Poison Priestess, Lana Popovic [romance novel chinese novels .txt] 📗

have managed to acquire quite so many enemies as he has. The man has made a blood sport of challenging lesser noblemen to duels over minor offenses, and then dispatching them. Adam confirms that even the Vicomte de Couserans loathes the younger de Castelnau, and the vicomte is so otherwise blase that he rarely bothers with vitriol.

In other words, the vicomte’s brother is a victim well suited to our needs.

“But what if he were to be removed?” I ask, fixing the marquis with a somber gaze.

“… removed?” He blinks at me, brow knitting with confusion. “Madame, what do you mean to say?”

I spread my hands, as though the answer should be obvious to him. “That Lucifer himself is inclined to grant your wish, using the both of us as instruments. Much nobler and worthier men than your brother meet their end before their time, messire. Through mishap and accident.”

“Are you suggesting murder, Madame La Voisin?” His voice dips so low and circumspect, as if shocked by my suggestion, that I might even be alarmed if I could not feel his true response—the need festering beneath his skin like something long buried yet still living.

“I am not suggesting anything,” I clarify delicately. “You are the one who drank the devil’s wine and ate of his apple, messire. You are the one who set this into motion with your entreaty. I am only relaying what I saw, and what our master conveyed to me. Whether or not you choose to accept his dark blessing is entirely up to you.”

The marquis mulls this over, caution warring with that writhing hydra of need that lives within him. With a flush of pleasure, I see that Adam and I have chosen well. Not only is the marquis motivated and amenable, but he is exactly the sort of mark we wish to cultivate; a noble so highly placed he has occasional access to the king himself.

It takes him even less time than I had expected to come to terms with fratricide. The alluring prospect of a widowed Gisele, waiting for him on the other side of his decision, likely helps.

“And if I did?” he asks, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “What must I do?”

“First, an oath upon your soul to Lucifer himself: that you will never speak of this again to anyone, lest he reap your soul before your time, and you spend eternity roasting in perdition’s flames for your betrayal.” I can see from the flare of true fear in his eyes that the gravity of the oath has sunk home. “Then, a payment to me, for the preparation of the poison. And for the rituals I will undertake to ensure our master’s continuing favor, to see this endeavor safely through.”

When I name the sum, he nearly staggers bodily in his chair.

“But, madame, you … you cannot be serious,” he stammers, blinking at me. “That is … that is a quarter of my yearly allotment from His Majesty, that is—”

“That is what it costs,” I say, cutting him off. “Not only is the substance itself comprised of rare ingredients and difficult to make, but you must understand, messire, that each time I court our dread lord’s attention, I risk the very substance of my own soul. And he is a fickle master, as you must surely know. We must always be certain to appease him.”

“I suppose that stands to reason,” he murmurs. “And what will happen to my brother?”

“The poison you shall slip into his drinks at each royal banquet will drive him out of his wits over the course of a month, before finally killing him. It will appear as though he has been stricken with a sudden malady of the mind, one so potent that it eventually overwhelmed even his body.”

I am not planning on using Aqua Tofana this time, as it would be terribly unwise to cause two identical deaths within such a short span. And the marquis does not need his brother dispatched with any particular haste. No, secret du crapaud would do well instead—

Toad’s Secret, another of the occult poisons from the grimoire. Much less demanding to prepare, and in some ways even more heinous in its effect.

A fitting end to such a bloodthirsty bane as de Castelnau.

The marquis nods, undisturbed by the notion of inflicting such suffering on his brother—just as Adam and I had expected.

“He has more than earned it, has he not?” the marquis says under his breath, echoing my own thoughts, anticipatory triumph sparking in his pewter eyes. “Detestable as he has been all his life. No wonder even the devil can see as much. I do wish to proceed, madame. I wish to proceed now.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Bacchanals and the Ultimatum

The marquis’s brother dies in less than a month, before the leaves have even completed their turn. The secret du crapaud drove him so utterly out of his mind that he simply walked off his own balcony in the dead of night, desperate to escape the hallucinations that had flocked to plague him.

It could not have ended better for us, giving rise to not even a whiff of foul play.

In the meantime, Adam and I have reworked our joint Messe Noire into a decadently gruesome spectacle far beyond what either of us could have achieved alone. Adam supplies a phantasmagoria of illusions with his devilmaker, while I invent lavish new rituals and procure ever more exotic snakes. We host them in my home twice a month, at both the full moon and the dark of the moon, in a banquet hall I’ve lined with vivariums for my more venomous additions. Each Messe devolves into a lurid bacchanal more outlandish and debauched than the last—dancing with the devil, Adam calls it—while Adam and I hold ourselves regally above the fray.

Sitting side by side on black cast-iron thrones I’ve had custom built for us, both crowned with curling antler’s horns.

The reigning king and queen of our own finely orchestrated hell.

At each subsequent Messe, we