely.” Annabelle batted her lashes with exaggeration.
Isaac looked at me, and I mouthed, Her boyfriend.
Part of me still didn’t want her here, but most of me didn’t want her to leave, because then the three of us would be alone and I’d no longer be able to put off the inevitable. I’d decided I wasn’t just going to tell Isaac and Dee about Callis. I was going to tell them everything.
Callis. The Nicco dreams. Brigitte.
“It’s fate. Sisters in magic,” Annabelle said as she gave me and Dee tight hugs. If only Brooke could see me now.
As Isaac walked Annabelle to her car, Désirée plopped next to me on the couch, an uncouth move for Dee. “Am I the only one in complete shock that Isaac and Annabelle are the first to get their Maleficiums?”
I put my arm around her, trying not to laugh. “Non. Pas du tout. It’s soooo annoying.”
“What’s so funny?” Isaac asked, walking back into the room, stretching out his shoulders like he did fifty times a day.
“Oh, the usual,” Désirée said. “Turns out my best friend of twelve years is the witch-sister we’ve been looking for night and day.”
He sat on my other side and yawned. “You’re welcome.”
My fingers dropped to the charms on my chain, threading through each one. I had to say something before I lost my nerve and shoved everything back to a deep, dark corner of my mind. I stood up and paced away from the couch. “You’re not the only ones who found a witch today.”
Both of their heads turned directly to me.
“Callis. He’s a witch too.”
“What?” Isaac asked.
“Excuse me,” Désirée said. “Who’s Callis?”
“This weird guy who works with Adele at the tearoom. And he just started working with me too. This morning.”
“He’s a witch and he started working with both of you today? And no one got around to telling me this until now?”
“This is the first second we’ve been alone!” I said.
“Hey, I thought he was a vamp.” Isaac held up his bandaged hand.
“So you . . . stabbed yourself?” asked Dee.
“I was testing him.”
“He’s not a vampire!” I said. “He’s a vampire hunter.”
Isaac stared up at me.
“Can you try not to look so turned on right now?” I plopped back down in between them.
Breathe.
I lay my head back against the couch. “He’s here to kill Nicco and Emilio.”
Isaac jumped up. “I knew I liked that guy.”
“He tracked them here Halloween night using a locator spell, but apparently our spells are blocking his.”
“What’s his beef with them?” Isaac asked.
“Captivity. Torture. You know, the usual. The one who got away, now seeking revenge.”
“Man, I knew Callis wasn’t to be underestimated!”
Désirée turned to me. “So what you’re saying is that the only thing standing in the way of this so-called hunter and Nicco and Emilio is us?”
“Oui. But not just Nicco and Emilio . . . Gabe, Lisette, the whole lot.”
“So, if we gave them up,” she asked, “we’d be, like, killing them all by proxy?”
“Yeah, we’d be proxy murderers. If we told him where they were. Which we are not going to do.” I looked at Isaac as he sat back down. “You realize telling him would be breaking coven code times a million?”
“Chiiilllll. I’m not going to aid and abet.” He pulled me close and kissed my hardening jaw.
“Ugh,” said Dee. “Get a room.”
He ignored her, lightly holding my chin. “Those are our vamps. If anyone’s goi
ng to kill them, it’s going to be us.”
My forehead pressed into his. “You do realize how effed up that sounds?”
“They’re vampires, Adele. Killers. Unredeemable monsters. Why do you still not see that?”
“Do you think he’s our fifth member?” Désirée asked. “Our Water witch?”
I turned back to her, his arms slipping around me. “All signs point to no. He says he doesn’t have any ties to New Orleans, and anyway he’s a Fire witch.”
“Like you?” Isaac asked, his brow furling.
“Apparently, but he lost his Elemental magic in the vampire attack. At least that’s what he told me.”
“You don’t believe him?” he asked.
“No, it’s just—I’ve only had two conversations with the guy.”
“How many conversations did you have with Nicco before you trusted him?”
I pulled away, heat ripping across my shoulders.
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t bother.” I got up, grabbing my coat and my bag. “I’m sick of your apologies.”
“Great,” Désirée said.
“Come on. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“That’s the thing, Isaac. You did.” I was done sharing for the night. I hurried out of the room.
“I swear, I’m going to design you a magical muzzle,” Désirée said as Isaac scrambled up.
But he was too late—the front door banged behind me, and I mentally snapped the lock as I ran down the porch steps.
“Adele!” Isaac yelled from inside, shaking the handle. “Let me walk you home!”
I picked up the pace. It wouldn’t take him long to go out the back, and I didn’t want him following me.
Thank God I didn’t tell him about Brigitte.
I walked onto campus in a huff. The metal fastener holding the red velvet rope across the bottom step unclicked, letting me pass, and then reattached itself, hiding the evidence that anyone had come through.
The steps creaked as I ran up the stairs.
I went faster, afraid I might chicken out. By the time I got to the third floor, I felt like vomiting, but I opened the padlock, went through the room with the statues of Mary and down the slatted hallway. Two little orbs of fire lit the dark path all the way to the attic door and its mélange of locks.
I wasn’t here to open them. I wasn’t here to break the seal.
I was here because the coven wasn’t getting me any closer to saving my mother, or to the Count, or to figuring out why the Medici were after me in the first place. If I could just figure out what they wanted, they could go away and leave my mother alone. Callis could chase them across the universe for all I cared. And then what happens when you get her out, Adele? She and Mac will get back together, and you’ll just be one big bi-natural family? Human, witch, and vampire?
Just because she was a vampire didn’t mean she had to be a killer. I had to believe that.
Maybe I’d been wrong about the coven being the way to help Brigitte. If I couldn’t tell them, how could they ever help? All of the people who could give me answers were on the other side of this door. Nicco—even with all of his secrets, even if he had tried to kill me—was still the one who brought out my Fire for the first time. He’s the one who pushed me to find the coven. He’s the one who warned me about his family. And now I needed him to tell me more.
Twice I’d fallen asleep in the building, and both times Nicco had invaded my unconsciousness. Maybe it was a coincidence, but maybe it was . . . something else.
I slid down to the floor, back against the door, feeling more like a guard dog than tempted by the locks in any way.
Despite already being sleep deprived and despite the late hour, I was the furthest thing from tired now that I was thinking about Callis’s threat and my mother. I took off my coat and draped it across my chest like a blanket, trying to get more comfortable.
When I closed my eyes, all I saw was Nicco at the Waffle House, flashing me his not-so-innocent smile, and the night in the bell tower—when he told me not to trust him, which only got me more worked up. My heart raced, like it was pounding against the door, trying to wake him up for answers.
I lay down on my side and pulled my bag underneath my head, but hard edges poked my cheek. I slid it out—the book Chatham had given me earlier, a thin hardback, 1970s or ’80s maybe, bound in black canvaslike fabric.
I swear it was green in the shop.
The title, The Witch’s Dreamscape, shone in silver foil, the letters crafted by the sweeping strokes of an artist.
I sat up. The book Chatham had given me was called Dreamology or something weird like that.
Did I pick up the wrong book?
I opened the cover and turned the page:
THE WITCH’S DREAMSCAPE
by OLSIN DAURE
What the hell?
I flipped the page.
Then it was as if Papa Olsin was speaking directly to me:
A
note from
the author: Dear pupil,
if you are reading these pages, it’s
likely you’re about to embark on a new magical
journey, and for that I wish you the best. Please heed,
entering the dreamscape, whether yours or another’s,
is not for the lighthearted. It’s for those seeking a
deeper level of truth. Enter at your own risk,
for you might not like what you see,
and you might find the
very thing you
seek.
I want the truth.
I flipped the page again, not sure if I was more confused by Papa Olsin being the author of a book for witches or excited by how much my fingers were tingling.
This must be right.
Rule #1: The Breath
Rule number one in dreamwork is to maximize your REM cycles.
It’s not just about getting enough sleep; it’s about achieving deep sleep. Imagine you’re standing on the threshold of a house. The door is locked. A box floats before you. In order to unlock the door, you have to empty all of your anxieties into the box and leave them outside. Pour in all of your worries, your doubts—anything that will keep you closed inward. In order to see the things you want to see, you will have to open yourself up completely to the depths of your soul.
Now, relax. Take deep breaths. And let’s go.
“Grrreat,” I said. Breathing, relaxing, and letting go: all things I’m really good at . . .
I unclasped Annabelle’s heavy necklace from around my neck, let my hair down, and inhaled through my nose.
See the void. A blank canvas, either bright light or dark nothingness. If you’re a beginner with dream magic, master your own dreamscape before trying to connect with someone else’s.
“Too late.”
I shut the book and pulled out my thermos of tea, along with a little vial I’d swiped from the coffee table when I scooped up my things. Désirée’s sleepytime potion. I thought about the instructions again. Dream Magic . . . Could that be my Spektral power?
Instead of putting just a few drops into my tea, I knocked back half the bottle. Ugh. I swigged the tea, washing away the potion’s bitter taste.
The release of anxiety was almost immediate. My eyes slipped shut, and I imagined I was in front of a house. It was on a cliff, overlooking the sea, waves roaring down below.
This is silly.
I went to the door and turned the knob. Locked. I stood there, staring, listening to the waves. And then, between the sounds of the water crashing over rocks, I heard a voice. His voice.
“Bella. Bella, la scatola. Guarda.”
“Nicco, I don’t understa . . .” My voice faded as I looked at the ground.
A simple but elegant black box rested on top of the limestone step.
I picked it up and removed the lid. Empty.
I thought about the fight with Isaac, and suddenly a black feather floated into the box.
Whoa. I picked i
t up and examined it. Thinking about our fight at the brothel made me think about Annabelle joining the coven. Her silver necklace appeared next to the feather. I thought about Callis’s mission and my mother and all the secrets I was keeping from my father, and the box got so heavy, I had to put it back on the ground. I closed the lid, and the door’s lock clicked.
The knob turned, and the door slowly opened. I stepped over the threshold.
“Bella?” Nicco called from deeper inside the house. But instead of welcoming me, he asked, “What are you doing here?”
I followed his voice down a long hallway, until I got to a doorway with nothing but blackness beyond.
“Nicco?”
I took another step and plunged into the darkness.
Falling. Falling.
Falling.
For the first time since Halloween night, I allowed my mind to completely give itself over to Niccolò Giovanni Battista Medici.
CHAPTER 28
Another Night, Another Dream
THE SECRET MIRACLES of NATURE
AN EXPLORATION of ANATOMY
Bernardino Tuviani the Miracle Worker
Teatro dei Rinnovati, Siena
7 febbraio 1612
The energy is high in the piazza as I wait outside of the theatre for León. It’s close to the peak of carnival season, so the markets are open late and people are rushing to finish their preparations. Music floats over from a nearby corner—a boy plays a lute for a girl twirling through the crowd with a ribbon, another sells flowers to the people as they wait for tonight’s show.
I nervously read and reread the flyer, trying to hide my face from the people on the street. We are so close to the university, it will be impossible not to run into familiar faces. Tonight I’d be less embarrassed to be caught standing in front of the Siena bordellos, for the theatre is featuring a guest surgeon, a professor from Padua, whom I am very much looking forward to meeting, much to the dismay of the vast majority of the heads of academia. They call him a quack and a charlatan, just as they call any man who dedicates his life to surgery rather than to medicine.
I contemplate going in without León as more and more people rush in through the doors. There are physicians—both local and from neighboring communes—as well as barbers, pharmacists, students, and droves of curious spectators, all happily paying twenty soldi apiece for an evening’s entertainment.
