Mist-Torn 01 - The Mist-Torn Witches Read online

  “Bridgette!” Jaromir said, and when Amelie looked up and saw him standing there, her ashen face went pink.

  Bridgette, however, turned pale. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I didn’t hear your approach.”

  “Apparently not,” he answered coldly. “Why don’t you go and attend the Lady Karina.”

  She stiffened at his dismissal but attempted a smile. “Of course.”

  Turning in her sapphire gown, she swept away. Jaromir knew better than to apologize for her, so he simply said to Amelie, “I’ll go keep watch on your sister.”

  She nodded, but for all her tough exterior, he could see she’d been cut—probably most by not knowing how to fight back in this polite verbal arena.

  Walking toward Céline, he felt embarrassed by his mistress, and he wished he could somehow take back the words she’d spoken to Amelie.

  * * *

  After reading six young women in immediate succession, both Céline’s smile and her calming assurances were beginning to tire. Worse, Jaromir was pacing the stone floor like a restless wolf watching for any sign of unusual movement, but after each girl, when she shook her head at him, his expression grew darker.

  He wasn’t helping.

  Looking up, Céline saw a young woman of about eighteen standing near the opposite chair. She was tall, with a strong build. Blond braids hung forward over her shoulders. Though well made, her gown was of dyed cotton as opposed to silk, satin, or brushed wool. Her face was plain, but her blue eyes were bright, and she seemed almost eager to speak with Céline.

  “I think I am next,” she said. “My name is Erin.”

  “Come and sit,” Céline said, resummoning her smile.

  To her surprise, the young woman grabbed the other chair and pulled it even closer, so that when she sat down, their knees were touching. She leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t care about this matter you’re handling for the prince. I wish to know something else.”

  In spite of her weariness, Céline’s interest was piqued.

  “I’m engaged to be married,” Erin said quickly.

  Céline’s interest faded. Weren’t they all by her age? Most were married already.

  Her face must have given her thoughts away, because Erin waved a hand. “No, I don’t want you to paint pretty stories of a handsome knight. I’ve known my betrothed since we were ten. Cecil is a fine man.”

  “Then what is it you wish to know?”

  Erin lowered her voice. “I need to know if I will bear him a son. My mother could only give my father one child…me. Cecil is his family’s only son. They have no other male heir and are anxious to ensure a male grandchild. His parents have doubts about him marrying me if I prove to be like my mother, not a good breeder.” She straightened. “But I won’t spend my life accepting their blame, suffering their accusing looks and words. Can you look into my future and tell me if I will bear a son?”

  Céline hesitated. This was a very specific question, nothing she could dance around with vague details, and in truth, she didn’t believe this young woman’s happiness should hinge upon pleasing her betrothed’s parents.

  But Erin leaned even further forward, so close she was breathing on Céline’s cheek. “Please. I love Cecil. I would be his wife. But only if we will both be happy.”

  Well, that was a better reason than the first she’d given.

  “Here,” Erin said, holding out her hand. “I brought something personal of his and mine—locks of our hair.”

  One chunk of hair was carrot red, and the other blond.

  Céline pursed her mouth, wondering how to proceed. She could hardly refuse to read the girl. Taking both locks of hair, she grasped Erin’s hand with her free one and closed her eyes, wondering how she could handle this without making promises or creating disappointment. With her eyes shut tightly, she was about to pretend the first jolt…when a jolt actually hit her, and she found herself rushing down the corridor of mists.

  Oh, no, not this young woman.

  Fear and anguish flooded through her at the thought that Erin was the next victim, but the mists vanished and she found herself standing in a sun-drenched bedroom, near an open window, listening to the sound of harsh grunts, followed by a brief scream.

  Erin lay atop a bed, soaked with sweat, and attended by a midwife. She was giving birth.

  “Good,” the midwife said, sweating herself. “One more push. You’re almost there.”

  Erin bore down, gritting her teeth and grunting hard, and the baby slipped out, landing in the midwife’s arms.

  Céline looked on, wishing she could help. She had delivered babies in Shetâna and knew the many duties that must be attended to quickly, from cutting the cord, to cleaning the child, to seeing that all the afterbirth came out and massaging the mother’s abdomen.

  “Is the baby all right?” Erin panted.

  The child began to cry, and the midwife brought it up for Erin to hold. “A healthy boy,” she said.

  The birthing room vanished.

  Unfortunately, Céline instantly found herself back in the great hall with her eyes wide open, and Jaromir was standing behind Erin’s chair, ready to pounce. She waved him away. He frowned and didn’t move.

  “What?” Erin asked anxiously. “What did you see?”

  “I saw you lying in the childbed,” Céline answered without hesitation. “You have a healthy son.”

  Erin leaned back and breathed in through her mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  But Céline was still awash in the realization that she’d just witnessed a future that did not involve horror or death. This girl had asked her a question, and she’d focused on the answer…and she’d seen it.

  Erin was rising. “If I can ever do anything for you, please ask me. My father is the village blacksmith.” Then she was gone, hurrying back to a young man with red hair. Gripping his hand, she whispered in his ear, and he smiled broadly.

  “What exactly was that?” Jaromir snapped, moving closer.

  “I saw her future, and she is not the next victim.”

  He ran a hand over his face. “Well, then, who is? I need something, Céline. Should I bring you another girl?”

  But Céline’s gaze moved to Anton, and more specifically, to Inna hovering behind him.

  “Lieutenant…,” she began, “how old is Inna?”

  “Inna?” he repeated in surprise. “I don’t know; eighteen or so, I’d guess. Why do you—?”

  “Some men might find her pretty, and I haven’t read her yet.”

  He followed her gaze. Watching his face, she could almost see his mind working. “I don’t think she’s the next victim. In fact, I’ve even wondered…” He trailed off.

  “Wondered what?”

  “No, you’re right. You should read her.” He seemed determined now. “And tell me anything you see, even if you don’t think she’s in danger.”

  Céline had no idea what he was after, but she had other concerns when it came to Inna. “You’ll have to go to Anton first and have him order her. I don’t think she’d submit to this otherwise.”

  He glanced down at her and nodded. “I won’t be long.”

  Although Céline was fully prepared for some opposition, the unfortunate scene that followed astonished her. Jaromir went straight to Anton and spoke in his ear. Anton’s brows rose briefly, and a short conversation ensued. Finally, Anton turned to Inna and said something to her that caused her features to twist.

  “No!” she cried.

  Nearly everyone in the hall turned toward the front. Anton appeared both stunned and discomfited as he leaned closer to her, speaking more forcefully. But she shook her head in refusal until he grabbed her arm and began dragging her toward the hearth.

  “No!” Inna shouted again. “My lord, let go of me.”

  He didn’t even slow down, and Jaromir followed him like some man at arms.

  Everyone was watching, and Céline sat in helpless horror, thinking there was no way Anton could have handled this
in a worse fashion. Inna looked like an angry lamb being led to the slaughter. This would hardly ensure the trust of Anton’s people when it came to their daughters being read by the seer.

  Then Anton was standing directly in front of her, still gripping Inna’s arm. “Sit,” he ordered.

  “My lord,” Céline whispered, “this is hardly necessary. Nor is it helpful.”

  He ignored her and stared hard at Inna. “Sit,” he repeated.

  Then it occurred to Céline that for all his kindness and concern for his people, he was accustomed to being obeyed. When he was refused, he reacted like any other warlord.

  That was a piece of information worth storing away.

  Inna’s face was wild, torn between fear and anger and the pain of having refused him. Perhaps realizing he would not relent, she changed tactics and began begging, “Please, my lord, do not make me do this. I cannot sit in this audience and submit to such indignity. Please.”

  He stood there like a stone.

  “Inna,” Céline said, with genuine pity. “It’s all right. I promise this won’t take long.”

  Inna flashed her a look of pure hated. “Do not speak to me.”

  “Sit down,” Anton ordered, “and stop this foolish behavior.”

  He watched while Inna sank into the chair.

  Céline sighed. “Inna, I have to touch your hand.”

  She was beginning to regret having suggested this. The hall was quiet, and Anton turned around. “Musicians,” he said, “play something cheerful.”

  For Céline, this macabre order was the last cherry on the cake of her self-control, and she glared at him. “You’re the one who should stop playing the fool!” she whispered.

  He might have flinched, but she couldn’t be sure. “Inna,” he said, “give her your hand.”

  The hostility on Inna’s face was so affecting that Céline hesitated, but she had to do this. Reaching out, she grasped the fingers of Inna’s left hand and then closed her eyes. She let her mind go still, trying to forget Anton and Jaromir standing there like sentinels. She focused only on Inna…on what was to come.

  A hard jolt hit her, and then another. The great hall vanished, and she was swept away on the white mists, rushing forward, blind and bodiless until the mists vanished, and she found herself once again inside a small, darkened bedroom.

  Why was it always bedrooms?

  But then she looked down. Inna lay sleeping beneath a white quilt. She looked younger with her face so relaxed. Panic hit Céline immediately…as this was all too familiar.

  “Inna, wake up!” she said, but she wasn’t really there. Inna couldn’t hear her.

  Slender hands covered in black gloves came into view, moving slowly toward the bed, and Céline began to choke.

  The black gloves continued to move. One of them settled on the side of Inna’s face and the other on her throat. Again the hands did not grip down, or do anything besides touch Inna’s face and throat, and the flesh on Inna’s cheek began to ripple…and then to shrivel.

  Beneath the black-gloved hands, Inna’s face withered, sinking in upon itself until it was nothing more than a dried husk. Inside the vision, the black gloves pressed harder on her cheek and throat, and as with the other young victims, Inna’s body seemed to shrink beneath the quilt.

  Céline began to weep, sobbing in gulps.

  “Come out of it!” someone ordered.

  The dim room vanished, and she found herself in Anton’s grip, looking at his pale chin. He had ahold of her upper arms. Though his voice was harsh, he also sounded worried. “Céline, come out of it.”

  Without thinking, she leaned in, pressing her face into his shoulder.

  “It’s Inna,” she choked. “Inna’s next.”

  * * *

  Within the hour, Jaromir had secured a small, windowless room just down the passage from his own apartments. He wasn’t taking any chances this time. He had Pavel and two other men, Guardsmen Rurik and Winshaw, whom he knew well, gathered around the outside of the door.

  “No one closes the door,” he ordered. “We’ll run a two-man watch in three-hour shifts so no one gets tired. Just stand in the doorway and keep your eyes on her while she sleeps. Don’t look away for a second, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” his men answered in unison.

  He had full control out here. But the scene playing out in the interior of the room was another matter—involving Céline, Inna, and Amelie. Inna was still stunned by having been rushed here, and she kept going on and on about not having laid out Anton’s bedclothes or his nighttime snack or his goblet of wine. She was nearly hysterical.

  Anton himself had already retired for the night, leaving the arrangements to Jaromir.

  “Please, please,” Inna begged, “you must let me go! My lord needs me to attend his sleeping preparations.”

  Amelie appeared to have little patience with such a display and seemed close to knocking the young woman senseless—to which Jaromir might not have objected.

  While Céline was normally calm and sensible, the experience from her vision had left her rattled, and to his consternation, she seemed bent on arguing with his strategy. For the third time, she came at him.

  “Lieutenant, you must see this won’t work,” she insisted. “By placing her inside this room in the castle, you’re signing her death warrant. If you wish to keep her safe, you’ll take her outside the city gates, somewhere far from here, somewhere the killer cannot reach her.”

  She’d been pressing this point since only moments after having read Inna in the great hall, and he had no intention of voicing the main flaw of her argument: that he needed Inna for bait. To this point, he’d simply ignored Céline, but now she was questioning him in front of his men.

  “Mistress Fawe,” he said quietly, pulling her aside, “I am not just trying to save Inna. I am trying to catch a murderer. Inna will not be left alone, but you need to leave me to this. Go back to your own room.”

  “But, Lieutenant, you cannot just—”

  “Now!” He looked back into the room. “Amelie, please come take your sister back to your room.”

  He had no idea how Amelie would react, as she didn’t tend to follow orders, but she seemed relieved at the prospect of flight and came out quickly, grasping her sister’s hand. “Come on, Céline.”

  “Amelie, we can’t leave her like this!”

  “Do you require an escort?” Jaromir asked, not bothering to keep the threat from his voice.

  “No,” Amelie answered, dragging Céline away.

  Jaromir regretted having been so harsh, but he turned back to the task at hand, walking to the doorway of the room. “Inna, you can sleep in your clothes. I’m not shutting the door, even for a few moments.”

  She stared out at him with hollow eyes but didn’t argue. Perhaps the reality of her situation was beginning to set in.

  “Sir,” Pavel said, “Rurik and I should take the first watch. That way, you can sleep for a few hours. The last attack occurred halfway between the mid of night and dawn. If you and Winshaw take the watch in three hours, that’ll most likely be when the killer appears anyway.” He paused. “Plus, I’ve been on night watch this week, and I’m not tired.”

  Jaromir hated to just go to sleep, but Pavel’s words made sense, and Jaromir was determined to count only upon these three men he trusted, spelling each other in teams, in short three-hour shifts in order to keep alert.

  “All right.” He nodded. “Have me woken in three hours, and remember my apartments are within shouting distance.” He turned to look inside the room. “Don’t take your eyes off her…I mean it. One of you keeps a watch on her if she has to use the chamber pot. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Still reluctant to leave, he headed down the passage to his own rooms. Pavel was right, and he’d be in better form if he at least rested for a few hours. But only when he slipped inside his rooms and found himself alone did he relax enough to let doubts begin to flow. There was no guaran
tee the killer would strike tonight. This night vigil could be repeated for some time. He had to make sure his men remained alert.

  Worse, what would happen when the killer realized he or she couldn’t attack Inna without being seen by two armed soldiers? Would the murderer choose another victim? No, Jaromir had to rely on Céline’s vision. It was all he had.

  Running a hand across his jaw, he tried to remember the last time he’d shaved properly. His goatee was turning into a beard, but he was too exhausted to care.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  With a sigh, he went to open it, wondering if Pavel or Rurik had forgotten to ask him something.

  But it was Bridgette standing on the other side, wearing nothing but a silk dressing gown with a half-tied sash. Had she walked from her own apartments like this? Her red-gold hair was hanging loose, and his eyes fixed on her face, moving down her throat to the V in the dressing gown between her breasts. He knew that her body was delicate and soft at the same time.

  “I fear I offended you this evening,” she said. “If so, I have come to apologize.”

  She hardly sounded apologetic, but her coming here—without him sending a message—must be humiliating on her part. She’d been married to one of the wealthiest silk merchants in the province, and now she was sharing a bed with an ex-mercenary.

  A part of him thought on her earlier cruelty to Amelie tonight, and he wanted to send her away. Another part kept looking at the V in her dressing gown. He was tired, but he also needed release, and they’d always served each other well in that capacity.

  Stepping back, he held the door, and she entered with the hint of a triumphant smile. By the time he’d closed the door and turned around, she’d untied her sash and let her dressing gown drop to the floor.

  He couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. Her skin was flawless, and he took in the sight of her high-set breasts and the small red-gold triangle at the tops of her thighs. Without waiting, he moved to her, grabbing her bare back with one hand and moving his other hand between her legs.

  She gasped and said urgently, “Don’t take off your armor.”

  He knew she liked all elements of the act of having sex with a soldier. He’d never minded before. But something about the way she’d said it hit him wrong. He didn’t know why. Pulling her in tightly, he pressed his tongue into her mouth and waited for his body to respond.