Mark of the Witch Page 10

  Tomas yanked it out of his hand. “I said no.”

  But as the bag pulled free of Dom’s grasp, things went flying out of it, the BlackBerry among them. Dom picked it up, his eyes telling Tomas he wouldn’t take no for an answer. A moment later, he was holding it at arm’s length and squinting as he scrolled through her photos. He shook his head in frustration. “They’re too damned small to even tell what they are!”

  “Give it to me,” Tomas said, holding out a hand. “I’ll email the photos to myself, so we can both get a better look at them on the computer.” He didn’t bother adding that Dom needed bifocals and was too stubborn to get them. More important, that he thought the old man was out of line. Way out.

  Grunting, Dom handed him the phone. “We still have to go through the rest of her things—she might have acquired the amulet already.”

  “She hasn’t.” Tomas sent the email, then closed the phone and returned it to Indy’s purse, along with the other items that had flown loose. Then he draped the strap over the bedpost and found himself pausing to glance at her as she slept.

  Her blond hair was tousled, her thick, lush lashes resting heavily on cheeks that seemed a little too pale. She was still fully dressed. Couldn’t be comfortable.

  “What did you give her?”

  “Nothing that’ll hurt her, not that it should concern you. We must use whatever means it takes to keep her from helping the demon escape his prison. If she gets hurt, too bad for—”

  “She’s a human being, Dom!”

  “She’s a sleeper agent in a terrorist plot. Even she may not know yet who she really is, what she was born to do, how many times she has reincarnated just waiting to fulfill her destiny. To help a demon enter our world.” His gaze shifted to Indira, but he wore a look of disgust. “Or maybe she already knows. Either way, she’s on his side, not ours. Not God’s.”

  “I don’t think she wants to help him,” Tomas said. “She’s not evil.”

  “She’s a witch in league with a demon, Tomas. And you’re a priest.”

  Tomas nodded, unable to argue with that point. He was a priest. For now. He pulled a blanket over Indy. “At least she’ll finally be able to get some sleep,” he said.

  * * *

  I was once again wearing the costume of a belly dancer or something similar: one-shouldered and sheer, my breasts easily visible through the soft ivory fabric. I was glad, because it served as a distraction to the guards who’d just burst into the courtyard where Magdalena and I had been sitting in silent meditation, keeping watch while our sister entertained her lover in the sleeping quarters just beyond.

  We saw them coming. I waved Magdalena away and tried to block her scurrying exit with my body, looking the approaching pair of guards up and down suggestively, smiling at them as if in approval of what I saw.

  The guards didn’t react to my charms at all. “Where is your sister?” one of them said.

  Actually, that wasn’t what he said at all. What he said was a bunch of gibberish that must have come straight out of the Tower of Babel. But what I heard was its modern-day English equivalent.

  “Which one?” I asked, stalling for time. I knew Magdalena would be trying to warn Lilia and her lover that they were about to be caught.

  “Lilia.”

  I shrugged. “I believe she is tending to her…personal cleanliness, sir,” I said, using a respectful, slightly sexual tone I thought he would prefer. “But I am here, if the king requires—”

  His arm swung out, backhanding me across the face so hard I fell to my knees. That was when I knew this was serious. The guards strode past me, their steps harsh on the white stone floors, and I prayed Lilia was up and clothed and her lover hidden. Magdalena had rushed off only seconds ahead of the guards, and I knew there had been little time.

  I scrambled to my feet and ran after them. “Wait!” I cried. “You cannot just march through our sanctuary this way, uninvited. The king will be furious. Wait! I’ll tell him, I swear—”

  “Silence, woman.” And then they reached their destination, yanking the curtain down, rather than open, tearing the rich red fabric.

  Inside the room, on their feet but still naked, were Demetrius and Lilia. I marveled at my sister’s beauty, even then. And Demetrius—he was like a god. He quickly snatched up a coverlet and wrapped it around Lilia, but not before I’d seen the mark on her back. A tattoo, down low. Three rows of symbols. I knew that we all bore them, all three of us, and I knew what they meant. Daughter of Ishtar.

  Demetrius tried to protect her, standing between her and the soldiers, but then one of the guards marched up behind him and, even as I shouted a warning, swung his mace hard. The ball hit Demetrius in the head, and he went down like a felled cedar.

  Lilia screamed and dropped to her knees beside him, but the guard kicked her away, sending her onto her back, leaving her chin split and bleeding.

  “Take him to the king,” the guard ordered.

  The second guard took Demetrius by one arm and dragged him, unconscious, perhaps dead, from the room. Magdalena, who’d been standing to one side of the door, rushed to Lilia and hugged her hard, while I stood there, trembling in fear of what was to come.

  The remaining guard began searching our room. He lifted each cushion to look beneath and feel within, and when he felt weight, he used his blade to slash the fabric and pour out the contents.

  And there they were for all to see. Our wooden wands, our mortar and pestle, our herbs and stones and our pentacle pendants, which we wore when we worked our magic. Our forbidden magic.

  He turned to look at us. “Magic is to be worked only by the High Priest. You have broken the law.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, hurrying forward, intent on gathering up our precious items, only to meet with the flat of his hand to my chest, holding me away. “There is no magic here. We only hide our favorite belongings to keep the other girls from stealing them. I suppose they told you we were up to something dark and forbidden, didn’t they?”

  He looked at me, brows rising. I wished Magdalena would stop sniffling. It didn’t help.

  “They are only jealous,” I went on. “My sister Lilia is the king’s favorite. They are trying to hurt us with their ridiculous accusations.”

  “Mmm. I see,” the guard said. “They were lying, then, when they accused you of practicing witchcraft.”

  “Witchcraft! Is that what they said?”

  “Just as they were lying when they claimed the king’s most trusted lieutenant was bedding his most beloved concubine?”

  “It…it was not what it seemed.”

  “Do not tell me what I witnessed with my own eyes, slave girl.” The soldier looked past me, and I was shocked to realize more guards had entered our chambers, along with an apprentice priest with eyes like melted chocolate, who stared into my eyes for a long moment. It was I who looked away.

  “Take them,” the leader said. “Take them all to the king. I will gather and bring the evidence. Send for the High Priest, as well. We will need his counsel.”

  The men rushed into our rooms, and there was no resisting them. I thought of wielding my powers but knew that would only prove our guilt. I hoped, even then, that we could talk our way out of the mess.

  I whispered a spell of protection, beamed healing energies toward my injured sister as the guard pulled her to her feet, and decided it was best to go along, pretending to be docile and weak. Perhaps we could still convince the king to believe us.

  Though only, I thought, if he were a complete idiot.

  As the guards marched us away, I met Magdalena’s eyes and saw the tears brimming in them. Lilia cried loudly, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. I tried to convey to them that they should be calm and watchful, as I was. Awaiting an opportunity, calculating a plan.

  But they did not see my message, or perhaps they did not want to. Maybe they already knew we were doomed.

  * * *

  I woke with my sister’s name on my lip
s.

  Lilia.

  That was the name of the woman I’d seen in my cauldron, after the spell I’d been trying to cast in my apartment. She was my sister! Or had been, in some other lifetime, far, far in the distant past.

  She was my sister. And the woman who’d gotten me killed.

  And a witch. There had been three of us. All witches. Just like Tomas and Father Dom had been telling me.

  I sat up in the bed, hand to my forehead, because it was pounding. The resurgence of the past was almost too powerful to contain within my brain. I suppose my skull was only designed to hold the angst of one lifetime. No wonder it felt as if it were about to split open.

  Still nothing about any demon, however.

  Sitting upright, I noticed I was still dressed and lowered my feet to the floor. Bare feet. I saw my boots standing near the foot of the bed, my handbag hanging from a bedpost. Tomas. It must have been.

  I was ridiculously glad he hadn’t undressed me, and that feeling of relief was followed immediately by the question of why not? Most men would jump at the apparently logical excuse to get my clothes off. Why not him?

  Because he’s a priest, dumb-ass.

  For some reason there were tears burning the backs of my eyes, and I didn’t even have the strength to fight them. I just lowered my head into my hands and sobbed so loudly I never heard the door open, or the soft steps of the very man I’d been thinking about approaching me.

  But I felt him, oh, I felt him. His hands on my shoulders, squeezing gently, and then just one of those hands moving to my head, stroking my hair, softly.

  When I didn’t look up, he knelt and tipped his head. “What happened, Indira? Another nightmare?”

  I nodded, still crying too hard to speak.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Indy. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Sniffling hard, I lifted my head and met his eyes. His melted-chocolate eyes. Through swimming tears I saw him. And for just an instant he seemed unbearably familiar. It was a wave of…something. Déjà vu? It washed over me and tugged me closer to him. My face moved toward his as he stayed where he was, staring at me. I closed my eyes, and then I pressed my mouth against his, sobs still racking my chest.

  He pressed back, I swear he did. I felt it, the way his lips pushed back, then parted just a little. I knew he tasted my tears, because I tasted them, too.

  And then he pulled back and stared at me.

  “I’m…sorry,” he said.

  “I did it. Not you.” And somehow my crying jag had eased. The residual hiccup-sobs were still hitting me every few breaths, but my tears had stopped falling.

  “Still…” He rose to his feet and refused to meet my eyes. “If you’re up to it, would you come downstairs? I have the photos we took in that restroom up on the computer. Father Dom and I were looking at them last night, and I’d like you to take a look at them this morning.”

  “This morning?” I buried my anger that he’d gone into my bag and taken my phone, and glanced toward the bedroom window, saw the sun streaming in through the sheer, gold-tinted curtains. “Wow, I was out all night?”

  I looked at him again. He looked away and nodded.

  “All right, Tomas. I’ll come right down. Just give me a minute to…wash my face.”

  “Take your time,” he said, still not looking me in the eye. “And it’s Father Tomas.” Turning, he walked out of the bedroom as if the devil was on his heels.

  Maybe in his mind she was.

  * * *

  I was leaning over the computer, looking at a grossly enlarged image of my own upper body, and feeling damned uncomfortable. It wasn’t entirely due to the gashes on my arms and back that had been there and then faded to the pink welts covering me in the photos before vanishing like raindrops in the desert. It was also because Tomas was looking at them, too. Father Dom, too, but mostly Tomas. And yes, he’d been there when it happened, but back then he hadn’t been staring intently at my magnified pores and lily-white skin. And what the hell was up with that mole on the back of my shoulder? It looked huge! And was that a hair sprouting from it? A hair? Really?

  I was reaching behind me, absently feeling for the tiny offender, when Tomas said, “It’s not much use. The marks were fading too fast to get anything readable. But I’m sure it was some sort of writing. As was the tattoo. Babylonian or Assyrian, perhaps. I just didn’t have time to read it.”

  I blinked at him. “You can read Babylonian and Assyrian?”

  “Somewhat, but not Akkadian or Sumerian.”

  I hadn’t realized the true depth of his intellect and was still digesting that when the sound of a motor brought my head around. God, I thought, don’t let this be another priest. “The tattoo on my lower back said, ‘daughter of Ishtar,’” I told him.

  “How do you know that?” he asked, staring at me as if stunned.

  I shrugged. “I don’t have the foggiest. But that’s what it said.”

  The engine shut off, and I moved to the window to look outside, then felt the weight of the world rise from my shoulders as if it had just sprouted wings. Rayne was getting out of her Mercedes and heading for the front door. My smile was so big it hurt, and I was yanking the big door open before she even lifted her hand to knock. “God, I’m so glad to see you,” I blurted, and I hugged her. Me. The most unfriendly, non-huggy person I know. I hugged her. “What are you doing here? And how the hell did you find us?”

  She hugged back. “I thought you could use a friend,” she said, coming inside. Her eyes shot past me. “Hello again, Tomas.”

  “Good to see you, Rayne. You look fantastic, as always.”

  “Of course I do. I’m a witch.”

  He smiled at her, and there was something…familiar in it. Something intimate. Like a secret the rest of us weren’t in on. Father Dom saw it, too. I could tell by his troubled frown and the intense way he was watching the two of them. An odd little cauldron full of something green started bubbling in my belly, even though I told it not to. He was a priest, for crying out loud. She was a witch. Nothing could possibly be going on between them.

  Are you listening to yourself, Indy? Are you getting how ridiculous your own urge to rip off his clothes and jump his bones is yet?

  That’s different. That’s me. We have a connection.

  Uh-huh. Looks like he and Rayne have a connection, too. Maybe he’s just kinky. Into forbidden fruit or whatever.

  Fuck off, voice of reason. I hate you.

  I hate you back.

  Tomas and Rayne quickly broke eye contact, and he did the polite-introduction thing. “Father Dom, this is Lady Rayne Blackwood. She’s the Wiccan high priestess who first contacted me about Indira.”

  “I see.” Father Dom gave her a nod but ignored her extended hand. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he said, loading on so much sarcasm I was surprised the words didn’t buckle under the weight. Guess the friendly facade couldn’t withstand the weight of two witches. “And you two know each other how?”

  It sounded like an accusation. And though I wanted to spit on the man for his attitude—and why wasn’t he at his conference, anyway?—I was dying to hear the answer.

  Rayne and Tomas locked eyes again, and that intimate something was right back in evidence. Tomas shrugged and said, “Rayne is my baby sister.”

  Sister? I thought he didn’t have any family? I would have to deal with that later. Right now, the weight I thought had lifted from my shoulders dropped from on high and landed there again. The impact nearly floored me this time.

  One more member of the enemy team, I thought. This one posing as a friend. As a witch. As a high priestess. My Yoda had lowered her hood to reveal Darth Vader underneath. What the hell? I couldn’t seem to catch a break.

  Father Dom made some lame excuse to get Tomas alone, probably so he could lecture him. I was pretty stunned myself, and about to do the same thing to Rayne. “You’re his sister? And you didn’t think that was something I had a right to know?” I asked, as soon as the two
holy men had left us alone.

  She shrugged and nodded toward the glass doors. “Let’s walk outside, shall we? It’s a gorgeous morning. Have you eaten?”

  Cool, calm, confident. She was everything I wasn’t and never would be. Sleek red curls, cute and dignified at the same time. She was the most conservative-looking Wiccan I’d ever seen. No tattoos. Dressy pants with a knife-sharp crease and wide legs. Short-sleeved burnt-orange pullover. Big amber beads around her neck and matching ones at her ears. She looked put together right down to the tan, sensible two-inch pumps. She looked professional.

  I gave her a nod and followed her out onto the deck where we’d all enjoyed those steaks the night before, and I winced a little as I recalled Father Dom’s obvious dislike of witches. The man was a bigot. If I’d been Tomas, I would never have admitted to having one of us as a sibling.

  And apparently he never had. Until now.

  We crossed the deck and walked down the steps to the grassy lawn, then followed the path that skirted the edge of the cliff. Mist rose, newborn clouds taking their first flight, from Cayuga Lake far below us. You could barely see the water through its foggy breath.

  “So you’re angry with me,” she said at last.

  “When you arrived, I thought you were the cavalry. That you’d be on my side. But it turns out you’re the enemy’s sister. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m pretty good and pissed.”

  “Tomas is not the enemy, love.” She sighed, walking along the path that ran close enough to the edge to give us a beautiful view. “He’s a good man.”

  “He’s a priest! His ancestors burned ours, or have you forgotten that?”

  “His ancestors and mine are the same people, Indy. We’re family.”

  “Spiritual ancestors, I meant.”

  “Well, blood’s thicker than water and all that.”

  “Is it thicker than the rack, though? The thumbscrews? The stake?”

  She shrugged. “He’s not like that.”

  “They’re all like that.”

  “You’re as bigoted as Father Dom.”