Witches with the Enemy (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) - Softcover

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF THE MIST-TORN WITCHES

By Barb Hendee

ROC

Prologue

Castle Kimovesk: Western Droevinka

I was in the dining hall when Carlotta died.

Although I had done everything possible to bring about her death, my success still surprised me. Until that moment, I’d not been entirely certain my efforts would work.

There were seven people sitting around the long, solid oak table, including Prince Damek—who sat at the head with an almost civilized expression on his normally feral face. The meal was a celebration of his own impending wedding . . . with the bride’s entire family in attendance.

His bride-to-be, the pretty Rochelle, sat with her eyes downcast, for all practical purposes looking the part of the sacrificial lamb.

Her mother, the Lady Helena, and her uncle, Lord Hamish, sat one on each side of her, and her elder sister, Carlotta, had been seated as far from Damek as possible. This came as no surprise—as Carlotta lacked both beauty and charm. Her coarse hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and her tight, angry mouth always appeared pursed as if she existed in a state of perpetual judgment over everyone else.

I had no pity for her. She was the main orchestrator behind this impending wedding, and she had to die.

So far, no food had been served, only dark red wine.

Almost as if on cue, Carlotta took a sip from her goblet. I’d been hoping she would do that. Then she tried to swallow.

My eyes locked on to her in a kind of fascination.

“Is the wine to your taste?” Prince Damek asked Rochelle, as if he cared for her feelings.

I paid no mind to Rochelle’s politely murmured answer and kept my attention on Carlotta’s face . . . waiting.

She attempted to swallow again, and her eyes began to widen as she struggled to breathe. Triumph flooded through me.

“Are you well, my dear?” Lady Helena asked, looking more embarrassed than concerned.

Then Carlotta turned red and half stood, with one large sinewy hand grasping her throat and the other gripping the table. In all my life, I’d never felt such satisfaction, such power. I hoped she would not die too quickly. I wanted her to feel fear, to feel pain.

Her eyes bulged as several people around the table finally realized she was in genuine distress, and they jumped to their feet, moving to help her.

It would do no good.

“Is she choking?” Lord Hamish asked.

“No!” Rochelle cried. “None of us have eaten anything. She only took a sip of her wine.” Her hand reached out toward her sister. “Carlotta!”

Ugly sounds came from Carlotta as her face twisted and she fell backward. Lord Hamish caught her, and Lady Helena gasped.

Prince Damek strode toward them, and the sight of his alarm brought waves of pleasure flowing through me. He didn’t care two bits of straw for the life of Carlotta, but it certainly wouldn’t look well for him to have his impending bride’s sister die at the dinner table.

Carlotta made one final struggle to breathe, and then she went rigid in her uncle’s arms—with her eyes still bulging.

“She’s dead,” Lord Hamish said in stunned disbelief. He raised his gaze to Damek and then lowered it to Carlotta’s wine goblet.

I fought not to smile.

Chapter One

Village Surrounding Castle Sèone, Southwest Droevinka

Three days later

Céline Fawe almost couldn’t believe it when old Master Colby half limped through the front door of her apothecary shop, the Betony and Beech . . . again.

He’d come here every other day for the past three weeks.

“Master Colby,” she said, trying to hide her mild exasperation, “I thought I told you to give the juniper elixir more time to work.”

He glanced around and seemed pleased. “Your sister isn’t here?”

That was obvious, but Master Colby did not care for Céline’s younger sister, Amelie.

“No, she’s at the market buying bread. She should be back by now. How can I help you?”

“The pain is terrible,” he answered, and then lowered his voice. “And it’s . . . moved.” He placed his hand on his left side.

Really, he was a harmless aging man with too much money and no family. He was short and walked with a pronounced stoop that made him appear even shorter. His hair was thick and gray, and his nose was reddened from an overfondness of strong spirits. Most of all, he was lonely for company other than his own.

At the moment, however, Céline stood behind her work counter, and she was wrist deep in goose fat—working on a salve for burns made from purple opine flowers. Her large orange cat, Oliver, sat on top of the counter, stealing a paw full of goose grease now and then when he thought she wasn’t watching.

Céline was busy.

She was well aware that the front room of the shop was a welcoming and cheery place and that people did like to visit. There was the sturdy counter running half the length of the room, and the walls were lined with shelves of clay pots and jars. The wooden table was covered in a variety of accoutrements such as a pestle and mortar, brass scales, small wooden bowls, and an open box of tinder and flint. A large hearth composed the center of the south wall. A set of swinging doors in the east wall led through to a storage area and bedroom.

Master Colby gazed across the front room and over the top of the counter with a kind of pathetic hope.

“Let me wipe my hands. I’ll come and look,” Céline said, summoning some pity.

Gratitude washed over his face. His eyes focused on her hair, and she suppressed a sigh. She knew most men found her pretty, but in addition to working as an apothecary, she also made some of her living as a “seer,” and it was necessary to look the part.

She was small and slender. She wore a red velvet gown, which fit her body snuggly, a good deal of the time. Her overly abundant mass of dark blond hair hung in waves to the small of her back, and both she and her sister, Amelie, had inherited their mother’s lavender eyes.

Until last spring, Céline and Amelie had been living in a grubby little village, running a much smaller shop, often taking skinny chickens and turnips as payment. But fate and mixed fortune had landed them in the prosperous village of Sèone, living in this fine shop, with the protection and patronage of Prince Anton of the house of Pählen.

All in all, their lives were much improved.

And yet . . . there had been a few surprises, such as patrons like Master Colby. Céline couldn’t help expressing kindness for those who suffered, and more than a few people in Sèone had money to spare.

Unfortunately, a few of them had absolutely nothing better to do than visit her several times a week, to tell her about their pains and aches and troubles with various foods and difficulties sleeping. She could always be found here and had become somewhat of a target. These customers paid her well, but in several cases, she was beginning to feel as if she was being paid for her company rather than her skills as an apothecary, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

Perhaps she needed to be a little less sympathetic and a little more businesslike? The prospect seemed unkind.

Master Colby shuffled closer. “And my bowels are loose,” he whispered in conspiratorial tones.

Céline steeled herself. This could not continue.

Though she was now close enough to touch him, she did not.

“Did you eat cheese and drink spirits with your dinner last night?” she asked.

He blinked in surprise. Although she had counseled him on various things not to eat or drink, she’d never approached the subject so bluntly before.

“Well . . . ,” he stammered, thrown off balance by her lack of pity.

On the inside, she felt awful for doing this, but it was necessary if anything was going to change. Summer was over, autumn was upon them, and Céline would need to spend a good deal of time harvesting herbs and rose petals to prepare medicinal supplies for the village for the coming winter. Soon, she’d be tending people with coughs and fevers.

Before Master Colby could continue, she said, “Your bowels can no long properly digest cheese, rich butter, and strong spirits. If you stick to vegetables, bread, and baked meat or fish, I promise you will feel better soon. If you must drink something besides water or tea, take a little wine with meals . . . perhaps just half a goblet. Continue with a few spoonfuls of the juniper oil I sent home with you—to protect your stomach.”

He blinked again. “But the pain is fierce, right here.” He lifted the left side of his shirt.

“Master Colby,” she said, not looking down at his exposed side. “I have given you the best counsel possible. It is up to you to follow my advice. Try my suggestions for at least four days, and if you are not feeling better, come back to see me.” She stepped away. “Now, if you will excuse me, I do need to finish making this ointment.”

Her tone was final, and he now looked at her as if she’d somehow betrayed him. “I don’t pay for advice on what I should eat,” he snapped.

“Of course not. Good day.” She walked to the door and opened it.

Angry—and possibly hurt—he turned and shuffled out of the shop.

Céline sighed, still feeling regretful over having treated him so coldly, but without hesitation, she closed the door and went back to work on the ointment. People tended to burn themselves far more often in the winter than in the summer—from building more fires—and she needed to be prepared.

*   *   *

Amelie Fawe had been returning from the market, carrying fresh bread and a sack of autumn pears. She’d almost reached her home, the Betony and Beech apothecary shop, when she saw who was entering the front door—old Master Colby—and she froze.

“Not again,” she muttered, looking around for a place to hide.

She wasn’t going in there until he left. Why Céline put up with some of these people was a mystery. Well . . . a few of them paid well, but it wasn’t as if the sisters needed the money that badly.

Instead of hiding, Amelie decided to continue on down the street, sauntering as if she’d never paused. She would walk around a little while and then go back. In truth, she liked being outdoors in the colorful streets of Sèone.

But she did wish Céline would learn to be a bit more firm with some of the people who took advantage of her kindness. It seemed that no matter what, Céline could always at least pretend to be sympathetic.

How did she do it?

Amelie and Céline had depended upon each other almost entirely since they were orphaned when Céline was fifteen and Amelie was twelve. But they were nothing alike in either temperament or appearance.

They both had their mother’s lavender eyes, but that was all.

Having recently observed her eighteenth birthday, Amelie was even shorter than Céline. But where Céline was slight, Amelie’s build showed a hint of strength and muscle. She despised dresses and always wore breeches, a man’s shirt, a canvas jacket, and boots. She’d inherited their father’s straight black hair, which she’d cropped into a bob that hung almost to her shoulders. She wore a sheathed dagger on her left hip—which she knew how to use—and she kept a short sword back at the shop, but she normally didn’t wear it out in the village, as there was no need.

Most people found her a bit peculiar, but she didn’t care.

Last spring, she and Céline had come to live here when they proved themselves useful to Prince Anton—who ruled Castle Sèone and its six surrounding fifes. Both sisters possessed a unique “gift.” Céline could read a person’s future—just by touching him—and Amelie could read a person’s past.

More than once, Prince Anton had leaned upon these abilities in order to search out murderers or anyone who might be a threat to his people.

However . . . late summer and early autumn had been rather quiet, offering the sisters a reprieve, and after their last adventure for Prince Anton, Amelie was glad for Céline to have a little peace. Most of the things they were asked to solve involved blood and death and madness.

Céline often needed time to recover afterward.

Swinging the bag of pears, Amelie came back around the corner and peered down the street toward the shop.

To her relief, Céline opened the front door and held it as Master Colby shuffled out.

He didn’t look happy.

Still, Amelie waited until he was well out of sight before walking to the shop and heading through the front door herself. Inside, Céline was back behind her work counter with her hands in goose grease and purple opine. Oliver watched the pail of goose grease with great interest. He would do better to go and catch mice. Wasn’t that his job here?

“Bought some pears,” Amelie said, lifting the sack.

“Mmm?” Céline answered absently. She seemed troubled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing . . . I . . . Master Colby was just here again, and I had to . . .” She trailed off and shook her head. “Nothing.”

Amelie frowned slightly, wondering what had happened. Maybe Céline had taken a firmer hand with the old boy after all. It was about time.

“I’ll make tea. Do we still have butter?” Amelie asked. “I forgot to check before I left.”

She didn’t care for bread without butter.

Céline looked up from her work, but before she could answer, the front door burst open so hard that it slammed against the wall.

“And I’m telling you!” a female voice bellowed. “I never touched your hammer!”

“Then who did?” a deep voice bellowed back. “It didn’t just walk off by itself!”

Amelie whirled, her mouth falling partway open at the sight of Bernard, Sèone’s massive blacksmith, and his diminutive wife, Abigail, both striding into the shop. Amelie had never seen either of them so angry, and both were well-known for their tempers.

To make matters worse, their daughter, Erin, was a good friend of Céline’s—and had even given her Oliver as a gift—so Amelie felt she could not comment on what she considered Bernard and Abigail’s very poor manners.

Céline, however, came around the side of the counter, wiping her hands on cloth. “What in the world is wrong?” she asked. “Abigail, if that door just damaged the wall, you’re paying to have it fixed.”

Amelie was surprised by her tone. Céline was indeed in a strange mood today.

“What?” Abigail nearly shouted at Céline, and then she seemed to come back to herself and glanced at the still-open door. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” she apologized, “but I’m in such a state.” She motioned toward Bernard with one hand. “This . . . this madman is accusing me of taking his good hammer and hiding it! As if I have nothing better to do than sneak into his smithy and hide his tools just to vex him.”

“She did!” Bernard cut in. His long, dark hair and beard swung as he turned to Céline. “I was out playing cards last night, and I lo...