The low floating vapor meandered along the waterfront and spread unnoticed toward the road. His target, the unsuspecting merchant.
The man stepped off the pier and into the dusty street as he followed the dockworker, along with his merchandise, to his wagon. Both the worker and the merchant passed through a dense patch of fog. The merchant became choked and began to sneeze. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held the material balled in his fist to his nose.
“Dieu vous bénisse!” The workman called over his shoulder as he loaded crates onto the wagon.
God bless you! the workman had shouted.
The merchant chuckled and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Merci.”
Undetected, Morago rode beside the merchant’s consciousness and peered out through the man's eyes, filled with malevolent anticipation.
Chapter 6
Alyse James
Bayard served everyone tea, and then seated himself beside his brother. Alyse sat across from Bernard, at Chantal's right hand. Alyse sipped her tea and waited with hard-won patience for her grandmother to begin her tale.
Chantal tasted her tea then set the white porcelain cup on the saucer before she raised her eyes and looked at Alyse. “This tale begins before your birth, so I shall start there. When your grandfather and I were first married, we lived in Boston. We owned a small print shop, and provided patriotic pamphlets and what news we could gather during the second war with Great Britain.”
Alyse shifted with impatience, and then stilled as Chantal narrowed her eyes with displeasure.
“Eager to assist with the war effort, we pledged ourselves to a local coven and directed our energies to aid our troops. At this time, a young woman who was part of the coven became quite ill. Her family brought a physician to her bedside, but he gave them no hope. Healing spells did not restore her health. No matter what we tried, the girl continued to weaken.
“Toward the end, she suffered dreadful trembling fits. The coven gathered to ease her passing as best we could. There were six members present when she spoke her last words—The Prophecy—and then perished.”
“What prophecy?” Alyse urged when her grandmother paused.
Chantal shook her head. “I'm not sure I can recite her exact words.” Chantal's gaze met and held Alyse's. “At the time, I thought I'd never forget. She foretold the birth of powerful twins.” Chantal closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Let's me see, how did it go?
“You will know them by their birth—crowned beneath a full moon on the witches’ High Sabbat. Their twyne shall wake the Demon. By Fire and Earth, he shall by felled—lest the twyne fail—then death shall reign.” Chantal's cup rattled against its saucer as she lifted it. “Or something very similar.”
No one spoke for several moments.
Alyse took another sip, but found it hard to swallow; her throat had grown so tight. She glanced from her teacup to her uncles.
Bayard stared at the table, while Bernard met her gaze with a serious expression in his dark eyes. Their balding scalps, fringed with brown-gray trimmed hair—identical.
Chantal cleared her throat. “Twelve years later, I became pregnant with twins—your uncles. As you can imagine, your grandfather and I were terrified. Thank the Goddess, I gave birth to my boys just past midsummer, beneath a crescent moon. Six years later, I gave birth to your mother and we set thoughts of the terrifying prophecy aside.
“Your grandfather passed in '41. Margaret married her merchant in '45, wasn’t it?” Chantal looked to Bay and Bern who shook their heads and shrugged.
Chantal turned back to Alyse. “When your mother became pregnant we were overjoyed. But as the pregnancy progressed, it became clear she carried twins, and would give birth near Samhain.”
“I was born on Samhain,” Alyse stated.
“Yes, you were.” Chantal's hazel eyes held old sorrow and memories. “Beneath the light of a full moon.”
“And you separated us because—”
“—because were you to twyne as children, you would have called the Demon. Even with four adult witches to protect you, it would not have been enough. Our spells at that time were limited in power—gentle spells to encourage health and healing, abundant crops, and potions of affection. We rarely dabbled with our deep elemental power, and took great care to hide our true nature from the eyes of men.
“After your birth, our path changed. Your uncles and I turned our minds to offensive and defensive spellcraft—deadly spells which others of our kind would find abhorrent. Still, the power you share with your sister—when you twyne—is what will be needed to defeat the Demon.”
“You've been training me,” Alyse whispered. Her gaze passed around the table.
“As best we can.” Uncle Bay raised his gaze to hers. “We don't have your disability, of course.”
Bernard elbowed his brother. “Ah, hush, Bay. We don't have her power, either.”
“Without Air and Earth, the girl has serious limitations,” Bayard argued.
“I need my sister,” Alyse acknowledged, and the room grew quiet once again.
“You need your sister,” Chantal repeated. “Did you twyne with her today?”
Alyse nodded. “She didn't understand what was happening. I knew because you had taught me about it.” She looked at Bay and Bern. “I frightened her. She didn't know me.”
“The only one to teach Amylia would have been your mother, Margaret, and she keeps her talents hidden from her husband. Whatever Amylia knows, she learned in secret and practiced alone.” Chantal laid her hand on Alyse's arm.
“I have to go to her.” Alyse turned to her grandmother. “I promised to find her. Is she in Boston with my—with my mother?” Unexpected tears welled in Alyse's eyes. She blinked rapidly and turned her face away from Chantal.
“As far as I know, she's still there. I've not seen your mother since the night we left with you.”
“The night of my birth?” Alyse swallowed and blinked at the tears, pushing them from her eyes.
“The moment of your birth,” Chantal corrected, and patted her arm. “We had a wet nurse and carriage hidden down the street. You see, Bay and Bern twyned at 18 months, maybe earlier. We couldn't risk that possibility.”
“And my parents—they agreed to this?” Alyse turned and searched her grandmother's eyes. Their explanations were sound, but her heart ached for a mother she'd never known.
“When it became apparent her children would be born on Samhain, during the full moon, and drastic measures would need to be taken to keep you both safe, Margaret's heart broke.” Chantal picked up her napkin and held it to her nose. She cleared her throat and opened calm eyes.
“The closer she came to your birth, the more Margaret cried. Your father had no idea how devastated we all were. He believed Margaret's tears were a result of her pregnancy, and nothing more.
“The night of your birth, I delivered you, and your mother held you for only a few minutes—until her labor began again. Then, you were bundled up and given to the wet nurse. You, Bayard and the wet nurse set out for this farm immediately.” Chantal paused and then added, “Your mother named you Alyse. She thought it the most beautiful name she'd ever heard.”
Alyse’s throat closed and she shook her head, fighting back the tears.
A mother and sister I’ve never known.
In the end, she gave up and put her head down on the table and sobbed.
Her grandmother’s hand smoothed her hair. “It had to be done, dear one. It broke everyone's heart. And now, you need to be strong and find your sister. You're being hunted.”
Alyse's head came up, her eyes red from weeping, and stared at her grandmother. “Hunted?”
“Yes child. The Prophecy. The reason you were separated. The moment you twyned with your sister, it set off a chain of events. I have no doubt the Demon is coming, just as I have no doubt you and your sister will face him and defeat him.”
“By Fire and Earth.” Alyse wiped her face and sat
up.
Chantal nodded. “Just so. Now, it’s late and I think we should all get some rest. Tomorrow, Bay will need to advise the Chesham's their order will be delayed—indefinitely. Allow them to cancel and go elsewhere if they can't wait until you return.”
Bay's brow furrowed as his gaze turned to his mother. “What do you mean?”
“From where?” Bern added.
“When you return from teaching your nieces how to cast as a working pair. Some twyning exercises will be in order as well, I presume. Who better to teach them how to fight together? Besides, we can't send Alyse off to find Amylia by herself.”
“She thinks of herself as Amy,” Alyse whispered and turned tear-filled eyes to her grandmother. “Won't you come with us, Mémé?”
“Ah, now dear one, I shall not. I will only slow you down. I'll stay here and wait for your return. I do look forward to meeting your sister.”
Chapter 7
Nichole Harris
Nichole held the damp washcloth to her face and groaned. The time overlap threatened to wreck her mind. The pace and emotion of everyone around her were distant and out of step with her memory. In her mind, she had experienced today’s events with Amy and Jim weeks ago. The Highlands barbeque, the dawn escape from the ranch, and even Jones's brutal ambush were less immediate to her than the flight from Dallas and finding the photo of Merril. Her recollections needed to be reordered, and she had more than one set of memories to prioritize.
Nichole's experience advised, “You'll just have to make do. Collect yourself and keep going.”
While Courtney's muttered, “Holy-shit! Did this just happen?”
She required time to put herself back together in perspective with—this life. Courtney and Nichole weren't separate.
They're both me.
Past and present. A few days should settle her senses, align her with this time, this body, and distance herself from her past.
My future?
She fought the impulse to confide her newfound realizations with Merril and Amy—to continue the conversations started with half-understood truths.
I have those answers now. At least, some of them.
She wouldn't be at peace until those conversations were finished, but she also knew those would have to wait. The emotional momentum of here and now had to take precedence.
When Merril had brought her trunk, he hesitated to leave her alone, but she encouraged him to help Jason. She assured him she wanted privacy to wash and change, when in truth, she needed this time and solitude to acclimate her time-lanced senses.
The water in the basin turned pink when she wrung the washcloth. She removed the torn, blood-soaked blouse, along with the shredded camisole, and tossed them aside. Her breasts and shoulders were speckled and smeared with blood.
Movement in the small dresser mirror caught her attention, and she stepped closer to peer at her reflection. The blood in her hair hadn't had time to harden and dry. She rolled her fingers over the hair beside her temple, and then she looked at her red-stained fingertips.
Is all this blood mine?
She searched her face in the mirror, checked her nose and teeth. If she lost this much blood, shouldn't there be some evidence? Some injury?
She wiped her body clean and rinsed what blood she could from her hair, and then dried herself with the last towel. There were no injuries on her body that would account for this amount of blood.
Speculation is useless.
Merril and Amy would know. They were both with her when she awoke.
She turned to the trunk and paused. Her thumb slid over the initials engraved above the latch.
N.H.
Her thumb came away clean, but she rubbed it against her finger anyway.
So weird.
As Courtney, she had pried the rusted latch open this morning—over a hundred years from now.
This time, the clasp opened easily. Still, Nichole hesitated to lift the lid.
Don't be silly.
She closed her eyes and opened the trunk. Breath held, she looked down. In the center of her lavender skirt laid the photograph of Kevin, Merril, and herself. When she lifted the photo, her hand trembled, and she gripped the frame with both hands.
This is the photo she'd found in the attic—this item led her back to Merril. If she unpacked it, would that change what Courtney found when she came looking? If she didn't discover the photo in the attic, would she not have opened her eyes in Merril's arms today?
Before she changed her mind and had the trunk along with all its contents hauled to the attic, she placed the photo on the mantelpiece. Her gaze shifted from the photo to the closed bedroom door.
I'm still here.
She stood still for a few minutes, but nothing changed.
Would I know if it did?
With a shrug, she returned to the case for clean clothes. She bypassed the lavender outfit, and instead, chose the dark blue skirt with a white camisole and blouse.
While she dressed, her mind traced loops of time and possible alterations she'd made to the timeline from her visit before. There was no way to know, and no value in obsessing over it. She ran the brush through her damp hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Suck it up, Veau, and get on with the life you died for.
Despite her intention to slip back into Nichole's life—her life—unresolved questions haunted her.
As afternoon slipped to evening, she convalesced beside Jimmy Leigh at the kitchen table, trapped in a haze of emotional anxiety. An internal dialog played in her head as she watched the day wind down from the sidelines.
The police chief knocked at the recently repaired back door and stepped into the kitchen. He spotted Amy coming down the stairs and removed his hat. “After speaking with your husband, I've determined the break-in, and death of the intruder, a consequence of a robbery gone awry.” He glanced at Nichole and Jim. “Your unexpected return home resulted in a most unfortunate confrontation.”
Nichole raised an eyebrow at his choice of words.
Unfortunate? Yeah.
“I find no need for further investigation.” The officer tipped his hat and left the kitchen.
She exchanged glances with Jim and Amy, but nobody spoke.
An unidentified intruder. Tidy. Less paperwork.
Jason and Albert Fielding came in and went upstairs to look at the damaged wall.
Merril stayed downstairs and accepted a cup of water from Amy while he waited for Jason and Albert. “The undertaker just left.” Merril informed them. His gaze turned to Nichole. “He and his helper tossed Jones in the back of their wagon.” He set the empty cup on the counter. “Jones will have an unmarked grave at the edge of the city cemetery.”
Nichole clenched her teeth and looked at the table.
Better than the prick deserved. Whatever.
She looked up as the sound of boots echoed down the stairs.
“We're off to the lumberyard.” Jason planted a quick kiss on Amy's cheek as Merril and Albert left the kitchen. “Albert knows several contractors. He said he would contact a mason and a glazier to schedule repairs, if I approved.”
If Jason approved?
Nichole ground her teeth but held her silence.
Albert Fielding's plump wife, Wilma, dropped off a casserole and a bag of warm biscuits for their supper. She apologized for not coming inside, but Albert would still want dinner at home tonight. The beef and vegetable casserole filled the room with a mouth-watering scent. Nichole's stomach growled.
Albert hurried home to his dinner after the men boarded up the front bedroom.
Merril and Jason took seats at the table while Amy unwrapped Wilma's casserole.
Tom Baker arrived at the town house just as Amy set plates and utensils on the table. Tom filled his plate, took a biscuit, and wedged himself into the corner.
Nichole watched Amy scoop a serving onto her plate, then pull a chair from the corner to sit at the counter. Perhaps Amy preferred to eat by hers
elf rather than sit close to Jason.
Can't say I blame her.
Jim, Jason, and Merril sat at the table with Nichole. She watched Jason eat as her annoyance built and her appetite fled. Jason could have prevented everything. Although he took no active role in the threat—that either Nichole marry Kevin, Merril's brother, or be committed to an asylum—his apathy had allowed it to happen. Anger ignited in the pit of her stomach, and she thought she might be sick. No one noticed her hard stare at her cousin, and the conversation went on around her.
“Midnight and Sadie.” Merril looked up at Tom with hesitation and regret in his green eyes. “Are they... all right?”
Tom swallowed and split his gaze between Merril and Jason. “You're damned lucky you were near someone who had enough sense to take care of your animals.”
“Tom,” Jim’s low voice held a reprimand.
Tom looked to Jim, then down at his plate. “Yup. They're dehydrated and exhausted, probably wind-broken, but they'll live.”
Merril dropped his fork and rubbed his face with both hands. “Thank the Lord. I'll go by the livery in the morning and check on him—on them both.”
Nichole glanced around the table, when Amy caught her attention. Amy tipped her head toward Jason, then nodded at Nichole. Her meaning clear—ask him now.
“So—Jason,” Nichole's soft voice began conversationally, and then rose with resentment. “Explain to me just what the hell you were thinking.”
Jason's head shot up, and their ice-blue gazes locked. “Mind your language, please.”
Indignation brought Nichole to her feet. “You will not tell me what to do.” She clenched her teeth. “Not ever again.” She pointed her fork at Jason. “You were going to let them put me in an asylum.”
Jason indicated her abandoned chair. “Calm down. I would never have allowed that to happen.”
“Really? You turned your back while Clemens and Renata drugged me.” Nichole fought back angry tears.
Prophecy (Soul of the Witch Book 2) Page 4
