Poison Priestess by Lana Popovic (classic books for 7th graders txt) 📕

and my methods, I fume as I sit brooding by my fire between clients, when I managed to elevate myself from a modest tradesman’s wife to a royally sponsored sorceress? And worse yet, why am I dwelling on his words at all, allowing them to slide under my skin like questing needles? Can I truly control myself no better than this?

But once I regain some measure of calm, I begin to grudgingly consider that he might be right. Perhaps I have become too reliant on parlor tricks, instead of pushing myself to become ever cleverer and better, as he clearly has with his act. I do have a talent for nurturing evil just as he suggested, perhaps because I take such care to live by Agnesot’s parting words, to guard the pulsing little venom sac in my own heart.

And though I fare well for the moment, how long can I keep the fickle noblesse interested in me before their fancy inevitably fades? They are no more than gadabouts, after all, forever chasing fads like cats hunting their own tails. At any rate, if I am to continue besting infuriating magicians who play at being the devil, then I must at least begin to think ahead.

I turn to the grimoire for inspiration.

Something tickles at me from years ago, the words Agnesot used for whatever spell she intended to cast for my freedom. I cannot quite remember what she said, but I do remember the mention of noir, as if whatever enchantment she intended to use was of the darkest nature. And I know there is a section toward the end of the grimoire titled “The Darkest Rites,” which I have always steered well clear of, having no intention of meddling with something styled so foreboding.

When I flip to it that night in my study, by the wavering light of my candle, even the inscription sends an icy rill down my spine.

If you seek that which is buried beneath the soil that lies at the very bottom of your heart, then gather what courage you may and turn the page.

Biting my lip, I flip through the pages, a chill blooming in my belly like some wintry flower, part fear and part ineffable thrill. There are spells here to summon Lucifer himself, along with a host of other, seemingly more minor demons. And there are even spells to call upon the host of angels, though the grimoire makes clear that this is an even dicier proposition—such sacred and lofty beings apparently take far greater exception than a demon at being summoned on mortal whim.

Reading further, I discover that each of the enchantments seems to be built upon a common foundation, a base ritual the grimoire calls La Messe Noire.

The Black Mass.

I pause in my perusal, threading my fingers around my goblet of wine and taking a long, contemplative sip, unease arcing through me. While I am not sure I truly believe the devil can even be summoned—what sort of divineress could command such a force as Satan himself, and through what kind of massive magic?—Agnesot did vanish from the fabrique somehow. And a few years later, Antoine appeared to free me as if by magic. If indeed it works, it is not the sort of enchantment I have any desire to trifle with. Especially if it means gambling with my soul, just as Marie once feared for me.

But while I have no intention of taking such a risk as holding a mass in earnest, the spells do give me a delicious idea.

A smile spreading over my lips, I consider what Adam said to me at the ball—speaking of us both as pied pipers of a sort, playing an infernal song, dancing the already depraved noblesse ever closer to hell. Why not indulge their taste for danger by taking a step further, offering access to the devil himself?

And if my ritual happens to be an outright fake, well, they will certainly never know the difference.

I wait until the night of the next full moon to host my first “Messe Noire.”

By the time my handful of invitees files in, hooded and dressed in black at my request, my library has been meticulously transformed into a sorceress’s opulent lair. I’ve lit bushels of candles everywhere and rolled the carpet back to paint the parquet floor with runes—most of my own invention, and a few legitimate, drawn from the more sinister-looking but innocuous sigils listed in the grimoire. Largest is the menacing pentagram in the middle of the room, a candle set at each of its points, an altar at its heart. The skylight directly overhead illuminates the altar with the full moon’s silvery pour. The room roils with curls of incense smoke, enough to steep into every page of the books that line the walls above like brooding sentinels.

I’ve also scattered rose petals and raven feathers all about, my own little private joke. A sly thumbing of my nose at Adam himself, who stands among my gathered guests. I had to invite him, of course, to witness my new handiwork. To show him I can draw whatever inspiration I like from him, and grow it into something far darker and more tantalizing than his own act.

The rest of the guests I carefully selected from the marquise’s inner circle, inviting only those I know to be debauched and wanton beyond any redemption. While most of the noblesse at least play at piety, these few are among the very worst the court has to offer. A handful of the most jaded and profligate, those who would readily sell their own mothers in pursuit of the next gilded excitement.

When I offered them the chance to whisper their desires in the devil’s waiting ear, they could not have agreed any faster.

“Welcome, my guests,” I intone, dipping my head so that my hood casts a shadow over my growing smile. The candle I hold in both hands throws a wicked light up toward my mouth like a dragon’s kiss.