Chapter 4
He came to slowly. Peered blearily about the room. Chris found himself seated in a sturdy wooden chair, thick heavy twine encircling his torso. His wrists were tied firmly to the chair's arms, and his ankles bound to the legs. Suddenly alert, enraged, he tried to kick, but the bonds were tight. He stopped.
How could he be so stupid? He'd assumed the tea was drugged, so drank instead from the bottle. His mind held vague images of being led to this kitchen, being told where to sit. He looked around in an attempt to gain his bearings. The room was small, lit only by one tiny window, and crowded with a table, cabinets, and a stove where teakettles simmered gently, light steam rising above them. Shelves along one wall held large glass jars. The jars were filled with something odd for a kitchen: gold and silver jewelry, watches, gem studded rings.
Valuables. Like JD's silver medallion.
If he could have raised his hands to his aching head, he would have. If nothing else, when he got out of here – and he would – it would be with that necklace, if he had to smash every one of those jars to find it.
Chris swore and gave his head a bitter shake. Even in his muddled state, he knew it was useless to fight the restraints. He was stuck in this chair until the woman chose to return. No doubt she would, but it could be some time. Time to remember... and finally he wanted to. Needed to.
There was no sound here, nothing to distract him. Chris made his shoulders relax, let his head drop and his eyes close. Concentrated on replacing the disorder in his mind with an invitation to release memories. By and by, fragments began to surface.
It was February. Four boys approached the house of an old hag. She was said to be a witch, and one of the boys wanted to buy a love spell. The others teased Freddie, said the woman could turn herself into an animal or a bird. They said she could work magic with anything she took from him. Freddie backed out, ran away, and the rest of them followed.
But, no, that was not what happened. "Freddie backed out. Not you."
Chris's eyes snapped open. Everything flooded back.
He went into her house. Let the witch read his palm. She was so old, but her eyes were sharp, intelligent. She predicted the war. She predicted his marriage, but said Sarah was wrong for him; she would die in a fire because a different love was meant for him. Tears ran down Chris's face as he sobbed, remembering this. And the rest of the prediction – the wasted years, how hopelessness, violence and a death wish would dominate his life after Sarah's death.
But there was more. The witch put images into his mind, images of a sensuous raven-haired woman, meant to evoke attraction and desire. Chris saw now, in his memory – the face in those images was–
"NO!"
"So you've come back to me."
Madame Belarae spoke from behind, then appeared before him. Lifting her veil to fold it back, she bared her face and spoke in a no longer disguised voice. "Chris."
Goddamn, how had he not known! Belarae – an anagram. Ella was still using his name. Silently, Chris berated himself – his poor judgment, the inability to control his temper. The anger itself. It had dogged him since he got to Denver, like a poison in the air. Now it rose again, past the stupor of the drug she'd given him, and a tremor raced through him. He wanted this woman dead. He managed to keep his features blank, but turned his head away.
Circling to his side, Ella stooped to peer at him. Her hair – darker than it had ever been – was black as crow feathers, falling like a curtain over half her face, and she slid closer to let it brush Chris's cheek. "Why would you turn away, after coming all this way to be with me?"
He nearly spat at her. "I'm not here for you."
"I suppose it was hard for you to find me." Ella pretended not to hear. "And I could hardly go back to Four Corners. Your friends are so protective." She made the sad gesture with her hand again, turning her palm up. "I had to draw you here – to me, but as I showed you, had very little left to work with. I need to replenish, to keep part of you close." She glanced toward an assortment of knives on the table.
Still weak from the drug, Chris flinched. The old fortune teller had sliced him before, all those years ago, and stolen his blood with nothing more than her fingernail.
Ella picked up a heavy carving knife. The blade was long, at least a foot. Lightly, she touched the sharp steel. "Hmm. It was your right hand before, but your hands are too important in your line of work now." Laying the knife down, she turned back toward Chris and extracted a pair of scissors from her pocket. She raised them, slowly, deliberately. She didn't cut him, though – at least, not his skin. Lovingly, she touched his hair, stroking it, fingers lingering. "I've always loved this so," she sighed. The scissors snipped, and Ella showed Chris what she had taken as she encased it in an enameled locket. "I'll wear it close to my heart."
"Cut it all," he rasped, "if that's what you want from me. What use is it to you?"
Her fingers lifted and carded his hair. The scissors snipped again, blond locks falling as she spoke. "Years from now, scientists will discover what others like I have always known – that the essence of every person, a unique code of their very being, is present in every single cell of their body. To have you, to keep you, I could have taken anything. Blood. Hair. Skin." Setting the scissors aside, Ella ran a finger over Chris's lips. "Saliva." Coyly, she slipped onto his lap. "I could have kept your seed countless times, but–" She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Somehow I never imagined we'd be apart. Strange, isn't it? How you could weaken me to where I didn't see the future." Ella stood up and removed a wooden trinket box from the table. She made a "tsk" sound. "Twice, I made the mistake. Shame on me. It won't happen again." She brushed hair from Chris's shoulders into the decoratively painted box.
To Chris, the talk about cells and code was nothing but babble. What in God's name did Ella want his hair for? He'd never believed in witchcraft or voodoo, but now he wondered – was she engaging in such practices? He clenched his teeth, told himself it was ridiculous. In his mind, he pictured the seamed and withered face of the old woman who had predicted his life too accurately all those years ago. Ella, in possession of the blood stained penny, claimed, impossibly, it had been her.
He glared at her. "I sat at your table and drank your poison. Now I want JD's necklace. You made a deal."
"Didn't you notice? It's right here." Provocatively, Ella ran a hand across her chest, where the low cut of her blouse revealed the necklace, its silver medallion resting between her breasts.
"How can you wear such a thing? It's a religious medal and you – the things you've done–"
Ella toyed with the medal. "You think this will burn my skin or strike me dead as if I'm a demon?" She laughed. "Oh really, Chris. I never took you for the superstitious kind."
Doggedly, he persisted. "Yet you expect me to believe it was you? The old hag in Indiana? You're telling me she could change into a young and beautiful woman – and it's you?" He snorted with derision. "It was crazy enough back then, when the superstitious yokels thought the woman could turn herself into a bird."
"Why not a bird that can turn into a woman?" Ella's smile was sly, maddening. "Maybe that's why Vin Tanner couldn't find me."
Furious, Chris rocked the chair and fought the restraints, but it was useless and the motion made him dizzy. He stilled. "The necklace, I want it," he gritted out.
"My, my. All right then." Ella removed the necklace and dangled it before him. "Do you know what it represents?"
"No."
With one long nailed finger she traced the embossed image on the pendant. "St. Michael, the Archangel. The protector. You see, he wields a sword. Here, at his feet, a winged dragon depicting the devil. Dead, presumably." Reaching around, Ella placed the necklace on Chris. "JD believes this will protect him, so he should have it back. I only wanted to borrow it for a while. I knew you were near, but not exactly where, and this would serve to have JD send you to me." She fastened the clasp and patted his shoulders. "There now."
Chris jerked from the touch of her hands, shrugged them away. "Why steal from JD? You could have just followed him."
"I did." Ella widened her eyes in feigned innocence. "I decided not to wait for you to come. I was too impatient. Only, you weren't at the hotel so I had go searching." She tsked again, pursed her lips, and shook her head slightly. "That place I found you? It's so far beneath you. Even young JD won't waste his seed on women of that sort, because he's saving it for his one love."
"He's a boy with high ideals. Only sees right or wrong, black or white."
"Then maybe you could learn from him. He knows where his true love lies, and you seem somehow confused."
"Confused!" Chris rocked the chair again and his bootheels beat against the floor. "Nothing could be farther from love than my – hate–!"
"You're wrong," she cut in. "Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Easily traded, one for the other." The penny had appeared in Ella's hand again, and she flipped it back and forth in demonstration. "No, Chris," she purred, reaching to caress his face. "The opposite of love is apathy. And apathy is far from what you feel for me." She picked up a small purse and dropped the coin in, along with the locket. "I have to leave for a while, and it may be dark when I get back. I'll leave you a light." Striking a match, she lit an oil lamp. "We'll have the night together."
The next moment, she was gone. Chris strained furiously against the bindings, cursed, and screamed out his rage.
