Scent of a Witch

by Bri Clark

  Scent of a Witch

  by Bri Clark

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  SCENT OF A WITCH

  Copyright © 2011 BRI CLARK

  ISBN 978-1-936852-67-3

  Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee

  Edited by Kay Springsteen and Judah Raine

  Enthusiasm is a feeling that is quick to ignite but takes fuel to burn steady. There are those in my life that are a constant source of energy for my sparks. I thank each of you dearly. My critique partner K. My silent backer CC. And my own granny Cordy. Wilma Gier.

  Chapter One

  The vice-like grip that had seized Maeve’s lungs the last few days slowly released as she reached behind the antique traveling desk. Ding. The bell on the front door indicated someone had walked out of the consignment shop. Light footsteps approached as she pushed the button in. Then a panel revealed what she sought. A velvet jewelry box, discolored by age, lay inside. Once most likely a brilliant red, the box had faded to a soft pink. With as much speed as she could muster, she reached within the panel and grabbed the box. Expensive perfume invaded Maeve’s nostrils like a conquering army. Seconds was all the time she had. Fingers lightly shaking, pulse thundering in her mind, she opened the box.

  Air flowed into her lungs like a dam being released. The white female silhouette on top of a light blue background encased in a gold frame and with a matching gold chain looked back at her. Tears prickled in her eyes.

  “Finally,” she whispered.

  “Did you find what you needed hun?” asked the blue-haired buxom shop owner in a twangy drawl.

  “Yes, ma’am. I did. Thank you ever so much,” Maeve replied instinctively, her manners falling into place.

  “Wonderful,” the woman saturated in rose perfume squealed.

  “I insist I pay you for all the trouble I caused,” Maeve stated, reaching toward her shoulder where she always kept cash under her bra strap. All the color blanched from the little old lady’s face as she shook her head and fluttered her hands back and forth.

  “I won’t have it. You hear me young lady. That there is yours. It belongs in the family.” She placed her hands on her round hips and narrowed her eyes. Then, seeing a customer at the cash register, she turned to leave. Only to stop abruptly, close her eyes, and hold her breath.

  “Child, you need to git…now. Out that way there, then take a left, and you’ll be back on Main Street,” she insisted, shoving Maeve with a force she didn’t look to have. Without conscious thought, Maeve obeyed, and her feet carried her through the door.

  In the alley behind the old brick building, she stopped and opened the box again. With great care she pulled the necklace out and, holding it by the chain in front of her, she turned it around to reveal the back. In an ancient language as easy on her lips as English she whispered: “Once hidden. Undercover. In disguise. I ask only, you unveil your secrets for but a moment, to my eyes.”

  Solid gold backing distorted in a wispy sort of haze and revealed what she asked. Her eyes closed and she fought the maelstrom of feelings that always seemed to be there awaiting release. Remembering the woman’s insistence, she put the necklace around her neck then headed down the alley.

  Maeve walked the sidewalks of downtown Franklin, exploring the little specialty shops, stopping briefly at the old café on the corner, giving the appearance of a normal tourist in the historic Tennessee town.

  However, Maeve was anything but normal, and the directions in which she chose to walk were no accident. She was on the hunt and could already claim one success.

  She stopped to take a deep breath and inhaled the scents of coffee, baked bread, gasoline fumes, and autumn leaves all mingled together. There, on the tail end of the onslaught of smells, was the one that had led her on this journey. Gardenias. A fragrance one simply would not expect at the end of October, nor in the attic of her grandmother’s old home. And especially not outside the antique shop where she’d found the treasure she desperately needed. But there it was again…another figurative bread crumb.

  Without hesitation, she followed the pull of the flowery musk.

  The crowds around her seemed to close in on themselves and kept her from passing. A street vendor with a cart took up the entire corner sidewalk and, out of nowhere, a line formed suddenly for his treats of hotdogs, hamburgers, and soda. With an urgency she herself couldn’t even understand, Maeve pushed and shoved through the throng of people to a destination she didn’t know, on a trail she could only smell…and at times could merely feel.

  Feel?

  She stopped walking. Someone bumped into her from behind. Other pedestrians jostled her as they adjusted the flow of traffic to move around her suddenly still form.

  She closed her eyes… To her dismay the flowery musk had disappeared. But the feeling was there. Eyes open, she looked left. A small alley that ran parallel along two historic brick buildings would be her route. Without giving it any further thought, she allowed her feet to surge forward.

  At the end of the alley she stopped, closed her eyes and tried to find the trail again, or the scent at least. But nothing came except the burn of her feet and a pinched toe.

  Her head dropped as she inspected the tan wedge heels she’d chosen to wear while she took in the sights. Her granny’s husky laugh echoed in her mind’s ear. Maeve smiled, and then frowned. It was Granny Cordy’s death that spawned this crazy, cursed journey. A tear escaped and she was glad she still used waterproof mascara.

  “Granny, why did you have to leave me? I’m all alone … everything will end with me.” Maeve spoke to the breeze as her thumb stroked the blue cameo pendant. Once again, a husky impatient sigh invaded her mind…and she couldn’t tell if it was a memory or something more. Then a painful nip came from her foot and it seemed as if every blister she had screamed for relief. The distinct fragrance of healthy water tickled her senses and she limped toward it. A cold fountain would be perfect to dip her feet into to ease the pain until she got back to grandparents’ house. Her house now that they were gone.

  She’d just lived in stiletto boots for a whole season in Paris…why were wedges presenting such a problem? The normal local summer attire of flip-flops so ragged that the padding was black would never be an option for her. So what else was there?

  Abruptly, Maeve stopped again as she found herself on the threshold of a small forest. It was not an unexpected site in the middle of a metropolitan area, at least not in the south. Historic cities like Franklin were always balanced with strong areas of vegetation adding to the reminder of plantation living and pre-Civil War culture.

  Before her, low-lying evergreens refused to turn the autumnal shades of red, gold, and brown displayed by the deciduous trees towering above her. The scent of summer days fanned out in front of her like a mystical wood hidden in a city. The promise of cold, crisp water beckoned her to enter. That was enough to prompt action and, seeing the blanket of soft grass, she slipped her torturous shoes off and headed in search of the water she knew was there.

  A short hike and a tangle in some briars later, Maeve found a cross between a creek and a small river. Her Patty would have called it a crick from his southern influence, or a loch from his Scottish ancestry. The fam
iliar lonely ache found her once again but, before it could consume her, she pushed it down. Muddy brown and not exactly clean, the water wasn’t a chlorinated fountain like she had hoped, but it promised to be cold and the lack of an offensive stench proved it was probably just dirt coloring the water.

  A dry grassy spot near the edge looked promising. She hiked her long white skirt up to her thighs and sat down, stretching her legs and feet out into the murky water. An inaudible sigh of relief formed on her lips. The tension of the day released from her shoulders and she put her arms back, then winced as the prick of razor-sharp blades assaulted her skin. She bit her lips to suppress the urge to groan, unwilling to disturb the tranquility of the small paradise.

  The tangle in the briar patch left small scratches going up her forearms. After releasing the burgundy cotton shawl tied around her waist, she bit the material, forcing a tear, and then ripped it the rest of the way. As she dipped it in the water, she spoke an enchantment and then patted her cuts with the dampened cloth. Even though she was a trained healer and a witch, she couldn’t take away the pain. As the water ran over each scratch, it felt like the sting of sharp blades across her skin. That was the way of it though. Sometimes the healing hurt more than the injury itself.

  There was no chance of infection or scarring, but the exposed blood of a Scent Witch was like a neon sign for trackers…and with the death of her granny, Maeve was the last one. Those in the world of craft and sorcery valued a Scent Witch highly. Every creature of supernatural or magical origin held a special smell, enabling the witch to discern what their powers were and to even track them if needed. After checking to make sure each cut was sealed and she could no longer smell her own blood, she wiggled her toes and exhaled with relief. The sun moved closer to its western destination, but Maeve still had time before the errands of the night called her.

  With those thoughts came the buried feelings of loneliness and despair that had engulfed her very soul. Just the week before, she had been studying in London, deep in the catacombs beneath old buildings, where she carried out the duties of a magical archaeologist. Then the message had arrived. Granny was dead. The last member of the da Paer line of Scent Witches had died. At least as far as the world of Witchery and Craft knew.

  The non Gaelic pronunciation of Cordelia’s name was Power, and it was by that name she had gone for as long as Maeve could remember. Maeve Power was Cordelia Power’s only heir, the child her only daughter had borne. But her daughter having died in childbirth, the care of the nonmagical child had been left to Cordelia.

  Only it was all a lie…a precaution, a protection, one her grandfather Patty had created, himself a powerful warlock of the Sweeney clan, the last of his line as well. Because of his magic, no one in the world of magic would know that it was truly Maeve who was the last of both lines, two of the most powerful and oldest lines in the world of sorcery. That was something she intended to correct tonight . . . on All Hallows Eve.

  Chapter Two

  Fionn Hughes leaned against the brick building, shaking his head in frustration. Upon his father’s insistence, he’d traveled to this cursed century seeking a prize that had been lost. With the death of the warlock, Patrick Sweeney, the powers of time sorcery had gone with him, leaving only the Hughes clan. Fionn’s father would be furious and terribly saddened to know that Sweeney’s wife, Cordelia da Paer, was dead as well. While Fionn didn’t know the details, the marriage had caused the clan’s centuries-long allegiance to sever. Fionn’s father, Laird Rordan Hughes, was soul-weary, and Fionn feared this might send his father over the edge to seek the afterlife.

  Before fear could grip him, he decided to continue after the mortal grandchild of the deceased couple. He had followed her from the Sweeney estate to the downtown Halloween festivities. If the mortals knew the truth of All Hallows Eve, they’d put an end to the commercialized debauchery that occurred every year.

  Fionn looked up and cursed. The tangled mass of brown curls with auburn highlights he had been tracking disappeared. Panic bubbled up in his innards, but his warrior instinct dismissed it as quickly as it appeared. A strict warning from his father to use his magic sparingly sounded in his memory, but he longed to call up a tracking spell. He offered another colorful Gaelic curse, causing an elderly woman walking by to jump. After a mumbled apology and bow, he jaywalked to the side of the street near the food vendor. The last time he had seen her, the granddaughter had been near the mobile cart offering saturated fat and processed food. Fionn preferred the simpler fare of stews, homemade cheese, and ciders.

  Unable to use magic, he took a breath and used skills acquired as a boy under his father’s guidance. Offering his most dazzling smile, he set his charms on a group of older ladies with low cut athletic shoes and fanny packs.

  “Good afternoon ladies.” He bowed and the three women turned and giggled in unison.

  “Where are you from shoog?” asked the tallest one, a brunette who was obviously the leader. “You have an accent the likes I’ve never heard.”

  “Why, I’m from Scotland.” He offered her a smile but then quickly continued. These women were ferocious when it came to gossip. “I’ve lost track of the lass I was with.” Three sets of intensely plucked then re-penciled eyebrows went up and the tracker knew he had them.

  “What does she look like?”

  “Where did you last see her?”

  “Don’t worry dear, we’ll help you.” All sounded in unison in their ages-tarted accents, signature for the region. He couldn’t help but smile and felt a tad guilty for lying to the three helpful grannies.

  “She’s about your height, long curly brown hair that has a touch of auburn highlights when the sun hits it.” They sighed in unison. “She had a scarlet shawl tied around a long white skirt…” He would have continued, only the brunette started bouncing up and down.

  “That way, she went that way,” she declared, pointing down a dark alley in between two very close buildings.

  The earlier panic reappeared. Was the woman a twit? It was a night of danger for not only those of Witchery, but mortals too, and walking down a dark alley was most unwise.

  Nodding to the glassy-eyed women, he ran to the end of the alley, then stopped and kneeled. The gravel was disturbed, creating a slight pile. Then, going in a western direction, every few feet there was another mound, before finally it stopped at the edge of a wooded area. Fionn sensed a presence of power in the air. But that could be a combination of the coming night and being so close to the haunted Carton Plantation.

  Memories of the gracious MacGavok family pulled at his emotions. He had been injured at the Battle of Franklin, the bloodiest five hours of the Civil War. The family had tended to him as well as many others. Randal and Carrie McGavok were truly two of the noblest mortals Fionn had ever known. They would turn no one away based on skin or uniform color. The bodies of the dead had been stacked four feet high by the end. Later, after the battle, the family unburied and then reburied over fifteen hundred Confederate soldiers, dedicating two acres of their land for a military cemetery. When Fionn had asked his friend why, he’d been admonished that everyone deserved a proper burial and last rights.

  Squatting so he could look more closely at the ground, he caught site of small bare footprints in the softened dirt. He grinned in triumph, then scowled. One footprint sunk deeper, indicating she was limping. Had she hurt herself? An urgency he didn’t understand pushed him forward, the sensing of power becoming stronger. But as he traveled deeper into the foliage, a feeling of peace seemed to emanate. He puzzled over the source. That is, until the distinctive smell of Honeysuckles and Shamrocks invaded his nostrils.

  A Scent Witch. The scent of Shamrocks was exclusive to that line of witches, and the scent was only detectable through their blood. Whoever she was, she was the last, for he knew of no other. And she was hurt.

  Fionn moved at the speed his unnatural immortality allotted him. The panic he’d managed to contain before exploded in his chest. If he co
uld bring her back to his clan, perhaps he would be in his father’s good graces again. The flora opened up in his line of vision creating a half clearing along a stream of water and there, sitting along the edge, was an enticing water nymph with unruly brown hair and auburn highlights created by the sun.

  Unable to look away, he watched as she moved her feet in and out of the water, allowing him a generous view of long shapely calves that flowed seamlessly into milky white thighs. His throat tightened as craving burned in him. Desire he hadn’t known in a long time warmed his insides. Fionn was no rogue but he was certainly no saint either. However, he had never felt the stirrings of passion as he did viewing the female before him.

  With an easy grace she leaned forward, reaching out with her right arm and bending her right knee up to drape water from her fingertips down her leg. So enchanted by the movement of the elegant beauty he didn’t see the dagger that appeared in her left hand until it took off a lock of his hair before firmly ending in the tree behind him.

  The realization that he almost died startled Fionn out of his daze. The wild-haired woman let out a particularly unladylike Gaelic curse, and her eyes looked around as if seeking escape. Finally she stopped, face forward staring at the water, then she looked at him. It was only a moment but, in that instant, he saw what his father had sent him to retrieve: the key to their future. Thick lashes, darker than the brows above them, framed light brown eyes with flecks of gold in them, feline-like in their slanting shape. The Sweeney Eyes. Then she disappeared into the water.

  Chapter Three

  Maeve’s frustration drove her to speak words she had heard her Patty say when he thought she wasn’t around. It was a habit she’d started after he died. The native tongue of her relatives helped her sustain her uniquely blended accent of Scottish/Irish lineage and southern upbringing. But the habit also served to keep her grandfather’s memory close.