Underbelly (24 page)

“
That’s better saved for young men, John,” Lorna said laughing softly.

“
Ye’re no piteen this auld dray horse into retiral yet witch o mine. If I don’t stay usefull I’ll end up in yer pot whaur I ought to be efter that name afore. Have I saved the wick wi that?” he said, joking genially but still remorseful about saying Inge’s name.

“
You’re a difficult old cur and you would ruin my spells if you were the ingredients just to be a nuisance,” she joked before adding seriously, “If you can’t get the work finished don’t worry about it, I’ll help.”

“
Nay need lass, nay need,” he said holding her cheek lovingly in the flat of his hand as he smiled approvingly at her sentiment. “Ye git some fuid ready for oor day out and I’ll take care of the wirk. I won’t be around foriver so let me take care of ye while I am.”

“
Shut up,” she said emotionally, her eyes a little moist. “You can talk about Inge being your lover but don’t talk about that. You might not be young but you’re breathing – or more accurately wheezing and you will be for a long time yet.” His death was the one taboo subject she would not discuss seriously even though he was keen to, wanting to ensure that she would fare well, encouraging her that she would be fine and prosper without him hindering her. He was relaxed and jocular on the subject trying to make her join in but on this morbid topic she would not slight him. He would be gone and probably in a decade or if she was exceedingly lucky two but working as he did she felt it would be sooner than necessary. She had tried to persuade him to quit working but he was intransigent on this and she realised his work was a part of him and ceased trying, preferring him to be happy. He was not her first lover, but he was the man she had loved most, the others incomparable to this humble peasant who would leave a void in her life.

“
Aye, I will, Lor,” he promised, kissing her hair and drifting off to sleep.

Even within her treasured relationship there were things she had done that disturbed her.

“
It’s ne’er time for mae torturs?” McKinley said as he entered the bedroom and saw his topless wife scrubbing her arms clean with boiling water in her cauldron, making her hands as sterile as possible. He knew what this meant and felt he had been lured into the bedroom under false pretences. Once a month was bearable, though lately it had become a weekly event.

“
I’m afraid so, McKinley. Lay on the bed please.”

McKinley shook his head repeatedly, smiling at her. “Ye ne’er telt me this when we were wad!” he said as he did as he was told. “Gae on then lassie, git it ower wi.”

Laura knelt astride him and thrust both hands, slowly and carefully, into his bare chest. “This is the only time I dinnae like ye atop me,” he said through gritted teeth, the experience very painful and almost past his threshold.

“
It’s easier if you don’t speak,” she said seriously. “It’s your own fault anyway. You shouldn’t have such soggy lungs,” she said cuttingly.

McKinley closed his eyes and turned his head to the side as he felt the heat emanating within him, unable to repress a few grunts of pain. He made no conscious attempt to escape, but his legs jerked in response to the pain, which she noticed.

“
Don’t worry, it won’t be long now,” she lied, finding more moisture than she anticipated. After three more excruciating minutes she retrieved her ethereal hands from his person and kissed his neck. “All done. Isn’t it worth just a little bit of pain to have a healthy, functional set of lungs?”

“
I can live wi the phlegme and the coughing ower that, Lor,” he said, sitting up. “Still, I dinnae want to deny ye yer pleisur of seeing me squirm so I let ye have yer fun wi me.”

“
Wise man. Trying to stop me getting my way is like spitting in the wind,” she said imperiously, just a show as she hated cleaning out his lungs. All of those years causing immolations and pain, yet hurting him for noble reasons proved harder as she hated to see him suffer. He was not a healthy man and he needed her help more than he realised.

Laura was glad that McKinley did not live to witness her current persecution, which would be enough to drive her easygoing husband apoplectic. Scotland had been the home of some brutal witch purges in the years prior to her romance and the attitudes of the time were as intolerant as they had ever been, as merciless as the Middle Ages, and in this climate John McKinley loved her warts and all, risking everything to be with her. She had waited until their love was strong before she made her confession, and his impeccable reaction (he didn’t even flinch, believing her but telling her she’d have to do a lot better than that to put him off) warmed her heart whenever she thought about it. Georges Steil and James Grey had accepted what she was well too, but they both had powers which made it different, while McKinley was an earthly man without any knowledge of their realm, his acceptance meaning more (Georges and Grey were in no position to judge and far less likely to be intimidated).

She returned to the University Library to see Farid, who arrived before her, clutching his report for her, which looked well over a hundred pages. Ilsegarde had fulfilled a similar role for her, a brilliant scholar in a time when researching was very difficult, some of her writings and discoveries proving invaluable. Hopefully Farid’s findings would be equally useful.

“
Is that for me?” she enquired playfully.

“
Of course,” he said, passing it to her and she quickly perused it – it was well written, with sources that she could check and would make for good bedtime reading. She went with Farid to a small room in a community centre, Farid arranging it so that they would have some privacy. She realised that he expected candid answers and she was going to disappoint him. Before she did this she gleaned more information from him, asking him what the church had told him about her, pretending she had no idea why she was being hounded so.

“
The reason you’re being hounded, as you put it, is because the church has only just become aware of you again. You are mentioned in ancient texts but the last mention is in the Middle Ages and then you vanished and were presumed dead. There have been others like you but they’ve mostly been easier to trace and keep an eye on and they don’t want you vanishing again for fear that they’ll never be able to track you again.”

“
And what exactly does it say about me?”

“
They know that you have killed through use of the black arts on request many times over. That’s their main concern – they have other information, but it’s sketchy.”

“
What a fanciful idea!” she said, making out she thought the suggestion ridiculous. She had known all along that they were after her for the deaths she caused, and she felt they would have been justified to pursue her six centuries ago, but not now. She had realised herself that what she was doing, while profitable, was wrong and she had stopped regularly performing this service in the 16
^th
Century (though occasionally through the centuries she did it in exceptional circumstances, not always for money, as in the case of Klaus Von Strauss).

“
Miss Spencer, this is recorded many times over,” Farid said, a little annoyed at her denial. She had learned from their last meeting and, having learned all that she wanted from him, she fielded every question he threw at her with ‘No comment’.

Farid grew exasperated and terminated the interview after fifteen minutes, tempted to ask for his manuscript back (the only thing that stopped him was he knew she’d refuse). “I feel that you’ve tricked me,” he said angrily.

“
Why would you expect any different from someone known as the Ninth Heretic? I actually quite liked you, Farid, until you changed the rules. The second I changed from your study partner and became your case study I felt no obligation to stick to my word,” she said as she stood up and walked away from him. Unlike the previous week he made no attempt to follow her.

While Farid now thought poorly of her, Laura thought highly of him, his dissertation magnificent and giving her a few ideas. Even if it didn’t lead to more power it was still destined to sit alongside Ilsegarde’s shorter texts. Now that she had more information (though not the information she had come to Massachusetts for, Salem proving to be a washout, likely just a massacre of innocents, Laura sensing no power in the environment) she left Boston, hopefully leaving her watchers behind. If anyone was following her she made a conscious effort to lose them before boarding her train. The train was quiet and she found an empty compartment and began reading, her endless quest for power affording her little rest. Even before she knew that the church was after her she had become motivated to increase her abilities, her near defeat by Inge a severe blow to her ego. Besides her marriage, her power was all that she had to be proud of, a power not as absolute as she liked. To be content and secure she had to regain her position as the most powerful creature on the planet, a title she believed that she inherited after the Roman abomination, Octavius, perished, albeit only for a little while (and after her battle with Inge she wondered if she was ever in pole position).

Octavius and Inge were both dead now, the prestigious position of most powerful being belonging to Jemima Harding, a poisonous, snobbish woman, the matriarchal guardian of her ‘blue-blooded’ dynasty which she protected zealously. Laura knew quite a lot of her past, wanting to know as much as possible about the new ‘queen’ who had supplanted her. She was born in 1805 to gentry in the south of England and married Lord Charles Harding, a man ten years her senior, in 1824. She gave birth to three children in the next few years, two boys and a girl, the youngest boy dying in infancy. She and her husband were intrepid explorers, adventuring across the colonial (and, to a lesser degree, the non-colonial world) and in 1829 in China her husband bought a gift for her from a local magician, the gift of eternal life, a frivolous gift that neither took seriously. When she hadn’t aged a day in 15 years (and had proven unable to have any more children) they went back to find the magician to grant Charles eternal life too. Unable to find him they paid a charlatan to do it, unsuccessfully, but they kept trying with other self professed magic men and women. They kept going on yearly trips abroad, trying to discover more of the occult, Jemima becoming a practitioner shortly before Charles’ death, amassing a library to rival Laura’s, and she discovered that she possessed an inherent gift for sorcery. She remained on the family estate, living as a virtual recluse every forty years and then enjoying ten years of socialising before withdrawing again. Her family knew the truth about her and accepted her, Jemima a benevolent figure, heavily involved in bringing up the children with each generation adoring her.

Laura had only met her once, Jemima tracking her down at Ravensbeck where she was staying with Georges, at that time her lover...

Laura sensed the intense power as it approached. Georges was in the garden sunbathing and she had shouted out to him to come in to no response. Nobody else could come to Scotland and get sunburnt bar Georges, who loved to have a midday snooze outdoors. Georges woke up as he heard the horse galloping and he looked up at their bedroom window to see Laura gesturing for him to get rid of the visitor. She moved slightly away from the window, out of view but still able to hear everything.

“
Fine steed you have there,” Georges said genially.

“
A champion,” came back the aristocratic response. It was a woman. Laura hadn’t even been able to detect her gender, just aware of the power. “Is your mistress receiving visitors?”

Laura took offence for Georges; he was not staff and jokes to that effect were only acceptable from her, not from anyone else.

“
Not right now. I can get your horse a drink and something for you to see you on your way.”

“
I have come a long way. I would appreciate if you asked her,” she said forcefully.

Georges gave Laura a moment to respond and when she said nothing he presumed she still wanted to be left in peace. “I can pass on a message.”

“
Do you understand what I’m asking or do we need a translator?” she asked, mocking his accent.

“
I think you’re not understanding me,” Georges replied, adding jovially, “That happens a lot around here!”

“
That does not surprise me in the slightest,” she said disdainfully. Laura had heard enough and she quickly dressed and came outside to be greeted by a smiling figure.