The Witch Haven

by Sasha Peyton Smith

  He descends the stairs with slow deliberate steps. He confidently pushes past the small mustached man to take my arm in his. The contact of the bare crook of my elbow against the twill of his tuxedo sends a thrill up my spine. I stomp it down.

  “A woman here, tonight of all nights, Mr. D’Arcy?” the doorman asks him, his tone thick with judgment.

  “She’s a guest of Boss’s,” he lies.

  He takes me up the main staircase, through serpentine halls, past stag heads, stuffed boars, mounted swords, and something that I think might be a pickled human hand in a jar.

  The walls are fitted with buzzing electric light sconces, but it hasn’t stopped someone from lighting hundreds of white candles that drip wax on every flat surface.

  Every muscle is tense with anxiety. My dress pinches me; pins dig into my skull; the heat of Finn so close to me is sending my stomach into somersaults. I concentrate on my breathing, inhaling and exhaling, trying to focus on the singular task at hand. I cannot afford to be distracted.

  The emptiness is eerie. We don’t pass another person, though occasionally I hear the door downstairs open and the raucous laughter of men floating in from the cold.

  Finn and I reach a set of ornately carved mahogany doors, so tall they reach right up to the ceiling.

  “You ready, Watson?” Finn asks with a smile. His eyes crinkle around the edges like something about to crack.

  “If you are, Watson.” I nod. My heart is hammering so hard, I wonder if he can hear it.

  “Once you unlock the door, I’ll search the office. You be the lookout. If you see someone coming, slam a door to warn me, and do your best to distract them. If they ask why you’re here, tell them you’re looking for Judge Callahan.”

  Oliver’s father? “How do you know Judge Callahan?”

  “We don’t have time.” He gestures at the brass doorknob. “I’ve never been able to pick this lock, nor can I manipulate objects like you can. You can open this door, Frances. I know it.” The way he stares at me with such confidence, such belief, makes my chest swell with pride. It reminds me of the belief William always had in me.

  I stare at the door, close my eyes.

  “Say díghlasáil, please, Frances,” I hear Finn whisper, as if from far away.

  I obey. The word is less elegant out of my mouth, but at once I feel the ripple of magic, and the door unlocks with a satisfying click.

  Finn nods. “Good girl.” I swell with pride at his praises. I want so badly to be as good as he thinks I am.

  He turns the knob, opens the door a crack, and slips inside. I’m left standing in the hallway, freezing cold and alone.

  The first couple of minutes are the worst. I flinch every time the downstairs door opens. With no other outlet for my nervous energy, I pick my thumbnail until it bleeds.

  “Everything all right?” I hiss through the closed door.

  His voice is muffled. “Yes, just one more moment.”

  With no more thumb skin left to pick, I count to pass the time: twenty seconds, then sixty, then one hundred, then two hundred. There are footsteps in the hallway now. A ways down, but too near for comfort.

  From behind the closed door, the office is silent.

  “Please hurry,” I whisper, perhaps too quiet for Finn to hear.

  Voices join the footsteps. Male, of course. Low and rumbling, too far to make out individual words.

  “Finn,” I say under my breath, a prayer, a beg.

  “Almost finished,” he replies. From behind the door there is a tearing of paper, the slide of drawers closing, and the sound of smooth-soled tuxedo shoes on expensive carpet.

  The steps from the hall get louder. Definitely too close.

  Dread ripples through me.

  With a flash of power, I hiss dorrstanga under my breath. It’s a simple enough spell, one I learned in the context of housekeeping weeks ago.

  Far down the hall, close to the stairs, my magic opens and slams a door so hard it would have shaken the floors of a less grand building.

  Footsteps, faster this time, go off in the direction of the noise.

  The relief I feel is only momentary.

  Suddenly, from around the corner, comes a man who doesn’t look nearly as startled to see me as I am to see him.

  He’s dressed like I imagine an Austro-Hungarian diplomat might dress. His outfit is a combination of rich blues and reds, punctuated by gold cuff links. The chain of a pocket watch is strung across the vest. The man is shaped like a barrel with an up-tipped chin. It is clear he’s used to taking up space.

  He smiles the terrifying smile of a man who knows he’s completely in control.

  “Kind of you to join us,” he greets me.

  I look around the hallway, attempt to break free the words lodged in my throat. “I’m not staying long,” I blurt. “Just looking for Judge Callahan. It appears I’ve gotten lost.”

  He screws up his face into an expression of exaggerated sadness. “And not a one of our household staff was polite enough to accompany you? Trust me, my dear, heads will roll tomorrow, but for now let me show you the way myself.”

  He takes a step toward me, his hand outstretched.

  I take a step back and glance at a massive ticking wall clock at the end of the hall. “You’re too kind, sir, but I’ve only just seen the time, and my family will be wondering where I am. I hate to interrupt your evening. I’ll contact the judge at his office tomorrow.” It all comes out too fast, in a singular breath. I fake a smile and will myself to look sweet and small.

  “Nonsense! You’re here already! Let’s make an evening of it!” He claps his hands together and takes a step toward me once more.

  My back is against the wall now. The chair rail digs into my spine. It’s too familiar, this feeling of a giant of a man leaning over me.

  Damn it, Finn. Where are you?

  As if summoned by my panic, Finn barrels out of the door.

  “Finn,” the large man greets him in a delighted voice. “What brings you up here? The festivities are about to begin.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. We were looking for the judge.” Finn grabs me by the hand and tries to walk away, but the Austro-Hungarian diplomat stops him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

  He sucks his teeth and smirks. “My office seems an unlikely place to start.”

  “You’re right, sir. We had no success. I’ll show Frances out now.”

  My hand inside Finn’s is sweaty, and he grips it hard to keep it from shaking.

  “The young, always in such a rush!” the diplomat booms. “In my day we knew how to show our guests hospitality. Please, dear, what is your name?”

  I consider lying, but Finn doesn’t give me the chance. “This is Frances Hallowell.”

  “A relation of our late William?” the diplomat asks.

  I unclench my jaw to reply, “My brother.” It’s hard to believe my brother knew this man, that he lived in an entire world I knew nothing about.

  “My condolences. He was a good boy. I am Boss Olan. Leader of our humble social club.”

  The lights in the hall flicker. I desperately need to be somewhere that isn’t here. “I’d really best be going. Like I said, I have family waiting, and they’ll be wondering where I am.” I lie smoothly, but Boss Olan raises his eyebrows in amusement.

  “Not a chance!” He grins, still looming over both Finn and me. “It’s only polite we invite you to join our little party.”

  “Boss, Frances can’t stay.” Finn speaks up on my behalf.

  “Oh don’t be ridiculous.” He smiles, but his eyes narrow on Finn. “Of course you can stay in my office if you’d prefer. I didn’t know you could read well enough to learn a door-unlocking spell. I’m proud, really, my boy.”

  The tips of Finn’s ears turn red. “I can read, sir.”

  Boss Olan laughs. “Oh, so you’re just slow. Or you can’t cast. Perhaps both?” He ruffles Finn’s hair like he would a toddler’s, but the force of the gesture bends Finn’s neck sha
rply to the right. Finn takes it silently with a grimace.

  Boss Olan turns his attention to me. “Come now, young Hallowell. I won’t take no for an answer,” he says with a flash of a smile that looks as if he means to eat me.

  Panicked, I glance behind me at Finn, who nods reassuringly. He pats his breast pocket. At least he’s got the dagger.

  Boss Olan in front of me and Finn behind me, we walk through a winding hallway past more mounted stag heads and gleaming trophy cases until we reach a back staircase. Noise and the heat of bodies radiate from down the stairs.

  In a mansion like this, what sort of party is held in a basement?

  I look back at Finn and mouth, What do we do?

  His eyes are frightened as he leans forward and whispers in my ear, “You can handle anything you come across in that basement. You’re brave, Frances. I know you are.”

  His response only sends my panic spiraling further. “What’s in the basement, Finn?” I sound like a child, my voice full of fear I can’t control.

  But Finn doesn’t answer. Boss Olan pushes open the doors, and my words are swallowed by the low roar of voices floating up the stairs.

  Down, down we go on a staircase so narrow, I could stretch out both my arms and touch the walls on either side.

  Before us stretches a cavernous basement. The dark wood-paneled walls are dotted with carved golden sconces that glow dimly and throw shadows. Hanging from the ceiling is a dusty crystal chandelier alight with melting candles. In the corner a man in a tuxedo plays a fiddle.

  There are dozens of men in the room. Young, old, middle-aged, all rich. I can feel the money in the room, dripping off them like sweat.

  More than one is puffing on a cigar, and the air burns with the smell of them. Glasses full of whiskey are clinked and swigged. Their eyes, set into all but identical doughy faces, are trained on me, simmering with raw unbridled want.

  From the stairs, I can see over their heads to the middle of the room, where a circle of marble edged with gold is set into the floor, twelve or so feet across

  “What is this place?” I whisper to myself as much as to Finn beside me.

  But I already know the answer. I’ve just walked into a lion’s den with no way out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As soon as I reach the bottom of the staircase, a crack echoes through the room.

  In front of me, Boss Olan bangs his eagle-head walking stick on the flagstone floor three times. The crowd parts for him as silence falls over the room.

  Sweat and tobacco smoke burn my eyes. I look up at the ceiling. What have I done?

  “Gentleman!” he booms as he struts through the masses. “We are gathered here tonight for the most beloved of our many traditions: the Cath Draíochta.”

  The men cheer.

  I turn to Finn, who stands next to me stock still and wide-eyed. “What on earth is the Cath Draíochta?”

  My question snaps him back to reality. “A tradition to awaken the magic of the younger members. See if they’re worth anything.”

  “Sounds like a perfect distraction. How do we get out of here?” I whip around, looking for the exit. We’re not far from the stairs. We could still escape.

  Finn shakes his head. “We can’t.”

  Boss Olan reaches the front of the room and bangs his cane on the floor once more. It reverberates through the soles of my boots.

  A hush falls, palpable and reverent.

  Sickening panic rises in my chest. I tug on the hem of Finn’s tuxedo jacket and look toward the exit. He shakes his head no again, a horrible look of resigned fear on his face, and that’s what frightens me most of all.

  “Your bets may be placed with Freddie,” Boss Olan continues. “Cheating, as always, will be harshly prosecuted.”

  A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd. More tuxedo-clad men seem to be streaming in by the second. The room is thick with shoe polish, sour smoke, and cologne. I think I’m going to be sick.

  Boss Olan smiles and cracks his cane against the floor yet again.

  “Let us begin.”

  The lights dim; then the chandelier above the marble circle sparks to life with a snick, illuminating the white ring in a spotlight.

  The room takes a collective intake of breath. The fiddle stops. Everything stills. My stomach rolls.

  Then the crowd parts, and a man struts into the ring. He’s short and broad shouldered, wearing a brown suit and a scowl on his face. He paces the perimeter of the circle and throws his arms up. The crowd roars. I cannot leave, so I simply watch with mingled curiosity and fear.

  On the other side of the ring there is a brief commotion before another man is shoved into the center. He’s in a fine tuxedo, tripping over his shiny shoes. His head whips desperately back and forth, scanning the crowd.

  Oliver goddamn Callahan.

  Of course he’s a part of this too. Underneath my initial flash of anger and frustration is pity. He looks as scared as I feel.

  He attempts to walk away but is shoved back in by one of the crowd inching closer and closer to the golden circle on the floor. Although he’s tall, he’s too skinny, all elbows and spindly legs, useless in fighting off the men pushing him. His eyes dart like a rabbit’s caught in a trap, as he’s forced nearer to the center.

  The crowd is getting restless. Someone shouts “Coward!” from the back of the room.

  I can’t hear him over the din, but he’s saying something to the men holding him that might be Please, no.

  And despite all my anger at Oliver, despite my suspicion seeing him here, despite our fraught history, my heart pangs for him, as William’s voice rings in my ears. Help him, Frances. He doesn’t have any of our street smarts.

  Oliver’s head makes a sickening cracking noise as it hits the marble. It happens so quickly, I don’t even see him fall. I only see the dazed look in his eyes from where he lies on the floor. I really might be sick.

  The other man in the ring looks down at him with disgust, and nudges him with the toe of his boot. “Get up!”

  Oliver pushes himself up and spits blood onto the marble.

  It’s a ring. They’re in a boxing ring.

  The room erupts. Cheers, shouting, jeering. My ears are ringing, my mouth agape.

  I turn to Finn in horror. “We have to help him!” I yell.

  He leans down and whispers, “Just watch.”

  Oliver puts his fists up over his face, but he looks so young and so scared. And suddenly I am a child again, drinking vanilla floats with him, playing hide-and-seek. I see his boyish face as he sits on our stoop, laughing with William back when my world was just eight blocks wide and the most interesting thing I’d ever seen was the color of Oliver’s eyes.

  But before I can form another coherent thought, the pocket watch is ripped from the breast of the man next to me. It flies through the air and winds itself around one of Oliver’s fists, jerking it down to his side.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Oliver’s opponent stretches out his hand, and a glass of champagne flies out of the grip of a man next to the ring. It hovers in the air for a moment before shattering on the floor.

  The largest shard goes flying at Oliver’s cheek, but he dodges it with a duck to his left.

  “Oliver!” I shout at him.

  His eyes snap to mine. He does a double take.

  “Frances?” he cries.

  “What are you doing here?” I shout through the din.

  I’ve done the worst possible thing by distracting him. His opponent uses his fists instead of magic this time and lands a blow square on Oliver’s left cheek. By the way his eyes water, it’s obvious he’s never been punched before. William was his defender as much as he was mine.

  The sight of an unwilling tear streaming down Oliver’s rapidly swelling cheek makes me feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me, too.

  I can’t just stand and watch. Despite everything we’ve been through, or perhaps because of it, I push myself forward, shove thr
ough a wall of solid bodies and the riled-up disappointment of men who wanted to see more violence than this. All the while, I scream Oliver’s name as Finn calls for me from behind, shouting at me to stop.

  My brother wouldn’t have stopped, and neither do I.

  Despite every reasonable part of my body screaming for me to leave, I step into the ring.

  Panic makes it easier to call the magic. Power swells as I send an entire bottle of whiskey flying off a shelf on the back wall and into the skull of Oliver’s attacker. It only takes one blow. He crumples to the floor like a marionette cut from its strings.

  The crowd goes wild. The floor vibrates with the stomping of feet. I’ve never used magic to intentionally hurt anyone before.

  No, I correct myself. You didn’t hurt anyone—you saved someone.

  In front of me, Oliver is very still. His blood stains the bright white marble crimson.

  I kneel and grab the lapels of his tuxedo. “Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”

  He turns his head and spits blood on the floor again. “At least ten men in this room are doctors.”

  Finn is suddenly behind me, stony faced. “You shouldn’t’a done that.”

  Boss Olan’s cane bangs twice against the floor, silencing the room.

  “A loss for Mr. Callahan and Mr. Bertram it seems!” A roar rises from the crowd “Your bets are null and void, you dirty gamblers!” The roaring turns to laughter. Glasses are clinked. Oliver’s blood runs close to my left shoe. His hands are shaking.

  I seethe with anger at Finn and at myself. I risked so much coming here. I’ve been so stupid.

  “No more of this. I am leaving,” I say to Finn through gritted teeth. The stairs look blocked by men, but I’d guess it’s our best bet.

  “I’m sorry, Frances, I’m so sorry,” Finn says. He looks pained like he did the other night when he declared I’d been haunting him his whole life.

  Before I can ask him why, we’re interrupted by the sharp rap of a cane against stone.

  “Place your bets, gentlemen: next up is perhaps the most exciting match we’ve ever held.” A murmur rolls through the crowd like thunder.

  Oliver reaches for me as two men pick him up by the armpits and haul him out of the ring. He still looks dazed. I need to find a doctor to examine his head.