Garden of Bone: Book 6, page 32
This was what her whole search had come down to. Almost twenty years ago, her sister had been kidnapped—and eventually killed—for her blood.
Now Eleri was going to buy her back with her own.
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Eleri stood with her arm held out in front of her. Darcelle had reached out in silent request. Her hand hovered over the altar, palm up, as she waited for Eleri to lay her wrist into Darcelle’s grip. Eleri figured she would hand over the same arm that Grandmere had drawn her blood from.
She’d figured that part out even as Donovan had suggested it to her. She would not give Darcelle the choice. If she had to bear a scar, she would bear two, close enough to each other to look like one. If she suffered any damage, she would still have one completely usable arm.
After they had undone the handcuffs, they allowed Darcelle to stand and walk around the shop, gathering her things. Eleri and Donovan had followed her closely. Even when she had given them little tasks to set up the altar, they simply refused to do her bidding, telling her that she had to do all of this herself.
"Well, you want me to get my sister here inside of four hours," she snapped. "How am I supposed to do that if you won't help?"
Eleri had just looked at her and made a questioning face and followed her around the store as Darcelle picked out an herb, and then a black candle, and then a binding ribbon.
"That's what you said: four hours," Eleri told her, rubbing it in the wound a little bit, knowing that she was going to get a wound of her own.
So Darcelle set up the altar. It took almost thirty minutes and had included her pulling out a bone-handled knife from behind the desk. Eleri had seen it lying on the table, but hadn’t contemplated it until Darcelle set the knife on the altar.
For a moment, Eleri had thought it might be another resin-handled one, but very quickly, she saw that it wasn't. For a moment, she didn't dare put her fingers on it—and then she did. Again, she saw flashes of images, different from the ones she had seen the first time. These were of girls in white dresses, boys in white drawstring pants and cotton tee-shirts. They held toys in their grip and went running through the woods. They were happy and playing and then … they weren't. They stood solemnly in a line, hands clasped, blood dripping, much the way she had seen Emmaline in the past.
Yanking her fingers back, Eleri had glared at Darcelle. "Is this my sister?"
She had not seen Emmaline in the images, but if she had been seeing through her sister's eyes, she would not have seen her face.
Darcelle almost smiled. "Is that what you wondered? Is that what you wondered the first day in the shop?"
"No," Eleri admitted. She spoke before she thought better of deciding what to share and what not to share, and so it was out there. "No," she repeated. “I didn't know that first day in the shop. I truly did come in here on a whim.”
Darcelle shook her head. "There are no whims, little witch," she muttered as she continued arranging the altar. "No," she offered finally. "It is not your sister. I do have things of your sister's, but not her bones. My mother would not allow it."
Eleri could not hide her look of surprise. Perhaps she was grateful her sister had not been made into a knife and carved into tools in her afterlife, but it seemed strange that Tempeste Dauphine, who had abused her sister so much, respected her corpse.
Darcelle shrugged. "Mama was batshit," she said, but didn't elaborate. She simply stood on the other side of the table, a table Eleri saw was made of wood, and she imagined without screws, staples, or any other metal hardware, such as brackets or braces. Though, she reminded herself, that idea came from witchcraft. While Grandmere used a liberal dose of the craft, she had no idea what Darcelle might use. She watched carefully.
When Darcelle held out her hand, Eleri offered her right arm, wrist first. Darcelle noticed the gauze bandage. "You did some on your own," she said, and Eleri only nodded in response this time, thinking before she spoke, not wanting to give away too much information. Let Darcelle think she knew enough to do these spells. She would not tell that it had been her Grandmere, and Grandmere alone—who had cast this one.
Darcelle pulled out the knife, the blade of which was the same half-moon shape as the first knife Eleri had spotted in the store, symbols or sigils had been carved into the bone handle, but these were different. She wondered what they were about. Instead of asking, she pretended it didn't matter. Perhaps she didn't care, or perhaps she could read them and understood them. Let Darcelle figure that one out.
Using the knife, Darcelle slit the gauze neatly. It sliced cleaner than Eleri would have expected, without the zipping sound of the threads being cut. And even Donovan, standing to the side, had watched it with surprise, as though some magic was already afoot.
When Darcelle’s hand found Eleri's skin, she ran her finger down the faint, thin scar there. Even Donovan appeared surprised, though he didn't say anything. Eleri knew it was healing much too fast.
She said to Darcelle, "If you cut me, you heal me, bitch."
Darcelle nodded. "Healing is simple magic, little one. Not a problem." Then, turning the blade over, she fit the hook into the top end of Eleri's scar and drew it deep.
It should hurt more than it did, Eleri thought, as she watched the blade sink into her own skin. She was glad she wasn’t squeamish about her own blood. Lord knew, she might be, after this.
Instead of being afraid, Eleri imagined she was Emmaline. She imagined this was her life, and that she did this periodically to give these women the spells they craved to fulfill their greed. Emmaline had been the source that drove them. Eleri stood here now, in her thirties, but standing as though she was an eight-year-old girl, perhaps being bled for the first time and not knowing what would happen.
Darcelle drew the knife to the end, pulling it slowly out of the flesh and leaving the cut standing open. It bled profusely.
Didn’t spurt, though, Eleri told herself. Darcelle had cut masterfully and had not hit an artery. Blood welled into the slice, and Darcelle held the cup underneath it, somehow managing not to spill. She worked with exquisite care. It was almost as though the blood itself knew it was precious.
At last, when it seemed she had enough—and when Eleri thought she should have lost enough to be lightheaded—Darcelle pulled a piece of white cotton from the table and ran it down Eleri's arm. The soft cloth pulled the blood along with it, getting her arm remarkably clean. She watched as Darcelle threw the fabric scrap into the chalice. The bleeding on her arm seemed to have stopped.
Was there something on the fabric? Was it another spell? she wondered.
For a moment, her head swam with questions—and then, it just swam. But she took a short, sharp breath through her nose and focused on her arm. Still holding her wrist firmly, Darcelle handed Eleri's arm to Donovan. With whispered words, she said, "Patch her up, Doctor."
Eleri frowned. Had they ever told Darcelle that Donovan was a doctor? Had she simply picked it up because Donovan was the one with the medical kit? Perhaps it was a nickname. Eleri didn't know, and it took her a moment to realize she had been distracted from the spell that was being cast behind her.
Donovan was watching over her shoulder, though, so nothing was going wrong while her thoughts meandered. She heard low chants from Darcelle, and she heard pleas to Gods whose names she recognized from Grandmere's vocabulary.
Sparkles formed in the room, but Eleri couldn’t tell if it was Darcelle's magic or blood loss. Darcelle seemed not to notice, and Donovan was monitoring her arm carefully, checking her cut, wiping it down with alcohol again. The cut stung slightly—but, just like last time, not as much as it should.
He'd begun to wipe it dry and put little sterile strips across it. Eleri watched in fascination as he made neat rows binding her wound. She knew she should paying attention to the spell, but somehow, she simply couldn't force herself to do it. It was though her attention had been stolen.
Suddenly, she realized, perhaps it had. Her head turned, and she felt Donovan's fingers catch on her wrist as she seemingly tried to jerk it away. But she hadn't. She'd simply been distracted, and Donovan was holding her in place.
"Eleri," he said. "Eleri, I need you facing this way."
But she couldn't comply. She had to watch Darcelle. The woman dragged her fingers through the chalice of blood and drew two lines down the front of her face. She was using only Eleri's donation and none of her own, Eleri realized suddenly. Darcelle was casting, and the blood she was using was only Eleri's.
She became angry. Why was she the sole source for this spell? Why did Darcelle not use her own blood? She snarled, and Darcelle glanced up at her and then at Donovan. "Hold the little witch, Doctor. She cannot interfere."
With no further commands, she resumed her chanting. Her eyes grew dark even as the shop dimmed in the fading light of day. Eleri watched as the woman became completely oblivious to her and Donovan. Darcelle was tuned into her spell, working her prayers, and calling whatever she was calling, to create a beacon to her sister.
More sparkles filled the air, stronger now, and Eleri realized they were stronger at the edges of her vision.
Shit, she thought. Not magic.
She was going to pass out. It felt like someone had grabbed her feet and swung her around, and as she headed toward the floor, she heard voices overhead.
"Dammit!" she heard Donovan yell. "She's having a seizure. You fix this, Darcelle. You fix this!"
But when Eleri looked up, she saw only the ceiling. She heard footsteps around her. As the sparkles closed in, faces leaned over her, and at last, one face became clear.
Emmaline reached down, offering her hand to help Eleri up.
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The doctor was yelling at her, but Darcelle continued chanting, focused on the spell before her. They had given her only four hours to bring Alesse home, and she'd already spent forty-five minutes gathering the crap she needed, getting the blood from the little witch, and saying the spell.
She had three more rounds to chant before she reached the nine total that she needed. And so, she recited the words again and again, blocking out everything around her.
The little witch had gone down, and that was not supposed to happen. But Darcelle couldn’t let her attention be pulled away. She would deal with the two of them in a few minutes.
Unfortunately, the doctor continued yelling at her. He would have grabbed for her, but Darcelle had deftly stepped away, feinting to one side and then another, moving her body while her focus stayed on the spell in front of her.
She had to reach Alesse. She had to get her sister to come home. If she didn't, the two feds would take her to the prison, and she would die. As she had thought before, there was a very good possibility that if she died, she would be stuck on this same path for all of eternity. How could she ever undo the spell if she didn't have a corporeal form to do it? So she kept chanting.
No matter how he grabbed at her ankles, no matter how he cursed her, Darcelle ignored the doctor and kept at her work. Her life depended on it. When at last she reached the final round, she let her voice build to a crescendo. She was certain the neighboring shop owners could hear her, as they were not yet fully closed up for the night. But none of that mattered as she finished it off and lifted her hands. She called the gods—the light and the dark—and she watched as all the small lights that had gathered in the room formed up and becoming a single, glaring glow that shot out the top of the shop.
There, she thought, falling into a heap on the floor. It is done.
Alesse would see it. She could not miss it. Now, Darcelle need only wait to see if her sister came.
There was a problem she had not mentioned to either of the two feds. She could do the spell, she could call her sister, and she could put out the appropriate bait with Eleri's blood.
But the gods knew, she'd tried before. Perhaps some of her previous spells had worked. She was strong. They should have worked, and Alesse must have seen them. But she hadn't come home. So there was every possibility that Alesse might not come this time, either.
Darcelle considered briefly the possibility that Alesse might not be able to return. Perhaps she had gotten herself into something far too deep. Darcelle hoped not. She would not survive life in prison, and she would not survive an afterlife chained to this stupid, fucking shop.
She crumpled, rolling the best she could to ease the brunt of it, but still she felt her head snap against the hardwood floor. She lay there for a moment, breathing as though she had been underwater for a long time, as though she had been thrown to the floor and had the wind knocked out of her. She gasped for air.
The doctor was still shouting at her. And as Darcelle lolled her head to the side, she saw the little witch on the ground, shaking in a seizure.
Shit, she thought. She should let the witch just go. They had no great ties, except for the fact that whatever Eleri had in her blood, it was powerful.
Darcelle had felt the kick from it while she worked. She wore the little witch’s blood on her face. Perhaps I shouldn't let the woman go, she thought. Perhaps I should save the witch, if only for myself. Even if she couldn't get her sisters here, Eleri's blood might be strong enough to break the spell that bound her to the store. That had been the hope all along. Eleri might make that spell better.
Darcelle was a Dauphine, but Eleri was a Remy—and so much more.
She rolled to her side and stretched her hand out. She had nothing left to give, but she had to find something.
She realized she needed these two on her side. She needed them to help her get Alesse in line—and they would, because she had promised them Emmaline in return. She had made a promise that perhaps she couldn't keep, but she would not tell them that yet.
She held her palm out, aimed toward the little witch, but nothing happened. Not until she dragged her hand to her own face and rubbed the blood that was there onto the palm of her hand, and then held it out again, did any of her magic work.
Slowly, Eleri’s body stopped shaking. The doctor, kneeling next to her, holding her head and her shoulder, and ignoring the cut on her arm—now bleeding again—looked up at Darcelle. Perhaps it was a thank you—she didn't think she would ever know, but let him believe that she had saved the little witch.
Then, her own eyes rolled back and she passed out. But somewhere in the void, she heard the voices.
"Fuck you, little sister. Fuck you."
She almost laughed. Yes, she had found Alesse. However, she frowned, wondering if her face was actually frowning as her body lay on the floor of the shop. Darcelle was somewhere else, and she didn't know where, and she didn't know how—but she was free for the first time.
She saw Alesse and she saw that her sister had a small boy with her.
Fuck, she thought. This was going to be a shit show.
And then, with a jolt, she snapped back into her body, opened her eyes, and saw the same damn, fucking ceiling of her shop that she always did.
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When Donovan finally got Eleri upright and into the one chair they had, his breathing began to slow, just a little.
Darcelle was still lying on the floor, almost as though the spell had stripped the oxygen and bones from her body. She rolled a little bit and met his gaze, almost as though asking, Are you going to help me?
No. He wasn't. In fact, he tried to ignore her, although he was certain she could still be dangerous. She looked to be almost completely incapacitated—but he didn't put anything past her.
He stood across the table from Eleri and, using one arm, he swept everything to the side. He’d probably just ruined a very specific altar arrangement, and maybe even damaged what was left of the spell. He gave zero fucks. Eleri had been seizing, and he had almost had a heart attack as he watched her.
"Eleri," he said. "Look at me."
Holding one finger upright in front of his own nose, he waited for her eyes to show he’d come into focus. Luckily, they did, clearly and quickly. He moved his finger back and forth. Eleri didn't even ask what he was doing. She could tell that things had gone wrong. If he was testing her, she would trust that he had good reason to.
She nodded at him and he nodded back at her. Her eyes had traced perfectly. Good news. Another breath came out of his lungs, another weight lifted off of his shoulders. He looked at her pupils then. He had no flashlight, but the pupils seemed to be equal and, as best he could tell, reactive.
That seizure had scared the ever-loving crap out of him. The memory of it, infused with adrenaline, was unclear now in his mind. Though he felt he could still see her falling in slow motion, he didn't know if the seizure had been the thing that had made her tumble, or if she'd passed out and hit her head first and that had triggered the seizure. There was also the possibility that the seizure was nothing physical and was entirely the result of Darcelle Dauphine's little spell. If that were the case, everything he’d done had been pointless. But he’d not been able to wait and run the risk of Eleri sustaining some kind of damage.
Donovan glanced down at the floor again, at the woman sprawled there, her dark skin glowing in the dim light coming through the few windows between the slats of the blinds. They'd left a lamp on in the office, and a little bit of that light filtered in, too, as the sunlight faded.
He checked his watch. Three more hours. Jesus, how had it only been an hour? It felt like they'd been here for days. But he didn't say that.
He didn't dare leave Darcelle behind him. He didn't trust her enough to ever let her pass behind him again. But, she was down on the ground and to his side, where she stayed in his peripheral vision. She might still be dangerous, but he definitely needed to take care of Eleri.
Eleri had jerked away and begun convulsing when he was only halfway finished placing the Steri-Strips on her arm. Now he pulled at her wrist again, and she easily gave it over.
