“Surely. . . .”
“No,” she said, bowing her head forlornly, “I’ve come to admit defeat, Amer.”
For a moment he panicked, thinking she meant it. But then he remembered the fleeting, gloating smile as he poured the wine, and said, “Well, I’m glad to see that you’ve finally become wise, Samona. It’s not good for you to keep wearing yourself out getting nowhere.”
“So I’ve learned,” she said with a touch of bitterness. “No, I’ve come for a truce. And to prove that I mean you well, I’ve brought news of danger.”
“Danger? From whom?”
“From Death.”
Amer smiled. “There’s always danger of that, Samona.”
“You don’t understand.’ Samona turned away impatiently.
“I’m willing to learn.”
“Yes, and eager, too, I know,” she said, bitter again. But she smoothed her face with a smile. “Then learn, scholar, that in this eldritch world we inhabit, Death is not a force, but a being.”
“Fantastic. . .”
“But real enough, for us.” Samona turned to face him again. “Death doesn’t come in the usual way when he comes for a witch. He comes in person, and you may never know he’s there until you feel the cold, damp bones of his hand clutching your shoulder.”
“Come now,” Amer said. “Surely, with all your powers, you could invent some sort of protection for yourselves.”
“True,” she said, “but if we ever relax for so much as a second, he is upon us. If we forget ourselves in our delight with our own cleverness, if we lose our heads in glee as we watch a victim shudder, we will almost certainly feel the chill on our shoulders and feel it creep to our hearts, and will hear a cry of triumph as we sink to the depths of Hell.” She stood gazing at the fire, pale and trembling, as though she could see the hollow eyes of Death staring at her.
“But if Death is always lying in wait, as you say,” said Amer, softly, “how is it that you have never thought it necessary to speak of him until now?”
“Because he struck among us last night,” Samona said in a hushed, almost strangled voice. “This morning Goody Coister was found sitting in the old rocking chair in front of her fireplace. She was stone dead.” Samona’s eyes reflected the fire burning quietly on the hearth. “I saw her myself,” she whispered. “You could still see the marks of his fingers on her shoulder.”
“Goody Coister?” Amer whispered in shock and disbelief.
Samona smiled with malicious satisfaction. “Yes, Goody Coister, that virtuous old hag. That venerable symbol of New England purity. Shall 1 tell you how many bastards she and old Moggard have spawned?”
“Moggard?”
“Yes, Moggard. Warlock-General of New England and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers. He begat quite a few on the old biddy—not that any of them lived to know of it, of course.” For a moment, Samona seemed sad and forlorn.
“But Goody Cloister taught me my catechism!”
“Of course. The worst ones always look to be the most respectable. Shall I tell you about Sexton Karrier?”
Amer shuddered. “Please don’t.”
Samona’s eyes gleamed, and her smile deepened with satisfaction. She turned away, and when she turned back to face Amer again she looked quietly humble once more.
“Ah, well,” she said, “I just wanted to warn you. Come, Amer, fill my glass again, and let’s drink to friendship.”
Amer shook off the mood of apprehension and forced a smile. He nodded and took the decanter from the mantelpiece and poured them each a glass. “As red as your lips, my dear, and as sparkling as your eyes.”
“Gallant,” she noted, and lifted her glass. “To our truce.”
“Pax nobiscum,” Amer said, and drank.
Samona nearly choked on her wine. “Please!” she said between splutters, “must you use Church language?”
“I’m sorry,” Amer said. “Really I am.” He patted her back gently.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, and turned on him like a cornered vixen. For a moment, Amer could have sworn that he saw the Devil looking out at him from her midnight eyes.
But she regained her composure immediately. “I’m sorry, Amer. But you know I could never bear to be touched. And it’s become worse since I. . .joined the coven.”
“Yes, quite so.” Amer had a brief, nightmarish vision of what her initiation must have been like, and how much of herself she had lost. He shuddered. “I’d forgotten. My apologies.”
“Accepted,” she said, looking up at him, and, “Oh, Hell!” in a slightly reverent tone. “I’ve spilt my wine all over you.”
‘‘That’s all right,” Amer said, recovering himself with equal rapidity. “I’ve plenty more. Would you care for another glass?”
“Yes, please,” she said. She put her hand to her forehead.
“Yes, I—I think I need it.”
“Why, you’re pale,” he said.
“No, I’m all right,” she said. “It’s nothing.”
“Sit down,” Amer said, pushing an armchair toward her.
She all but fell into it. He picked up a notebook and fanned her gently.
“Just a moment’s rest. . . .”
“There, there,” Amer soothed. “Too much excitement, that’s all. . . .”
“Yes. I—I’m fine now. Thank you.”
Amer put the notebook down, took Samona’s glass to the mantel, and filled it from the decanter. He knelt and gave it to her.
But as she took it, he noticed a ring on her hand, a ring with an exceptionally large stone—a huge emerald with a deep, almost liquid luster. In all the time he had known her Amer had never seen Samona wear such a ring. “What a beautiful gem!”
“I—I’m glad you like it, Amer.” Her eyes were wide with. surprise and—was it alarm?
“That—uh—friend I’ve heard you speak of. . .Lucretia . . .?”
“Yes, it was a present from her.”
He smiled sadly as he looked at it.
“Amer. . . .”
“Yes, of course.” He tore his gaze away and went over to a cabinet that stood next to the table on which Willow rested. “You’ll need something stronger than wine.”
As soon as he’d turned away, Samona sat up, pressed the stone out of its setting with feverish haste, and emptied the drop of potion it contained into his glass of wine.
“Master,” Willow hissed, “she’s pouring something into your wineglass.”
“I thought she would,” Amer muttered. “Fortunate that I didn’t drink it all.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
“No, not especially, Willow. Let me see. . .I suppose I’ve given her enough time. . .”
Only just; Samona had scarcely replaced the stone and fallen back into the chair before Amer returned.
He took a glass from the mantel and filled it from the bottle of whiskey he’d taken out of the cabinet. “Here.” He pressed it into her hand, which trembled as she brought the glass to her lips. Amer took his wineglass from the table and raised it, wondering what kind of spell the potion was supposed to cast over him. ‘‘To your quick recovery,” he said, and downed it.
Samona watched him out of the comer of her eye and muttered a short incantation as he drank. Then she leaned back in the armchair and sipped her whiskey slowly, waiting for the potion to take effect. Beneath the dark waves of hair that covered them, her breasts rose and fell softly with her breathing, and Amer was shocked when he realized that he’d been wondering just what the low-cut gown would reveal if she wore her hair back over her shoulders.
Finally Samona set down her glass, took a deep breath, bit her lip, and said, “Amer, I—I don’t feel too well. Would you see how my pulse is?”
“Certainly,” Amer said, and he took her wrist, frankly puzzled as to what she was up to. He probed for the large vein, probed again, and frowned. “I can’t seem to find it.”