Cin Craven - Wages of Sin Part 3

She grimaced and looked back down at her book. I continued scratching.

"You know who could probably help?" Mrs. Mackenzie said. "Mr. Pendergra.s.s."

"Now, there's a thought," I replied. Mr. Pendergra.s.s was an apothecary in London and a dear friend of my mother's. In a small back room behind his legitimate business he supplied witches from miles around with ingredients for potions and spells and he also had a rather impressive collection of books himself. "If I took a horse in the morning I could possibly make it back by sunset."

"I hate the thought of you being out by yourself, Dulcie, but it looks like Mr. Pendergra.s.s is going to be our only option," Mrs.

Mackenzie said grimly as she tossed yet another book on the discard pile.

"If I can't get back by sunset then I'll have to stay in London and that leaves you two here alone and unprotected."

"We'll manage," she said firmly. I shook my head and motioned to the books. "Keep looking. I won't leave you both here alone except as a last resort."

I rubbed my temples. My head was beginning to feel as though a bee were buzzing around in it. Getting up, I walked to the sideboard and poured myself a cup of tea. As an afterthought I dropped a dollop of whiskey into it. The buzzing was getting worse.

Dulcinea.

I looked around. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Mrs. Mackenzie asked. Fiona looked worried.

"Nothing," I replied, shaking my head and frowning down at my teacup.

Dulcinea. Come to me.

I rubbed my head.

Come come come. I have such wonderful things planned for us. Come out and play.

"He's here," I whispered, the teacup rattling as I set it down on the sideboard. "He's here."

Mrs. Mackenzie and Fiona both got up and came around the table.

"I have to go," I said, as if in a dream, and started for the door.

Mrs. Mackenzie grabbed me and shook me hard. "Dulcie, stop. Think what you're saying."

"I know, I know," I said, my head clearing a bit. "But he won't be quiet. He won't stop until I come out."

Dulcinea. Come, girl, don't make me hurt you. Come out...

I started for the door again and Mrs. Mackenzie dragged me back. We struggled. I lashed out, clipping her across the shoulder with my fist, and broke free. One of the dining room chairs flew across the room of its own volition and crashed into the wall behind us. I stopped and stood very still. I had done that.

"Help me," I whispered.

Mrs. Mackenzie righted the fallen chair and shoved me down into it. She rushed out of the dining room, returning seconds later with a thick silk cord which was used to tie back the heavy drapery in the green drawing room.

"Forgive me, child," she said and proceeded to tie me to the chair.

"If I leave this house, he'll kill me. Make it tight," I said, and she looked up at me, a frown creasing her forehead, but she pulled the cords tighter.

Dulcinea. Don't let them keep you, not when you know you want to come to me. You have such power. Use it!

I screamed. "Let me go! I must go to him. Turn me loose or I'll-"

Fiona slapped her hand over my mouth before I could finish the sentence. "Shush," she said. "Mama? What do we do?"

Mrs. Mackenzie snapped her fingers. "Laudanum! If she's sleeping she can't hear the devil call to her. Stay with her and watch her like a hawk."

Mrs. Mackenzie hurried out the door. I looked at Fiona, my lifelong friend and companion, and she looked back at me, wary and frightened. "I swear, Dulcie, if you turn me into some sort of forest rodent I'll never forgive you."

Come to me. Come, Dulcinea. Come come come come come...

I moaned and stood as much as I could, tied to the chair as I was. With one swing of my body I caught the edge of the chair on the thick mahogany dining table, narrowly missing my hands and arms. The wood cracked and broke and within seconds I'd worked myself free.

Fiona leapt at me and we tumbled to the floor together. She landed on top of me and struggled to hold my hands to the floor. I got one leg out from under her and used it to push against the floor, the two of us rolling over and over. Her head hit the leg of the table with a heavy thump and I fought my way to my feet and headed for the door. Just as I reached for the k.n.o.b I felt a hand on me, pulling me back with such force that I stumbled. Fiona moved between me and the door, her back against it.

"It hurts, Fiona," I said, pressing my hands to my head, "and I will hurt you to make it stop. I don't want to, but I will. Now, move aside."

I stalked toward her, my eyes never leaving her face, looking for some sign that she would give in and let me go. I had to go. I had to make it stop.

Dulcinea.

His voice in my head distracted me, just for a moment but it was long enough. Long enough for me not to notice Fiona's hand snake out and grab the heavy Chinese vase on the pedestal next to the door.

Dulcinea, come.

"I don't want to hurt you either, but-"

I looked at her in confusion, not knowing whose voice I was hearing anymore, Sebastian's or Fiona's. And then there was pain and the tinkling of broken porcelain and the world went black and still... and blessedly silent.

Chapter Five

I maneuvered my sorrel mare through the crowded streets. Missy did not care much for riding in London and I couldn't say as I blamed her. My head still pounded and my neck throbbed with every beat of my heart. Fiona, bless her, had been very apologetic when I'd regained consciousness half an hour before dawn. I didn't scold her; she'd done what needed doing and I would have done the same if I had been in her shoes. Still, I didn't think she'd needed to hit me quite that hard. It had worked though; I'd slept and not dreamed, of Sebastian or my parents or anything at all.

An hour after dawn I'd sent Tim and the other two lads on their way with John Coachman and Zeus and Bacchus. John had protested that his mother didn't have a barn fine enough to house my father's favorite horses for the winter. I'd pressed a purse with an obscene amount of money in it into his hand and told him to hire someone to build her one. John loved those horses and I knew they'd be well taken care of. Tim had been afraid but I think he was more afraid of staying that he was of going. I'd promised I'd send for them as soon as the danger was past.

The minute they cleared the gates I'd saddled Missy and headed for London. If I really pushed I might make it back just before sunset but I would still have to cool Missy down before I could put her in her stall with feed and water. As much as I hated it, I would have to stay the night in London and I knew that the knot wouldn't leave my stomach until I was home and knew that Mrs.

Mackenzie and Fiona were safe.

I stopped the mare in front of a small shop on Panton Street near Piccadilly and dismounted. I earned disapproving glares from the matrons, turned up noses from the young misses and interested glances from more than a few gentlemen. To h.e.l.l with them all; I really did not have time to be properly tricked out in a carriage, let alone chaperoned. The debutante in me was thankful, however, that my riding hat sported more than just attractive white peac.o.c.k feathers; it also had a thick veil which hid my features well.

I motioned to one of the omnipresent street urchins. The boy was about eleven or twelve years old, grimy and looking like he was in sore need of some funds. I pressed a sovereign into his hand. That should buy his loyalty well.

"Hold my horse?"

"Aye, miss," he replied.

Even with my money in his pocket he still had the cagey look of the sort that would steal my horse the minute my back was turned.

I stared at him for ten full seconds and then turned to go into Pendergra.s.s & Company Apothecary Shoppe.

I heard a small voice behind me, "You goin' in there, miss?"

I turned. He'd obviously heard the rumor that Mr. Pendergra.s.s was the local purveyor of all things magical.

"Yes, I am," I said, "and if you know why then you know I'm not the type of woman you want to wrong."

"Naw, miss," he said quickly. "I'll 'old 'er right 'ere nice an' gentle like. Never you worry. We'll be right 'ere."

I nodded my head. The little blighter really would have stolen my horse!

The "company" of Pendergra.s.s & Company was Mr. Pendergra.s.s's partner and once-apprentice. He always looked rather ridiculous standing behind the glossy counter, more like a pugilist than an apothecary. He was a large dark-haired man, handsome enough in a rough sort of way, and possessing an air about him that said you did not ever want to get on the bad side of his temper.

I always thought that his size and looks must have been a great benefit to him, growing up as he did with the rather unfortunate name of Archie Little.

"Good morning, madam," he called out. "How may I help you?"

I lifted my veil.

"Miss Craven!" he greeted me warmly as he came around the counter. I was suddenly reminded that he used to slip me peppermints when I was all of ten years old and he was a very grown-up eighteen.

It made me smile.

"Archie, how very nice to see you," I said.

"We heard about your parents. Tragic, simply tragic. Your mother was one of the finest women I've ever met."

"Thank you," I replied, not knowing what else to say because, quite honestly, I thought so too.

"So, what brings you to London?" he asked.

"Actually I need to ask Mr. Pendergra.s.s's advice with a bit of a problem I've got. Is he in?"

"Certainly," he said, a look on his face that clearly said he wanted to know more but was too polite to ask.

He escorted me to the door a the back of the shop which I knew from experience opened into a small parlor where Mr.

Pendergra.s.s did most of his business. I walked inside and immediately spotted Mr. Pendergra.s.s dusting and re-shelving the bottles and tonics which lined the far wall."Sir?" I said.

He jumped and turned, a broad smile crinkling his face as he saw me. Truly, the man must be a hundred years old. One would never guess to look at him that he was the distributor of the finest magical supplies south of Hadrian's Wall, and quite a proficient wizard himself.

I had known Mr. Pendergra.s.s all of my life. When I was a child he always had some shiny bauble secreted in his pocket when my mother came to shop; when I was a young lady there was always a stray bit of satin or velvet ribbon he just "happened" to have lying around.

He came over to me now, his staff tapping against the wood floor. The staff was four feet of naturally twisting wood which had been glazed to a fine deep shine and topped with a sphere of polished amber the size of my fist. He'd had that staff as long as I could remember. He put his arms out and I sank into them, much as I would a beloved grandfather's.

"My dear," he said simply.

After a long moment he guided me over to one of two plump, overstuffed chairs in front of the small fire. As I sat, he turned to the tea service and poured us each a cup, his old, gnarled hands never shaking.

"My dear, I can't tell you how much it has grieved me to hear about your parents," he said as he slowly took his seat opposite me.

"You don't often find two people who loved each other like those two did. And your mother was a very dear friend of mine for nearly thirty years. It just breaks my heart, it does. She was a fine witch, yes indeed, a fine witch. I don't understand how such a thing could have happened."

I smiled and thanked him for his kind words and told him, briefly, what had transpired the night of the accident.

"Aye, well it's no comfort to you now that it was fate and that they weren't taken before their time, but one day it will be. When the grief starts to ebb you'll at least be able to be thankful of that."

He took a sip of tea and looked at me but I couldn't think of a suitable reply.

"You say she pa.s.sed her power to you? That's very odd. I've never even heard of such a thing but it's my business to know that anything is possible. Your mother had a lot of power, she certainly did. Will you be staying in Town with your cousin? I'd be happy to help you work on your control but you might be better served at Glen Gregor with your aunt."

"Actually, Mr. Pendergra.s.s, that's not why I came."

He raised one bushy white brow.

"I'm in trouble. Big trouble," I said.

"Well," he said, "tell me what's wrong and what I can do to help."

I ran my palms down the black wool of my riding habit and then reached up and pulled the fichu from about my neck. I pushed down the ruffled edges of the chemisette, tucking them inside the neck of the jacket. The Craven Cross hung at my throat, suspended on a short chain. It was a Celtic cross over three inches long, intricately carved in gold and faceted with twenty-four blood-red rubies and many small, sparkling diamonds. I turned my head so that he could see the two puncture wounds and the nasty purple and green bruise that marred my neck. A look of pure horror crossed his face and he sucked in his breath.

"By the G.o.ddess," he whispered, reaching out a hand toward me and then stopping, only to pull back from me as if afraid to touch me. "Archie!" he shouted in as strong a voice as I'd ever heard from the old man.

Archie came hurrying through the door, pushing back a heavy lock of dark brown hair which had fallen over one eye. He looked from Mr. Pendergra.s.s to me, as if he'd expected some disaster to have befallen one of us by the tone of his partner's voice. "Lock the doors and put out the closed sign," Mr. Pendergra.s.s said, never taking his eyes from me, "and then join us."

"Oh, Archie?" I said. "There's a grubby young man out front holding Missy for me."

"I'll see her stabled and cared for," he a.s.sured me.

"Thank you."

After Archie had left I nodded to the now-closed door and asked, "Mr. Pendergra.s.s, do you think it's wise to bring him into all this?"

"I trust Archie implicitly in all things," he said, "and besides, he may be useful. He had a cousin who was a vampire slayer."

"Vampire slayer?"

"Aye, they are the stuff of stories on a long winter's night, as are vampires themselves, but you and I both know that there is truth in most things that people regard as mere superst.i.tion. A slayer is usually the survivor of a vampire attack. Either their minds cannot accept what has happened to them or their anger consumes them, but they become obsessed with only one thing: executing vampires. It becomes their whole life and it is usually a rather short life. Slayers are driven to train in fighting techniques and weaponry. They do little else but fight, sleep and eat. They are exceptional fighters, but in the end," he shrugged, "they are only human."