Bled & Breakfast

by Michelle Rowen

  “Never,” he growled. The room grew as cold as a meat locker in seconds.

  I couldn’t help but grin. “Just testing you. Glad to see you’re still in the game.”

  His shoulders relaxed and he shook his head, bemused. “I want to find a solution to this as much as you do.”

  “Good,” I said, satisfied. “Then along with checking out the grimoire, we need to contact Markus Reed and ask for his help—and the Ring’s help, too. I know you have issues with them, but I’m sure they must have faced something like this before. They have files, right? A history of crazy paranormal wackiness to draw from?”

  He regarded me as if what I’d said had taken him aback. “We’re not contacting them.”

  I’d expected opposition, but I had to make him realize we needed a Plan B here. “Why not? They hired you to be their consultant. Do you think they’d want to lose you so quickly? Especially with their sudden interest in finding out about your hidden history. No way. They’ll do whatever it takes to keep you around.”

  He shook his head, studying me as if, despite his reservations, he found my frenetic plan making fascinating. Kind of like a scientist watching a brunette microbe pinging wildly off the edges of a glass slide. “I’m sure there’s another answer.”

  “Oh, now there is, huh? A minute ago you were about ready to recite your last will and testament to me.”

  Despite the fierceness on his face, the hint of a smile returned to his lips. “You’re rather incorrigible—you know that?”

  My heart lightened by a few ounces. “I choose to take that as a compliment.”

  Our gazes locked. “Just when I begin to think hope is fading, you appear with it exuding from your very essence.”

  “Which sounds kind of gross.” But I was happy he was ready to fight this battle with me. I’d accept no less. “Do you want to find a way to fix this, Thierry? Or do you want to go gentle into that good night?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Dylan Thomas.”

  “I might be a beach-read girl now, but I did take English lit in college. I can quote with the best of them.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  I reached for him then without thinking, but instead of touching him, all I felt was coldness as his chest turned to that swirling gray smoke. It was like sticking my hand into a freezer. I drew back from him with alarm.

  He looked down at himself as his chest re-formed, before his tense gaze met mine again.

  “You don’t want me to call Markus,” I said flatly. “Fine. Then you better come up with another plan. Right now.”

  He moved back toward the window to look outside. “I don’t want anyone else brought into this situation, Sarah. Period.”

  I put my hands on my hips as I studied him, wondering for a moment why my throat felt tight. Then I realized I was angry.

  “You’re something, aren’t you?”

  He flicked a look toward me. “Excuse me?”

  “I usually put you in a different category from all other men. A better category, actually. Thus the whole ‘I do’ thing from a few days ago.”

  He regarded me with an edge of caution now. “You usually do.”

  I started pacing the small room, needing to somehow expend my built-up energy. I gestured wildly in his direction. “Yeah, usually. Because right now you’re pissing me off. You are just like other men, Thierry. This is the proof. This is your ‘I’m lost but I’m not asking for any directions since it will make me feel like less of a man’ thing. That’s not cool.”

  “Far be it from me to not be cool.”

  “Are you going to help me find a way to save your butt, or what? I already stole a witch’s grimoire for you—”

  “A reckless and dangerous thing to do.” But before I could defend my actions again, his hard expression softened. “That I know you did for a selfless reason.”

  “No. It was a very selfish reason.” I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Look, Thierry, I know you don’t trust anyone . . .”

  “Wrong. I trust you.”

  The fight went out of me at that. “Promise me, Thierry, when this is over, and everything’s okay again, that we’ll go on a real honeymoon. Somewhere with palm trees.”

  He nodded slowly. “Turquoise seas, warm breeze.”

  “Being an excellent rhymer isn’t going to cheer me up right now.”

  “Once we deal with this, I promise, the world is yours.”

  I finally smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, let’s go fix this mess.”

  • • •

  Downstairs, Heather was poring through the grimoire, scanning each page before flipping to the next. She looked up as we entered the room.

  “This is so fascinating,” she said. “All this history and magic at my fingertips.”

  Thierry eyed the grimoire. “Did you find anything, Heather?”

  I held my breath and waited for her answer.

  “The good news is that I found lots of amazing spells in here.” Heather turned her attention back to the book. She raked her fingers through her long, messy red hair. “This was kept by a witch who was here in Salem during the trials. It’s old—I mean, so old that even I can feel the power coming off the pages. This witch could work some serious magic.”

  Her words worked like a shot glass of optimism at a positivity party. “Good to hear. So what’s the bad news?”

  She swallowed. “I haven’t found anything about possession—nothing at all. Maybe . . . what happened with Owen . . . it was just an accident and it’s never happened before in the history of mankind.”

  My optimistic shot glass shattered.

  “Possession can occur either by spirit or demon. It’s been documented throughout history.” Thierry’s voice didn’t reveal a fraction of the strain I felt right now after hearing about Heather’s uninspiring findings.

  “Yes, but . . . I did some research last night. A possessing spirit never literally pushes out the original soul. That’s the part that doesn’t happen. Grandma’s never heard of anything like this, either. Normally, in a regular possession, the spirit takes hold of the body long enough to get across its message, but then the original spirit pushes it back out. That should be the end of it. But here . . .”

  “That’s not the case,” Thierry finished.

  “Which means this has to be caused by magic.” She turned back to the grimoire. “But there’s nothing in here to help me fix this. If this is my fault from the séance the other night, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do to make this right again.”

  The sad look she gave me then reminded me of Princess, the puppy I’d had once that soiled the carpet every single day. My father had wanted to smack his butt (yes, I named a male dog Princess—I was only a kid!) with a rolled-up newspaper, but that wouldn’t have helped him learn. Instead, I insisted on patience and time. As my reward, I got to be the one to do the cleanup until he finally learned.

  I’d clean up this mess, too.

  I looked at Thierry, my stomach churning. “Suggestions for that alternate plan would be awesome right about now.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression thoughtful. “We could contact the necromancer I mentioned the other day.”

  “The one in California.”

  He nodded. “She’s very powerful. It’s possible she could help.”

  I leaned against the edge of the couch, glancing at the still-sleeping Owen. His eyelids fluttered as if he was having a vivid dream. “I currently will cling to possible with both hands. How do we get in touch with her?”

  “I have a contact who might be able to locate her. The only problem is time.”

  Right. We didn’t have much of it left. “Then tell me what to do.”

  He did, letting me know who in his address book to call. I dug out the BlackBerry from the pocket of his jacket—now draped over a chair by Heather’s wooden desk in the corner of the room. Without delay, I called and spoke to the deep-voiced and suspicious-sound
ing man on the other end who seemed to reply in one-word answers only. I told him what we needed—although not specifically why we needed it, only that it was a favor for Thierry de Bennicoeur—and ended the call after he promised to get back to us soon.

  Heather watched the proceedings tensely. I noticed that her fingers were literally crossed. I could use all the good luck I could get, frankly.

  The call had not filled me with endless optimism. I scrolled through Thierry’s address book, seeing dozens, hundreds, of names and phone numbers I didn’t recognize. Then I found one I did.

  “Don’t, Sarah,” Thierry said softly from over my shoulder. I’d paused on Markus Reed’s name.

  His stubbornness about this was seriously going to drive me batty. “He helped us before.”

  In Las Vegas, Markus had saved us from a serial killer who’d wanted to add both of us to his growing list of victims. Even though Markus had been after Thierry at the time, believing him to be a killer himself, he’d still stepped in without hesitation when we needed him.

  Call me crazy, but that earned him some big brownie points in my book.

  “That was then, Sarah. It doesn’t change anything. I want nothing to do with Markus while he’s acting on behalf of the Ring.”

  “Fine.” I hissed out a breath. “Let me look at that grimoire. Maybe I can find something.”

  Heather handed the book to me and I sat in the chair next to the sofa, trying not to be distracted by Owen’s magically unconscious presence only a couple of feet away from me. I flipped through the pages one by one. They were dry and brittle, and I had to be gentle for fear of tearing or cracking them.

  Heather was right—the magic in this book was palpable. It made my skin literally tingle while in contact with it. Most of the pages were written in Latin, but there were some English words and phrases as well. The witch had been a decent artist. Adorning the pages of writing were portraits of faces, landscapes, and specific herbs, plants, and animals needed for some of the spells.

  “What’s this?” Halfway through the book I came to a thicker page. After inspecting it for a moment, I realized that it wasn’t one page, but two pages stuck together.

  Heather’s eyes widened. “I didn’t notice that.”

  I slid my fingernail between and gently worked on pulling them apart. It took a couple of minutes, but finally they separated and fell apart.

  On these pages the handwriting was so small, if I hadn’t had vampire vision I’d need a magnifying glass to read it—if I could read it at all.

  “Does that say ‘vampyr’ there?” I asked, pointing. “With a Y and no E?”

  “It does,” Thierry confirmed.

  This had to mean something. I mean, we were vampyrs. Or—vampires. Same difference, I figured. “Vampyr magic. That sounds seriously old-school.”

  Thierry’s expression had become unreadable and guarded. “You must put that book away, Sarah. You’re now treading onto dangerous territory.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Well, that sounds much more promising than the nothing we had to work with before. Talk, Thierry. You’re our expert here in all things historic.”

  He turned away and crossed the room to the sofa, where he glanced down for a silent moment at his body lying there unconscious. Then he flicked a glance back at me and Heather.

  “Some witches throughout history have used vampire blood to strengthen their magic. It can be a potent and highly dangerous ingredient.”

  “Vampire blood magic.” I’d never heard of this before. A chill shot down my spine.

  Heather gasped. “Wait a minute. If Raina has this book, and if this original witch was an ancestor of hers, she’d know about this. Raina could be responsible for those vampires you said have gone missing. And—and even for Owen’s murder.”

  His expression became more grim. “It’s possible.”

  I frowned, running my index finger along the parchment. “But these pages were stuck together. It looks like they’ve been that way for ages. Maybe she has no idea what’s in this book—that’s why she shoved it up in her attic and forgot about it.”

  “This is also possible,” Thierry conceded.

  When the phone rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Heather rushed toward the table where it sat next to the archway leading to the front hallway and looked down at the call display. She gave me a squeamish look. “Guess who.”

  Three guesses which witch was calling, and the first two didn’t count. “Don’t answer it.”

  Her face had paled to a ghostly shade. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  I caught Thierry’s curious look.

  “Is your recent criminal past coming back to haunt you?” he asked.

  “Great, now he’s making ghost puns. I’m so proud,” I mumbled to myself. Then I shifted my attention to the redhead. “Okay, Heather, let’s talk vampire blood magic. Can it help us?”

  She scurried back to the open grimoire and studied the pages. “One spell draws energy from a vampire and uses it to help strengthen a witch’s magic—just like Thierry said.”

  Thierry nodded. “I’m familiar with that spell. It usually requires the blood of not just any vampire, but a master.”

  Heather shivered, her finger tracing the words as she read. “He’s right. It says right here that makes it more powerful.”

  I turned my attention back to him. “I’m afraid to ask, but how do you know that?”

  “I’ve encountered many witches in my life. A few have been interested in this particular sect of magic. Their daggers were sometimes unexpected, but always sharp.”

  My own vampire blood ran cold. “Thierry . . .”

  “It’s past. Nothing to concern yourself with now.”

  I hated to think he’d been at the mercy of some blood-letting witch, but he was right. I forced myself to put it out of my mind and focus on the task at hand. “Are there any other spells there, Heather?”

  “Yes.” Her finger skimmed across the Latin words. “Oh, this is very interesting, but it won’t help with a possession.”

  My stomach sank like a stone. “What is it anyway?”

  “This spell uses a vampire’s blood to trace his or her history.”

  History, quite honestly, was never one of my favorite subjects. “What does that mean?”

  “It seems to be like . . .” She frowned as if struggling to describe what she was reading. “I want to say time travel, but is that even possible, even with magic?”

  “Time travel?” I repeated, stunned. “Thierry, have you ever heard of anything like this before?”

  He gave me a pensive look. “There have always been rumored methods of walking through time—either physically or metaphysically—but I’ve never seen a shred of proof that it’s actually possible.”

  I stared down at the page. “But wouldn’t it be interesting if it was?”

  “Wouldn’t what be interesting?” Rose entered the room carrying a vase of freshly cut roses in water. Her gardening gloves were tucked under her right arm, and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose.

  Heather looked up from the grimoire. “I think we found a time travel spell in here.”

  “How exciting!” Rose smiled brightly. “We never did interesting spells like that in my secret coven back in the day. Although, I must admit, we conjured a couple nice potions that worked just as well as alcohol but didn’t have the calories.”

  I glanced at Thierry, who’d gone very quiet. “What are you thinking?”

  He met my gaze directly. “That this is a very dangerous grimoire. Also, unfortunately, of no use to us.”

  He was right about one thing—it was dangerous. And it didn’t have the answers I’d originally been seeking in it. All we could do now was hope Thierry’s contact got back to us quickly with information about the necromancer.

  I began wracking my brain for a Plan C.

  The doorbell rang. I froze and glanced at Heather’s stricken expression.

  “Well, this is a bed-and-breakfa
st, girls,” Rose said after a moment, clearing her throat. “And potential customers do ring the doorbell. It’s not necessarily someone unfriendly.”

  “Of course,” I agreed tightly. “It’s probably another honeymooning couple. Don’t let them be intimidated by the unconscious vampire on the couch.”

  Heather wrung her hands and slowly crossed the room toward the foyer. “I’ll ask whoever it is to come back later.”

  I joined her at the door as she slowly opened it up, but there was no one on the porch.

  “I’m over here,” someone called out.

  Raina Wilkins currently stood on the sidewalk in front of the Booberry Inn. She waved at us.

  I waved back, my stomach busy tying itself into gruesome origami shapes. “Hello.”

  She hitched her shoulder bag higher. “Just thought I’d drop by in person since you’re not answering your phone.”

  “What do you want?” Heather asked, her voice crisp. A trickle of perspiration slid down her forehead. I was impressed the timid girl hadn’t already turned around and run upstairs with her tail between her legs.

  “I was wondering if you returned to my house earlier when I wasn’t home.”

  Heather glanced fearfully at me. “What should I say?”

  I had a feeling that lying wasn’t going to help us very much. It was clear that Raina already knew the answer to that question without needing any confirmation from us. And the fact that she stood twenty feet from the front door spoke volumes.

  “Hey, Raina,” I called to her. “Why are you standing on the sidewalk? We can barely hear you from there.”

  “It’s the darnedest thing. I can’t seem to come any closer.” Her cold smile held. “So why don’t you come outside and we can speak more easily?”

  That wasn’t going to happen. In fact, I’d decided to make the Booberry Inn my permanent home. Still, I couldn’t blame her for coming here to confront us. She might be pissed off enough to have “dark intentions” toward us, but we were the ones who’d broken into her house and stolen her property. I wasn’t saying I was the innocent one here.

  Still, she was the more dangerous one. The magic I now felt crackling down my arms proved it.