The 5th Witch

by Graham Masterton

  Horrified—but fascinated, too, Dan realized that he recognized her. It was the same grotesque witch they had seen on the TV screen during their debriefing at the police station—the witch who had turned around and snarled at Ernie.

  “Annie,” he said. “Annie, open your eyes. You have to see this.”

  Annie said, “I can’t. It would break the spell.”

  “The flies and the maggots—they’ve made themselves into a person. A witch.”

  “Dan, I can’t look. I have to finish the incantation.”

  She raised both hands and chanted, “Scatter, and let the winds carry you far away! In the name of all the katcinas and the forgotten names of the vanished ones, go!”

  The witch figure raised both of its arms, too, as if she were imitating Annie, and its lips began to move, but all Dan could hear was the rustling and buzzing of blowflies.

  Annie repeated the chant and made a chopping gesture with her hands, like karate.

  The witch figure’s cloak was already flapping in a wind that Dan couldn’t feel, but now the whole figure began to shudder violently. Blowflies began to break away from its hood and its shoulders, just a few at first, then more and more, and maggots tumbled away from its face.

  Annie kept on chopping and chanting, and gradually the entire witch disintegrated into clouds of blowflies and showers of maggots. The unfelt wind blew them relentlessly under the door that led to the corridor, and they disappeared in their hundreds, rattling against the baseboards and the woodwork. In less than a minute, they were all gone.

  “That’s it,” said Dan, laying his hand on Annie’s shoulder. “You’ve done it. You’re amazing.”

  Annie opened her eyes. She looked white, as if casting that spell had drained her of all energy. All the same, she managed a twitchy, distracted little smile. “I don’t think our witch will be trying that one again.”

  “They’re really gone?” Dan asked her. “I mean gone for good? They’re not just heaped up on the other side of that door?”

  “I sent them back where they came from, and where they came from is the bathroom mirror.”

  Dan went across the living room and very cautiously opened the door. The corridor was empty. No maggots, no flies. Only the faintest smell of dried herbs and vinegar. He looked up and down it, and then he crossed to the bathroom.

  The bathroom was empty, too—but when he approached the sink, he saw that there were three or four blowflies still crawling across the back of the door behind him. He turned around, but they weren’t there at all. They were still visible in the world of reflection, but Annie had driven them out of the real world and scattered them forever, so they would never be able to swarm again.

  He returned to the living room. Malkin was sniffing under the couch, obviously disappointed that there were no more maggots left to pounce on.

  Annie came out of the kitchen, wiping the dried blood from her eyelids with a wet paper towel.

  “It worked,” she said.

  “You sound surprised. Didn’t you think it was going to?”

  “Not for a single moment.”

  “You made me wade through all those maggots to get that goddamned book, and you didn’t even believe it was going to work?”

  “I’ll tell you, Dan—those maggots and blowflies were such a strong conjuration. I’ve never felt anything so powerful, ever.”

  “But look what you did, Annie. You’re powerful, too! You drove them all away, no problem. I saw you with my own eyes, kid. You were shooting out sparks like a goddamned Roman candle!”

  He came up close to her and brushed a stray hair away from her forehead. “Maybe you can’t burn people alive or make them puke up toads. But you must have a whole lot more witch-type power inside of you than you ever realized.”

  She looked around the living room. “You’re right. I do feel more powerful.” She raised both hands and pushed them outward, as if she were pushing against an invisible force. “It’s almost like there’s magic everywhere…like the whole city’s full of it.”

  She turned back to Dan. “I broke that spell, didn’t I? I scattered all those maggots and flies. I’m sure I could never have done that before. And you know what—when one witch breaks another witch’s spell, she absorbs its magic, or at least she’s supposed to, and it makes her even more powerful.”

  “You mean like Highlander? ‘There can be only one.’”

  “Kind of, yes. If only we had some idea who she was, this witch.”

  “I recognized her,” said Dan. “When those maggots and those blowflies all piled up together, they made kind of an effigy of her. I’m sure it was the same old crone I saw at Chief O’Malley’s media conference, along with the Zombie and the White Ghost and Vasili Krylov and those other three witches. It wasn’t a face you’d easily forget, believe me.”

  “The fourth witch,” said Annie. “The most powerful witch of them all.”

  “Question is…why did she send those maggots after you?”

  “How about a beer?” said Annie. “I still have this foul taste of maggots in my mouth.”

  Dan lifted two cold bottles of Miller out of the fridge and unscrewed them. Annie took three deep swallows and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “God, that’s better. I felt like I’d been chewing them.”

  “This witch—it almost seems like she knows that you have maggot-o-phobia.”

  “I’m pretty sure she does. I think she knew that if I was surrounded by thousands of maggots, I’d totally freeze—so that even when they hatched into blowflies and started to choke me, I wouldn’t be able to move.”

  Dan thought for a moment, and then he said, “If she’s so set on killing you, she must think that you’re a serious threat.”

  Annie went to the kitchen door and opened it, and stepped out onto the balcony. The warm evening breeze made the city lights waver like fishing-boat lights out at sea; and it stirred her thin white linen dress, too. She closed her eyes and took two or three deep breaths. “It’s the power,” she said, after a while. “I can feel it. That’s why she tried to choke me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t you see? She has this massive magical aura. That’s how the other three witches can work such devastating magic. They’re using their own spells, but they’re feeding off her energy. But she can’t pick and choose who taps in to her energy and who doesn’t, because it’s everywhere. It’s like the wind. The wind can’t decide whose kite is going to fly and whose isn’t.”

  “So you’re feeding off her energy, too?”

  “That’s what it feels like. I guess that any woman can, if she has magical sensitivity. It’s just that I have much more magical sensitivity than most, and this witch can obviously sense it. Well, she must have sensed it as soon as I tried to locate her on the map. She tasted the salt. She felt the needles pricking her.”

  Dan said, “We’re going to have to find a way to protect you. Tonight it’s maggots and blowflies. Who knows what the hell she’s going to send after you tomorrow.”

  “But I did beat her, didn’t I? I did manage to break her spell.”

  “Yes, you beat her. But maybe she didn’t realize how powerful you’d become. And maybe she didn’t think that I was going to be there, to carry you out of the room. Next time, she’ll be better prepared. You can bet on it.”

  “I wish I knew who she was. Then I would have some idea of what kind of magic she’s involved in.”

  “I have a DVD of her. Pretty clear one, too. It was taken at Chief O’Malley’s media conference this afternoon. Do you think you might recognize her?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly. I could take a look.”

  “Sure—but let’s do it upstairs, in my apartment. She may not try again tonight, but you never know. And this time it might be centipedes.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mayor Briggs had just opened his mouth to fork in a generous helping of Hudson Valley foie gras and rhubarb marmalade when Jean-Christophe
Artisson walked into the restaurant with Michelange DuPriz, closely followed by Vasili Krylov and Miska, and then Orestes Vasquez with Lida Siado, and a much older woman in a black cloche hat and a black evening dress that looked as if she had first worn it in the 1950s.

  Spago was crowded that evening because there had been a screening at Paramount of Steven Schneider’s new movie, Blood Season. But as soon as Artisson and Krylov and Vasquez appeared, with their witches on their arms, conversation in the main dining room gradually died away. Outside in the garden, under the trees, laughter and loud conversation continued, but table by table even that began to peter out.

  The maitre-d’ approached Jean-Christophe Artisson with his hands clasped apologetically together. “I am so sorry, sir. Tonight we are completely booked.”

  “Poukisa? Why are you sorry? Nothing for you to be sorry about. Business must be good.”

  “Yes, sir. Maybe some other night.”

  “Eskize mwen?” said Jean-Christophe Artisson. “Mwen grangou. I am hungry. And my friends are also hungry. Nou ta vle manje.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I have explained to you already that every table is taken.”

  Vasili Krylov looked around the restaurant. Almost every diner had stopped eating and was staring at the mobsters with apprehension and hostility. The only noise and activity in the restaurant came from the kitchen, behind its decorative glass screen, where the clattering of saucepans and the rattling of whisks continued as normal.

  “There,” said Vasili Krylov, pointing to the table in the center of the dining room, directly under the pyramid-shaped skylight. The producer Fred Manning was sitting there with Krystie Wallis, the star of Evil Intent, and Leonard Shapiro, the movie financier, and Sylvia Wolpert, the casting agent. They had just been served with their wild striped bass and their grilled breasts of squab, and the sommelier had just filled their glasses with white Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

  “Sir, as I have explained—” said the maitre-d’, dodging between Vasili Krylov and the Manning party’s table.

  Vasili Krylov leaned over him, so that their noses were almost touching. “I tell you this one time only,” he said in his James Bond–villain accent. “Me and my friends, we will be sitting here, at this table, in twenty seconds. How you achieve this is your difficulty.”

  The maitre-d’ turned in desperation to Mayor Briggs. “Mr. Mayor!” Then he caught the sleeve of the nearest waiter and said, “Calvin, get Mikos and Newton in here! Do it now!”

  Fred Manning stood up and said, “What the hell is going on here? Who are these people?”

  Several other men stood, too, and one or two women. A ripple of indignation went through the restaurant. But many diners recognized at least one of the mobsters, and they stayed seated with their faces turned away. Some of them quickly reached out and grasped the hands of their dinner companions to prevent them from getting to their feet.

  The maitre-d’ called, “Mayor Briggs! Please!”

  With huge reluctance, Mayor Briggs pushed back from his table and came across the dining room, his napkin still tucked in his shirt collar.

  “Evening, Mr. Krylov. Evening, Mr. Artisson. Evening, Mr. Vasquez. Evening, ladies.”

  “These bums are trying to bounce us off our table,” said Fred Manning. “I never heard of anything like it!”

  “It’s a disgrace,” put in Sylvia Wolpert. “We’re right in the middle of our dinner.”

  “Madame,” said Jean-Christophe Artisson, with a grin. “How can we help it if we are too hungry to wait for you to finish?”

  Two bulky young doormen came bustling into the restaurant, but one of them immediately recognized Orestes Vasquez and stopped where he was, gripping the other doorman’s shoulder to hold him back.

  “Mikos!” called the maitre-d’. “Newton! Please! Show these people out!”

  The doorman shook his head.

  “Mikos! You want me to fire you? Show these people out!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Sylvester, but that’s not included in our job description.”

  “What do you mean? You are security! So, secure already!”

  “Security, yes sir. Suicides, no way.”

  Mayor Briggs was about to lay a reassuring hand on Orestes Vasquez’s white-suited arm, but when he saw the expression on Orestes Vasquez’s face, he made a circling motion instead, as if he were turning round the hands of an invisible clock. Nobody ever laid a finger on the White Ghost’s suits, at the high risk of losing that finger forever.

  “Maybe we can come to some amicable arrangement here,” Mayor Briggs suggested.

  “Of course,” said Orestes Vasquez. “If these folks amicably leave this table, we can amicably sit down and amicably eat.”

  “This is bullshit!” snapped Fred Manning. “Damon, call the police!”

  “I don’t think that calling the police is going to have the effect you’re looking for, Mr. Manning,” said Mayor Briggs.

  “What are you talking about? This is Spago, for Christ’s sake, not some greasy spoon. I’ve been eating here for twenty years. I’m not having some bunch of bozos stroll right in from the street and toss me off my table!”

  Fred Manning sat down again and gripped the edge of the table with both hands. “I’m not moving, and nobody can make me move! Damon, call nine-one-one. These people don’t know who they’re dealing with!”

  Mayor Briggs walked around to Fred Manning’s chair and bent his head close to the producer’s ear. “Mr. Manning, these three gentlemen are all very influential Los Angeles businessmen. I’m surprised you haven’t recognized them.”

  “I’m surprised they haven’t recognized me. I don’t care who they are. I’m not moving from this table for nobody!”

  “Mr. Manning, these three gentlemen are Vasili Krylov, Orestes Vasquez, and Jean-Christophe Artisson.”

  “Mr. Mayor, I don’t give a rat’s ass if they’re the Three Wise Men. This is my table, I booked it, and me and my guests are going to stay right here.”

  “Mr. Manning, please. I am sure we can find a way to make this up to you. For your own sake, why don’t you and your friends quietly leave and let these gentlemen have your table? We don’t want any trouble, either now or later.”

  Fred Manning said nothing, but gripped the table even tighter, until his knuckles were spotted with white.

  At that moment, the Russian witch, Miska, came up to him. This evening her feathery white hair had been tweaked up with gel, and she was wearing smudgy purple makeup around her eyes. She wore an ankle-length dress of clinging purple velvet, with one shoulder bare, and a silver necklace that looked like a collection of unusual surgical instruments—semicircular clamps to prevent patients’ eyelids from closing, speculums for stretching open their body openings.

  “I am Miska Vedma,” she announced, her head tilted slightly to one side, almost as if she were flirting with him. But her eyes remained totally dead.

  “Well, I’m Fred Manning, and don’t you think for one moment that I’m moving, young lady. You and your friends need to get out of here before you get yourselves arrested.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to move, sir,” said Miska in a husky voice. “In fact, you can stay at that table for as long as you like.”

  Fred Manning frowned at her. “So what’s all the damned fuss about? If you don’t want our table, why spoil our dinner?”

  “We do want your table, but—” she gave him a bare-shouldered shrug—“if you simply won’t move—”

  “You’re damned tooting we won’t!”

  Miska raised her right hand and covered her face, so that only her eyes looked out. The restaurant had been silent, but now the diners began to whisper and murmur.

  “What the hell is she doing?”

  “—high on something, if you ask me.”

  “Maybe it’s some kind of publicity stunt—”

  Vasili Krylov said nothing, but turned to Orestes Vasquez and Jean-Christophe Artisson and gave them a small, smug smile.

  A gi
lt-framed mirror hung between the tall garden doors. Inside the mirror, Miska’s reflection walked with a cat’s elegance around the table until she was standing close to Fred Manning’s right shoulder.

  In the real restaurant, however, she stayed where she was, more than ten feet away from him, her hand still covering her face.

  “Crazy people,” said Sylvia Wolpert, shaking her head. “Lunatics and bums! Hollywood used to have class.”

  “Let’s eat,” said Fred Manning. “I don’t know if any of you still feel hungry. I sure don’t. But I’m damned if I’m going to give these bozos the satisfaction of knowing it.”

  He was about to dig into his garlic-potato mash when he suddenly jerked his right arm straight up in the air, as if he were giving a Nazi salute. He looked up at his arm in surprise, but then he twisted his wrist around so that his fork was pointing downward and rammed it straight into the back of his left hand. It made a sharp, biting crunch and pinned his hand to the top of the table.

  “Aaaaahhhhh!” he shouted, staring wildly at his fellow diners.

  “Fred!” screamed Krystie Wallis. “Fred, what have you done to yourself?”

  “Get me free!” he bellowed. “Get me free!”

  Leonard Shapiro reached across the table to pull the fork out of Fred Manning’s hand. As he did so, however, two knives jumped into the air and stuck themselves right through the muscle of his forearm, so that the sleeve of his cream-colored sport coat was flooded red with blood. Seconds later, both women screamed out in pain and bewilderment as Krystie Wallis slapped her left hand on top of Sylvia Wolpert’s, and their hands were pinned together with a large steak knife.

  In all the confusion, nobody noticed Miska’s reflection, circling around the table with a smile on her face. Her reflection walked back across the restaurant until it was standing where her real self was standing, and then she took her hand away from her face.

  “There!” she said. “Now you do not have to leave your table, sir! In fact, you can’t, because you and your beloved table are joined as one. I hope you are happy together.”