Cloud City

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jonathan stops. The story of his becoming provoked in him a far different response than the story of mine does in me. His voice is filled with wonder reflecting the depth of feeling he still has for the woman who turned him. I was taken by force by a rogue who intended to rape and kill me. The only thing I feel for that bastard is hatred.
Jonathan's story raises so many questions. Why did they part ways? What became of Leticia? Is she still alive? My head swims with possibilities. Vampire relationships seem short-lived at best despite the prospect of immortality making 'til death do you part' more than just a cliche. Or maybe it's because the prospect of spending eternity with one person too often becomes a cliche of another sort: familiarity breeding contempt.
Sophie shatters the fragile shell of silence with a snort. "So the story you had me write was a lie. Prendergast is right. Your fortune belongs to him, the human descendant."
I blink over at her. "How did you come to that conclusion?"
She glares at me. "Isn't it obvious? Jonathan isn't a blood relative. He's not even a bastard child. He's the product of an unholy alliance between a vampire whore and -"
She stops suddenly with a gasp, clasping her hands to her midsection and doubling over.
Jonathan's fury radiates outward, a rabid, raging storm that he is using to cause Sophie physical pain. I'm frozen in shock. I didn't know he was capable of such a thing.
Sophie has fallen back on the bed, drawn her body into a fetal position. She is moaning, a terrible keening sound that sets my teeth on edge. It rouses me to action. I start for her, sending a message to Jonathan, yelling at him to stop.
Suddenly, the tone and timbre of Sophie's cries change.
She sits up, eyes flashing, the guttural sounds from her throat morphing into a language I don't understand. Her words spew forth like a geyser, as if by the sheer force of their intensity they are unleashing an internal defense against Jonathan's attack. She is no longer in pain. She is wresting control from Jonathan.
She is casting a spell. I feel Jonathan's presence slip away as she continues the incantation. Her eyes are closed, her hands clasped in supplication. I don't recognize her. An aura of magic, dark and ominous, surrounds her. Her face is a mask of grim determination, all vestiges of softness and compassion gone. The Sophie who saved my friends and was willing to sacrifice her life to right a wrong committed by her sister is swallowed up by this other. Watching her, dread chills my bones. At this moment, she reminds me of Belinda, the black magic witch who stopped at nothing to get her way.
A shiver of repulsion makes me move away from the creature on the bed. Even vampire is reluctant to interfere. We can only watch and wait and hope reason returns to Sophie before it is too late.
I remember what Jonathan said. If he dies, Sophie does, too. Is she aware that her own fate is tied to his? And what if Jonathan is wrong? What if she can rid herself of him and continue on as before? Would she revert to her real age? Would she care? The frustration I felt in her makes me believe that life or death may make no difference to her. Her only goal is to be free.
Finally, the chanting stops. Sophie's body relaxes as she slumps back against the pillows. The sphere of sinister light that surrounded her is gone. Her eyes remain closed, but her face softens. A small smile touches the corners of her mouth.
"Sophie?"
Her eyes open, her expression is at once surprised to see that I'm still in the room and pleased that I am. "I did it," she says. "How long?"
At first I'm confused by the question, but then a flash of understanding. "Five minutes. Maybe less."
The smile widens. "I'm getting better. The first time it took almost twenty minutes and I was exhausted after." She stretches, languid as a cat. "I feel fine."
"Jonathan?"
"He's where he can't hurt me. I think he may be gone longer, too. The magic felt more potent. It was wonderful."
I don't know how to respond. "Is he aware?" I ask.
A shrug of indifference. "Don't know. Don't care."
"How did you learn to do that without Jonathan knowing?"
She smiles again, this time a smile of conspiratorial slyness. "When we were writing the book. He'd delve into his memories, lost in his own world, leaving me free to do some research of my own."
"Research?"
"I was a practicing witch, remember, as was my mother and grandmother before me. I have texts and journals from before the Salem witch trials, hidden by my family down through the ages."
"Were some of them Belinda's?"
A furtive glance as elusive as her ambiguous answer, "Maybe."
I push aside the dark foreboding creeping into my head like an icy fog and concentrate on the more immediate problem: Prendergast. Jonathan will have to wait it out in his isolation cell.
"What do we do about Prendergast?"
That elicits a real smile. "Easy," she says. "We tell him the truth. The real story now that we know it. And I turn all of Jonathan's holdings over to him."