Married (28 page)

Georgie turned her gaze to her own hands, fingers twisting together in her lap. Heat rushed through her until she feared her cheeks would flush, dizziness poked at her skull. She studied her knuckles through narrowed eyes, willing back the sudden moisture that threatened to spill forth.

Silviu asked his question for her, so she wouldn’t be at a disadvantage. Georgie took a slow breath and willed the ringing in her ears to subside so she could hear what her aunt had to say.

“Effigies are a sympathetic magic.” The woman’s voice took on the tone a college professor would use in a lecture. “Harm the doll, harm the intended victim.”

“They can also be used to bring blessings,” Eliasz added hopefully. “Is there any chance—?”

“No,” Chris cut him off. “This isn’t a Blessings Doll. We saw a dark ball in the fireplace. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“A dark ball?” Ileana’s hair brushed Georgie’s shoulder as she shook her head. “Of magic?”

“It was definitely magic,” Adam agreed, “but I couldn’t tell you the first thing about it. I’ve never seen anything like it before. This was dark, nearly solid, but gone in an instant.”

“We’re looking for a strong witch,” Ileana said. “We know that whatever has a hold on you, Mother Davenold, is stronger than anything we’ve encountered before.”

Georgie felt like screaming. The conversation had derailed, leaving her no closer to understanding effigies than she had been before. She drew a deep breath, and damned herself for a fool for letting her betrothed see her weakness as she looked up to meet Silviu’s eyes, a plea filling her own.

“Wait.” He lifted a hand, commanding them all. “Let’s take this one step at a time. Effigies first. Margaret?”

“Sympathetic magic,” she said immediately. “The wax is heated until soft but not melted, in the crucible of the witch’s own magic.”

“What does that mean?” Surprised to hear her own voice, Georgie bit her lip and vowed to remain silent through the rest of the explanations.

“They use their magic to heat the wax, dear.” Margaret spoke as if to an idiot. “No flame of any kind. Just their talent, until the wax is soft enough to mold, which you would also do by hand, before the face is sculpted or drawn. Sculpting the face makes the spell stronger. The witch forms the doll around the germ, which holds the caster’s imprint.”

“Why is it called a germ?” Adam asked. Georgie could have kissed him.

“Like seeds, the magic germinates. Something that grows and spreads.”

Georgie couldn’t resist. “What you call it doesn’t matter, what it’s made of does.”

“Very true.” Margaret nodded. “A witch can make the germ from anything, only limited by their own strength. Inside that doll could be a clump of hair, a rag soaked in blood, a pile of fingernails, a treasured item from childhood. The list is nearly endless, but some things require greater skill than others.”

Adam’s eyes sparked with understanding. “Blood holds the most magic, so the skill of the user doesn’t have to be as strong. But a keepsake holds little magic, it’s the witch who treasures it that gives it power, so a talent would have to be off the charts to make it work.”

Again, Margaret nodded. “The only time I’ve seen such a thing used was when an old friend of mine stuffed an effigy with her wedding ring. However, it was her husband she was cursing, so I’m not sure that’s a good example.”

“So blood is the most common germ,” Silviu stated.

“No,” Margaret repudiated, “hair or fingernails. Blood is precious and strong, but if the doll is destroyed improperly, the curse can rebound on the curser. Ideally, witches with this talent prefer to use something that is a part of their physical being but sheds itself naturally.”

Disregarding her vow of silence again, Georgeanne asked, “Can we destroy the effigy improperly then, and let the curse go back to its owner? Wouldn’t that lead us straight to the person who did this?”

Margaret shook her head sadly. “Only the creator of the effigy can destroy the thing safely enough to guarantee the intended victim won’t suffer. If we tried, Madeleine may be harmed, as we have no idea which spell was used to anchor the two magics together. There are several choices.”

Georgie looked at Silviu but he shook his head—he couldn’t read the spell that had been used. She sighed. “So there’s nothing we can do?”

Margaret’s eyes darkened. “Whoever made this used a good grain. That’s the piece of the intended victim that opens the pathway. In this case, it’s Madeleine’s hair. The magic had plenty to grab onto, and the face is done with such exquisite detail that the power couldn’t be confused between the two of you.”

Georgie reared back. “The two of
us
?”

“You look exactly as she did when she was in her twenties, dear.” Margaret leaned back in her chair. “The witch did a very good job with this.”

“But it’s got her hair.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “This isn’t science, dear, it’s magic. Magic doesn’t care about DNA, only the power of bloodlines. You’re her granddaughter, that’s close enough.”

Silviu paced closer to the old woman, his eyes darting over her face but his body loose and relaxed. “It wasn’t you, was it, Margaret?”

Memories of her reception in England danced through Georgie’s head. Madeleine was old and Margaret was a touch bitter at not being Mother. She spoiled her crazy granddaughter past the point of rotten and she was furious at Georgie for being the front-running heir. Still, Georgie hadn’t expected Silviu to ask outright.

And she knew it wasn’t Margaret’s doing. “No, Silver. I can feel magic, and I know what her magic feels like.”

The shock in Margaret’s eyes was chased out by anger, her features forming a chilly mask. “She is my sister.”

Silviu cocked a brow. “Who is close to naming an heir that isn’t your granddaughter. I’m covering all bases.”

Margaret’s lips pinched. “If I wanted to curse her, I would have done so years ago.”

“Or perhaps you would have waited until you were both in hostile territory with so many patriarchal witches around to blame.”

“It wasn’t her,” Madeleine croaked. “She wouldn’t do this and she doesn’t use dark magic.”

“Are you certain it is dark magic?” Eliasz narrowed his eyes, first at Madeleine, then Ileana.

Who nodded and said, “Adam, you don’t typically see magic?”

“No.”

“But you saw a dark ball, which means that it’s dark magic. Someone who could see magic all the time could tell you that it comes in a variety of colors. The darker the color, the more dark magic plays a part in their talent.”

“Ileana,” Eliasz warned.

All eyes had zeroed in on the Lovasz woman. Ileana didn’t even blink. “I have this talent, and I can tell you, I’ve encountered magic in this hotel that is dark, filled with jewel-toned light, primarily red, purple and blue. Like Georgie said, it’s not Margaret.”

“And,” Chris added, “don’t forget about black magic spells.”

“You’re under attack.” Adam turned toward Madeleine, his face taking on the sharp lines of a warrior plotting defense.

“Yes, child, I know.” Madeleine glanced at her sister. “But an effigy can do nothing lasting to a witch who is stronger than it is. It could do harm, but it cannot kill a stronger witch. I am the Davenold Mother, with all the power of the bloodline. I am stronger.”

“No, ma’am,” Ileana dared to argue. “You don’t understand. There is a witch I know who is stronger than anyone else I’ve ever met. And the owner of the dark talent here is stronger than that. Terribly, dangerously strong.”

Madeleine looked up at Silviu for a long moment and Georgie knew the old woman had understood who Ileana meant. There was a silent communication between the two witches that excluded everyone else in the room. Georgie suddenly found herself on her feet, ranging like a caged animal as she forced her mind to work over the problem, wishing she had more information.

She ticked the points off on her fingers and hoped the others would add to her knowledge when she fell short. “We currently have an effigy that can’t be destroyed safely. It’s dark magic and strong. It’s not Margaret, but it could be Graves, right?”

“He’s not stronger than me,” Madeleine declared.

“He
is
powerful.” Adam winced. “He has a lot of personal magic, the magic of his branch and Tulah—” He cut his words off with the snapping of his teeth.

Georgie turned on him. “Tulah
what
?”

His lips thinned, but Adam didn’t deny his cousin what she wanted to know. “She told me Graves killed her father. At dinner she said he sucked his power out of him.”

Georgie looked at Silviu. It was close to what he’d done to his own grandfather, a herculean feat considering the old man had led the Lovasz Family and was more powerful than most. But Silviu was born under the Reaping Moon, Georgie was Bane and they were Matches. They’d worked together to take Alexandru Lovasz down.

“Go get Tulah,” Georgie commanded.

Adam hopped off the arm of Margaret’s chair without hesitation. Georgie paced back toward her grandmother. “Could this be the source of what you’re feeling?”

Madeleine shook her head weakly. “I’ve felt this way since our first night here. Someone would’ve had to have created an effigy every day, maybe two a day, to get past the Davenold magic.”

Georgie held out her hand. “May I see the doll again?”

Madeleine handed it over and Georgie stared at the flat features that mimicked her grandmother’s so accurately. She took a deep breath, cradling the doll carefully so as not to harm it further.

Slowly, a vague, dark halo made itself known around the effigy. Georgie wondered if the corona would have been stronger earlier, before Adam rescued it from the fire and brought it upstairs. The light moved around the figurine sluggishly, coasting over Georgie’s palm with a slight dip in temperature.

Silviu came up behind her, laying a hand on her back as he looked over her shoulder. Heat blazed over her spine, a flare of gold pierced her vision. When it settled, the doll was crawling with red lines of magic, interspersed with black threads.

“Oh, my God,” Silviu muttered.

“Do you see that?” She flicked a glance at his face, saw him nod.

“Hold it still.”

Georgie felt his magic rise. Every time they touched, a new connection was forged. Silviu’s magic was beginning to feel like it was hers, alien and disconnected, but real. It was amazing, like having her own powers. She immediately focused on his talent, something that was getting easier every day, as it welled up within him in a controlled, heated rush.

A gold rope stretched from Silviu’s finger. He stroked it over a red thread until it frayed under the pressure. Hope filled Georgie’s chest, motivating her to echo her betrothed’s manipulations. She remembered him telling her how to let her magic loose while he was only an astral projection in her bed.

She closed her eyes, searching for the silver stream buried deep beneath a thick wall of Bane imperviousness. She used the golden flow between her and Silviu as her anchor and her guide, following the pulsing light until she found a well of magic at her core. Not hers, but good enough and she tugged it, tied it to the gold and felt it slip through the impervious blockage like water through a sieve.

Silviu touched a black cord. A shrill twang stung Georgie’s ears and something snapped, sending the black thread whipping into a red, setting off a chain reaction.

Madeleine gasped, her face paled to a deathly color. Her mouth worked, lips bloodless and dry, her chest shuddering as she tried to draw breath. Christiana bounded across the room, Ileana on her heels. They hunkered down on either side of the old woman, both peering into her face with identical expressions of fear.

“I can’t do it,” Silviu muttered. “Madeleine, I’m sorry, I can’t… Are you all right?”

“Yes. It was just a twinge.”

Silviu stepped away and the magic around the doll flickered. Georgie called him back to her with a desperate demand.

“I can’t unwrap it, love,” he said.

Instinct and fear gripped Georgie. She couldn’t bear to let the doll alone, not with it capable of such damage to her grandmother. Her stomach boiled with acid, her throat was nearly closed and her muscles had taken on a fine tremor she couldn’t still. Yet her instincts told her to keep trying.

“Just let me see this, Silver. Please.”

He pulled her back against his chest. Georgie felt his heat, safety and presence sink into her and call the magic to her command. She found the flow of silver within her, anchored it to the gold they created between them. She trusted Silviu to lead her and teach her what she needed to know to save her grandmother.

Georgeanne lifted a finger to trace the doll, but there were no gold cords to flick against the red and black mesh of magic. There was no beam of silver light to represent either her personal talent or Silviu’s. There was nothing, an absence of talent, a lack of magic. Georgie faced a sad truth.

She still stroked a fingertip over a red cord, the chill of it scraping against her skin. It grew cold enough to burn, but she ignored the sensation as she continued to follow the thread until it twisted into the black. The cords snapped where they met, their magic instantly snuffed out.

“Holy shit,” Silviu breathed. “Madeleine, did you feel that?”

“No. What happened?”

“Bane magic,” he said. “Georgie, do it again.”

She did, exactly the same way for fear of trying something new to devastating effect. She ran her finger over a red thread until she came to an intersection with black. The cords unraveled. Madeleine made no noise. Georgie did it a third time.

She looked at her grandmother. “Can you feel this at all?”

“I have no idea what you’re doing, child. I don’t feel any pain.”

“Do you feel better?”

Madeleine paused to think about it. “I feel…less anxious, but I don’t know if my distress is due to the effigy or simply the tension of being in this madhouse.”

Margaret got to her feet, slipping around Georgie to see what she was doing. “Explain it, dear.”

“Let me know if anything hurts, Grandmother.” Georgie turned back to the doll and ran her finger over another thread. “I can see black and red lines all over this thing, but only when Silviu is touching me.”