Chapter 35
If Luna’s heart wasn’t throbbing in abject terror, the tea witch side of her might be interested in the way her vision of so long ago was coming together with remarkable exactness.
For one thing, there was the dark stone.
She’d often wondered about that. In the vision she’d glimpsed as an adolescent, it had looked like a huge slab of marble, but where did people get such slabs?
It wasn’t really the right shape for an altar, nor was it very table-like.
As it turned out, it was a tombstone.
Specifically, the tombstone of Alfred P. Grimm, Hedge Wizard of the Verdant Ilk.
The Brotherhood, having scoured Garden for the location of Jastira’s demise, had come upon this blighted place, deep within the enchanted grounds.
One of the few places where all Nigel’s labors had failed to bring back life and growth.
It was as though Garden simply could not bear to revive where its former master had perished and his murderer had been blasted to oblivion.
So the stone stood in barren solitude, surrounded by greenness and beauty on all sides, which made it somehow all the more gothic and terrible-looking.
Luna recognized this site. Nigel had brought her here months ago, on her first day of work.
He had sworn then, on his father’s grave, that he was a practicing sorcerer no more and would never craft any spells to harm her.
It wasn’t the vow she’d wanted; she’d have preferred he swore never to practice any sorcery whatsoever.
And when he’d refused to do so, she’d almost turned tail and fled then and there.
But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. Because something about that man, who was still little more than a stranger, had drawn her even then. Compelling her to seek his presence, to dwell in his atmosphere. And it was her ultimate undoing.
The Brotherhood had uprooted the stone and laid it out flat, transforming it into quite an effective sacrificial slab.
Then they’d dragged her forward in her pale nightie, laid her out upon it, bound her with staked cords by the wrists and ankles.
She lay spread-eagle, staring up at the storm-churning sky.
Garden was furious. High winds kicked up, and it kept fluctuating between extremes of hot and cold as it sought to purge its invaders.
But these extremes never went too far, possibly for her sake.
She suspected Garden feared hurting her.
Dear, dear Garden. Who knew that their fates were bound to each other?
Nigel had told her last night, while she lay in his arms, of the Brotherhood’s intention to drain Garden of its tremendous magic in their bid to feed the resurrection spell they had in mind.
Gods, if she’d known five months ago what she knew now, she never would have stayed on at The Arcane Bouquet.
It was simply tempting fate for both the vessel and the power-source to be in such close proximity!
If she’d had any idea of the details of the Brotherhood’s plan, she wouldn’t have risked it.
Luna blinked hard, tears flowing from the corners of her eyes.
Perhaps she should regret her choices. But in the end, how could she?
Even one short moment with Nigel was worth whatever pain must come.
Would she still remember him when Jastira possessed her?
She hoped so. She hoped she could hold onto at least some small measure of selfhood and memory, but .
. . somehow she doubted Jastira would allow it.
The Brotherhood gathered around her, faceless entities in black hoods.
There were ten of them, just as she’d once counted in her teacup vision.
They’d not begun their great spell yet, but several of them muttered strange incantations over her, the awful language of sorcery issuing like poison from their hidden lips.
Calista Anguish stood within Luna’s line of sight as well, watching the going’s on.
Her red lipstick was smeared, her mascara ran down her face in gothic streams of black, and strange purple stains covered her chin, jaw, and neck.
One could hardly remember the beautiful version of herself presented at the Governor’s Ball. She was quite hideous now.
“What are you doing?” she demanded in her crispest tones, which didn’t quite disguise the underscoring hysteria. “Why have you not begun the resurrection?”
A rather sullen and not-at-all ominous voice answered from beneath a deep cowl. “It’s those damn-blasted witches. They’ve gone and worked a Green Magic spell on her, and now she’s positively brimming with the stuff.”
“What stuff?” Calista demanded.
“Why, Green Magic, of course. It’s seething in her veins.”
Calista blinked hugely, her eyes looking owlish behind her smeared makeup. Then she threw up her hands. “Well, that’s no good, is it?” she shrieked. “Jastira can hardly be comfortable in a Green Magic host! I thought this girl was a sorceress?”
“She is,” the cowled figure replied. “See here?” He pointed at .
. . well, Luna couldn’t see what he pointed at, actually.
Something in the aether, perhaps. Something which only a highly-developed sorcerous perception could discern.
“She’s got sorcery in her all right, only it’s been suppressed.
But that spell old Blackmere put on her did a ruddy good job of waking it up again.
It’s there, and there’s a lot of it. It’s just there’s all this Green Magic too. ”
“Can’t you . . . I don’t know. Get rid of the Green?” Calista demanded.
“With a bit of time and patience—” the sorcerer began.
But Calista cut him off with a curse. “The Grimshade Lord is still out there! Somewhere!” She stretched out her hands, as though she wanted to wring the other sorcerer’s neck.
“He’s coming for her. Don’t you understand?
Do you want to be without our Lady’s protection when he arrives?
Do you want to be the one to try to hold him off while the rest of us bring her back? ”
Though the cowled figure’s face remained unseen, there was a wincing-ness about his demeanor as he shook his head.
“I thought not!” Calista turned in place, taking in the circle of sorcerers around the stone. “All of you,” she snapped, “open up an energy-force line during the summoning. That way, when our Lady arrives, she can channel our magic into her new self to counterbalance the Green Magic.”
“Now hold on!” one of the sorcerers erupted. “I don’t want my sorcery being drained, thank you very much!”
Calista whirled on him, viper-quick. “We all must sacrifice for the sake of our Shadowbane Lady! Do you want her back or don’t you?”
“Well, of course I want her back. It’s been bloody awful out there without her, what with all the anti-sorcery laws. No one can put the authorities in their place like Jastira can, but—”
“But what?”
“But what’s the point if we don’t have sorcery of our own at the end of all this?”
“So you’d rather continue your miserable existence as a scuttling little roach-man? A fugitive of the law, afraid to perform even the smallest conjuring for fear the SSSD will squash you under its heel?”
Several of the cowls turned to look at several others.
Luna’s heart dared to lift the tiniest bit.
Maybe these cowardly men wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it.
Maybe her aunties, by awakening her Green Magic, had saved her.
Maybe they would let her go, and she’d be able to go back to Nigel, and . . . and . . .
“I will join the circle,” Calista declared, stepping forward.
“I will join and offer up my own energy line. There—does that shame you?” She threw her arms wide.
“I, a woman, not even a member of your precious institute. Poisoned with severmist, crippled, and yet braver than any of you sniveling worms.” Her hands clenched into fists, and she shook them wildly.
“We’ve come this far! We’ve got to see this through.
Jastira can have what she needs off me. What say you, gentlemen?
Are you man enough to serve and save your Lady? ”
There was some embarrassed shuffling. Then, to Luna’s dismay, they began to nod. One after the other. And as Calista moved to the head of the stone, close to Luna’s face, they all stepped in to form a circle with her. Ten black figures and one pale woman, lifting up their arms together.
“My brothers!” Calista cried. “Let us begin! Let us call our great Queen back from the depths of the Void and restore the dignity of sorcery in this blighted world!”
Tears streamed from Luna’s eyes, thick and fast. She turned her head toward Calista. “Please!” she gasped, her voice trembling with emotion. “Don’t do this. Please.”
The woman cast her a single, withering look. Like she was a worm, like she was less than a worm. With a sneer, she lifted her head and began to speak the words of a dark language, beginning the chant, which the other sorcerers took up at once.
And Luna felt the shudder ripple through Garden as tremendous surges of power were drawn from its grounds and sent hurtling through dimensions. The very sky overhead seemed to groan with pain.
Garden! Luna cried out with her heart. Garden, fight them! Don’t let them do this to you!
From the corner of her eye, she saw a mound of thorny canes, green leaves, and pink-and-yellow blossoms gather, seeking to rush the sorcerer circle. She saw bright orange faces, snarling viciously, and little puffs of snapdragon flame. The flowers of Garden rushed to defend their home.
But there were other sorcerers, not just those forming the circle.
Others standing guard, who were swift to convert all the great energy around them, creating Dire-bolts, with which they blasted anything that moved.
Luna, from where she was bound, could not see what became of the flowers.
All she knew was that the circle of chanting figures around her remained unbroken, and the Dark magic in the atmosphere swelled unimpeded.
She closed her eyes, willing Garden and all its inhabitants to hear her desperate mind. Don’t die for me, little friends, she begged silently. Save yourselves, please!
But they couldn’t. Their lives were all bound up in Garden’s great life. And the spell even now mounting and growing in a great ball of energy around Alfred P. Grimm’s gravestone would drain every drop of Garden’s lifeforce.
The sorcerers surrounding her lifted their arms. Each voice chanted a unique thread of spell, blending together in an evil, multi-stranded chorus.
Luna could feel the greenness of Garden draining, could feel the lovely lawns and blossoms vanishing in puffs of dust and decay.
There was no escape. Not for the flowers. Not for Garden. Not for herself.
She tried to pray. But she couldn’t. The chanting was too loud in her ears.
Instead, she tried to picture Nigel. Tried to see again the look on his face when he kissed her on the doorstep of The Arcane Bouquet. When he drew back and told her in a rush of abject passion, “I love you! Luna, my dearest, you are my very heart and soul!”
She tried to see the moment when he sat beside her on her childhood bed, kissing her cheek so tenderly as he murmured, “Please, marry me.”
She tried to see him, standing in her aunties’ garden, as he slipped a simple gold band on her finger and said: “I vow to make a home with you, to tend your gardens, to brew your teas, to carry your burdens when they are heavy, and to remind you every day how fiercely you are loved.”
But none of these moments would clarify for her.
Instead, the only image she could find with any clarity was the first one: the moment when he lay stunned on the shop floor, a pool of rain water spreading beneath him, gazing up at her in utter shock.
She’d pulled her head back, her nose unexpectedly filled with the delicious scent of sandalwood and cinnamon, and found those sad blue eyes of his blazing into hers.
She’d not recognized the emotion burning in them. Not then.
Now it seemed so obvious.
“Nigel,” she whispered, her lips moving softly, her voice lost in the chanting power of the spell. “My Nigel.”
Your Nigel?
The voice erupted from somewhere deep and dark and echoing.
A stirring moved through the aether, rippling through sigils and power-transferences. A terrible pressure of energy, which converged suddenly in the middle of Luna’s chest. She screamed with pain as a roiling portal to the Void opened directly inside her.
Your Nigel? that voice spoke again, nearer and closer and darker.
Rising up through the Void, through her being, seeping into her blood and bones.
I think not, my dear little cousin. No, for you will find that he is MINE.
And I am coming for him now. And I will make him bleed, and I will make him pay. I will make them all pay!
Lunatic laughter filled Luna’s head as branching fingers of spirit and awareness ripped through her soul like a spreading virus.