Temple of Indra's Witch Page 11

“Good thing I chose this place then, huh? Licensed.”

  A familiar cackle rang out.

  Instinctively I ducked behind my car, peeking just high enough to see a couple of familiar faces.

  “That is just great,” I grumbled. “We had to pick the one place…”

  Leslie snorted. “Are you losing your mind now or are we playing a game of hide-and-seek to work up an appetite?”

  “Shhh.” I whispered. “It’s Sandra and Remus. They’re ahead of us.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the big bad doctor and his wife. What’s up? You think they might spontaneously regress you—make you quack like a duck?”

  I closed my eyes, thinking about what I’d overheard.

  She came over to crouch beside me. “Sophia, answer me. What’s going on?”

  A man reeled toward us on unsteady feet. He wore jeans and a hoodie that said he was an orgasm donor, it barely covered his hairy belly; as he neared I noted the stench of alcohol and body odor. “Either of ye smokin’ hot ladies seen my keys?”

  I rummaged in my bag, passing the man a twenty and standing up straight. If they were still there, the jig was up.

  “What’s this for?”

  “The pedestrians—take a cab.”

  The drunk man smiled, belched, and stumbled away.

  The alley was empty. They’d disappeared around the corner as well.

  “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” I admitted sheepishly.

  “Let’s head back to the bookstore. We’ll grab lunch at the place next door and you are definitely going to explain your weird behavior even if I have to get you bombed to do it…You can start with why you’re sneaking into the bookshop after hours.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Last night,” Leslie said, pulling back the road. One of the cabinet drawers was open when I got in this morning.”

  “Maybe it was one of the customers.”

  “The customers aren’t allowed in the cabinet, besides don’t you think I would have noticed? I closed up last night and I’m just very attentive to those things.”

  “Was anything missing or broken?”

  “No, the door was still locked.”

  I tried and failed to remember if Alana had taken the shop key when she went out the previous night. Of course it was ridiculous to think that Alana would break in. But, as we drove down the road, I wondered, if it was so ridiculous, why was there a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Intoxicating Torture

  “Wake up, lass!”

  I refused to open my eyes. This had to be a nightmare. There was an out of control teenager playing a set of drums inside my skull.

  “It’s yer favorite man in the world,” the voice said testily.

  “That could be anyone with drugs and coffee,” I muttered, pulling my pillow out from under my head and pressing it to my face.

  I peeked out from under the pillow and met Cullen’s soft green gaze.

  He ran a lazy hand over my shoulder. "How’re ye feeling? Ye’ve the Irish flu."

  I groaned. "Why did I get drunk last night?”

  “Ye tell me.”

  “Wait a minute, it’s Saturday. What are you doing home?” I stretched, snuggling back under the covers. "You’re supposed to be in London."

  “Don’t I know it? Ye said Alana was off for the weekend so I rearranged my schedule and came home a day early, expecting a romantic tryst with my wife, instead—”

  “You got me.”

  “More or less. Ye were tryin’ to drown yerself in the bathtub.”

  “I was not,” I said indignantly.

  “Well, ye were by default. You can’t drink to the point of unconsciousness near a body of water. Have I taught ye nothin’, lass? Always drink to excess on dry ground.”

  I chuckled and groaned ‘cause it hurt.

  “What made ye do it? Ye were three sheets to the wind, barely coherent, mumblin’ about murder and witches.”

  I sat up, the sheet pulled tight to my breasts. "That makes no sense. Was I really? I went out with Leslie.” I rubbed my forehead, desperately trying to recall all the ins and outs of why I’d escaped inside a bottle of Cullen’s best scotch after I’d already pounded a bottle of wine. It was hopeless. Who could think like this?

  I cast a dubious glance at myself in the mirror, ran a hand through my sleep-mussed hair, and padded down the stairs to the kitchen to find that magical morning elixir known as coffee. Cullen followed me and began to ask more questions.

  “If you have any sense of decency at all, Mr. O’Kelley, you'll fix me a greasy breakfast and shut up."

  "Yes, m’am," Cullen said and got to work.

  I walked back to the bedroom, took an Advil and flopped back against the pillows. Twenty minutes later, I felt his hand once again caressing me, only this time, it was not my shoulder. I gently pushed his hand away. "Not quite yet, honey."

  He grinned at me fondly. “Well, the dead arose and appeared to many! Breakfast is ready. How ye cuttin’?"

  "Better." I pulled myself up against the headboard and reached for the cup he was handing me. "You heated it up?"

  Cullen shook his head. "I drank that. You were already snoring by the time I followed ye down here. This is fresh.”

  I took a sip and it tasted like liquid gold.

  “You spoil me.”

  “Don’t I know it?”

  I sat up, suddenly wide awake, both suspicion and concern warring in my previously sleep-befuddled brain. “The regression—” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "My God, Cullen! I can’t believe I almost forgot! I overheard Sandra and her husband talking about me after they put me under." I reached for my robe and pulled it on. "Bloody hell!"

  Cullen tugged open a drawer and pulled out a t-shirt and a black v-neck sweater, drawing them down awkwardly over his head one at a time. "What did they say? It couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “It wasn’t just what they said. It was my regression and the feelings.” I stopped speaking, realizing he was now fully dressed and his hair was still wet from the shower. “Are you going somewhere?"

  "Dylan’s expectin’ me. We have a 10 a.m meeting since I flew back early—not that I don’t want to hear all about this, but would ye mind, my love, tellin’ me over lunch?"

  "Of course, I’m sorry to make you late. I’ll come meet you.”

  Cullen ran his fingers through his hair and grinned. "Sounds like a plan. Now, eat up. There’s a very yummy breakfast sandwich awaitin’ ye.”

  “Oh no, you didn’t put black pudding on it again, did you?”

  “No, no, I made ye that weird thing ye like with the lettuce and the tomato. If ye don’t feel like it, go back to sleep for an hour, and meet me at the Pub at noon for lunch." With a wave, he ducked out of the bedroom and ran down the stairs.

  I must have drifted off again because it was about eleven thirty when I awoke to a loud banging on the downstairs door. As I flew down the stairs, I almost tripped over an empty beer can hidden beneath a shirt at the bottom, its metallic rattle echoed off the baseboard as my foot sent it flying. I didn’t remember drinking a beer. Had it been Leslie’s? Ugh. I swallowed hard at the thought. I pulled the door open to find Madam Brun, smiling and wrapped warmly in a bright-green wool coat.

  She gave me an uncomfortable smile. "You were sleeping?”

  “I was, yes.”

  “Sorry. I tried calling but you weren’t answering and we were worried about you."

  I smiled vaguely. "We?"

  Her husband walked up behind her as if to answer my question.

  "You seemed upset after yesterday’s session, and you said you were alone for the weekend," Sandra went on.

  Remus stared past me into the pitiful living room. The room was untidy, to say the least. Pillows littered the floor; my bra was hanging off the chair and there was an empty wine glass lying on its side on the table.

 
; I swallowed hard. "I said that?" I clutched at the doorknob, positive my knuckles were turning white.

  "We were going to see about taking you out to lunch," Sandra said hastily. "And it looks as if you could use a good meal." She pushed past me to take a seat on the sofa. “Why don’t you go throw on some clothes?”

  I took a grip on myself. "I’m not exactly feeling well," I said slowly. "I’ll have to take a raincheck."

  Sandra stared. "But we came all the way out here. Look, my dear, I'm not making any judgment, it's just, well, you look like hell and we know what’s bothering you."

  “You do?”

  “Of course. We’ve both been regressed. It’s always unsettling at first but it holds the answers to so many things in our current life. That’s why it’s important to keep going.”

  I took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Al-Sandra." Why had I almost called her by the wrong name? “But you really don’t need to worry. I’m fine and I don’t want or need answers!"

  “You’re not curious as to why you keep rubbing your wrist like that.”

  I looked down and realized she was right. I’d made my skin red from rubbing it. If felt like there was a rope tied around it.

  She reached out for my hand but I pulled it away. “May I see your palm?” she asked, reaching for it again.

  I lifted it to her and she stared deeply into my palm, as if her eyes were x-rays and she could see through the layers of skin, past the veins, the blood, and the muscles, to the truth within. Her eyelids shuddered as she went into a trance. Her head bobbed in a rocking motion, and she breathed loudly, exhaling from her mouth and wheezing in through her nose.

  “Are you still reading palms?” I asked.

  “Not normally, but sometimes I can’t help but see things,” Madam said, her voice a whisper. “And there are some things about the future you need to know.” She was silent again, as if awaiting the invitation to come in.

  “Fine. I’ll be right back and we can chat, but I’m not going to lunch and I’m not being regressed.”

  I returned five minutes later. I’d put on a grey knit poncho sweater, jeans and tied my hair loosely into a topknot. This was as good as it was getting today. Remus was sitting in the living room holding a mug of coffee.

  Sandra, on the other hand, was running her hand along the bookcase, inspecting the books one at a time. It was obvious she was looking for something. I smiled when she reached the secret cubby where Alanna had hidden my old costume jewelry. By the sound of Sandra’s gleeful squeal when the lever, cleverly disguised as a book, popped open, she clearly thought she’d stumbled upon something.

  “Can I help you find something?” I asked.

  She responded with a sheepish shrug, “Just checking out your books and this cubby popped open.”

  She straightened her clothing and brushed her hair back.

  “It’s a toy cubby Cullen built for Alana when she was a child.”

  “How clever. What a lucky little girl. Oh, we helped ourselves to the coffee. Hope you don’t mind."

  I turned to the chair and sat down. Behind me the phone in the kitchen began to ring. I looked at Remus, who was dangling a necklace in a circular motion.

  "Don’t worry about the phone," Sandra called out to me as I drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  Sofia came to consciousness in the castle’s torture chambers; she was curled on hundreds of sharp rocks in a tiny cramped crevice, unable to relieve the ache in her back. The pain reminded her of her situation. A chair with spikes sat in the corner; it was empty enough for now, but she pitied the person who would occupy it next, and prayed that it wouldn’t be her. Across from it stood a metal cage and iron pokers. One could imagine just what happened there. She looked up and noticed something hanging from the roof at an impossible angle. She sucked in her breath then clamped a hand over her mouth. It was an older, gaunt-looking man. His hands were tied behind his back, his torn clothing revealing burns and cuts. He was either dead or unconscious—for his sake she hoped dead.

  The cold stone crept into her bones and she began to cry.

  “Sofia, my brave girl,” Elena whispered. “You must calm yourself.”

  Sofia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying louder. She couldn’t see her but assumed she was in a similar cell.

  “We mustn’t bring the guards.”

  Her mother’s gentle voice began chanting softly to the elements. Within minutes a warm breeze replaced the bitter cold, and Sofia’s shivering eased.

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  “Whatever happens, remember that I love you. Somewhere and sometime we’ll be together again.”

  Sofia cried in silence and when dawn came, it brought with it György Stolcz, the short stocky magistrate, the illicit Priest, clad in his dark robes; and Vilhem, Sofia’s father and Elena’s lover, looking distraught with red-rimmed eyes. Behind him walked Alexandra with a black bird upon her shoulder.

  “Elena Maria Catargiu-Obrenović,” the Priest said. “You and your daughter are charged with the crime of witchcraft. Will you confess to your crimes?”

  Her mother’s voice was weaker now, and Sofia could hear the pain in it. “I will confess only if you release my daughter. She is guilty of nothing.”

  “I’m afraid we cannot do that.”

  “No,” Vilhem said in a broken whisper. “Please, stop this madness. Alexandra, beg of your father! Damn it, you started this and that is my daughter! Send them away but please don’t—”

  “Stop sniveling, Vilhem. It really isn’t like you,” Alexandra responded coldly.

  At her words Sofia’s heart fell. That bitter woman blamed Elena for her sad pathetic life and she was out for vengeance. No one could save them now.

  Sofia heard urgent footsteps then, and sensed goodness and light. Pressing herself against the bars she recognized the face of the boy she loved.

  The guard stepped forward to block his way but stopped when he realized it was Alexandra’s son.

  “Costin? What are you doing?” Alexandra snapped.

  “How can you let them harm Sofia and Elena!” he demanded. “I’ll never forgive you unless you release them.”

  “You are but a young man, Costin,” György Stolcz said. “And this no doubt seems harsh to you.”

  “What it seems like is revenge.”

  “‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’” György Stolcz quoted.

  “They aren’t witches,” Costin replied, his gaze roaming the group, though he spoke to the old man. And then he looked at Alexandra. In his eyes there was no love, no joy—only horror, pure and undisguised. Sofia had never seen him look so dark and brooding. “My mother is jealous and she has accused them wrongly. Please free them.”

  “Take him into the other room, Alexandra, and hear the boy out,” György Stolcz said firmly.

  Costin walked forward and squeezed Sofia’s hand. “I shall see to this.” Then he followed his mother back through the arched doorway.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Hang In There

  "We’re running out of time," Sandra whispered. "Why does she keep going back?"

  Remus looked away from Sophia’s face, suddenly thoughtful. "I’ve never worked with someone this strong. I can’t force her. I can only ask and suggest but she’s not responding, as you can see." He glanced at his watch. "I’m hoping she’ll grow tired soon. She has lived through four weeks of captivity in her mind. That should make her easier to control."

  "We may have to try her daughter. I think I know how we can get to her but I’ll go have a look around in case—." Sandra broke off as the door behind her opened.

  Cullen stared into the room. For a moment none of them spoke, then, after catching sight of Sophia passed out in the chair, Cullen stepped inside the room and closed the door.

  "Sophia!"

  Remus Ceaușescu stood up, taking his glasses off in agitation. "You can't come in here." He stepped toward Cullen.

  Cullen was
looking at Sophia. "This is my home and Sophia is my wife," he said. He glanced at Remus. "Is there a reason ye want to send me away?"

  "No! Of course not. You startled me is all." Remus stood looking up at Cullen, both of their faces stern.

  "Good then," Cullen replied. “I’ll see that ye wake her up now.”

  "Not yet.”

  “Sophia! Wake up, lass.” Cullen demanded.

  “Please, Cullen, sit over there and be quiet. Sophia does not know you're here." Anxiously, Remus Ceaușescu put his hand on Cullen's shoulder. "She is in a deep trance. Now, please, sit down. It would be dangerous for you to interfere at this stage."

  "Dangerous?" Cullen was staring at Sophia’s face. Her eyes were looking at him quite normally, but she did not see him. The scene she was watching was in another time, another place. "She swore to me this…this brainwashing wasn't dangerous," Cullen went on, controlling his temper with an effort.

  Sophia’s eyes had changed focus now. They no longer looked at him. They seemed to stray through him, the pupils dilating rapidly as though she were staring directly at the window. Slowly he backed away a few paces and sat down on the edge of a chair. "Fine, but she won’t be doin’ this again!”

  Sophia suddenly threw herself back against the sofa with a moan of agony. Her fingers convulsed and she clawed at the collar of her blouse.

  "Mother!" She screamed. "Why doesn't he come?"

  There was a moment's total silence in the room as the three looked at her, electrified. Cullen had gone white. “Her mother’s dead. What’s she remembering?”

  "I can’t breathe," Sophia moaned. "Get this off me." She arched her back again, catching the collar of her blouse and tearing it open so hard that two buttons popped off, exposing the black lace of her bra.

  "For God's sake, Remus, what's happened?" Sandra was rooted to the spot. "Bring her out of it. Wake her, quickly!"

  Remus sat down beside her. "Sofia, can you hear me? I want you to listen to me-" He broke off with a cry of pain as Sophia grabbed his hand and clung to it. Her face was wet with perspiration and tears.