Blood of the Wicked (17 page)

Chapter Eighteen

U
ncertainty replaced the sweet oblivion of sleep. Jessie woke slowly, gently surfacing from the dark to a warm, soft bed, a cocoon of cozy blankets, and the comforting smell of sage and cinnamon. It wrapped around her, so reminiscent of one of many fading, flighty memories of years past.

Of a childhood almost forgotten.

Of a mother whose face blurred around the edges.

A warm hand touched her cheek, her forehead. Smoothed over her hair. Jerked and went still when Jessie snapped her fingers around it.

Her eyes flicked open.

The blankets didn’t go away. The scent of dried herbs and cooking food didn’t fade into nothing. And the woman looking down at her didn’t look anything less than pleased to have her veined, thin wrist locked in Jessie’s shaking grip.

“Well, it’s about time, young lady.”

Jessie blinked hard. “I’m sorry, did you just admonish me for being unconscious?” Her voice rasped out of her too-dry throat, but it didn’t hurt. Surprised, she let go of the woman’s wrist to touch her own neck. Soft cloth ruffled under her fingertips.

The woman chuckled, swatting her hand away. “Don’t undo all my hard work. You’re safe, or as safe as you’re going to be for a long time. Careful,” she hurried to add as Jessie struggled to elbow herself up.

Jessie groaned. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“In a manner of speaking, a truck was certainly involved.” The woman slid strong hands under Jessie’s shoulders, supported her upright. She tucked more pillows in around her, fussed and smoothed out her blankets with effortless care.

To her horror, Jessie felt a prickle of sudden, embarrassed tears burning at her lashes. “Christ. I mean—” She winced. “Thank you, but—Look, I’m sorry, where am I? Where’s Silas?”

The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Your young man?” She grinned as she rose from the edge of the bed. “Not to worry, my dear. He’s been in and out of here for the past few hours, making sure I hadn’t cut out your heart and roasted it in the fireplace.”

Jessie snorted. “Was that a concern?”

“For him? It seems likely.”

She couldn’t help the way her lips edged upward into a rueful smile. “I guess so,” she admitted. She relaxed back into the pillows, a full-body sigh of relief. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the woman replied briskly. “He’s a fine watchman, and a finer figure of a man. My name is Matilda.” As she turned away, gray-streaked braid swinging, Jessie took the opportunity to study her.

Matilda moved gracefully, thin as a whip but elegant in her wraparound linen pants and timeless tunic-style shirt. Elegant and timeless. Good words, and they described everything else in the room with her.

Jessie’s gaze skimmed over knickknacks, bric-a-brac, shelves and hooks of ornaments. Cluttered, messy, both artful and artless, they hung, stood, or rested against one another. Next to a ceramic bowl of large purple flowers, she spied an old, worn baseball with the faded ink of some long-forgotten signature on it.

Beside a bronze statue of a seminude woman, hair and garments flowing, a carved wooden box shone cherry red in the light. Its lid supported an aged wooden tray inlaid with something polished and colorful. Dried herbs bundled neatly with colored string lay on top.

Slowly, thoughtfully, Jessie took in all the signs. Old, faded hints that winked deep in her subconscious. Feathers arrayed by the windows, inks and crystals, herbs drying. Her gaze flicked back to Matilda.

The woman watched her closely, a patient half smile shaping her thin mouth. “No harm will come to you in this, my home,” she said softly. And yet, firmly. Something faint, something elusive and incandescent tugged at her memory. Her awareness.

When it clicked, too slow, she gasped. “You’re a witch!”

“Mmm.” Matilda wiped her hands on the hem of her tunic. “Says the young witch herself.” Her chocolate brown eyes crinkled as Jessie threw back the covers. Lit with laughter when Jessie realized her state of undress and jerked the blankets right back over her chest. “And a naked one, at that.”

Embarrassment burned Jessie’s cheeks. What the hell was the matter with her? She’d worn things that were as good as nudity to work.

But Matilda’s eyes, as if she could slice to the very bone of Jessie’s secrets, unnerved her. “Excuse me,” she managed, a bare thread of dignity, “but where are my clothes?”

Her smile widening, Matilda crossed to an old chest of drawers. The wood gleamed in dark mahogany, beautifully maintained. The drawers barely made a sound as the woman withdrew an array of colorful fabric from inside. “Relax, my dear. These should suit,” she added as she brought them over. She laid out a long patchwork skirt in shades of blue and green, a thin cream tank top.

Jessie’s fingers itched to touch the material. “I can’t possibly—”

“They were my daughter’s, once.” Matilda ran her fingers over the fabric. “They will keep you comfortable in the warm air. I insist you wear them.”

How could she refuse? She bit her lip. Looking into Matilda’s quiet brown eyes, she knew she couldn’t. “Thank you,” she said, but she frowned. “Matilda, I swear I don’t knowingly bring harm, but there may be people hunting me.”

“No eyes can see past the cliff walls,” Matilda assured her. If she was concerned, Jessie couldn’t read it in her serene smile. “No beacon will mark you here. Get dressed, now. Your young man is waiting.” She turned, disappearing back through a small doorway. A soft curtain in woven rainbow colors drifted back into place behind her.

Jessie eased out of bed, wincing as her body cataloged the aches and bruises. There were too many. Hurriedly she slipped into the plain cotton panties Matilda supplied, shimmied into the skirt. It flowed around her ankles, swirled in folds of patchwork silk, linen, velvet. The tank top was soft to the touch, and she smoothed her hands over her sides as it settled.

She felt . . . frilly. Absurdly feminine.

As she admired the ocean colors of the skirt, Matilda returned carrying a brush. “You look beautiful, dear. Here, brush out your hair.”

Jessie did just that, wincing as she worked the tangles.

Matilda’s smile warmed. “There, now, aren’t you pretty as a picture?” Jessie flushed, dropping her gaze, then jumped when Matilda caught her chin in stern, dry fingers and raised it again. “None of
that
, either,” she chastised. “You say thank you and accept it as your due. As I told your man, there’s no falsehoods in this house.”

“Thank you,” Jessie replied automatically.

“There. Supper will be ready in an hour or so.” She gestured to a wall of light tucked into the far side of the room where a low island counter separated the living area from what looked like a simple, rudimentary kitchen. Mismatched glass windows gleamed in the streaming light.

Jessie nodded, but her mind rolled the warning around like marbles through her fingers. “No falsehoods?” she inquired. “No lies, you mean?”

The witch walked across the room. Sailed across it, Jessie thought, like a queen through her palace. “None,” Matilda said over her shoulder. “So you mind what you tell that witch hunter of yours.”

Witch hunter? Shit.

Jessie sucked in a breath, mentally panicked when Matilda turned, both hands braced on the island counter. “Don’t do it,” the older witch warned, a hard glint in her eye. “Don’t test me by lying. I know what he is, probably more than you. So you mind what you say and what he tells you. Lies out themselves here.”

No lies. No falsehoods. Since she’d done nothing but lie to Silas from the beginning . . . The thought trailed to an icy pit of anxiety deep in her belly.

“Find,” Matilda said sternly, “something else to say to each other.”

Like what? The weather? Jessie wasn’t sure she knew how. “I’ll try,” she finally said, too aware that the older witch watched her expectantly.

“Good girl.” She waved Jessie off. “Now go on. Show yourself to that handsome man before he wears another hole in himself fretting so hard.” She withdrew a large butcher’s knife from a wooden block, set it to a bunch of greens. Something savory perfumed the already fragrant air as she made the first slice.

Jessie hesitated. Was this ward against lies a ritual? A power? A circle?

What if Silas found the signs of witchcraft?

Did it include half truths? Omissions?

Did it matter, knowing what she knew?

Matilda cocked a faded red eyebrow, but didn’t look up. “Something on your mind?”

“Yes.” She paused. “No. Sort of,” Jessie sighed. Her bare feet warm on the polished wood floor, she picked her way across the small room.

“Out with it.” Matilda’s deft fingers peeled and sliced, wielding the knife with an expert hand.

“I’m fairly sure I’m going to die.”

Matilda’s hands stilled briefly. “It’ll happen to us all, sooner or later,” she replied mildly. “You certainly labor under a destiny bright enough to scald the eyes.”

Jessie’s mouth curved up into a wan, wry smile. “Not reassuring.”

“Sorry, baby girl, it’s the best I have.” Matilda scraped the leafy greens off the knife blade. “What makes you suspect your death is so close?”

“A prophecy.” Jessie folded her arms over her stomach. It did nothing to quell the anxiety there. “Well, a handful of them, actually.”

“Prophecies are dangerous business. More often self-fulfilled than true foresight.” Dark brown eyes flicked up, gleamed. “What did this prophet of yours say, then?”

“Well, there was the tattoo of the leering jester.” She held up a finger. Then another. “And the stopped clock in the Old Seattle ruins, the tomb that time forgot. Those happened.”

“Happened. You saw them?”

Jessie nodded. “Fairly literal. Last is the green house under the violet sky.”

Matilda’s knife thudded into the scarred cutting board, a sharp staccato that broke the easy rhythm of chopping. She fixed the angle of the blade, repositioned the pungent herbs, and only then spoke. “Where does it all lead?”

“My death,” Jessie replied quietly. “Burned alive, I think.”

“Ah.” With a ghost of a smile, the older witch pushed the small pile of fragrant leaves aside and said sadly, “Most of us have that particular hell inscribed upon our souls. Racial memory is a terrible thing.”

Just a common fear? Did she dare hope? “So, does it mean—?”

“That it’s not going to happen?” Matilda shook her graying head. “While the future isn’t my gift, I’ve been around, you know. I survived two children and the destruction of my home, and you don’t come away from that without knowing a thing or two.”

Jessie winced. “I’m sorry.”

Dark eyes flicked to her. Narrowed. “Don’t be. We all have graves inside us, Jessie. We all have coffins we carry around. You, me, your missionary. It shapes us.” Matilda flicked green-flecked fingers. “My point is that I have a few tricks left up my sleeve, and you’ll want to hear me when I say what I’m going to say next. So, are you ready?”

“I’m ready.” She hoped. Jessie wasn’t sure she could stand any more prophecy.

Matilda put down her knife, very gently. “Then listen to me, daughter,” she said, and suddenly the air closed hot and thick around them both. Jessie gasped, grabbed the edge of the tiled counter.

Matilda didn’t bat an eyelash.

“Nothing in this world is black and white.” Her words dropped like jewels in the sunlight, practically sparkling in crystal tones. “One is merely the absence of color, which is boring, staid and without life. It is stagnancy. The other is every color, which is chaotic. Untrustworthy, unpredictable, and unstable. Neither will bear life.”

Jessie sucked in a breath of air riddled with power. “I thought you said you couldn’t tell the future,” she managed.

“I don’t tell the future.” Matilda’s voice didn’t change, neither tone nor volume, but impatience snapped like a whip. Lashed at Jessie the way a school mistress’s ruler snapped at unruly fingers. She jumped. “Listen to me, Jessica Leigh, and listen well: you cling to two beliefs. One leads to death. The other to pain and suffering. Two difficult choices. You
must
choose one, and soon, or the choice will be made without you.”

“But I—”

“You do not want to be a passive player in your own destiny,” the witch said sharply. And then, as suddenly as it came, the air lightened. Sweetened once more with the fragrance of freshly chopped herbs and the vivid scent of hothouse flowers.

Jessie blew out a hard sigh, swiping at a trickle of sweat rolling down her temple. “Wow,” she managed shakily. “That was some kind of . . . something.”

Matilda swayed, her skin ashen, but she threw up a hand when Jessie moved. “I do not read the future,” she repeated, and this time her voice was just a voice. Resigned, but her own. “I read the scripture of the soul, and yours is most definitely conflicted.”

Death? Pain and suffering?
Conflicted
couldn’t possibly do it justice. It seemed as if death stayed hard at her heels, drawing blood with every nip. But whose death? Whose suffering?

The questions jumbled around in her head, a hopeless tangle of what-ifs and uncertainties. Jessie rubbed at her temples, hissed when her fingers pressed on bruised skin. “No kidding,” she finally said. “I guess I knew that much.”

“Well. That’s that, I suppose.” The knife blade picked up its rhythmic
thunk,
thunk
as the older witch returned to her task. “Off you go, then. Supper in an hour.”

Knowing that for the dismissal it was, Jessie turned for the door. She was halfway out when Matilda called out, “The hot pools are to the left. Check there first.”

Jessie shut the door behind her.

Two choices, she thought. One was death, and the other pain and suffering. She shook her head, smoothing her damp palms along her thighs, and turned to step off the porch.

Her bare feet sank into oddly smooth sand. She gasped, surprise and pleasure, as her mind focused on the scenic vista laid out in front of her.

Had she gone to heaven while she’d slept?

A miniature valley in itself, the bay was a jewel nestled in the maw of the Old Sea-Trench. An old wooden dock jutted out into wildly green water, while a low, clinging haze rolled over the polished surface.