I reached down and removed the bottle. “You’re going to have to trust me.”
“I know nothing about you.”
I removed the cork, inhaled, then replaced it, handing the bottle to her.
“Time for us both to learn.”
Chapter 16
Helians lies on the bed, bleeding from his wounds.
They’re severe. Life threatening.
Beyond my skills.
The battle is over and men are dead from both sides. Many more are injured. Kaz survived with barely a scratch. He’s busy securing my fortress. I can only imagine what he’s thinking. His plan to expose me as a witch and return my home to Arturius, hopefully garnering many favors in return.
I find a vial off the shelf, open it, then wet my fingers with its contents. I rub them over Helians’ busted lips, then on the wounds that are still bleeding. Almost immediately the blood thickens and stops flowing. His face is deathly pale, but slowly color returns to his whitened cheeks.
My home remains under siege.
I have to stop Kaz.
I step back to my workshop and find my potion box. I remove three bottles, set them on the table, and mix the ingredients. One drop is strong. Five drops could easily cause a man to black out. More? Hard to say what will happen.
How will I get Kaz to take it?
I smile.
That is easy.
* * *
I find him with a few of his men. I bow to no man, but now I bow to him. “I fear your brother has passed on, Lord Kaz.”
I bob my head in further deference.
“He never should have stood against me,” he says.
I raise my head. “You speak the truth, my Lord. But I am a naïve woman, incapable of accomplishing much without the guidance of a man. With my apologies, I’ve brought a draught so we may drink to peace and the open surrender of my home to you.”
He laughs. “You think me a fool, witch? I know of your potions. I’ll be glad to accept a drink in peace and surrender, provided you drink first.”
I motion and one of the servants brings a tray with wine and two goblets. Both are filled and I gesture that the choice is his. He smiles and selects one, which he hands to me. I take a long sip and swallow. “I’m not afraid of this ambrosia, my Lord. You have won your prize, I concede that. You are the victor this day.”
I sip more wine and bow my head again.
Kaz lifts the second goblet. “To my brother. May his dishonor be wiped from his soul as he ascends to be judged by the Lord Almighty.”
He brings the edge of the silver rim to his lips and drinks.
“Send your men away, my Lord. They are no longer required here. You not only have command of this fortress, but its lady as well.” I toss him a smile. “I give myself to the victor.”
He gets the message. “Are you offering yourself willingly?”
I nod. “I am in awe of your power and strength. I cannot help but do what is proper and give myself to you, as victor.”
I watch, confident what this weak, vain soul will do.
And he does not disappoint me.
He dismisses his men, sending them back outside the walls. I gesture, then lead him to my bedchamber and refill his goblet. He begins to remove his breastplate. I offer him the wine, which he refuses.
“I’ll take yours.”
I smile. “As you wish, my Lord.”
Though his mind screams caution, his eyes are full of lust. He wants me, and desire is the killer of reason. He takes my goblet and downs the contents in one swallow. I step to the bed, suggesting that he should finish undressing. He removes more of his armor. His face and chest are covered in sweat, his long hair matted with blood to his head.
“I have a bath ready for you,” I tell him.
“That would be welcomed.” He pauses. “Before I take you.”
He continues to undress. I find myself admiring his strong, virile body. Similar to Helians and, if only physical appearance defined a man, Kaz would be a worthy specimen.
“Why don’t you undress,” he says.
“I will, my Lord. After your bath.”
He smiles, standing there naked, proud of himself. I take his hand and lead him into the adjacent room where the warm water awaits. With no hesitation, he climbs into the tub and settles into the steaming liquid. Some of it spills over to the floor.
“Why don’t you join me?” he says.
I walk around behind him and begin to massage his shoulders. The muscles are knotted, firm and tight, like hemp. He angles his head back, eyes closed. His breath deepens to long, full inhales. He is relaxing. Some of it voluntary, most thanks to the ingredients I’d added to the bath, knowing that they would seep through the skin and work their way straight to his head.
And they are.
His head droops to one side.
I make sure that it stays above the water, then I leave the room, hastening to Helians. He lies still where I left him. He will not last much longer. I sit on the edge of the bed and cradle his head in my lap.
“I’ve avenged you,” I tell him.
“Did . . . you kill him?”
Tears form in my eyes. “No, my love. My promise was kept.”
His hand caresses my arm. I hold him closer. I will truly miss this man.
“With soft gray eyes she gloomed . . . and glowered. With soft red lips . . . she sang a song. What man . . . might gaze upon her face . . . nor fare along.”
I’m amazed. This man of fight and violence, citing poetry?
“I wrote it . . . for you, my love,” he says. “A poem of . . . how . . . I feel.”
“Is there more?”
“But when Morgan . . . with lifted hand, moved down the hall . . . they louted low. For she was Queen of Shadowland . . . that woman of snow.”
He stares up at me.
“You are . . . a goddess. I’ll wait for you . . . Morgan,” he says with a ragged breath.
“Do you believe in the goddess?” I ask, surprised.
I know Helians had been brought up to believe in a wrathful, Christian god, not in the idea that we pass from this life to another and another until we’ve accomplished all that it is our fate to achieve.
“I haven’t been yours for these . . . past moons without . . . picking up some of your beliefs.” He raises a hand and pushes my curls up behind my ear so he can look straight into my face. “You have given me . . . much joy, as I hope . . . I have you. As I hope . . . we will again.”
I lean down and press my lips to his. A terrible darkness swallows me. My eyes feel the unaccustomed dampness of heavy grief. I keep him in my arms until he is no longer breathing, then I weep even more. The only man who means something to me is gone. I lay his head back on the bed and stand.
“Goodbye, my love.”
I walk back to the bath, where Kaz still lies in the warm water. I cup some of it in my hands and splash it to his face. He rouses, blinks the moisture from his eyes, and focuses on me.
“Do I know you?” he says.
Chapter 17
I awoke.
A stale, poisonous taste had settled in my mouth. Surprisingly, little fear lingered from the experience, only a pause, a sense of relief and understanding, my mind a blur of questions.
Madame St. Benedict was bent over me, concern in her eyes. “Are you all right?”
My mind returned to the present, though thoughts from the past lingered. “How long have I been out?”
“Ten minutes.”
Antoine stood a few feet away, Denton beside him.
I pushed myself up from the carpet.
“Where were you?” St. Benedict asked.
“Back a long time ago.”
“You don’t actually believe anything this woman says?” Denton asked. “She’s clearly delusional from what she smelled.”
“What’s a long time ago?” St. Benedict asks, ignoring her aide.
“I’m not sure. There was a mention of a man named Arturius. And Morgan
le Fay.”
“She never existed,” Denton spit out. “She’s a fictional character.”
“Who says?” I pointed out.
Denton shook his head. “You can’t be serious. You’re delusional from the effects of whatever is in that bottle. That’s all.”
But I saw Madame St. Benedict did not agree. So I asked her, “What did you see in your visions?”
“Things that were so real, so immediate, that they could not be dreams.”
“And they happened when you and Denton were . . . interacting?”
She nodded. “I smelled from one of the bottles too.”
“Madame St. Benedict,” Denton said. “This is ludicrous. I implore you to call the security detail and have these people removed.”
“Why are you here?” St. Benedict asked me.
Images of the dream were fading, but some of the memory lingered. “You’re in danger.”
“Enough of this.” Denton darted toward the door.
Antoine cut him off with a tackle to the floor. The two brothers wrestled before Antoine planted a fist into his brother’s face and Denton went still. St. Benedict did not move, allowing the fight.
“He’s working for the other side,” I told her. “He was filming you in the dungeon. I assume he’s going to release the video sometime between now and the election next week.”
St. Benedict seemed confused. “He’s worked hard for me. Most of my success is attributed to him.”
“What better way to gain your trust?” I said.
I could see that she agreed.
“Is that why you began a personal relationship,” I asked.
She nodded. “I did trust him. Totally.”
I heard the betrayal in her voice. A deep, visceral hurt that reached down to her core. She obviously believed what I was saying.
“Search him,” I said.
Antoine rifled through his brother’s pockets and found two cell phones.
One I recognized.
“It’s the silver one,” I said. “He used it in the dungeon.”
Antoine swiped the screen. “It’s password protected.”
No surprise.
“We can only hope he’s not turned anything over to the Casimir campaign yet,” I said.
“I doubt he has,” St. Benedict muttered. “We were scheduled to return to the country house later today for another . . . private session.” She paused. “They relax me. I thought the experience would help before the debate. I imagine he would have filmed that too.”
“Do you have any memory of what happened?”
She shook her head and pointed at the Sabbat Box. “He had me smell one of the vials. Like you just did. I was leery but, I have to say, the experience was marvelous. I had such vivid dreams. Images that worked their way into what he was doing to me. The combination of the drug and the domination totally soothed my nerves.”
I realized her dilemma. Only the four of us knew about the video. I’d not told Marcher, revealing only that I knew something extremely damaging. The three of us would keep silent. But Denton? No way. I pointed toward him. “He’s working for Casimir. He won’t keep your secret.”
She nodded, agreeing with the assessment.
“But you have it wrong. He’s not trying to embarrass me,” she said, her voice low. “It’s more complicated than that.”
I understood. “He wants something?”
The conflict within her eyes seemed to resolve itself. “I have damaging information on President Casimir. Proof that Casimir accepted fifty million euros from Libya, money he used to finance his first election. It came straight from Muammar Gaddafi, when he was still in power. He was buying EU protection through France.”
“Is there proof?” I asked.
She nodded. “The man who delivered the money is willing to come forward. We’ve taken a sworn statement from him. We then traced the money, following the trail he provided. Casimir took the payoff personally and we’ve found the accounts in Liechtenstein and Switzerland. That amount would be twice the legal limit of twenty-one million euros allowed for any campaign. It also violates our foreign financing laws and campaign disclosure rules. This is way beyond a few dirty tricks or some character assassination. We were planning on revealing the information during the debate.”
Which explained Denton’s timing.
“Casimir, after winning five years ago, brought Gaddafi to France for a state visit and treated him like a respected leader. Most thought it odd at the time, but excused it as part of diplomacy. Ultimately, Casimir turned on his benefactor and allowed France to participate in NATO-led airstrikes that helped rebels overthrow Gaddafi. Of course, Gaddafi being killed during the Libyan revolution silenced him forever. But witnesses remain. The money was circulated through Casimir’s campaign. People knew. Now I know.”
“So Denton was looking for something Casimir could use as leverage?” Antoine asked.
St. Benedict nodded. “Your brother knew I was going to reveal this at the debate. So I imagine there would have been a trade. My secret for Casimir’s. Mine is a bit more benign, but I need the right and the far-right to win this election, and my sexual proclivities would make their support hard to cement. The revelation on me would be as devastating as the one on Casimir.”
“I can deal with Denton.” She seemed interested in my declaration. “Only the two of you are aware of your private situation?”
“That portion of my house is known only to me, and those I allow inside. Which have been few. Four, to be precise. Three of whom I would stake my life on their discretion. Denton was the fourth.”
“That means it’s containable.” I closed my eyes and tried once again to envision the dream. Particularly, the workshop. The racks of bottles. The three lined on the table. Everything seemed foggy. Unclear. Difficult to recall. Then clarity arrived. I moved toward the Sabbat Box and found the same three bottles, lying them on the coffee table.
“I need a glass.”
St. Benedict brought one to me. I uncorked the bottles and poured a small amount of each into the glass, not worried about the fumes. I knew these worked in a different way, or at least that’s what happened in the dream. I swirled the contents into a mixture.
“Open his shirt,” I said to Antoine.
He ripped the buttons clear and exposed his brother’s chest. I poured the contents of the glass onto his skin. The sensation awoke Denton with a start. He stared at us hard, unable to speak, then his eyes rolled skyward and his head fell to one side.
Like Kaz in the bath.
Antoine held him upright.
“Lay him down,” I said.
I moved away, still holding the glass. We all watched as Denton lay still.
“How did you know about the mixture,” St. Benedict asked.
“I saw it in the past.”
“What if you’re wrong?” she asked. “What if it kills him?”
“It won’t.” I knew that for sure, which was strange.
St. Benedict sat in a chair. “This is all too much. You say there’s a video on that phone of me. I suppose this is my own fault. I seemed to have misplaced my trust.”
“Denton is good at exploiting other people’s weaknesses,” Antoine said.
“He was so charming. So smart. He’s been a great asset. But, I assume, that was all part of the act.” St. Benedict paused. “I’m not ashamed of what I find enjoyable, but that’s a private matter. Only for me. It hurts no one. But my children. I would not want them to see any of that. They are far too young to understand.”
The change in the timbre of her voice signaled sadness.
“I want to lead this country. I’m the best choice to lead this country. Sadly, though, this could cost me the chance. Denton was right about one thing. It won’t take much to alter the results.”
“It’s under control now,” I told her.
“You seem so sure.”
“I need to rinse this glass out.”
She pointed to a door and
I found a bathroom. There, I washed out the inside, then filled it with water. I returned to where Antoine lay and did exactly as Morgan had done with Kaz, splashing the water onto Denton’s face and chest.
He stirred, groaning.
Antoine bent down to help his brother sit up.
Denton returned to reality, blinking his eyes into focus. “Antoine. What’s going on?”
Brother faced brother.
“What do you remember?” Antoine asked.
Denton seemed to consider the question hard. Then, he said, “That we need to be at the estate. There’s work to be done. Where’s Father?”
The tone was totally different. Nothing threatening, nor arrogant. Much more like Antoine. Now for the ultimate test.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked him.
Denton shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“And this woman?” I pointed to Lydia St. Benedict. “Do you know her?”
He shook his head. “Should I?”
Chapter 18
I parked at the bottom of the mountain in the public spots reserved for visitors to Eze, back where it all started. The candidates’ debate happened last night and Lydia St. Benedict had shown herself as presidential, especially when she dropped the bomb about Casimir’s Libyan connection. It had come in reply to a question about competency for office and Casimir had denied the allegation, which only fueled speculation. The media had exploded after and continued all night. The Casimir campaign was in a free fall. Prosecutors had already publicly stated that an investigation would be opened. Both candidates were headed back out on the campaign trail today, but Casimir’s task had become much more difficult.
Marcher had taken charge of the silver cell phone and found an expert who was able to break through its password. Denton, changed by the potion, was no help as he had zero memory of anyone or anything for the past decade. The video from the dungeon had been stored on the silver phone, with no record of it being sent to anyone. Apparently St. Benedict had been right and Denton was waiting a little longer before springing his surprise. He’d assumed that I was no longer a threat, dead from the bottle in the Sabbat Box. No evidence existed that the Casimir campaign had the video, proven by the fact that no mention of it had been made at the debate or after.