I shook my head and turned away. She tried to use her influence—the warm push she sent out was weak and frenzied—and I blocked her attempt.
“No one can protect you like I can,” she said.
“Don’t try that crap with me.”
“I’m sorry, Sophia. I never meant for—”
“Sorry? You’re fucking sorry?” I spun back, blinking away my tears, then stormed across the room, grabbed a roll of duct tape from the supply cabinet, and returned to bind her mouth shut.
Paloma rose and placed a hand on my arm. I was shaking.
“You need to stay calm,” she said.
I pressed my lips together and stared out the thin slit of a basement window, trying to find an inner calm. But all I found were cobwebs hanging between the windowpane and crank, and paint peeling away from rusted metal casing. Dead flies littered the sill. Outside was a wash of gray—the bark of cedars, the crumbling stone of the birdbath, the leaden sky.
Charles sat in one of the painted wooden chairs and held a closed fist against his lips. Paloma nodded at him and then took my hand. “Come sit at the altar.”
Tears filmed my eyes, but I managed to detach. I hardened my heart and pushed back as Ivory continued her efforts to influence. None of her thoughts made sense now anyway; they were all panicked, muddled fragments. I couldn’t make out a single word.
I needed her asleep. Paloma handed over a stone mortar bowl filled with skullcap and henbane. My hands numb from adrenaline, I nearly dropped the dish. Shakily, I ground the herbs with the pestle. The mixture in tea could knock a person out, but no way would Ivory willingly drink anything we prepared.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I blew the powder from my palm into her eyes. It would sting, then seep into her retinas and blood stream.
I leaned away as she fought against the chains. Fresh areas of her skin smoked as the chains shook on her wrists. The bloody flesh pussed, and Ivory’s fangs descended, tearing through the duct tape. Her cheeks puffed out and saliva escaped her mouth as she spat the tape to the floor.
Her movements became weaker, and before she could say anything, her eyelids drooped, then closed. Her body slumped listless in the chains.
I looked back to Charles. “She could have broken the chains?”
He shook his head. “They’re silver.”
That would explain why they burned her flesh. Initially, I’d thought those wounds had been from something else, but now that I understand her true nature, the cause was clear.
My gaze panned the room, anxiety mounting. Bright, cheery decor, with chains attached to the wall. A dark-haired girl’s limp body sagging against restraints, silver eating away at flesh, searing third-degree burns into her wrists.
No, the room wasn’t living up to my intentions. Perhaps I’d put the negative energy here myself.
Paloma handed me a paste made from elderberries to smear over Ivory’s eyes, urging me to move forward with the ritual. This was new territory for me. What if the ignisvisum didn’t work? We had no backup plan.
My confidence ebbed. “Everyone will ask where she went.”
“I doubt anyone will be surprised,” Charles said, “considering the way she’s been acting.”
“Stay with me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He nodded.
Paloma joined me in the opening rites to cast the circle and assisted me with a protection spell. A globe of electricity surrounded us as we kneeled in front of the altar. Paloma filled the scrying bowl with chips of driftwood.
“Only you will see the images,” Paloma said, “and only you will be able hear her thoughts.”
I swallowed and nodded, then threw a lit match in my scrying bowl, the wood catching fire and heating my nose and cheeks. I added a cinnamon stick to aid in psychic vision and, using a small cloth, wiped acacia oil across my forehead to strengthen the effect.
Until that moment, reality could have been denied. Now I had to accept what I set out to accomplish.
“Blazing fire as you dance, give me now the secret glance. Call upon my second sight, make me psychic with your light.” In a quiet murmur, I repeated the words like a mantra, my eyelids growing heavy as I gazed into the fire.
Images from Ivory’s mind displayed like a mirage on the rippling air above the embers, and my clairaudience soaked in all her thoughts and every memory and sense of emotion she’d once had.
My heart tightened as the air around our circle filled with black smog and the spirits of the deceased, alive during the imprinting of Ivory’s memories, struggled to break through our protective barrier. How many of them were we pulling from the afterlife? How many were Morts—spirits of supernaturals that had never passed on?
I focused on my chant, tuning out the crackle of fire and the moans of spirits, watching the flicker of images in the scrying bowl. A dull pain swelled in my chest as millions of words, stretched over hundreds of years, spilled from her thoughts.
There she was. Ivory—though she thought of herself as Sarah. This wasn’t Colorado. This wasn’t the world I’d grown up in. Ivory was searching another forest, one far from here in time and place, for dry wood and kindling—anything that might catch fire and warm her small home.
A few feet into the woods, a woman sat leaning against a tree. Long, blonde tendrils of hair hid her face, her white bonnet crumpled and dirty.
This was Ivory’s life before she was turned, not just her memories of me. This wasn’t what I’d called for with my spell, but backing out might mean losing my only chance for answers.
I waited another moment, willing the memories to fast forward, willing the ignisvisum to skip past these moments and arrive at her memories of me—the memories I needed to see.
Despite my efforts, the images continued to scroll. The woman leaning against the tree turned, the moon shining off the tears that soaked her cheeks. She and I could have passed for sisters. I nearly pulled back, determined not to steal memories that had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from this woman. In my heart, I knew who she was before Ivory even spoke her name.
“Elizabeth?” Ivory asked.
I should have looked away, but this was possibly my only chance at discovering what happened to Elizabeth’s body … my only chance of gaining complete control over my clairaudience, of finding a way to protect myself and those I loved from the darkness in the supernatural world.
It’s often said experiences make a person who they are. But as I stared into the ignisvisum bowl and sent my clairaudience out to Ivory, I soon realized it was the memories of another that would forever reshape who I was to become.
{chapter twenty-three}
Salem, Massachusetts Colony, 1692
THE SKY DARKENED from indigo and ochre into a deep shade of amethyst. The remaining flecks of sun lent a golden warmth to the sepia-washed clearing. Ivory stumbled to a halt, then stepped closer, but Elizabeth remained seated in front of the tree.
She dropped her face into her hands. “Please go along.”
Ivory placed the maple wood she’d gathered on the forest floor and hurried to Elizabeth. “Why are you so troubled?”
“Go.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Something evil has come.”
Drawn to the sadness in Elizabeth’s eyes—a beautiful sadness that touched her heart in a way she’d never been moved before—Ivory felt a flutter in her stomach, but she held the betraying emotion at bay.
“Don’t let the town’s talk frighten you,” Ivory said. “They’re just stories.”
Elizabeth rocked slightly. “I can hear things. They will see, and they will kill me.”
Ivory glanced back toward the village. No one was approaching. “We won’t let that happen, now will we? Tell me—”
An energy coursed through her veins. She shot to her feet and looked in every direction for a source, the sky and forest whirring around her. A whispering voice echoed between the trees, as though spoken from many discordant voices: “The heart of th
e spirit.”
Ivory dropped to her knees in front of Elizabeth and placed a hand on either shoulder. “Did you—”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I heard.”
Ivory gripped Elizabeth’s shoulders until her short nails dug against the long sleeves of Elizabeth’s dress. “We’ll leave—travel somewhere safe and make sense of all this.”
“I can’t.” Elizabeth’s voice cracked. “My baby, I can’t leave him.”
“Nonsense. You must.”
Elizabeth pulled away and stood, shaking dirt loose from her skirts. “I won’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Ivory said, gentling her voice. Unlike Elizabeth, she didn’t have a husband or child. She still lived with her mother, father, and sister. How easy it would be to forget the ties that bound most women to the village. “Then we shall carry on until he has grown.”
The pair soon learned it was not evil that claimed them. The Universe had chosen them to restore balance to the earth, an idea their minds would have rejected if their hearts were not so touched by the purity of the Universe’s voice.
And so, on some evenings to follow, they stole away into the forest, performing rituals guided by the Universe to conjure peace. Their gifts strengthened over time, and the Universe promised their true purpose would soon be revealed. Elizabeth and Ivory had no common ground otherwise: Elizabeth was married to tailor, and Ivory was unwed, nearly too old to attract a suitor.
One afternoon, however, Elizabeth told Ivory of a deeper confliction, of the curse of many unknown voices, and not only the voice of the Universe.
They were sitting side-by-side near a dried riverbed, and the fabric of Ivory’s dress rustled against the fabric of Elizabeth’s. Ivory swallowed to steady her own quick, shallow breathing.
“I’m sure sense will come of it in time,” Ivory offered.
Elizabeth turned to her. “Such are these times, Sarah, that I think you are the only soul in the world who understands.”
Ivory searched Elizabeth’s eyes. Her heart leapt forward, and, before she could control her impulse, she pressed her lips against Elizabeth’s. Ivory quickly sat back, heat burning her cheeks and ears, but when she dared steal a glance, she noticed a blush creeping from the neckline of Elizabeth’s dress and the small contented smile that touched Elizabeth’s lips.
In nearby settlements, women were burned alive for such things. But Ivory wasn’t willing to sacrifice the hope she found in Elizabeth’s company.
Early one evening, while most of the townsfolk were still at work, Ivory opened her window and helped Elizabeth climb into her room. They huddled close under blankets, dressed only in their undergarments, facing each other on a small cot.
Ivory tucked one of Elizabeth’s curls behind her ear. "We will leave this place,” she whispered, “I promise you. When your child is grown, the time will be kind for our departure."
The floorboards creaked, and Elizabeth’s body went rigid in Ivory’s arms. Ivory clutched the blanket over their bodies. Her mother walked in and gasped, then spun away and shielded her eyes as Elizabeth quickly dressed and fled the house in tears.
“You are no child of mine!” Ivory’s mother said in a voice drenched with disgust. Her hooded grey eyes narrowed, her fists balled on her hips. “They will be talking your death to know what you’ve done. Wipe her from your mind. Hear me, child, for you will find the end of a noose if you continue this path. May God send his mercy upon you and cleanse the blackness in your soul.”
Ivory’s sister, Anne, appeared in the doorway, but just as quickly turned and darted from the house, her fiery hair trailing behind and bleeding against the red, setting sun. Ivory refastened the bodice of her dress and chased after. If Anne said anything about what she’d seen….
Ivory couldn’t let that happen. She rushed out to the courtyard and stood to block Elizabeth from Anne’s glare.
A woman across the court dropped her water pail, and a man pulled the reins of a horse to bring his cart to a halt. Even the hammering of a nearby blacksmith stopped, leaving only the scent of fire and hot metal in the sudden silence.
More onlookers gathered by the second, as though drawn by the sudden commotion. Ivory’s gaze swept across the villagers, some standing with mouths agape while others whispered amongst themselves. She looked at her own disheveled appearance, and then over to Elizabeth, who had dressed in such haste that her bonnet was crooked and her apron loose.
Ivory and Elizabeth stood without movement, a stunned tableau in the center of town. Anne tilted up her nose, smirking. Dirt scraped beneath her square-toed shoe as she turned toward the gathering of townsfolk. “Witch!” She pointed at Elizabeth. “She has stricken my sister! She bids the devil’s work!”
Ivory searched the faces of the crowd, looking for even one kind expression—there must be at least one who doubts this accusation?
But as her gaze landed on one unforgiving face after the other, her hope withered.
* * *
AT DAWN the next morning, Ivory fell upon the courthouse, carried by a sea of excited townsfolk. She paused outside the low brick wall surrounding the establishment, but her mother pushed her though, whispering in her ear that seeing this would be a good life lesson.
Once inside and seated, Ivory glared at Elizabeth’s husband, who sat on the worn pew at the front of the courtroom. Beside him, Elizabeth’s fourteen-month-old sat with his arms hugged around his stomach.
Magistrate John Thornhart entered the room, his long gray hair stiff and thinning, his narrow, aquiline nose pointing toward his dimpled chin. The crowd quieted, nothing remaining but the creak of the wooden pews and the rustle of papers.
“Bring forth the accused!” His powerful voice sent shivers down Ivory’s spine.
Two men brought Elizabeth into the courtroom and pushed her into a chair. Ivory’s gaze followed the length of her lover’s body from untamed hair to bare, dirtied feet, anger bubbling in her chest at the way she’d been mistreated.
Thornhart crossed the room, his shiny black buckled shoes clicking evenly on the wood floors. He faced Elizabeth, his hands clasped behind his back. “Elizabeth, what evil spirits have you familiarity with?”
“None,” she replied.
Thornhart raised one eyebrow and paced away. He looked back over his shoulder to her. “Have you made no contract with the devil?”
“No,” Elizabeth said, her voice harder and more direct.
Thornhart pointed at Ivory, his gaze still leveled at Elizabeth. “Why do you curse this woman?”
Ivory shot to her feet. “I have no grievance! She does not harm me!”
Thornhart jerked his head toward her. “Speak not out of turn, I warn you, Sarah, lest you are attempting to curse us as well.”
As all the eyes in the courtroom shifted to Ivory, her skin prickled with heat. She lowered herself to her seat. Never again did Ivory want to hear her name spoken aloud. Sarah was the woman who would save Elizabeth from this town, and she had failed.
“Elizabeth, what say you?” Thornhart asked.
“I do not curse her.” Elizabeth’s voice remained strong. Still, her eyes pleaded to the court, and Ivory’s heart dropped to her stomach.
“Who, then, do you employ has cursed her?”
“No creature, for I am falsely accused!”
There was an edge of anger in Elizabeth’s voice, and the crowd murmured.
“You bid the work of the devil when you make this woman lay with you as a heathen.”
Was the town so sick with desire for a witch-hunt that they would accuse Elizabeth of witchcraft before considering both women guilty of expressing their love to one another?
“Anne, do you identify her as one who torments your sister?” Thornhart asked, pausing briefly from his pacing. “What have you to say in evidence?”
“Yes.” Anne fingered a small pendant on a chain at her neck. “My sister behaves strangely only when in Elizabeth’s presence. The witch is an enemy to all good!”
Ivory kept her arms crossed, hoping her expression was stoic and cold instead of as rigid and fearful as she felt. Already she tasted the tears in the back of her throat.
“See now what you have done, Elizabeth? Redeem yourself and speak the truth, for you have cursed this woman.”
Elizabeth’s hands curled into tight fists. “I do not curse her!”
“Tell us, Elizabeth. How do you curse her?”
Before Elizabeth could declare her innocence once more, her husband stood. His expression was weighted, and he swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet Ivory had to strain to hear. “She tells me of voices that speak to her,” he said. “She has been accursed for some time now.” He lifted his apologetic gaze to Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry. Please, let them help you.”
Ivory nearly choked on the air. Elizabeth had told him? The revelation was a sharp knife in Ivory’s heart. How could Elizabeth have been so foolish?
Thornhart’s eyebrows rose. “Tell us of this curse, Elizabeth. Confess of it and the evil things you’ve done as its vessel. It is the only path to redemption.”
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “There is no evil in me,” she said. “I have harmed none.”
Two girls started screeching and writhing on the ground. One’s body went limp.
Thornhart spoke over the crowd’s loud chattering. “Order!”
“She has afflicted me, too,” one girl cried. “Look at these punctures on my arm. They are the bite marks of her specter!”
Ivory shot the girl a dirty look. The marks on her arm were caused by nothing other than the dig of her own nails.
Thornhart whipped his gaze back to Elizabeth. “Why do you torment these children? Why will you not confess, when we can see you clearly for what you are?”
All of the village joined in: “Confess! Confess!”
Though the shrieking of the girls bounced off the room’s wooden walls, Elizabeth would not confess. Thornhart asked the jury of their verdict, and they returned a true bill.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ivory mouthed to her lover, the tears hot on her cheeks. Her nose stuffed up, causing a pressure in her head that throbbed with each fearful thought.
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