Chapter 23
Helena couldn’t stop thinking about Cynthia. She took on extra shifts at the apothecary to keep herself busy, but it did no good. Her heart jumped every time the bell rang and plummeted each time it wasn’t Cynthia.
She joined Ellie on her rounds as she delivered magical potions and lotions, and non-magical but delicious baked goods to some of their elderly neighbours, people her soft-hearted cousin had taken under her wing.
But the kindly folks started to grumble about Helena’s acerbic comments and baleful glances.
After the third complaint, Ellie gently suggested Helena speak with Uncle Lachlan about assisting him at Scotland Yard.
He was no help. When Helena begged him to allow her to investigate any leads they had on Hubert’s murder, amongst much foul language and stomping around his cluttered office, he delivered the infuriating news that the case was at a standstill.
Damien Sinclair’s power over the poor people of Seven Dials was an impenetrable force.
No matter what bribes they offered, how many threats his bobbies made, or what promises they gave of forgiving past crimes, no one was talking.
And to make matters worse, he was being sent to Bath to consult with the superintendent there on a rash of robberies taking place amongst wealthy members of the peerage.
‘Does that mean you’ve given up on finding Hubert Burrows’ murderer?’ Helena couldn’t stop the outrage soaking her words in acid.
‘We’ve found his murderer. It’s Damien Sinclair, as clearly as this is the nose on my face. I just canna prove it. Yet. But mark my words, lass. He’ll slip up. And when he does, we’ll be ready.’
When Helena pointed out Uncle Lachlan could hardly be ready to catch the bastard if he was in Bath, Uncle Lachlan’s lethal glare reminded Helena the man had once been a deadly and fearsome soldier in her majesty’s army. She took her leave with Hamlet close on her heels.
In desperation for distraction, Helena volunteered for the one job they all hated at the apothecary: inventory.
She worked late into the night, long after the last customer left the shop, counting and recording every pot of wrinkle salve, sachet of bath salts, vial of skin serum, and bushel of cleansing sage.
The idea of going home where Aunt Rowan would no doubt be working on healing an ailing plant at the dinner table while Ellie baked something delicious in their oven should have filled Helena with warm joy. But instead, emptiness echoed in her chest. Because her once full life suddenly felt hollow.
Fumbling the bottle of witch hazel tonic infused with crushed crocus petals harvested during the vernal equinox, Helena cursed her slippery fingers.
She had already broken three of the anti-inflammatory potions as condensation gathered on the glass.
Puddles kept forming around her feet, and she would need to mop the floor before heading home or there would be water stains waiting for Clio in the morning.
Her magic had been malfunctioning since Cynthia left.
Usually, she could ignore people’s thoughts unless they were especially emotional, or if she purposefully delved into their minds seeking secrets.
But of late, it was like a constant murmur invading her head whenever she left the house.
Water gathered on her fingers, her clothes were always damp, and her eyes flashed silver more often than grey.
‘This is ridiculous. I need to get over her.’
Hamlet, who had made himself at home on his special pillow in the corner next to the counter where they collected money and kept the ledger of sales, raised a knowing brow and whined.
‘Holding onto her isn’t fair. Love isn’t an option for me, and she deserves love.’
Curling his upper lip to show a row of sharp teeth, Hamlet growled as his hackles rose. Even her familiar wasn’t on her side.
‘Hamlet!’
He barked, a piercing sound in the quiet room.
Anger rose like a swollen river. ‘Don’t scold me! I hated sending Cynthia away. I hate every moment we are apart. But I can’t help my past. Or the legacy my mother left. And I won’t risk becoming like her, Hamlet. I won’t be so blinded by love, I lose sight of the truth.’
Her mother’s love had been a desperate thing. An all-consuming whirlpool sucking everything into its depths. And the blacksmith’s desire for Willow had twisted, warped, and destroyed her. The love they had shared was toxic. Poisonous. Devastating.
But Cynthia would never hurt me.
The whisper surfaced like a leaf on a river’s eddy.
Hamlet rose from his pillow and padded down the aisle, side-stepping puddles along the way.
He stopped at her feet and bumped his head into her knee.
Helena dropped to the floor, her dress soaking up yet another pool of water as she cradled the witch hazel tonic in her hand.
At this rate, she would walk home soaking wet from her mismanaged magic, and all the bottles in the store would be spotted with droplets.
‘Not all creatures are built for love like that, Hamlet.’
Jumping on his hind feet, he put both paws on her arm. His golden eyes pierced the secrets hiding in her soul.
‘I’m not wrong.’ Her chin quivered.
He stretched his neck and licked her cheek. In all of their days together, he had never lowered himself to such canine behaviour.
Oh. Dear. Goddess.
I’m wrong.
Her coven knew it. Aunt Rowan knew it. The fox knew it. And he was trying to break it to her gently.
Hamlet yipped just as the bell to the front door tinkled and leather slapped onto wet wood.
‘Damnation,’ Helena whispered, standing and walking swiftly down the aisle around the shelf.
She had forgotten to lock the front door.
‘I’m sorry. We’re closed for the day. We open again tomorrow at—’ The words died in her throat.
Hamlet was at her heel. The growl rumbling from his chest this time held true menace.
‘Miss Blair. Just the woman I was ’oping to find.’ Damien Sinclair’s voice fell like a stone in deep water.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘I’ve ’eard so many compliments about All Things Bright and Beautiful. Some say it’s the finest store for women’s beauty products in all of England. Far superior to Madame Rachel’s. Apparently, the potions you sell are so effective at restoring a woman’s youth and beauty, it’s akin to witchcraft.’
Helena couldn’t stop the snort of disbelief. ‘I hardly think you converse with our clientele, Sinclair.’
The darkly handsome man raised a midnight brow. ‘You would be surprised at the quality of company I keep, Miss Blair.’
Hamlet’s growl increased in intensity.
There was unmistakable menace in Sinclair’s gleaming smile.
‘We are closed. Leave now.’ Helena forced steel into her voice.
‘Oh, but I’m ’ere for a certain product not to be found anywhere else.’
Pulling moisture from the air, Helena knew her eyes were shifting from grey to silver, but she needed to arm herself. Because Damien Sinclair only came out of Seven Dials for one purpose: to start a war. And Helena would be damned if she let him leave the apothecary without a few battle scars.
Flooding rivers could fell an oak tree in moments. It could lift a ship, drown a village, and reshape the earth. Her witchwater would easily sweep away a devil like Sinclair.
Holding one hand palm up and cupping the other over it, her magic built, pooling into a swirl of aquamarine in her palm, waiting for her thoughts to form it into a spray powerful enough to cut through stone.
‘This is your last chance to leave unscathed, Sinclair. Whatever you seek, you won’t find it here.’
‘I seek a witch, Miss Blair.’
Helena let the elemental force sweep through her. The Devil of Seven Dials might be hunting witches, but she refused to be anyone’s prey.
Hamlet’s snarl abruptly sharpened into a yelp of fear as something heavy slammed into the back of her head. The world went dark.
Helena felt the heat first. She was breathing in flames. Dry air sucked any moisture from her body in a suffocating wave.
She blinked as salt stung her eyes and blurred her vision.
Leather ties bit into her wrists when she tried to pull her arms from where they were secured above her head.
Metal chains were attached to the cuffs around her wrists.
They clinked and creaked as she strained against them, but didn’t give an inch where they were secured to a large beam in the low ceiling.
Someone had removed her dress, petticoats, corset, and bustle. She wore only her shift and would have been outraged at Sinclair undressing her if the very idea of heavy clothes in such a dry, hot environment didn’t make her want to claw out of her skin.
‘Where the blazes am I?’ Her voice was no more than a rasp.
Cedar and eucalyptus created an incongruently pleasant scent in the hellish space no larger than her own bedroom.
Wooden benches lined the cedar-planked walls.
She pushed down the panic that wanted to crawl from her belly up her throat to strangle her.
Breathing was difficult enough when every inhalation singed her lungs and each exhalation depleted her of more precious moisture.
She needed to escape, find Hamlet, and send Sinclair into the depths of the English Channel on a geyser of witchwater powered by her rage.
Forcing herself to focus, she reached into her core where her magic waited. The cool rush of power, more familiar to her than her own heartbeat, was gone. In its place was nothing but mist and memory.
‘Oh dear goddess.’ Fear, real and terrifying, filled the void where her magic had always lived.
Her element was water. It was where she drew her strength and fuelled her magic. And the Devil of Seven Dials had somehow constructed a room that stole every last drop.