Seduction Read online

  “Very well,” Veronique decided at last. “You may come. Béatrice may want a real physician.”

  But of course she did not. Nor did she accept Veronique’s special ministrations. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Béatrice said, throwing back her head and chuckling. “Just how long do you think I want to live?”

  It was then that Drago forced himself between the two women. “May I examine you?” he interrupted.

  Veronique was shocked at the intrusion, but Béatrice waved away her objections. “As you are Veronique’s son, I will submit,” Sister Béatrice said. “So long as you don’t take off my clothes.” That was meant as a joke, since no physician would ever look at a female patient’s naked body.

  “Good. Just have a seat here,” Drago said, positioning the old woman in front of him. “Relax, please, madame. Be calm . . .”

  “Drago has a good manner about him,” Veronique whispered to her husband. “His voice is so reassuring and pleasant that I nearly fell asleep myself. For a moment I actually thought—”

  “What is he doing?” Jean-Loup shouted, pushing past her to his son, who was hovering over Béatrice like a lover. “Drago!”

  The young man looked up with a dazed expression, his lips pursed as he inhaled deeply with a wet noise that was almost obscene. Beneath him, Sister Béatrice—or what was left of her—lay in a heap of rags and leathery skin, as desiccated as a frog that had been lying dead in the road for a summer.

  “What have you done?” Jean-Loup whispered, aghast.

  “She was about to die anyway,” Drago answered innocently. “I’ve done her a favor.”

  Jean-Loup could only gape in horror at the sight.

  “Everyone has a life force, Father.” Drago leaned forward, eager to explain. “I’ve found that I can take that life force into myself, especially when my subjects are too weak to hold on to it themselves.”

  Jean-Loup regarded him with increasing alarm, but Drago, in his excitement, hardly seemed to notice.

  “The result is a feeling unlike anything I’ve ever known, as if my blood were suddenly strengthened by starlight—”

  “Get out,” Jean-Loup said, choking down his disgust.

  “But my findings will change the face of medicine! Just hear me out, Father. If you like, I think I can teach you—”

  “Get out!” he shouted, raising his hand to strike. Drago skittered away, bewildered, as Veronique saw what had happened to her friend and screamed.

  Sister Clément ran into the room, looking from Veronique to Béatrice, then making the sign of the cross. “What manner of evil has done this?” she whispered.

  • • •

  Drago fled the city. Some years later his parents learned that he had settled in a distant land to the east, where a fabulously wealthy nobleman, a count with a reputation for cruelty and a penchant for murder, had taken him in as his own son.

  For Jean-Loup and Veronique, the joyous times of their lives were over.

  • • •

  It was epically late, I was beat, and I supposed there wasn’t anything more I could accomplish—or mess up—in what was left of this seemingly interminable day, so I put on the T-shirt I slept in and spread the pages of Azrael’s book in front of me on the bed, trying to figure out how I could put the thing together again.

  Along the sides of the pages were tiny holes that looked as if they’d been painstakingly punctured by pins. Coming out of some of the holes were pieces of brittle thread. The binding had been sewn, I realized, and probably by hand, a very long time ago.

  This was good news, because sewing—well, sewing a book, anyway—was something I could do. I divided the sections I’d already read into chapters, and sewed those pages together. I figured that when I was done, I’d sew the whole book together, and then glue the binding to the cover. It would be good as new.

  It was almost dawn by the time I finished sewing the chapter about the abbey. My fingers looked like meaty pincushions, and most of the bindings were stippled with my blood, but nobody was going to see that after the book was glued together.

  CHAPTER

  •

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The next day after school I looked outside my bedroom window as I was changing out of my cooking clothes and saw Peter sitting on the back terrace with Fabienne. I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and ran down to meet them as fast as I could.

  “Katy!” Fabby squealed as she leaped up from her chair to greet me, her arms gesturing wildly. “I did it!”

  “Did what?” I looked to Peter for an explanation, but he just smiled and shook his head.

  “I went to Japan!” she shrieked, then quickly covered her mouth. “I went to Japan!” she repeated in a whisper, jumping up and down. “I saw Agnes. And Gram.”

  I felt a little twinge of annoyance when she referred to my great-grandmother as “Gram”—that was my name for her, mine and no one else’s—but I got over it. I just couldn’t stay mad at Fabby. Despite her great beauty, she was nice. “I teleported there.”

  I was shocked. “You mean through astral projection?”

  “That’s what Gram called it, but Agnes told me that what I did—taking my body with me, and not just my spirit—is called teleportation.”

  “Er, great,” I said. I hadn’t known the difference. “How are they?”

  “Fine,” she said excitedly. “Gram has already learned enough Japanese to speak with the other guests at the resort. She even healed a lady with pneumonia. Oh, one thing.” She handed me a slender book. “Your aunt wishes for you to have this.”

  Leafing through it, I recognized it: A Compendium of Ritual Magic by Rosamund B. Leakey, a collection of advanced spells that Aunt Agnes had given me two Christmases ago. It had been so far beyond my abilities at the time that I’d put it away in a drawer in Gram’s house. I guessed Agnes must have thought I was ready for it now, although I couldn’t imagine why. I never performed spells. All of the magical things I did had grown naturally out of my ability to move objects, a talent I’d been born with.

  “Uh, okay,” I said, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.

  Then Fabby lowered her head and looked up at me shyly. “They invited me to Whitfield, Katy.”

  “Hey, cool,” I said. And I meant it. If anyone deserved a chance at having a normal family—well, as normal as witch families get—it was Fabienne. “She and Agnes both say I have a true talent for astral travel,” she added, brightening. “Of course, they are only being polite.”

  “Not true, Fabby,” I reassured her. “I think you’d be happy studying with Agnes.” Actually, she’d be lucky. As far as the mechanics of astral projection—that is, teleporting—went, I couldn’t think of a better teacher than my aunt.

  “Perhaps,” she said wistfully. “Mais alors, that cannot be.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to be initiated,” Fabby said.

  “Initiated?”

  “Into the Enclave.”

  I looked to Peter, but he seemed to be studying his nails.

  “Soon, at Lammas, the beginning of August,” she went on.

  “What happens then?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, exactly—the details of the initiation are a secret.” She looked at Peter. “Do you?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. As if he’d know anything about that, I thought.

  “But I can’t wait,” Fabby said happily. “I’ll be allowed to live here, instead of just visit, and I’ll be able to vote on things. And of course, I’ll take part in the full-moon ritual every month.”

  “There’s a ritual?”

  “Didn’t Peter tell you?” Fabby looked confused. “There’s one tonight. At midnight.”

  Reflexively, I looked up at the blue sky, where the white disk of a full moon shone dimly. Back in Whitfield, everyone knew the phases of the moon as well as we knew our own names, but I’d grown lackadaisical about observing magical traditions since I’d come to Paris.

&n
bsp; Of course there’d be a full-moon ritual. All witches everywhere celebrated the full moon in some way: It was the time when power entered the human plane. Even during the medieval years of Azrael’s story, the full moon had been a big deal.

  “But why would Peter be part of the ritual?” I asked aloud, as if Peter weren’t sitting right beside us.

  “Because he’s . . .” Fabby’s head swiveled in his direction. “You’re going to be initiated too, aren’t you?”

  Peter swallowed. “That’s . . . that’s . . .”

  I turned to face him. Seriously. “That’s what?” I demanded. In my head, I was inviting him to say that’s not true.

  “That’s . . . supposed to be confidential,” he said instead.

  “Confidential?” I asked. “As in not telling me?”

  He shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

  “But this Enclave, or whatever it is, needs you in their ritual?”

  “No, they don’t need me,” he said irritably. “I’m just going to observe.”

  “Me too,” Fabby said. “But everything will change after our initiation.”

  “What happens then?” I asked, hearing the hysteria in my voice.

  “Hey, I just remembered something,” Peter said, standing up. “There’s, um, something I need to do.”

  “No, there isn’t!” I shouted. “You’re just uncomfortable talking to me about this thing.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  I couldn’t believe he was walking away from me.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Fabienne said, looking bewildered. “Was I the cause of difficulty between you and Peter?”

  “No,” I said miserably. “We just don’t seem to communicate that well anymore.” She was going to try to say something to make the moment less awkward, but I waved away her concern. “Where is this ritual going to be held?” I asked.

  “Downstairs. In the basement, I think. Would you like to attend? I could perhaps ask my mother—”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said. I knew Sophie would never allow me into her secret meeting.

  Which was not to say I wouldn’t find out about it. The terrace where we were sitting afforded a clear view of the kitchen windows. Directly beneath the kitchen was the basement. I’d find a way.

  “Have you ever had a boyfriend, Fabby?” I asked to cover up what I was really thinking.

  “No,” she said. “That is not permitted until after the initiation.”

  “Oh? So is this initiation thing like a Bat Mitzvah or something? Like it’s when you become a woman?”

  “I suppose. Once I am bound to this house—”

  “Excuse me?” I sat up in my chair. I’d explore the basement later. “Did you say bound to this house?”

  “Yes. Once I am part of the Enclave, I will only be permitted to become romantically involved with other initiates. There are many, including men, from all over Europe.”

  I could only blink in horror. “But what if you like someone outside of the Enclave?” I suggested. “I mean, maybe you’ll run into someone at school—”

  “I’ve told you, there will be no more school for me,” she said, staring at her feet. “And I will meet no one outside of the Enclave.”

  “How do you know that?” I argued, remembering when my father caught me making out with Peter. As far as Dad was concerned, the two of us were never going to see each other again, but nothing he did could stop us. “You’re young. Things happen.”

  “It is not permitted,” she said.

  So that was that, I thought. Maybe French girls just listened to their parents better than American kids did.

  “That is why . . . ,” she said uncertainly. “About studying with Agnes in Whitfield . . .”

  “What, Fabby?”

  “My mother has told me not to waste my talents on foolish pursuits.”

  “Foolish pursuits? Like teleportation?” Frankly, I couldn’t think of anything less foolish than full-blown magic.

  She looked around. “Yes, that is what Sophie meant, I’m sure,” she whispered, “although I don’t think she knows about my gift.”

  “What does she want you to learn instead?”

  “Only things that will benefit the Enclave. I must do nothing selfish, and . . .” She looked at me as if she were embarrassed to disclose what Sophie had said. “. . . and I must always look beautiful.”

  “What?” I thought I hadn’t heard right.

  “I know.” She buried her face in her hands. “I am ashamed to tell you. You, who possess so many talents.”

  “Well, always looking beautiful isn’t one of them,” I said. “Anyway, isn’t that kind of selfish in itself? I mean, how is looking beautiful going to help the Enclave?”

  “It will be our benefit, our gift in exchange for our magic.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I shouted. “You’d trade teleportation for long eyelashes?”

  “But it’s our tradition—”

  Just then Sophie appeared in the doorway leading to the interior of the house. Her arms were folded over her chest, and her face had a distinct air of displeasure about it. “It’s time for dinner, Fabienne,” she said flatly. She jutted her chin in my direction. “That is, unless you would prefer for our kitchen girl to cook for you.”

  “Oh, Katy,” Fabienne began, ashamed at her mother’s bad manners. “I’m so sorry—”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Go on in.”

  • • •

  Actually, not being included at dinner worked in my favor. There was a lot I could learn from this evening’s ceremony, but I had to prepare for it.

  My talk with Fabienne had only made things more confusing than they already were. For one thing, what had Fabby been talking about, exchanging magic for beauty? She already had more beauty than most people could even imagine. I figured I must not have understood what she was really saying—there was still a bit of a language barrier between us—but the ritual might help to clarify things.

  And Peter! What was he doing with these people? It was a sad testament to how far our relationship had deteriorated that he wouldn’t talk about it with me, but I couldn’t solve that problem right now.

  All I could do was snoop. Fortunately, that was something I was very good at.

  First, I went into the kitchen and told Mathilde, the cook, that I’d wash the dishes and clean up for her. She was almost pathetically grateful. Apparently, the Enclave’s short-term employee policy worked both ways: Sophie and her friends might not have wanted servants nosing around in their business, but neither did most of the city’s domestic help want anything to do with the spoiled, rude women in the Abbey of Lost Souls. Consequently, those few employees who could bear to stay at the house longer than a day or two were hideously overworked.

  After Mathilde left, I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching (although I suspected that the women who lived with me would rather get root canals than visit the kitchen). Then I waved a wooden spoon to serve as a wand, and whispered the word “clean.”

  Instantly, a row of dirty dishes flew over the garbage bin to deposit their leftovers before submerging themselves into a sink full of soapy water. Pots arranged themselves into neat rows. Glasses hung suspended in the air like chandeliers, waiting for a turn in the suds.

  I smiled smugly. Magic made everything better.

  While the dishes were washing themselves, I sneaked down the back stairs into the basement.

  Did I say basement? It was more like an underground city. At the base of the stairs was a large open area from which a number of passageways sprouted like roads around a central roundabout. Or legs on a spider, I thought.

  The passageways all seemed to lead to rooms filled floor to ceiling with ancient artifacts—furniture under threadbare sheets gray with dust, gilded mirrors, books gone so moldy they were little more than wisps of smoke, rusted musical instruments, dozens of locked chests. . . . I wondered if there were other passages leading out of these in
to still more rooms, but I hadn’t come to explore. If the Enclave was to conduct a ritual, it would have to be in a fairly large space without a lot of junk in the way.

  I walked around until I found exactly that: a chamber chiseled out of rock, illuminated so brightly that I could see motes of dust in the air. Looking up, I saw a skylight going all the way to the roof.

  A skylight, here? I wondered. And then I understood: It wasn’t a skylight; it was a moon light. In the early evening sky above, I could make out the outline of a full moon, even though it was still light outside. This was the place of ritual.

  Back upstairs, while the silverware was swooping into a basket ready to take to the dining room, I prodded the corners of the kitchen with a broom handle, looking for a hole.

  It didn’t take long. There were a number of cracks and mouse holes all along the baseboards of the old place. None of the ladies of the Enclave cared about the kitchen, and the staff were never around long enough to attempt any repairs. I found a broken place in the floor that opened into a far corner of the basement room. With a meat mallet, I forced it open wide enough for me to look through. Once the lights were extinguished, I was pretty certain I could watch the ritual from here without being seen. As a precautionary measure, I covered the hole with an old wooden bucket. Then I made myself a sandwich.

  CHAPTER

  •

  TWENTY-SIX

  After the kitchen was cleaned up, I took my sandwich and Azrael’s manuscript to wait in the library for the full-moon ritual to begin at midnight.

  The library was my favorite room in the house, with its walls of polished wood and elegant, well-worn furniture, although it wasn’t used much by the people who lived there. Unlike most of the house, which had been somewhat modernized during the 1920s, the library and the wing it was in were still not electrified and nowhere near any of the bathrooms. But I loved it for the same reasons the others avoided it. I loved its inconvenience, its ancient beauty, and its sense of nobility. It retained the characteristics of the great houses, the grand hôtels of Paris, almost none of which were used as private homes any longer. Because of the huge expense of keeping them warmed and lit and in decent condition, the vast majority of these palaces had been turned into museums or government offices long ago.