by C. C. Finlay
“Hello,” Proctor shouted. “Alexandra. Mister Walker, Missus Walker.” His voice carried past the house, bringing back no reply but the chirping of the crickets.
Nothing appeared wrong. The garden looked well tended, as much as he could see of it in the twilight beyond the split-rail fence. So did the field of corn just past the house.
He dismounted slowly, grunting as he hit the ground. After tying Singer to a narrow stump that seemed meant for that purpose—it was next to a trough made from a dugout log—he limped over to the house.
“Hello,” he cried again, leaning into the open door.
Something smelled wrong, sharp and metallic, but the smoke-stench from the hearth overwhelmed it. It was too dark to see anything without a light. He suddenly wished that he'd done a scrying before continuing his journey today, but he hadn't seen a need and he hated to risk doing magic where he might be caught.
He stepped cautiously inside.
“Hello! Is anyone home?”
Nothing.
His nose wrinkled again at the smell. The shadows inside marked out two rooms. He stepped into the one on his left and slipped in something on the floor. His shoulder banged the wall, but he caught himself before falling.
He rubbed his sore shoulder. A few coals glowed red in the hearth, enough to start a fire for some light. He still had that wary itch at the back of his neck, but he dismissed it. That odd Bootzamon fellow had just been here, and he'd mentioned nothing wrong.
Proctor shuffled forward, moving his feet carefully to keep from slipping again or tripping over some stray piece of furniture. When he reached the hearth, he groped in the dark until he found the iron poker. He repeated the effort until he located the basket of tinder and wood. Using the poker to stir the coals, he blew on them and fed them dried twigs and branches until they leapt into flames.
Outside, Singer whinnied. Proctor knew he needed to go out and remove the mare's saddle and rub her down. Or maybe it was the Walkers returning.
“Hello in here!” Proctor called. He added wood to the fire and prodded the coals until the room glowed orange and red.
Singer whinnied again. Proctor turned his head toward the door, conscious that the crickets had fallen silent.
His gaze shifted from the door to the room.
Not all the red was cast by fire.
He jumped back. The iron clattered off the stone hearth as he dropped it. Blood was smeared everywhere. He checked the bottom of his shoe—he'd slipped in a pool of wet blood on his way in. It was fresh. A woman's body lay under the table. The top of her head was missing. A man's broken body, cut to bloody ribbons, was folded against the wall.
“Jesus,” Proctor whispered.
“Funny, that's who they called on too,” said a voice that made Proctor jump again.
Bootzamon stood framed in the doorway. For just a second he looked like a scarecrow. Then his pipe flared, and he blew out a stream of smoke.
“Mister Bootzamon,” Proctor said, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “What happened here?”
Bootzamon shook his head sadly. “It appears to be an Indian attack. Exactly how old are you, young man?”
“Turned twenty-two this past month,” Proctor answered in reflex. He looked for a way past Bootzamon, remembering that the Covenant's assassins had come to The Farm dressed as Indians last year. “What makes you say it's Indians?”
“See, that's too bad,” Bootzamon said. “My master wants young witches only. ‘Catch the young ones, kill the old.’ I couldn't find the Walker girl, but I got to thinking you might be young enough to take her place.”
His cockfeather brushed the lintel as he stepped through the door. One arm hung at his side, the gloved hand casually dangling a bloody tomahawk.
Proctor saw the tomahawk, but he felt magic tickle the back of his neck. Worse than murder had been done here already. He reached into his pocket for his bag of salt while his thoughts raced for the right protective spell. Keeping his eye on Bootzamon, he sprinkled salt in a quick circle around himself. “The Lord is my rock and my fortress, my deliverer. Deliver me from my strong enemy—”
“Bosh,” Bootzamon said around the pipe stem in his lips. He removed the pipe and blew smoke toward Proctor. A wind slammed through the house, banging open the window shutters and scattering Proctor's circle of salt.
The wind died, and Bootzamon stood there, tapping the tomahawk against his palm.
“You're a witch,” Proctor whispered, and then felt foolish for saying it. His own use of magic was too slow, too useless for this kind of fight. He bent down quickly and snatched up the iron.
“Not precisely a witch,” Bootzamon said. “But I may be a ghost—boo!”
Proctor twitched.
Bootzamon chuckled and danced closer to Proctor. “Or I may be an Indian.” The last word came out with a sneer as he swung the tomahawk at Proctor's head.
Proctor banged the tomahawk aside with the iron, then reversed his swing and slammed the metal bar into his attacker. It was like hitting a bag of sticks and straw. The tomahawk flew one way and Bootzamon the other. He hit the far wall, crumpled to the floor, and then popped up again, pipe in mouth. He reached up and recocked his hat, then licked his gloved finger and ran it along the edge of the feather.
“What are you?” Proctor asked.
“What are you?” Bootzamon retorted. “I'll tell you what you are—you're nothing but a miserable bag of snot and bones, piss and Scheiße. And, sadly, too old to be of use to me.”
Bootzamon stretched his hand toward the tomahawk. The weapon slid toward him across the floor, the blade scratching a line through the blood, and flew up into his hand. The flickering light from the fire cast a sinister glare over his features, distending and exaggerating them.
He blocked the only path to the door …
The Patriot Witch is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Del Rey Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2009 by Charles Coleman Finlay
Excerpt from A Spell for the Revolution © 2009 by Charles Coleman
Finlay
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book A Spell for the Revolution by Charles Coleman Finlay. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51571-1
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