Urban Witch (Urban Witch Series - Book 1)

by R. L. Giddings

  Lacking a glass himself, Terence didn’t know what to do with his hands. Without the threat of the gun he seemed diminished. Finally, he stopped a passing waiter and took two glasses of champagne. He handed one to me.

  “Who are these people?”

  “They’re the future. They’re not allied to either the Red or the Blue Bloods. They’re investing in our New World Order. They’ll take over running everything once the plan is set in motion.”

  Where had I heard that before?

  “They’re our new leaders?”

  He didn’t pick-up on my incredulity. “There can only ever be one leader. No one will be left to stand against her.”

  I leaned closer, anyone watching would assume that I was simply being indiscreet. “You realise that this all sounds just a bit deranged.”

  He was unfazed, smiling broadly. “There must have been a similar moment in Russia before the fall of the Czars.”

  I drank my champagne. It was very good. The word “deranged” didn’t come close.

  “So, who’s in charge round here?”

  He didn’t reply, he simply indicated behind me.

  Melissa Stahl was standing over by the window talking to a young woman of mixed race her hair bound in tight ponytails. Another witch, unless I missed my guess. I tried not to let my surprise show, sensitive to the fact that Terence was gauging my reaction.

  “That’s Anathema,” he said. “Melissa’s trying to make something of her. I fear she’ll be disappointed.”

  “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “If I’m jealous of anyone: it’s you. I’m surprised you haven’t worked that one out yet.”

  If he was joking I couldn’t see it.

  Over in the corner, someone was making a toast. I couldn’t hear what they were toasting but they all knocked their glasses back, dutifully draining them in one gulp. For a celebration no one gave the impression that they were actually enjoying themselves. They were just going through the motions. If there was going to be a New World Order why couldn’t it at least be fun?

  I moved across to one of the buffet tables at the centre of which was an ice sculpture of a swan.

  I said, “I’ve been meaning to commend you on your accent. Where was it that you actually went to school in the end?”

  “An English school, like I said. But in Lhasa, Northern India.”

  “So, you’re not Chinese?”

  “Tibetan,” he folded his arms, not even looking at me. His eyes kept returning to Stahl who was still deep in conversation.

  “So, how long have you known her?”

  “Melissa. eight, no, nearly nine years now.”

  “Was she the one who brought you over here?”

  He snatched another couple of glasses from a passing waiter. “She recognised my natural talent, if that’s what you mean. Do you know anything about our conflict with China?”

  I squirmed. World Affairs really aren’t my forte. “I know that the Dalai Lama had to leave.”

  “You see: no one in the West is remotely interested in what’s been happening. Let’s just say that after the Chinese invaded, that’s when I started putting my skills to good use.”

  His whole demeanour had changed. He gripped the stem of the glass so tightly that I was afraid he’d break it.

  “Chinese troops raped and killed my mother and my sister then dumped their bodies on the outskirts of our village. My father was never the same again. All he could think about was revenge.”

  “I’m sorry, really. And did he use you to exact that revenge?” I didn’t need Terence to say anything to know the answer. “So, what went wrong?”

  “He made the mistake of creating a myth. The more soldiers that went missing the greater the myth of the Snow Leopard. The Chinese secret police took it upon themselves to put a stop to it. They didn’t believe in the stories – at least, they said that they didn’t - but they wanted the killings to stop. It was only a matter of time before my father became the focus for their suspicions.”

  I didn’t think that I wanted to hear the rest of the story. I didn’t want to start feeling sorry for him. Not now. Though at least that explained what it was that we’d been up against all that time: a Snow Leopard, not a Werewolf. I’d heard about such things, naturally, but I’d never thought that there was any real substance to them. It explained what had happened at the hospital. People had wanted to believe that it had been a werewolf attack and so, when Terence said “werewolf” no one was going to disagree with him. Except me.

  “When did you run into Stahl?” I said, in an attempt to change the subject.

  “She was a junior diplomat in India at the time. There were links to my school and she picked up on the rumours. She was the one who arranged for me to be moved to Hong Kong after my father had been arrested. It was only a matter of time before they realised their mistake. By that time she had set up a bursary for me at an English speaking school.”

  “Totally selflessly of course,” I didn’t try to hide my sarcasm. “And then she set you to work for her?”

  “I’ve enjoyed working for her,” he took a sip of champagne. “She’s way ahead of your friend Kinsella.”

  The woman called Anathema had finished speaking with Stahl started to move off. But not before she fixed me with a glare. She had eyes like cold sequins.

  Stahl stood there, waiting for us to go over to her.

  “What happened to your father?” I asked Terence.

  That seemed to catch him off-guard. “I don’t know. He just disappeared. Probably holed up in some prison somewhere knowing the Chinese authorities.”

  He took my elbow then, my apprehension growing as he led me towards Stahl. He whispered gently in my ear, “She still hasn’t made up her mind about you yet. You could still turn this to your advantage.”

  Stahl stepped forward and shook my hand, “You just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

  She sounded genuinely amused.

  I didn’t want her to see how foolish I felt so I said, “I applied for an internship at your office once. Didn’t even get an interview.”

  “I know. That must have seemed cruel at the time but I didn’t want to be accused of grooming you. I wanted you to see inside The Bear Garden with all its contradictions. What it’s like working under that insufferable Humane Directive.”

  “I love The Bear Garden.”

  Stahl gave a sigh. Terence looked away.

  “Which says rather more about you than I’d feared. Okay, you quite like being hidden away in the depths of The Ptolemy with whatshername?”

  “Janice?”

  “Yes, that’s the one – Janice. Queen of the Stacks. Walk this way,” she strode out of the room across the balcony and down a side corridor. We had no choice but to follow her.

  “You know why they keep you down there of course. So Janice can keep an eye on you. You do realise that, at least?”

  I hadn’t thought of it like that. It would explain a lot: Janice as my protector rather than my jailer. Ahead of us I caught a whiff of corrupt sweetness. Melissa led me into a room on the left. Terence didn’t follow us inside but stopped on the threshold.

  The room had been someone’s office dominated, from floor-to-ceiling, by bookshelves. It had obviously been Linqvist’s office but Stahl had apparently commandeered it for herself. Almost every surface had vases filled with opulent roses some tightly budded whilst others were starting to drop their petals. The smell induced a kind of sensual vertigo.

  On the wall facing us was a large window and through the half raised blinds I could look out onto the garden.

  “You know why they keep you down there, don’t you? Because they don’t trust you. It’s that simple. They’d like to have you working somewhere they can control you rather than have you working against them in any capacity. In short: they’re frightened of you.”

  “Did my mother put you up to this?”

  She laughed at that. A rich, seductive, caressing laugh which show
ed off her shapely neck, “Your mother and I aren’t currently on speaking terms. Though I’m willing to bet that that’s about to change.” But I wasn’t listening. I’d seen something on the table that had been almost hidden by the flowers.

  The Book of Lost Souls.

  Stahl came over and stood beside me enjoying my reaction. “Yes, it’s very interesting isn’t it? We found it in the boot of your friend’s car.”

  “Helena?”

  “That’s right. Have you had a chance to study it? You speak Russian don’t you?”

  “I had the opportunity to examine it the other day, why?”

  Stahl said, “Did she let you look at all of it?”

  “We were on a tight schedule.”

  “Is that what she said? I’m willing to bet that you didn’t see this section.”

  She bent over the book as if bowing to royalty and picked it up in both hands. Then she flicked through it until she’d found the page she was looking for.

  “This section here.”

  I let my eye play over the page. I didn’t recognise the name at the top but that didn’t matter. There was an illustration down the left hand side showing a medieval monk reading from a scroll while a woman tied to a post was being pierced in the side by a Norman soldier.

  “Agnesse dell Lucca?”

  “I’ve never heard of her, either.” Stahl said. “Which is the real tragedy.”

  It was only when she started turning the pages and I had seen the countless entries did I realise the significance of what we were looking at.

  “How many entries are there?”

  “Over forty,” she started reading aloud. “Marie of Endellion. Foul Becky. Sister Cecilia – if you can believe that. Faustina Kowalski. Violette Beauvais. They were all witches of some standing, all of them victims of the Iron. It records every occasion when the Iron was administered over a period of two hundred years.”

  “But why haven’t we heard these names before? This entry goes on for over six pages.”

  Stahl let out a long sigh. “It has ever been thus. You see, after the Church had branded our sisters they also had them executed. But that wasn’t enough for them. They were terrified that these witches might be turned into martyrs so the Vatican saw to it that any record of them and their families were stricken from the records both public and private. Births, marriages, deaths all documentation about them was destroyed.

  They were literally written out of history. The monks who used the Iron recorded the circumstances in which it was deployed and, more importantly, gave details of the witches they had branded along with the nature of their crimes.”

  Stahl’s eyes were burning brightly but I couldn’t help being drawn in by her very real sense of frustration.

  “Of course, we knew some of the names of these women because other witches have taken great pains to preserve them. That’s partly what libraries like the Ptolemy were designed to document.”

  “So, why is this book not better known?” I said. “Why isn’t it made accessible to everyone. It would help us to fill in so many gaps in our own history. There isn’t even an English translation.”

  Stahl smiled. “You’ll have to put that question to Mr Kinsella. We seem doomed to have our history controlled by our persecutors.”

  I took the book from her and placed it back on the table. I’d grown anxious just watching her handle it.

  “Was Helena working for you? I really would like to know.”

  Stahl exchanged a look with Terence.

  “Let’s just say that I made her aware of certain conflicts of interest. I didn’t try to force her arm. I just responded to some of her concerns.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “And what about the others: Brodsky and Lindqvist? Lindqvist’s nephew? Did you respond to their concerns as well?”

  Stahl went and stood over by the window, looking down into the drive. Warm bars of orange light transformed her face with nostalgia for what had passed.

  “They were more concerned with their natural greed,” she turned her head. “But Terence can tell you more about it, can’t you Terence? He was there you see.”

  Terence dropped his head, his tongue playing over his gums. “I went to Brodsky’s studio to view the Iron. He didn’t know who I was, though he knew who I represented. He was trying to broker a deal but he was demanding crazy money. Millions. It must have been obvious that I had no intention of paying him but I was desperate to see the Iron…”

  Stahl stepped around behind him, squeezing his shoulders. “This is a bit awkward. Brodsky tricked him. Led poor Terence down to the basement and locked him in.”

  “He must have panicked then,” Terence said. “He gave Stackholm the keys and headed for the gallery. He shouldn’t have locked me up like that.”

  Terence sounded embarrassed. “The room had a ridiculously low ceiling. I felt very claustrophobic. That’s what must have tipped me into transforming: the sense of confinement. I must have broken the door down before killing him.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Not all of it. The instincts take over sometimes. I followed Brodsky’s scent back to his gallery.”

  “It must have been a close run thing,” I observed. “Brodsky wouldn’t have left his car behind unless he could help it.

  “Especially if he’d managed to stash the Iron underneath.”

  “We still don’t know if that’s true.”

  Stahl interrupted. “But I think we’re about to find out.

  Chapter 22

  My opportunity to speak with Terence presented itself as we came down the stairs. Stahl’s curiosity had gotten the better of her and she’d crossed the hall quickly, pausing only to grab a camel coloured Aquascutum coat. I waited until she was on the other side of the door before I made my move.

  “What does Stahl intend to do once she gets her hands on the Iron?” I said.

  “It’s meant to be her big show-stopper,” Terence sounded morose. “She’d kill me if I told you.”

  I lowered my chin and frowned at him. “She’s going to do that anyway.”

  He started to jostle me towards the door. “And why would she do that?”

  “Because you’re not a witch. Once you’ve served your purpose she’ll have no more use for you.”

  It was cruel, but it was true. I’d had years of listening to how the Sisterhood could trust no one but their own kind.

  “Tell me what she intends to do and perhaps I can help stop her.”

  Terence found that amusing. “There is no stopping her now. She is unstoppable.”

  Outside, we watched as the gravel was cleared so that two sets of car-ramps could be dragged into place. A team of four men in overalls first checked to ensure that they were lined up properly before one of them got behind the wheel of Brodsky’s BMW. After a lot of manoeuvring he managed to drive the car up onto the ramp.

  It was cold outside and every now and then I felt light flecks of rain on my face. I had managed to warm up after being in the house for a while but now I had no choice but to stand around as the temperature continued to drop. I wished I’d not been so quick to surrender my coat, wet or not.

  “The Coven has a lot to recommend it as an organisation,” Stahl had pulled her collar up against the cold. “In fact, apart from some of its out-dated thinking there’s really only one thing that’s holding it back.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s leadership.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me there: my mother’s psychotic – what can I say?”

  Stahl edged a little closer adopting a conspiratorial tone. “Is it true that when you were young she tried to…”

  I cut her off before he could finish. “You know that I’m not going to answer that. But, please, carry on. I believe that you were in the process of giving the Coven an ethical make-over.”

  “You can laugh, Bronte, but these are dangerous times – for all of us. We’re in a very fragile position
now as far as public awareness is concerned. Oh,” she pointed towards the car, “I think they’ve found something.”

  With the car clear of the ground, one of the men had climbed underneath, the better to examine the underside with an Arc light. The three others were squatting down trying to get a better look at whatever it was that he’d found.

  Terence moved forward and spoke to the eldest of the three men standing. I turned and looked back up at the house. Every window was occupied by the cocktail party guests, drinks in hand, as if waiting for the fireworks to begin.

  Terence waved Stahl over. She looked ungainly navigating the gravel in her high heels.

  I was getting excited despite myself. The men fired up an oxyacetylene torch which they’d brought for the purpose and within minutes they were underway. There were bursts of bright, industrial light from which we shielded our eyes. Smoke drifted out and hung about, showing no signs of dispersing. It was all accompanied by the sharp tang of burning metal.

  Every so often, Terence would squat down in an attempt to see what was going on, though I doubt he had any more of an idea than the rest of us.

  Stahl kicked the gravel, eager to get going.

  I’d decided to wait until they had opened the safe-box under the car before I made my move. Silas was inside somewhere and I’d find him if it meant searching every room. The rest of them would be too distracted by the Iron, or whatever it was, to think about checking on me. How we were going to escape was the one part of the plan which still evaded me. Okay, I couldn’t drive and Silas couldn’t walk but I didn’t see that as being a problem. Though it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve been frustrated by the fact that witches can’t really fly.

  My thoughts were disturbed when someone under the car started swearing and Stahl dropped to one knee in order to get a better look.

  Everyone had to wait while the man underneath passed his find out to the others. Stahl tried to take it with one hand but it was too heavy for her and Terence had to help. The pair of them stepped back with a long, thin package, about a metre long, wrapped in a dirty oil-cloth. The cloth was held in place by twists of wire which one of the mechanics snipped away with a pair of pliers. Stahl kept a tight hold of the package throughout, every inch the anxious mother.