by Jen Blood
“Darfur? That’s where Charlene and Mary would have been.”
“True,” she agreed.
“What about Lisette? Did you get any more information about her connection to any of them?”
“None,” she said. “I can’t find any indication that Foster or Davies had anything to do with getting her out of Africa—or anything to do with her, period. And according to the official story she’s always given, she left South Africa in 1989... Every document I’ve been able to find backs that up. The only thing I’ve seen so far that links her to Charlene and Mary is that old picture Maisie gave you. And, honestly, how sure can we actually be that the girl in that picture is Lisette?”
She was right about that. Maybe my hunch was wrong, and Lisette really had been plucked from the streets of South Africa to become an American success story. Stranger things had happened.
For the rest of the forty-five-minute drive, Solomon and I bounced ideas off each other about the direction we wanted to take with the story, and how we might make the whole idea of collaborating more appealing to the powers that be at the Tribune.
It was just past six when we parked on the street in Boothbay Harbor, a bustling tourist town about ten miles off of Route 1, and made our way to a massive red barn with a dizzying collection of lawn ornaments and wind catchers out front.
“You’re sure this is the place?” Solomon asked.
“If we’re looking for a witch in Southern Maine, there’s a better than even chance these guys will have an idea where to find her,” I said.
The incense was overpowering as we walked through the open door. Crystals and dragons and Buddhas jockeyed for space in the crowded entrance. I nearly knocked myself out on a low-hanging set of wind chimes. An old woman in a headscarf glared at me.
“How do you know about this place?” Solomon asked.
“How do you not? It’s your one-stop shop for everything from Tarot cards to scented candles.”
Inside the tightly packed labyrinth, Solomon’s gaze fell to a glass case against the far wall. Glass pipes and two-foot-high bongs dominated the space.
“Ah,” she said. “Explain no further.”
“Just for tobacco, you understand.”
“Right.”
A gray-haired man with a closely shaved beard was behind the counter, barely visible behind a nearly impenetrable wall of dangling necklaces and pendants. He looked like he’d be more at home in a body shop than a New Age bastion like Enchantments, but he smiled easily when Solomon and I appeared at his counter.
“What can I help you with today?”
“I was wondering if you could tell me anything about these symbols,” I said. I handed him a picture of the message that had been left on my wall.
He looked at it for only a second or two, forehead furrowed, before he shook his head and stepped back. “Sorry, it’s not really my area. Hang on, I’ll get Kaley.”
He left the counter and disappeared up a rickety set of stairs draped in cloaks and prayer flags. I could hear murmuring voices for a couple of minutes before a woman dressed in black, her blonde hair cut short, came down. Kaley, I presumed. She was short and round, and she wore three amulets around her neck. Both fleshy arms were tattooed to her wrists.
She took the picture from me without asking and looked at it intently.
“Where did these come from?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Someone left them on my bedroom wall. I was hoping you might be able to tell us something about them, or direct us to someone who can.”
She led us to a raised platform at the back of the store packed with bookshelves. We were surrounded by books on runes, Wicca, paganism, Celtic mysticism, sorcery, herbalism... Solomon raised her eyebrows at me while Kaley scanned a shelf devoted to Satanism and dark magic.
“It’s usually kids who are interested in this kind of thing,” the woman said. “They dabble, like kids do.”
“I think whoever put this on my wall is doing more than dabbling,” I said.
She bypassed the hardbacks and paperbacks and finally pulled out what looked like a homemade pamphlet, maybe thirty pages long.
“There’s a local woman who practices dark magic,” she said. “Madame Rose. She wrote this guide—it’s pretty thorough. You should be able to translate the symbols, and it has some other information as well.”
“Anything about ritual murder?” Solomon asked. The woman didn’t look fazed at the question.
“Not in this one, but I know she’s taught classes on sacrifice and the rituals of death. I’m sure she’d be able to tell you more about it.”
“So by local you mean...?”
“About two miles down the road from here,” she said. “She doesn’t believe in telephones, but if you go there you may be able to find her home. Tell her Kaley sent you.”
Chapter 14
Madame Rose lived in a little captain’s house on the water. It was impressively secluded given the cost of waterfront property in the area, which told me the Wiccan priestess—or whatever she was—had some resources. Flowers grew wild around the place, an eclectic mix of lawn sculptures mixed among them: wrought-iron crosses and glass dragons, stone gargoyles and what appeared to be a papier mache unicorn. At the center of it all was a woman carved of stone, maybe seven feet tall. Her eyes were empty, her mouth open as though caught mid-scream. She was nude, her arms outstretched.
“That’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Solomon said. She froze on the trail, staring at it.
“And you grew up in a cult.”
“Exactly. Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked. I looked at her. She frowned. “Forget it, you’re right. We need answers. We go where the story takes us.”
I’d never known her to balk about going into a place before. I paused beside her on the path. It was dark here, though it was still early evening. Overcast, though the sun had been shining when we drove up. The shades were drawn inside, giving the impression of an old woman with her eyes shut tight.
Behind us, I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. When I turned, though, there was nothing there. I suppressed a shiver myself.
“Come on,” I said. I started to go ahead of her, but she snapped out of it. A second later, she was beside me again.
The front door of the house was painted black, a green symbol that looked like a rotted tree painted at its center. I avoided the symbol when I knocked.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Solomon said.
The sky darkened further. A few light raindrops fell. It was the kind of sky that usually precedes a downpour. I eyed the door uneasily and knocked again. The wind picked up, howling in the trees.
“It’s been pouring in Portland all day,” Solomon said.
“So it’s not the witch doing this, is that what you’re saying?”
“Go ahead and mock me, smart guy. See if I try to save you when this bitch turns you into a toad.”
“Some friend you are.”
I was just about to knock a third time and propose a new plan when the rain started. Buckets of it. Cats and dogs. A sheet that soaked us both to the skin within seconds.
“Maybe she’s out,” I said. “We can wait in the car—”
The door opened before I stepped away.
I’d expected Madame Rose to be a crone. A kook. Instead, a gorgeous pale-skinned woman with blue eyes and thick, white-blonde hair stood before us. Her eyes ran over me, up and down, taking in everything before she moved on to Solomon.
“My name’s Daniel Diggins,” I said. “This is Erin Solomon. We had some questions—”
“I know who you are,” she said. “Come in.”
She opened the door wider and stepped aside. I guessed her age at forty, maybe forty-five. The house was dark and cluttered, but I saw no sign of black cats or slaughtered chickens. Just as I stepped inside, something moved in my periphery again. When I turned, I thought I saw a dark-haired boy duck into t
he trees behind us.
I swallowed past a sudden cold terror, and closed the door behind me.
Inside, Solomon stuck close beside me, eyes bouncing from one thing to the next—lingering on nothing, taking in everything, while I focused on Madame Rose. She moved through the house easily, never looking behind to make sure we were still there. A confident woman used to leading.
Eventually, we reached a smallish room at the back of the house that was slightly less cluttered than the others. Crystals and plants hung in the windows, a steel shelf along one wall filled with labeled glass jars.
My eyes fell to a series of six paintings along one wall, all of them square, no larger than 8x8. In the first, a nude woman straddled a well-muscled man who lay prone on the ground. Her back was arched, eyes closed, her face frozen in orgiastic ecstasy. In one hand, she held what appeared to be a scythe, high over her head.
The next picture showed the nude woman standing, the same ecstasy on her face that had been captured mid-coitus. Her body ran red with blood. At her feet, the man lay bleeding, his head nearly severed from his body, an unearthly tranquility on his face. Each of the subsequent paintings showed the woman at different stages of a ritual involving the cleansing and disembowelment of her victim.
In the final picture, she knelt before a disemboweled, empty corpse. His eyes had been plucked from his head, his penis severed. Five candles had been placed with the body—one in each hand, one at each foot, one flickering in the cavern of the opened belly.
The positioning was eerily familiar.
“Interesting artwork,” I said. “Can you tell us anything about it?”
“Of course,” Rose said. She stepped closer, perusing each panel with affection. “They show a ritual practiced by an Icelandic priestess. This one in particular was performed by the druids around 450 BC.”
“And what was the goal?” Solomon said. “There must have been one, I’m assuming—something she was hoping to get from the gods?”
Rose smiled slightly. “Power, I expect. Or an assurance of peace in the next life. Historically, those were the greatest concerns. It’s only in modern times that it has been supplanted by the desire for material wealth in this life.”
“So, this ritual would have been performed just to appease the gods in general, then?” I said. “Because I’ve seen something similar in Africa—bloodletting, organs and eyes removed. There, it was for the material gains you spoke of.”
Rose continued to study the paintings. “Those who would perform such a ritual today would do so for whatever they desire most—whatever life-changing force eludes them. Health. Wealth. Power. Love.”
“It seems a little extreme for a love spell, doesn’t it?” Solomon said.
Rose turned to look at her, studying her intently for a moment. “The virgin and the rogue,” she said, half to herself. She looked from Solomon to me with a dark smile. “Tell her what you would do for love, rogue. Though I expect she’ll learn soon enough.”
“Have you heard about the woman who was murdered in Portland?” I said, changing the subject. “The victim’s body was found in a condition similar to the one pictured here.”
“I had heard that,” Rose said. Her eyes sought mine, large and pale and unearthly. I fought the desire to look away. Or step closer.
“Do you know anything about it?” I asked. “Any guesses about what it might be about? Who might have done it?”
“You have an interesting aura,” she said instead of answering. “You’ve suffered a loss recently—gone dark around the edges. Right now, the only light is that fine thread binding you to your girl here. Barely a tendril, but strong. Otherwise, everything is deepest red with you. So much anger. So much passion. The boy who follows you keeps his distance.”
She might as well have reached into my chest and wrung the air from my lungs. “What boy?”
She tipped her head, studying me. “A little boy, with a good heart. He’s concerned at the trouble in your path.”
Before I could respond, she turned her attention back to Solomon. “But you... You’re interesting, love. Black fringes your colors—you’re blocked. Hiding something you don’t want known. And all those lost souls swirling around you—with more blood to come.” She caressed Solomon’s cheek. I fully expected Solomon to deck her. “Death follows you, dear heart. I count thirty-five souls, caught in a swarming abyss with you at their center. That abyss needs feeding. It won’t have long to wait.”
Solomon moved her head backward, her eyes cold. “I don’t have anything to hide, but I’m not so sure about you. If you’re done screwing with our auras, we have more questions.”
Rose dropped her hand, amused. “Of course.”
“I noticed some medical texts on the way in,” Solomon said. “Do you have any training?”
“I have training in all sorts of things,” Rose said. “To practice the dark arts, one must have a diverse background.”
“Including sales,” I said. “These totems on the shelf here...” I took a step toward her, indicating an entire shelf of statues similar to the one I’d found beside Charlene. “Do you make these?”
“An artisan supplies them for me.”
“And you sell them from your home?” Solomon said.
“Occasionally. Or I give them to my students or clients.”
“You teach?” I said.
“Of course.” She started to walk away. Solomon and I followed her out the back door, where a metal table and three chairs sat in a field overgrown with wildflowers. I took out the picture of the symbols on my wall and gave it to her after she’d sat.
For a few seconds, she studied it in silence. The sound of birds mingled with the melodies of half a dozen different chimes that hung from the eaves of her house. Solomon sat with her hands folded in her lap, her body tense. I took in the perimeter of the place, the dark forest that surrounded us just a few yards away. Rose handed the picture back to me.
“You were cursed?” she asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “I don’t believe in those things, but whoever did this obviously does. Can you tell me what those symbols mean?”
“Death,” she said simply. “Death to the seekers, specifically. Or the curious, depending on your translation.”
A cold wind ran through me. Solomon shifted in her seat. “You said you teach classes,” she said. “And you’re obviously pretty involved in this...community or whatever it is. Do you know anyone who could have done something like this?”
“I don’t teach my pupils to take lives,” she said coolly.
“But you teach black magic,” I countered. “That’s not about rainbows and unicorns, right?”
“It’s about balance. For there to be light, there must be dark. My students have been fascinated with that darkness all their lives—they come to me to learn how to manage that passion without losing themselves to it entirely.”
“So you don’t talk about ritual murder or blood sacrifices in these classes you teach?” Solomon persisted.
“There are spells that require sacrifices, yes,” Rose said. “And there are certainly those out there who practice human sacrifice... That is not something I align myself with personally.”
“Do you know anyone in this area who does?” I asked.
She hesitated for a scant second before she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“The woman who was killed,” I said. “Her name was Charlene Dsengani. Have you ever heard that name? Maybe she was a client...?”
“My clients are confidential. I wouldn’t reveal them any more than a doctor would her patients or a reporter his sources.”
“Even if it could mean catching a killer?”
She stood suddenly and started toward the front of the house, calling her words back over her shoulder. “You view death in a different light than I. You see it as defeat—an ending. I believe death is liberation. Perhaps Ms. Dsengani was just waiting for this final release. For the opportunity to fly, unencumbered by
the hurt and the heartache of her past.”
“This is bullshit,” Solomon said as we watched her go. “All she’s doing is playing games.”
Maybe so, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Why don’t you head back to the car. I’ll be right there.”
“You sure you want to be alone with her?”
“Just give me a couple of minutes,” I assured her. I stood outside for a second, watching her go, before I followed Rose back into her house.
“What do you know about Charlene Dsengani’s past?” I asked when I was through the door. Rose stood just inside the house, as though she’d been waiting for me.
“I know nothing of Charlene Dsengani. Now, you should go. I have an appointment soon—I prefer not to have spectators.”
“But if I have questions...” I said.
She moved toward me, and ran her hand down my cheek. “Of course, rogue. I live to serve.” She looked around, as though just realizing Solomon wasn’t with me now. “But bring your virgin—keep her close. Death isn’t through with her.”
The intensity in her eyes made me more nervous than the words she spoke. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You should tell her to talk to her father. Tell her to do it soon.”
“You know something about Solomon’s father?”
“I know what the spirits show me,” she said. She shrugged, a sad smile on her delicate lips.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said finally. I didn’t know what else to say.
“I’m sure you will,” Rose said.
I went back outside and followed Solomon to the car, more unnerved than I cared to admit. Halfway down Rose’s overgrown path, Solomon waited for me. I looked back over my shoulder when I reached her. A dark-haired boy in swimming trunks stood on her doorstep, watching me with sad eyes. My brother. My heartbeat stuttered, and Solomon stopped beside me.
“What?” she asked. She turned around, following my gaze. Josh stayed where he was, still staring.
“Do you...” I swallowed past fear I couldn’t deny. “Uh, do you see something there?”