The Underground

by Michelle E Lowe

Her hard expression softened.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Grandmother Fey consoled him. “None of this is your fault—even what you did to Pierce.”

  His heart skipped several beats, causing him to gasp. The haunting regret hurt worse than what the spell was doing to him.

  After slitting Pierce’s throat, he and the others had left. By the time Joaquin had come fully around, they were already miles away. Ignoring Luca’s protest, Joaquin returned to the scene where he had abandoned his brother, but he found only the lantern, hoof prints, and blood on the ground. For years afterward, Joaquin often wondered if his brother had died somewhere out in the forest—at least, until newspaper stories about him surfaced.

  “I . . . I couldn’t stop myself from cutting him,” he moaned despairingly.

  Grandmother Fey wrapped her arms around him and allowed him to weep against her.

  “Is this going to kill me?” he asked at length.

  She pried him off.

  “You’ve had this disease for many years. When did your health begin to decline?”

  “Aside from my stomach pains, the rest only started when I last saw Pierce weeks ago.”

  “Did you try hurting him again?”

  “I did. But I stopped myself.”

  “You fought against it? That must be the cause. Whenever you go against this particular spell, it senses it has lost its control, and so, it has begun breaking you down from the inside out.”

  “I struggled against it in the past and I was fine afterward,” he explained.

  She paused to consider that and stood up. “When I return, I will do what I can to help reverse this wicked curse.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To Freya’s.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “Oui. I saw it through your eyes, remember?”

  “Oh, you saw everything?” He grimaced, realizing she had seen his sexual experience with Freya.

  Grandmother Fey assisted him to his feet. “We must go.”

  They returned to the cottage and Grandmother Fey mounted Joaquin’s horse. She left without a word to anyone. As Joaquin headed across the yard and toward the back door, his mother came out and called to Grandmother Fey as she rode swiftly by.

  “Where on Earth is she going?”

  “To find out how to save me,” he said.

  His legs began giving out on him again and he asked his mother to help him inside so he could lie down.

  Chapter Three

  It’s in the Blood

  It took Élie Fey less than two hours to reach the shore near the small settlement of Lepe. She ignored the bemused and mirthful looks she received from those she passed. They were looking at her as though they had never seen an elderly woman riding a horse before. She wondered about the order Freya had given Joaquin before he blacked out. She had been whispering it into his ear as he fell unconscious. Hear my voice, Joaquin Landcross, and obey my command, you must kill . . .

  Who was it that she wanted Joaquin to kill?

  She arrived at the narrow, sandy road she had recognized when visiting her grandson’s memories. Soon, she came across a lane tucked within the trees.

  Élie had to admit the bitch owned a nice home, one with a flourishing garden in the backyard and a view of the sea beyond.

  The smell of the ocean lit up her senses.

  She halted the horse and approached the door. Without knocking, she stepped in. She couldn’t have timed it more perfectly. Freya entered through the back way, carrying a basket of herbs plucked from her plot of land.

  “Bonjour, Freya,” Élie greeted her, crossing through the modestly size living room.

  Freya leaped backward with a shout.

  “Who are you?” she screamed angrily. “What are you doing in my house?”

  Élie stopped by the counter where a few stools were lined up side by side.

  “Did you not sense my presence?”

  Freya studied her intruder before her eyes widened even more.

  “Élie Fey? You’re alive?”

  “Oui. Very much so. And judging by your befuddled reaction, I assume it was you who contaminated my powers, making me ill all those years.”

  Freya abandoned her astonishment and adopted contempt.

  “Has it taken you this long to solve that?”

  Élie’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I’ve had my suspicions for a long while now.”

  Freya Bates had used her abilities to cast a deadly spell that had turned Élie’s own magic against her. To save her life, Élie was forced to surrender her powers and store them inside a puzzle box. For many years, Élie remained ill and might have died if Durothil, the forest elf—and father to her daughter, Nona—hadn’t provided her with medicine from his land.

  “You visited my son, François, didn’t you?” Élie said.

  “I’d convinced him that you would curse him if you ever regained your powers.”

  Élie knew this. To keep her from reclaiming her abilities once she had cleansed herself of what they had done to her, Freya placed a spell that if she ever opened the puzzle box, or even knew of its location, her powers would escape into the universe, where she would have no more use of them. François, who had been caring for her, was aware of these conditions. To free her supernatural gifts, only someone cut from the right bloodline could open the box. It wasn’t until Pierce came along and found the puzzle box that her abilities were restored.

  “I’m sure you weren’t counting on François telling me what you did. A son’s love for his mother outweighed your lies, it seems.”

  “It appears so,” Freya grunted. “I believed he would simply tell you where the box was, therefore causing you to lose your powers forever. If I had the capabilities, I’d have simply taken your powers from you!”

  “Ah, but only the strongest of enchanters can achieve such things. You and I may never reach such heights.”

  Freya scowled. “We shall see, Élie.”

  “And you told François to answer the telegraph from my daughter and tell her I was dead so as to keep her away,” Élie seethed. “But as you can see, Freya, your plan failed.”

  “I go by the name ‘Mother of Craft’ now,” she returned infuriatingly.

  “You are no Mother of Craft, nor shall you ever be,” Élie said with bile. “Only a worthy wise woman has the right to title herself as such.”

  “I am worthy,” Freya challenged.

  “Are you?” Élie dared, holding herself straight as if preparing for a showdown.

  A flicker of fear flashed in Freya’s violet eyes.

  “I thought so,” Élie said flatly.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here about my grandson, Joaquin.”

  “Joaquin?” With an apathetic flick of her wrist, Freya stepped into the kitchen. “I haven’t seen him in years. How is he?”

  “He’s dying,” she stated hotly, losing her patience. “I assume it’s due to something you did to him.”

  “Moi?” Freya said in that same impudent tone. “I’ve done nothing.”

  Élie had reached her limit of patience. It had been ages since she had summoned this spell. The high level of energy needed would be great.

  Despite it all, she uttered, “Yakeil.”

  With the breath of that one word, every nerve in Freya’s entire body froze, save her mouth. She stood paralyzed, her eyes wide open and unblinking.

  Once Élie had her in her clutches, much like a cat by the nape of its neck, she said, “And I suppose you didn’t think I could do that, did you?”

  “No,” Freya answered truthfully.

  “Now you will be forced to tell me only the truth. What did you do to Joaquin?”

  “He gave me his blood,” she began unhelpfully. “I used it to cast a magnetism spell so he’d come when I was ready for him.”

  “Why?”

  “To drink the blood of a demon.”

  “What demon’s blood?”<
br />
  “The blood I bartered for soon after I left the troupe.”

  “How can he be cured?”

  “He must seek the demon the blood belongs to and have the creature extract it from his body.”

  “How do I find this demon?”

  “Through its own blood. It’s pureblood.”

  Pureblood, meaning it could not be alloyed with anything else, including another’s blood.

  “Do you have any left?”

  “Inside the matryoshka nesting doll.”

  Élie eyed the set on the counter under the wide window.

  The power she needed to keep Freya under her control nearly prevented Élie from moving. Her age and years without her abilities had made her weedy. Élie gathered her strength and stepped over to the matryoshka dolls. Inside the larger doll was a midnight blue jar as fat and round as a turnip. She twisted off the cap and saw black oily liquid inside. Only it wasn’t oil.

  The blood of a demon was extremely toxic to humans, and so, it needed to be given in small doses. If done correctly, the blood’s toxins would simply diminish. This inexperienced spell brewer, who’d dared to call herself “Mother of Craft,” had given Joaquin too much.

  “Demon blood can be utilized for different purposes,” Élie noted while walking out of the kitchen. “What did you use it on Joaquin for?”

  “To control him.”

  “You tricked him into drinking a cup just to control him?”

  “No. I needed to make him part demon.”

  “Part demon? You fool! Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “Yes. Now that I have made him part demon, he may no longer be in the boundaries of the Fates. He can outlive his thread or die before he meets its severed end.”

  Most humans were attached to a fate string. Those with an edge over the human race—such as an enchantress like Élie—had no fate thread tethered to them. Even mortals who were born with threads could lose them if they became something other than human, like a vampire. Now, with this leg up, it was possible Joaquin was free from his own.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, Freya. Why did you need to control him?”

  “I wanted him to attack his brother.”

  “Pierce?” she gasped. “Why?”

  “He is one of the Four. Only one out of the Four can live. The last to live will gain everything.”

  “One of the Four?”

  Freya was crafty. She was using riddles as answers instead of answering them outright. The imprisoned witch struggled against Élie’s hold. Élie needed to hurry.

  “Is that why you tainted my powers?”

  Freya nodded. “To keep you from interfering.”

  “Are you responsible for Joaquin and Pierce getting separated from the family?”

  “I . . . I am,” she confessed in great strain. “I needed to set another course for them so as to continue with my plan.”

  Élie thought to ask her about this, but she was losing her grip.

  “One of the Four. What does that mean? Answer without your enigmas!”

  “Pierce,” she said, now twitching. “Pierce is one of the Four, and no matter where he goes or how far he runs, he’ll not be able to hide from me. I will threaten everything and everyone he cares about until he returns to England. I’ve planned every detail.”

  “What exactly is this about, Freya? What are you planning?”

  The witch strained from answering and her resistance pushed against Élie.

  “I will create it. Bring it back from extinction,” Freya said.

  “Bring what back from extinction?”

  Élie teetered on the edge of knowing what it was Freya wanted to resurrect. Freya parted her lips, the anticipation drying Élie’s mouth and throat.

  “Mother?” came a voice from behind.

  Élie turned to see a young girl standing at the doorway with a look of shock and horror on her face. She seemed to be eleven or so, tall and shapeless. Élie sensed the connection instantly.

  “How dare you?” Freya exclaimed.

  Élie snapped her head around. She lost her hold on Freya as if the wind had ripped her from her grasp like a loosely held paper.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” the girl said, taking a step forward.

  “Stay there, Vela,” Freya commanded. “Don’t get too close.”

  “You didn’t,” Élie gasped, looking back at the girl.

  “Get out of my house,” Freya ordered harshly.

  If Élie had had enough strength, she would have forced Freya to finish her answer. But she was drained and would likely be unable to defend herself if Freya attacked. The only thing keeping her safe was the illusion she had cast over herself, giving off a false sense of power that Freya could feel. Without that masquerade shrouding her, there’d be no telling what Freya might do.

  Élie narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t over.”

  Freya did nothing as Élie walked by Vela. Élie mounted her horse and didn’t look back as she traveled north toward New Forest.

  Before reaching Exbury, she stopped near the Beaulieu River and sat on its bank. She poured the blood from the vial into a hole she dug into the soft, moist earth. She held her hand over the tiny black pool, closed her eyes, and allowed it to speak to her.

  Images flickered in the dark and appeared in her line of sight like movable daguerreotypes. She saw a city and a castle. She knew the castle. A flock of birds soared across the sky, and as though Élie was a bird herself with the ability to fly tremendously fast, she zipped through the air, reached a street, and read the name. Again, she took off like a bullet, falling deep underground, passing buildings and people until abruptly halting near a young man who was tossing dice into a small circle of gamblers.

  He looked right at her.

  The vision flickered out and Élie shook her head to bring herself around.

  She pulled dirt over the blood. In time, something would grow in the spot. To keep the blood seed from blossoming into anything evil or vile, Élie used her creativity and instilled something graceful and even beautiful into it.

  She mounted her horse and rode away.

  As she neared the Toymaker’s home, someone whispered, “Over here.”

  Élie halted and searched for where the voice had come from, finally noticing a young woman in the forest beyond the edge of the road. She stood there, stroking the head of a doe. Odd.

  Eilidh? Élie wondered.

  She dismounted and stepped into the lush spring forest, twigs and fallen leaves crunching beneath her feet. As Élie approached, the deer scampered off and vanished into the green.

  “Eilidh? What are you doing out here?”

  “It is a shame, what has happened to you,” the young woman said in a matured voice that Élie had never remembered her having before. “To be without your abilities, that is. A wise woman without her gifts is like a unicorn without its horn.”

  As Élie came closer to Eilidh, the surface of her skin tingled and every hair on her body rose in a charge of energy. Her blood thickened. Even her eyesight sharpened, enabling her to discern the tiniest of details.

  Élie studied her. Another pair of eyes looked back at her as if Eilidh’s were just thin panes of glass.

  “Mother of Craft!” Élie cried.

  Élie kneeled before her. She could not believe she was in the presence of the Supreme Wise Woman!

  “I was Mother of Craft. I used to be many things. Now, I am only Orenda. Rise, child.”

  Élie slowly rose to her feet. Although reunited with her powers, she was still an aging mortal with cranky bones. She could always use her abilities to hide her distress, but she never did because she found it unwise to ignore what her body was trying to tell her.

  “When I went into my slumber, I never expected to be disturbed so many times,” Mother of Craft said. “It’s as though your family has become my rooster.”

  “You were sleeping?”

  “Hibernating inside the body of this young lady, whom I have
created. She shall live out her life as she pleases while I sleep, and when her life ends, I’ll awaken and leave her body for good.”

  Impressive, for there weren’t many capable enough to create a life as Orenda had done.

  “There are conjunctions between my path and the paths of your family,” Orenda continued. “I once helped an ancestor of your son-in-law to find a family when the orphaned boy came to England from Spain. Because of this, I have a connection to the Landcross lot. I even suspect it was one of the reasons why Eilidh fell in love with Archie, for he was to meet your grandson, Pierce.”

  “What do you mean? Do you know what is happening?”

  “At first, I hadn’t the foggiest. Then Pierce found you. I was there when you spoke to him about your family’s bloodlines in the elves’ forest. What you told Pierce left me pondering.”

  Élie remembered that night when she had sensed another presence around her and Pierce.

  “You were in the forest with us? What about Eilidh?”

  “I needed to leave my vessel. I can do so for a brief time without losing my connection to her,” she explained. “I was also there with you this morning when you searched Joaquin’s memories. I believe this Freya was once someone who may have had relations with your family in another life. And if I’m right, then whatever she’s doing, she may have a god on her side. You went to her house. What did she tell you?”

  “You weren’t there?”

  “No, Freya might have sensed me, for unlike you, she isn’t recovering from losing her abilities.”

  Élie gritted her teeth. Having her powers turned against her angered her more than anything else had in her entire life.

  Mother of Craft walked by her to touch a single leaf on a low, skinny branch. She rubbed it between her slender fingers. “It is best for each of us if Freya knows nothing of me. What else did she tell you?”

  “She gave Joaquin demon blood. She admitted to overdoing it to make him part demon.”

  “Did she lay with him afterward?”

  “She did.”

  Orenda was silent a moment.

  “Turning him part demon cannot be the sole reason. Why else did she do this?”

  “She cursed him with a control spell and ordered him to attack Pierce.”