Chapter 6
Chapter 6
P arked at the curb, Ethan waited for Tuesday while she purchased food from a stand. He didn’t use the BMW often because he walked to work even in the winter. Vampires could easily regulate their body temperature. But the trip to the park would prove long on foot, and he didn’t want the witch to suffer the cold, especially walking in those high-heeled boots.
Tuesday slid in and closed the door and settled back to chomp on a savory-smelling crepe.
“You want a bite? It’s got weird French cheese and ham in it. This is amazing.”
“I’d rather suck dead blood,” he muttered.
“Oh, yeah? What’s wrong with a little taste once in a while? I know vampires can eat small amounts of food.”
“I don’t have a taste for meat. I get enough of the flavor when I drink blood. And you just dripped fontina onto the leather seat. Would you be careful?”
“Fontina, eh? Don’t tell me you don’t steal a taste every now and then.” She swiped a napkin over the seat and then leaned forward, pointing. “That’s the—What is it?”
“The Louvre,” he pronounced carefully.
“Louv-ra, with the ra-ra shout at the end,” she mocked. “You’re not French, are you?”
“I’m English. Born in London, actually, but I didn’t stay there more than a decade. I’ve lived everywhere. Spent some time in the Americas in the 1700s. Right around the time Massachusetts became a state.”
“Good times,” she said, sitting back. “Puritanical shame, Indian genocide and witch hunts. Go, witch hunters! Not.”
Ethan shouldn’t have brought that up. If she knew about the travesties he’d committed against witches when he had been a young vampire only set on impressing his tribe leaders? He’d be very thankful for the binding spell that prevented her from using magic against him.
“Have you been in Paris before?” he asked.
“Once or twice. Never for longer than a month or two. And never in a mood to do any touristing. Once I was here looking for a bastard imp who stole my voice. Little creep isn’t singing or snickering anymore. What’s that?”
“The Luxor Obelisk.” Ethan drove by the seventy-five-foot-high yellow granite obelisk placed in the center of the Place de la Concorde at the end of the Tuileries Garden. “Originally located at the Luxor Temple in Egypt—a gift from Muhammad Ali Pasha, the ruler of Egypt at the time.”
“You know the city’s history.”
“I’ve lived it. Of all my centuries, I’ve spent the most time in Paris. And up ahead is the Champs-élysées.”
“Oh, I know that’s a good shopping street. Should have waited to get my togs up ahead.” She scanned the signs screaming for customers to come in and spend their precious euros. They passed luxury-car dealers and high-end clothing retailers. And... “There’s a McDonalds on the classy upscale shopping street?”
“And movie rental stores,” Ethan said. “Go figure. It’s all a big tourist trap. But then, this street has been ever since Napoleonic times.”
“More good times,” Tuesday offered. “The Inquisition was still around then. You gotta love a self-righteous maniac intent on destroying that which he does not understand. And if it’s a woman, then even more reason to put her in her place.”
“Do you remember any good times that were actually good?”
“Oh, sure. I loved the late nineteenth century. So bohemian. We witches really got to shine then. The seventies and the hippies also welcomed us with open arms. What’s that? Wait! I know this one.”
Ethan stopped the car at a light before he would enter the roundabout before the monument.
“The arch of triumph, right?”
“Right.” He wouldn’t correct her too harshly. “Napoleon’s Arc d’Triomphe, erected to honor those who served in the Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars. There’s a tomb of an unknown soldier beneath it. If you go to the top it offers a great view of the whole city.”
“Then let’s do it. Yeah?”
“After the demon is found you can take all the time you like for sightseeing.”
“Because then you’ll cut my leash and set me free?”
He didn’t like hearing it put that way, but it was the truth. “Exactly.”
Ten minutes later they pulled in to the park, which was massive and filled with sports areas, a zoo and playgrounds, housing and entertainment complexes. And yet there was still a preserved forested area, an oasis set at the border of the big, cosmopolitan city. A light dusting of snow clung to the trees, giving the forest a faery-tale touch as sun twinkled on the snow.
Ethan parked in a lot before a hiking trail. He kept the car running because the witch would probably appreciate the heat. He pulled on his blue-lensed sunglasses. He could walk in direct sunlight a few minutes without feeling the burn, and much longer in the winter sun. And these lenses were also charmed to view wards, which served as more than a means to protection from sizzling retinas.
“What’s the plan?” Tuesday asked. “Are we going to tromp about the park and call ‘Here, demon, come on, demon!’”
“Won’t that sigil you wear lead us to him?”
“Right.” She touched her chest and closed her eyes. “Or him to me. Not that he’d come running with arms wide open to embrace me.”
Ethan sensed she plummeted to some place very low whenever she touched the sigil. He had to ask. “Tell me how you got the sigil? It could be helpful to know what I’m dealing with here.”
“ Now you decide to ask about the stakes? You are so not a romantic, vampire.”
“What does romance have to do with anything?”
“Nothing.” She crossed her arms over her chest and averted her gaze out the window. “Kisses don’t have any place between us, either.”
“I beg to differ. They have proven a useful tool for me.”
“Again, not a romantic bone in your body, eh?”
“What? Do you require emotion, some feeling next time I kiss you?”
“You think you’re going to kiss me again?”
“Probably.”
She turned on the seat to look at him. “Why? Do you like kissing me?”
“It was pleasant.” He sounded like an asshole, but what was she angling for right now with that teasing question? The woman was a curiously complex mixture of opposites. One minute she was trying to put a hex on him to make his dick limp, the next she wanted to make out. “Do you want to kiss me again?”
She sat up, lifting her chin haughtily. “You haven’t been kissed by me yet, vampire. When I kiss you properly? You’ll know. And you’ll never have to wonder if you want another again. Because you will. You’ll crave my kiss, my touch. You’ll want to hex me every chance you get.”
Ethan offered a shrug. “Have to say, that does sound intriguing.”
“Damn right it does. So we heading out on the demon quest?”
“First, I need the details.” He pushed back his seat and tilted to face her comfortably. Taking off the sunglasses, he asked, “Tell me how you got Gazariel’s sigil.”
Boston, MA —1680
Finnister McAdams was going blind. He wore a black strip of sack cloth across his eyes now because he had explained to Tuesday how the light bothered him. Made him blink and gave him headaches. ’Twas as if the devil was prodding his eyes with his mighty pitchfork.
Tuesday knew well the Devil Himself did not wield a pitchfork, but to correct him would only put her in danger. She’d prepared Finn an herbal tincture in his morning tea. Rosemary, black salts and feverfew. Had cast a healing spell...without him knowing. Even laid mustard plasters over his eyes. Nothing proved efficacious.
Now she considered calling up a demon to aid in healing her lover’s eyes. Such creatures did possess healing powers. At least, a few of them did so. If only the witch summoning them could find a beneficent demon. And that was the challenge.
Tuesday loved her man, Finn. From the moment he’d settled next to her in the lavender field and compared her eyes to the sky, she had loved him desperately. Three months they had been sharing her tiny cabin at the edge of the village with one another. Finn was strong and proud, and very handsome. His hair was copper, his thick beard as well. His skin was ruddy and pale, so he always wore a wide-brimmed hat when outside. He was fashioned of flame and earth. And when he held her in his arms it wasn’t tentative or rough. He knew how to hold a woman. And Tuesday’s heart fluttered when he kissed her.
But if he knew she was a witch he would be displeased. The man was Puritan. His family had sailed across the Atlantic Ocean from England six months earlier. His father was seeking a congregation to share and spread the word of God. And Finnister, while a godly man, seemed more inclined to craftwork that involved turning wood into beautiful creations. He even fashioned lovely knife hilts, and had skill with a blade.
With the witch trials and all the heinous accusations running rampant of late, Tuesday did not dare reveal her truth to her lover. Because even if he could accept her, she risked the townsfolk putting him on trial for harboring her secret.
But she could no longer bear to see him stumble about the house, seeking wood for the stove and instead stabbing his fingers into the log pile and yelping as slivers cut through his skin. Or to watch him try to piss in the chamber pot and instead spray the stone floor.
She would care for him. Because she loved him.
But she must try one last thing before giving up on his healing. And that required she summon a demon. She wasn’t schooled in demons, didn’t know which to summon for the healing of sight, but would take whatever beast she could conjure. Surely, even a lowly demon might have some healing skills. And she had a way of winning a man’s trust with her gentle confidence and attentive manner.
Shouldn’t be so different with demons.
So just before midnight, on a hot summer’s eve, she kissed Finn’s forehead as he snoozed before the window, and snuck out with her cotton bag of charms and potions under her arm. Her wood-soled clogs took the soft red earth in quick strides and she was thankful for the fast-growing moss that muffled her steps. She would avoid the gatekeepers, and slip into the forest half a mile from the village. It was a haunted forest, or rumors told, so that kept out most villagers.
All except those who knew better. Like her. The forest was a thin place where the realm of Daemonia overlapped this mortal realm. Summoning a demon would be as simple as snapping her fingers. And having the fortitude to do so.
Tuesday had lived nearly forty years, and had honed her magical skills in privacy and under the tutelage of some powerful aunts and good women. She had eaten a vampire’s heart to secure immortality and a youthful appearance—at least, for another century—and had cast down the moon and summoned healings and utilized the natural elements to move through life.
She was not like those women who were being accused in the trials. Women who had knowledge of female anatomy and tried to heal and teach others. They were merely humans who sought to educate and save. But the menfolk would not condone a smart woman living in their midst. Females were to submit and serve. And they used them as cat’s-paws and accused them of witchery. Anything to subdue and make them submissive.
Of course, Tuesday could be thankful for the distraction of that wayward and unprofessional witchery. It kept most eyes from her, a true witch. And she was wise enough not to share her skills with anyone who had not been vetted to her by a witch elder. Even when Finn slyly questioned if she would ever attempt witchcraft, she laughed and told him he was silly. It was something she imagined most every woman in the village had been asked. Men were suspicious creatures. Their fear of losing control to what they deemed a mere woman made them so.
A woman would do well to learn how to control such irresponsible creatures—men. And she was teaching herself that by learning all that she could about herself, her body, nature and the universe. Strength came with wisdom and knowledge.
But tonight she would reach beyond her own capabilities in a quest to save her lover’s sight.
Once deep in the forest, she did not light a candle. She didn’t wish discovery by hunters. Drawing out a pentagram with black salt on the leaf-crusted forest floor, she spoke the invocation to summon a demon. The surprise she felt when one appeared made her step back and clutch the smoky quartz she wore from a leather strap about her neck for protection. He stood within the circle, but posed gallantly beside a thick oak, elbow propped high to lean against it.
His eyes glowed red, so she knew he was demon. But otherwise he looked a human, dressed in a fine blue silk frock coat, shot through with silver threading, and with lace dripping around his wrists and at his neck. Such finery belonged only to royalty. She had seen Pandora dolls imported from Europe wearing such elaborate silks. And his hair was long and wavy and black as midnight. He smelled...of lilacs. A pretty man—demon—if she was to size him up. And that notion startled her. Should not demons be more creature-like? Horned and possessed of red or black skin with claws? This demon’s handsome appearance was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Who are you?” she asked, a bit too timidly for her comfort. So she set back her shoulders and lifted her chin. Courage hummed in her bones. “Have you come from Daemonia?”
“You don’t even know who you’ve summoned? What a sorry witch you are!” The demon tugged out the lace from the end of one sleeve. “Daemonia is the last place I should ever tread. I am of this realm. And I am Gazariel, The Beautiful One.”
Tuesday knew demons often went by monikers, and that one was right on the nose. Beautiful, indeed. And he seemed to believe it himself, judging by his mannerisms. Primping and preening. Not a wrinkle to the silk, nor a hair out of place. Was that rouge on his pale cheeks?
She tested the binding on the summons and did not feel a weakness in the air. He could not approach her, and if he tried, the circle should keep him in check.
“I need your help,” she said. “With a healing.”
The demon rolled his eyes and shook his head sadly. “Bother. Always with the sicknesses! And here I thought you might request I attend the next village soiree and impregnate a dozen virgins with my demon babies.” He gestured dismissively. “You’re boring, witch.”
“My lover is going blind. You can kiss his eyes and give him sight.”
“Of course I can.” He rubbed his fingernails against the embroidery edging his silk lapels. “We demons have such skills. Most of us, anyway. I would not dare to ask a wrath demon for some delicate brain trephination, though, mind you. What is this lover’s name?”
“Finnister McAdams. His sight is almost completely gone. He is a kind man. And so young. He is strong and contributes all that he can to the village. If you could see to healing him, I would be ever grateful.”
“Release me,” the demon said.
Tuesday’s spine stiffened. She was no fool. “Not until you give me what I ask.”
“I can’t go near the man unless you unbind me, now can I?” He splayed his lace-encircled hand toward the circle on the ground.
That was true. He did need to move about freely. And she could hardly lead Finn here to the forest to receive what healing magic the demon could provide. Such had to be managed with cunning.
“You’ll follow me home and attend to him while he sleeps?”
“He doesn’t know you’re a witch? Of course not. You may be a bore but you are not stupid. Take down the circle. I’ll see what I can do. And in turn, I’ll ask a favor from you.”
“Which is?”
He shrugged and flipped out a hand to display the lace grandly. “I’ll decide on that after the task is complete.”
A favor to a demon? It was only fair to reciprocate. But she wasn’t sure what she could do for him. And she had no intention of having one of his demon babies. Well. She could not. Her womb was barren. She’d known that for decades. A condition she’d been born with, according to a wise witch who had gazed into her soul and seen her birth.
With trepidation, Tuesday slashed a foot through the salt circle. The demon disappeared instantly, leaving her alone in the dark woods. An owl hooted, chastising her with his repeated tones.
“I have been a fool! He will never give me what I want. I should have offered him a gift immediately. Given him reason to want to help me.”
And what would the creature demand of her should he serve her wishes? It would never be good, she felt sure.
“It is a sacrifice I am willing to make,” she muttered and turned to wander back to the village.
By the time she returned home, she saw the demon standing outside her door. His pale blue frock coat was an unwanted beacon in the darkness, and in a village where the only colors worn were black, brown and gray.
She rushed up to him. “What are you doing here? You can’t be seen!”
“Oh, Tuesday Knightsbridge, you sad, pitiful witch.” He placed a hand over her chest, right between her breasts, and Tuesday felt a searing pain but she could not step away from the demon. “Your lover lies to you. I came here to find him returning from the forest. He followed you. Watched you and I. He knows. And he is not going blind. His sight is as perfect as yours or mine.”
“No, that’s—”
“That’s a foolish witch for you,” the demon said piteously. “And you have fallen in love with a witch hunter. Ha!”
The searing at her chest now burned as if in flames.
Then her front door opened, and Finn spilled out with hell blazing in his eyes. He looked right at her. Saw her for what she was. Finn snarled, “Witch!”
The torture began the next day. The water chair was the one that siphoned all Tuesday’s gumption from her. She was tied to a chair on the end of a seesaw and repeatedly dunked into the filthy, muddy river. Each time she was lifted above water, gasping, choking, pleading for Finn to stop, she was commanded to confess to being a witch and consorting with demons.
She would not. She would survive this. Somehow.
Later, the whip that flayed at her skin left deep gashes, and caused Tuesday to pass out more than a few times. Hot pokers to her hips and between her toes almost made her confess. Almost.
After four days of suffering her lover’s vicious, hateful punishments, Tuesday was lying on the cold, hard dirt floor on a tiny cell at the edge of the village. No moonlight on this night of the new moon. On the other side of the building, the village pigs snorted and rooted, and filled the air with a nauseating odor that she breathed as if a toxin.
All vitality had been beaten out of her. Even the will to live had been vanquished with a humiliating search of her private body parts in search of devil’s marks. Finn had done so before a dozen village elders. All men. All leering. If she’d the strength she would have cast a spell over them all, reducing them to stupid, foul, snorting pigs like those outside her cell. Alas, she’d expelled all her energies with a breathing spell during the dunking.
She would be dead by morning. Her tattered heart told her as much. And she sighed with acceptance.
When the flash of red light flickered in the cell and she scented a brief fragrance of lilacs, she tried to lift her head to look at the demon, but the flay marks along her neck pained her with every subtle movement.
The demon’s silk, red-heeled shoes were but inches from her face. “Men are terrible, yes?”
Indeed. And yet, she was not prepared to condemn them all. Her father had been a good man. And the village baker, who she knew was married to a witch whom he protected, was also kind. “Not all of them.”
“You’re right. It is love that is so vile. Can’t be trusted. Merely a means to trick and use innocence. And you have been thoroughly used, my witch.”
Indeed. Why had the demon returned? To rub her failures into her open wounds? Or did he still require she serve him something in return? He hadn’t healed Finn, for the man hadn’t required any healing.
The demon bowed low and the tickle of his hair across her cheek smelled sweet and too luxurious. “I can give you something that you’ll find most useful.”
“Leave me to die, demon.”
“Do not address me so. It is vulgar. I am The Beautiful One.”
She could but close her eyes tightly and wish death would quicken its pace.
“I carry a curse,” Gazariel continued. “But I don’t need it. Or want it. And you can have it if you’ll willingly accept it.”
A curse? Why ever would she ask for a curse?
By some means, Tuesday managed to roll to her back. The red light surrounding him illuminated her cell. Her tormentor looked down over her. Pity from a demon? She’d thought being held under the river waters for long minutes had been her lowest. Gazariel’s pouting mouth reduced her to less than that low.
“If I am dead,” she whispered, “curse or not, it will not matter.”
“Oh, you’re going to live, witch. I will make sure of that. The question is, do you want to walk this earth a wise, smart, powerful witch who will never again be defeated by love?”
The demon placed his palm between her breasts. And Tuesday felt a darkness tickle into her heart.
“What is the curse?” she asked.
He leaned in and whispered in her ear, and his voice was melodious and warming. “You will never know true love again. Your soul will repel it, and even should it occur, the moment your lover realizes he loves you he will suddenly hate you. Perhaps even suffer a cruel malady or some such,” he added offhandedly.
Such a curse actually sounded sweet and tempting. She was lying here, near death, because of love. Fickle, cruel love. And she wanted the demon to save her. No one ever wanted to die. And she wasn’t singular for wishing it so. Even for the sacrifice of accepting such a deal. To never again know love? To feel the pain of what love could do to her?
To live so that she could walk away from the bastard Finnister McAdams and all those men who had wounded her soul deep?
With a nod, she said, “I’ll take the curse.”
The demon lifted her under the chin, dragging her body to sit up. With a forceful shove, Tuesday’s back hit the cell wall and she screamed at the pain as the sigil seared into her skin.
Gazariel apported out of the tiny cell. And she did not see him ever again.