The Barefoot Pianist: The Singing Witch, #2

By Yvon Delville

Trinity is a gifted teenager about to start college on a piano scholarship at the University of Texas. Besides music, she has other talents. They slowly appear as she becomes an adult. It started with dreams predicting the future, but now she sees auras. When she touches someone, she can read their minds, retrieving their memories. Soon, she will be able to control them. She is becoming a witch like her grandmother.
Unfortunately, her powers come with a great cost: the loss of her freedom. She must join the CIA and assist in its mission to protect America from threats. Traitors in league with Russian authorities invading Ukraine roam across the West, endangering world peace. Her first big test comes when the CIA learns terrorists plan to target Queen Elizabeth's funeral. To prevent the breakout of WWIII, Trinity must root out the traitors who have infiltrated US and IK intelligence and help stabilize the West. But in doing so, she becomes a target for Russian agents operating in America and controlling political extremists.
All of this happens while Trinity is trying to enjoy student life in Austin. When she's not dodging snipers, she discovers Texas and learns to appreciate its diverse population and landscape. Along the way, she encounters Nick, an engineering student and a wide receiver on the football team, further complicating her life.
It's hard work saving the world, but somebody has to do it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvon Delville
• Release date: Mar 1, 2025
• ISBN: 9798227009234

Yvon Delville

Born and raised in Belgium, Yvon Delville moved to Massachusetts where he earned a Ph.D. in Neuroscience. He now resides in Texas where he teaches classes in Neuroscience and Neuroendocrinology, mentors graduate students, and directs studies on the interactions between aggression and stress.  The Fourth Sword is his debut novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alive

London, July 19, 2022

Throbbing pain stirs me from my slumber.

Aww! A heavy weight squeezes my legs. I’m sore and cold.

Shivering, I try shifting my limbs.

Aww! Son of a bitch! Sharp stinging shoots from my knees through my hips and my lower back. I can’t move.

Opening my eyes, I see nothing but darkness.

What the hell! Am I buried alive, or is it one of my doomsday nightmares?

As my heart accelerates, I perceive a trickle dripping near my head. It splashes on pieces of glass, and it smells like beer. How odd. Did I fall asleep under a bar? Whatever is going on, it better not be one of my cousin’s stupid pranks. I’ll make him pay.

Hey! There is space above my chest and my head. I can move my arms and touch what’s on top of me. It’s hard and smooth. Tapping it with my fingers, I distinguish separate sounds. It’s partially hollow. I pound it frantically. GET ME OUT OF HERE!

It’s solid, and my fists ache. This isn’t a dream.

Panic seizes me. How am I going to get out? I try to slide my hips but only succeed in hurting my legs.

Breathe slowly! Calm yourself! What happened?

Bits of memory tear through my mind as I concentrate. My uncle’s house in London. My cousin making fun of my New York accent. Getting dressed to go out in the city. Ditching my cousin and his boorish girlfriend on the Tube. Cute boys in a pub near King’s College. Stepping to the bathroom to fix my makeup. The reflected image of a dark woman sneering at me as she enters the toilet to my back. A huge blast blows up the stalls behind me. The Madonna medallion Grandma gave me last month sprouts a protective bubble that shields me from a terrifying wall of fire and shrapnel. A powerful shockwave shatters the mirror and throws me through the bathroom wall and inside the bar. The ceiling collapses. Beams drop on patrons, crushing them. I’m helpless to assist anyone into the safety of my bubble. Something heavy rolls on top of me, then nothing.

OMG! It was an explosion, and I may be the only survivor—as long as the rescue squad extracts me from my precarious location and a gas leak doesn’t blow me up. Its distinctive stench competes with the beer.

I don’t want to die here. I pummel the mass lying on top of me. HELP!

I hear muffled sounds—sirens, shouts, a barking dog.

What have you got, Blackie? says a man.

There is someone there. HELP! I’M STUCK.

I hear scratches. The dog found me. HELP!

There is a survivor under the bar counter, shouts the male voice. Be patient, miss. We’ll get you out. Don’t move. You could trigger an avalanche of rubble.

Cracks, stumbling of feet, and drilling noises follow. Soon a sliver of light illuminates my chest. They enlarge the opening, and a hand appears. I’ve never felt so relieved in my life.

Miss, how are you holding up? asks my rescuer.

I can’t move my legs, I reply. There is something heavy on top of them, and it hurts.

Other voices communicate with the man. They must be working on a plan to extract me, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. I try sliding a hand up the hole. Doing so, I cut myself on something sharp.

Ouch!

Miss, please remain calm, he adds. We’ll get you out. Hey, I’m Harry with the rescue squad. What’s your name? Where’re you from?

He wants me to stay awake and talk. Good idea. Trinity, Trinity Matiri. I’m from New York City. Could I get something to drink, please? I’m thirsty.

I’m sorry, Trinity. I can’t at the moment. It could hurt you.

Really? What if I could move my head toward that trickle? No! Think, Trinity. You don’t know what’s dripping there. There could be toxic leakage mixed with that beer. Shit. I’ll have to wait.

Don’t move, Trinity. Relax. We’ll get you out.

A thought enters my mind. The light reaching me means it’s daytime, and the explosion happened at night. If the ceiling collapsed, the rescuers would have needed to remove the upper floors before getting to me. Add the time to bring the squads and the dogs . . .

Crap! Mom will be here, and she’s gonna kill me.

Sir, what time is it? I must have passed out after the explosion.

Oh, it’s about ten in the morning. We’ve been clearing this site for hours now. Are you all right, Trinity?

Ten? I’ve been stuck for half a day. No wonder I’m so cold.

I’m such an airhead. I shouldn’t have run away from the family mansion in North Yorkshire last week, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had a lot of steam to blow off. All my life, Mom had lied to me. She’d told me Grandpa was a traveling salesman, but at his funeral a few weeks ago, people disclosed a different story. He was a real-life James Bond.

Suddenly, I was a double-O’s granddaughter. How cool was that?

That made me think about Mom—her military background, her martial arts expertise, her excessive discretion, her outstanding self-control, and her frequent trips as a UN diplomat. It was a cover for her real job as an MI6 spook, like Grandpa. She didn’t travel to promote world peace. She murdered people for Great Britain. My mom, a deadly viper. That freaked me out, and it was just the beginning.

What followed would have irked any reasonable person’s suspension of disbelief, as Mrs. Roberts, my lip-pinching, Ivy league-educated, nosy, judgmental, and sour-puss of an English teacher would have objected. Not only did I discover that I descend from a long line of military spooks, but Grandma has what she calls powers, magical powers, and I’m supposed to inherit them.

To top it off, Grandpa was an earl and Mom inherited his title after the funeral, and now she wants me to play her heir as the Lady Trinity and visit the queen. Me, a girl from New York. She hid me in tiny apartments when I was a child, alternating between run-down closets above cheap Chinese restaurants and moldy dilapidated hotel rooms. Admittedly, our current place is comfortable, and we’ve been there since middle school. Still, I don’t want to become a stiff-ass aristocratic Brit. That’s not who I am.

Trinity? Please, stay with me. Are you all right? repeats the rescuer.

I’m okay, I reply. Please get me out of here before my mom arrives. She’ll have a fit.

Of course, she’ll be here. I’m surprised she let me escape to London and stay at my uncle’s house for three days. She must have been glued to the news, ready to pounce.

Trinity, would your mother be a tall woman with dirty blond hair and a gray business suit? I think I see her coming this way, he says.

I’m so dead. Yeah! That’d be her. Please tell her I’m fine and I didn’t drink any strong ale.

Well, maybe a little, but it’s okay in England, and I’m eighteen.

My daughter! Have you seen my daughter? Her name is Trinity. She’s . . . she’s down there, isn’t she?

Ma’am, you can’t stay here. Too dangerous. Ma’am . . . Oh! Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry, ma’am. We will have her out within the hour, ma’am.

That’s her. How in the world did the rescue workers let her through the security lines? Why do they let her stay? Oh no. She must have a new position at MI6.

Mom chats with a nurse specialist wearing a blue tunic with red trim. Narrow reading glasses cover the woman’s dark eyes, and her shiny ebony hair is curled into a short pixie. It looks nice. Maybe I should try that instead of my bun.

My hospital room is immaculate and well-appointed, with a personal bathroom and two comfortable recliners. Machines connected to my hands beep slowly, monitoring vital statistics, while a plastic container drips saline and a satisfying painkiller into my veins. It dulls the throbbing pain from my fully bandaged legs. Best of all, the bed is warm. I hate feeling cold; that’s why I decided to go to college in Austin last May. It’s warm there.

In the background, the TV news report on the bomb blast mentions twenty dead and two seriously injured survivors, with no specific names or nationalities. The same images of a collapsed building, ambulances, bodies removed on stretchers, and bobbies holding concerned people replay incessantly. One clip shows Mom rushing to the site, accompanied by two men in dark suits.

An unknown group calling itself ‘Pan-Islamic Jihad’ has claimed responsibility for the attack. Police and our security services are investigating. The prime minister vows those responsible for this abomination will pay dearly, says the announcer on BBC One.

We’ll keep Trinity for the day, ma’am, explains the dark-skinned nurse with a musical Caribbean accent. She was in shock from cold and dehydration when she arrived. Thankfully, her legs are fine. She only has cuts and bruises. The X-rays show no fractures. She’s a very lucky girl. Frankly, I don’t know how she survived that blast and the resulting collapse. I heard the other bar patrons weren’t so lucky.

Cuts and bruises! That’s an understatement. My legs looked like black pudding when they pulled me out of the rubble. Black pudding—just the thought of it makes me gag, and Grandma insisted I have some last week, calling it boudin rouge. It’ll take weeks before my legs regain their normal light brown color.

Mom flashes her MI6 badge. Thank you for caring for my daughter. Please keep all information regarding her strictly confidential. Nobody can know she’s here and recovering from her ordeal. As far as the media are concerned, she’s not among the survivors. It’s a matter of national security, and a guard will be posted by her door at all times.

Jesus! Really?

Seriously, Mom! Even by your standards, don’t you think it’s an overkill? A guard? National security? Strictly confidential? I say once the nurse leaves the room.

She gazes at me, tilting her head. Trinity, dearest. First, that bomb was meant for you. You were the target. The Order of the Flame organized this attack. Second, if they even suspect you survived, they’ll strike again. They could bomb your flight back to New York next week. You would not survive it. That’s why we invented a second survivor, and your name is currently listed under the victims. You’re here as Second Lieutenant Jane Smith. It’s a private hospital for military officers.

Fuck! The Order of the Flame, a secret, fanatical anti-witchcraft society. Dad died protecting me from these assholes when I was a child. That’s why Mom hid me in New York. They view me as the most dangerous witch in history. Really? Me? And I can’t even read minds or control them like Grandma does.

I close my eyes. So you’re going to hide me until our return to New York? By the way, didn’t you resign from MI6 last month?

She blinks as she sits next to me. I’m the new director of operations, second in command after the chief executive.

Whoa! That explains it all. They promoted you? Congratulations, Mom.

As I glance at her, I notice something unusual around her body. Colors. I’ve never noticed that before. She glows into a variety of yellows, oranges, reds, and greens. It’s beautiful, and it changes constantly. It’s not just an aura around her head. It stretches along her arms and chest. How cool! Do I perceive it because I survived that blast? Did it activate some of these abilities I’m supposed to develop?

I’d better not say anything about it; she’d send me for a dozen MRI scans. Maybe Grandma can explain. I wouldn’t be surprised if she experiences these too. After all, she’s the real witch in the family, the one with all the powers.

Mom smiles, and as she does, her colors brighten. Thank you, sweetheart. I’m so relieved you are unhurt. That means you’ll be able to visit the queen after all. She’s concerned about you and this tragedy. Until then, you’ll stay at the mansion. No more escapades.

Her colors darken as she pronounces these last words, adding deep reddish tones, and her eyebrows narrow on me. It sucks, but she’s right. Twenty people died in that pub because of my selfishness. I don’t want to cause any more deaths.

Wait a minute! If her colors reflect her expressions, maybe I can read people’s feelings with these auras.

Let’s try something. Yes, I’m a total brat. Call it payback for lying to me for so long. I love her, but I’m still upset with her. Mom, I’m sorry I scared you. I love you.

She smiles again and bends to hug me. I love you too, sweetheart.

Bang! It brightens again, replacing the deep reds with bright yellows and greens. It works. How wonderful! Maybe I should take a side trip to Atlantic City.

She rises. Now, you must understand that my new job will impact your life.

Uh-oh! I don’t like the sound of that. What do you mean?

She purses her lips. I need to ensure your safety so I can perform my duties.

WTF! Don’t tell me MI6 will provide a bodyguard for me?

She snorts. No! Well, not exactly. Do you remember Aunt Yolanda, your godmother?

How can I forget her? She was my nanny when Mom traveled the world as an MI6 assassin, like Helen Mirren in the RED movies. Mom may be pushy, yet she’s always forgiving. Not Yolanda. She never hesitated to punish me when I needed it. Yet I’ve always considered her my second mother, the one who helped me deal with my African heritage, like how to take proper care of my kinky hair and how to deal with racist assholes.

Mom and Yolanda complement each other so well. Unlike me, both are tall, but Mom is a typical pale-skinned Anglo, and she always wears the same kind of suit—a gray jacket, a gray knee-length skirt, and black two-inch-heel pumps. Yolanda is far browner than me, with very short black hair, and she’s intimidating, always wearing dark clothes—black pants, black jacket, and black boots. She’s tough, like Michael Burnham in Star Trek Discovery, and she kicks ass.

As for me, I’m short with light brown skin, and I enjoy colors. I love my blue jeans and burnt-orange Longhorn tank top. Yes, I already wear the University of Texas colors and its unique bovine mascot. I roared when they told us during my spring visit that graduating seniors used to cook it over a smoking pit at the end of the school year. What a delightful redneck tradition! Then they introduced us to real Texas barbecue. OMG! It was so good.

Wait a minute . . . You arranged for Yolanda to look after me while I’ll be in college in Austin? Doesn’t she have a job at some company? By the way, what’s going on between you two? Are you lovers? It’s okay, really. I don’t mind at all.

Yolanda is Mom’s best friend in America. Their relationship dates back to their time as graduate students at Harvard, and I’ve always loved the intimacy of their mutual hugs. Yolanda was there for us after Dad’s death. She even moved in with us for a while.

Mom blushes and raises her index finger. Don’t you dare repeat that to anyone. Anyway, it’s . . . complicated.

Mom, it’s okay, and I love her too. It makes me happy to see you together. You’d make a nice couple.

She smiles. Thank you, sweetheart. About the company she works for, it’s really only a nickname for a notorious federal agency. We’ve been colleagues all along.

What? Do you mean to tell me she’s with the CIA?

In a way, that makes total sense. Yolanda and Mom taught me karate for self-defense and tai chi for meditation since childhood. They were both experts.

The city streets are not safe, and you need to be ready for anything, Mom said at the time, showing me a defensive posture.

Yolanda never withheld anything. She kicked me hard. That’s how you must fight. They’ll hurt you even more.

Chapter 2

Return Home

New York, July 26, 2022

We’re finally home after five weeks in England. Familiar objects and Mom’s collection of Japanese block prints decorate our Lenox Hill apartment in Manhattan. It’s so generic. Nothing betrays Mom’s British heritage. Instead, I’m everywhere. My upright piano, my computer-linked practice keyboard, loads of scores from Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, or Liszt, and, of course, pictures of me with my kinky black hair either tied up in a small bun or in a full Afro. They line an entire wall, my piano-playing evolution, from my first recital at the age of eight to my latest at my high school graduation. New York City streets and buildings extend beyond our windows as I raise blinds. It feels stupid, but I’ve missed the constant bustle and background noise. The family mansion in North Yorkshire was too quiet.

Collapsing onto my favorite chair in the living room, I can’t help thinking about the fastest summer I’ve ever experienced. Five weeks visiting Grandma and Mom’s relatives in England, and next month I’ll start college at the University of Texas, Austin. So much to do, so little time to prepare. I must share some of the images on my cell with my friends. Hopefully, we’ll get together over the weekend, if they’re in town.

What a trip! I’ve never taken so many pictures on my phone—my mobile, according to my English cousins. My favorite shows Mom and Grandma chatting with Queen Elizabeth at Balmoral Castle. The UK monarch looked frail, but she seemed genuinely pleased to meet us. She even smiled, shaking my hand, and she displayed a bright though weak aura.

How remarkable! the queen whispered, her fingers trembling and tears filling her eyes. I still remember when I last saw her. It was in 1943. She had the same smile. Thank you for coming today. You made me feel like a young woman again.

Thank you, Your Majesty, I blurted awkwardly.

At the time, I had no idea what to say, but I knew what she meant. The shield that protected me during that horrific explosion in London also copied me. Grandma told me my double was transported to the Blitz in WWII. She joined the British Army and became an intelligence officer. She must have encountered the queen during the war.

Quivering, the elderly monarch presented an old copy of Time magazine. Inside, there was an article about my double’s heroic accomplishments and a black-and-white picture of her in a British uniform. That felt so odd to view an eighty-year-old image of myself.

She was outstanding, said the queen, and I look forward to hearing about your future exploits.

Talk about pressure. I cringed, thinking about my bandaged legs. My injuries still hurt, and I hoped I would never have to face the terror I felt waking up under that rubble.

She was such a lovely lady, and I appreciated the conversation. Grandma reacted differently. She observed the monarch, touched her hand, and suggested ignoring any diets her physicians imposed on her. Grandma is a retired nurse, and she can tell when someone is dying. She frowned during our return trip to the family mansion. It clearly bothered her to have seen the queen in an advanced state of illness.

Trinity, don’t you dare send these pictures of the queen to your friends or post them on social media, declares Mom as I scan messages on my cell. It was a private visit, and what happened must remain strictly confidential. People must not know how sick she is.

So much for that thought. Yes, Mom. Don’t worry. It was amazing to visit her, and she met my double during the war. I had no idea.

Mom retrieves a package from her suitcase and hands it to me. Me neither. I have something for you, a gift from your grandmother.

What is it? I’ve had enough surprises over the past weeks to last for several lifetimes.

Ripping a glossy red paper wrapper, I uncover a folded beige shirt and tie, along with an olive-colored woolen skirt and a military jacket featuring three sets of insignia on each shoulder pad.

That was your double’s service uniform, she explains. Your grandfather preserved it, and your grandmother wanted you to have it as inspiration for your future. The shoulder decorations reflect your double’s rank as equivalent to captain. As for the colors sewn by the front pocket, they are her war medals.

I scan the narrow ribbons presenting primarily red and blue colors. The first one from the center includes a small silver leaf-like object pinned in the middle.

What are they? I wonder aloud.

That one is the Distinguished Service Order, Mentioned in Dispatches. It’s a very special award. The others are the North African campaign and the WWII medal. She served in Egypt and Libya with great courage.

Yes, that’s what the magazine article said. The queen gave me her copy at the end of the visit.

Mom shows me her private laptop. I also have many pictures from your double’s mobile. She took them during the war. Your grandmother received it over the winter, and your grandfather managed to retrieve them all. I transferred them to this computer. Look!

Whoa! Color pictures from the black-and-white era. How rare! And she stood in front of the pyramids at Giza.

Glancing at my double’s selfies, I spot several images of the same attractive man wearing an American uniform. I’ve seen a picture of her with that guy in Grandma’s boudoir. Who was he?

Your double’s husband, Captain Walter Williams. They married two weeks before her disappearance in 1943.

She did well. Walter Williams, you said? Why does that name sound so familiar?

As I try to recall the significance of the name, I remember the inscription on the first floor of our building, right next to the elevator.

This building belongs to his family, she explains. They approached me after your father’s murder. Walter Williams prepared a sanctuary for us before his passing in the 1990s, and I only pay a ridiculously small fee for rent. That’s why we will keep this apartment, even with you going to Texas and me back to England. It will be our safe haven.

That makes little sense. I remember the closets we used as apartments. Mom, why did we have to live in those tiny places when I was a child?

Her colors develop deep red and bright blue. It took me a while to accept the offer. It seemed too good to be true, and at the time, I didn’t trust anyone except for a few people. The Order had eyes and ears everywhere.

Cheap apartments are rare in this city. Didn’t you eliminate most of these fanatics in America? Is there something else we should fear?

She sits on a chair next to me. That’s what we need to talk about today.

What? What’s going on?

She touches my hand. Sweetheart, Walter Williams was an OSS officer during the war. Afterward, he became one of the founders of the CIA. They have a large file about you and your double.

She poses, grabbing her suitcase. Well, actually, they have files about our entire family.

What? Does this have to do with Grandma’s powers and mine?

Grandma is very special. She has the capacity to foresee the future through her dreams, as I do. Her powers over the mind amaze me, and she can also produce temporary protective shields or enchant objects, like my medallion. I’ve yet to develop these abilities, but she told me it’s only a matter of time and effort. I’m to become a witch.

I’m still getting used to the idea. One side of my head dismisses it as hogwash, while the other thinks it’s supercool.

Mom closes her eyes. What do you think? Of course, it has everything to do with your powers.

Honestly, it bothers me that unknown people pry into my privacy. Disturbed, I focus on my luggage. I should sort my dirty laundry; she’s already separating hers.

Ouch. I grimace, sitting on the floor.

She purses her lips. My poor girl. Your legs still hurt. When did you last take your Motrin?

She’ll never let it go, and my bruises are quite visible. Various colors cover my legs, from their normal light brown to blue, purple, and black.

Three hours ago, right before landing. I’ll be fine, Mom.

I focus on my laundry to ignore the throbbing pain, and my dirty clothes pile up quickly compared to Mom’s. I should have accepted Grandma’s offer to have it washed at the mansion, but it bothers me when people handle my garments, and I felt guilty when the staff completed my chores for me. Of course, Mom only brought what she needed for a short stay in New York, leaving the rest in England.

I glance at her. She’s got something on her mind, something important. I can tell by the deep red colors. Mom, when are you returning to London? Please tell me we’ll have some time off, just the two of us.

As I stand to retrieve a laundry basket from the bathroom, she grabs my right hand and holds it. Sweetheart, I can only afford a few days. There is too much going on in the world. Yolanda will look after you. She oversees training for CIA recruits in Virginia, and she’ll be here tomorrow to check you out.

I don’t like this at all. Check me out? What do you mean?

Her deep blue eyes pierce through mine. Sweetheart, you’re going to be more powerful than your grandmother, and we can’t afford to have you wander unsupervised. It’s too dangerous. What if the Russians kidnap you and use you against us?

WTF! Mom, the Cold War is way over.

Her eyes narrow. "Haven’t you been listening to the news? We are at war with the Russians right now. It’s a cold war fought through proxies, and it’s going on in Ukraine. It could turn into WWIII at any moment, especially since the Russians have experienced serious setbacks on the battlefield. If they learn about you, they’ll come for you. Chances are, they already know. That’s