Witch at Odds: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 2 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries)

by Juliette Harper

He wasn’t going to like what I had to say next, but I really didn’t have a choice. “I need you to tell me about that woman . . .” I began.

  The words were barely out of my mouth before Darby started shaking his head and began trying to pull away from me. That’s when Myrtle intervened. The air around me warmed just slightly, creating a slight humming sensation on my skin. A faint blue light bathed us in its glow. I heard a sound like a mother humming a lullaby to a fussy baby. I wasn’t anywhere near as scared as Darby, but it made me feel better, too.

  The brownie turned his eyes upward, and I knew he was listening to Myrtle. Gradually the terror in his eyes receded to something more akin to the worst anxiety attack on record. I knew he was still horribly uncomfortable, but whatever Myrtle had said to him, the little man found his voice again.

  “Mistress Jinx,” he said, “the woman by the stone soldier is the sorceress, Brenna Sinclair. She followed Master Alexander to this land, and she is the reason Mistress Knasgowa was bound to her grave.”

  I hate to be redundant, but double crap.

  Darby’s statement hung in the air until Beau cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the storeroom,” he suggested. “This would appear to have the makings of a lengthy tale.”

  What did I tell you about the Southern talent for understatement?

  “That’s probably a good idea,” I agreed, “but what do we do about What’s-Her-Name out there on the square?”

  Tori took a cautious step or two toward the window. After scanning the scene, she said, “I don’t see her anymore, Jinksy. I think she’s gone.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I asked the group in general.

  Darby was the one to answer. “If the sorceress had business with you on this night, Mistress, you would know it already.”

  Ominous, much?

  We all filed into the storeroom, where Rodney was waiting for us, pacing back and forth on the shelf in front of his condo. Even the rat’s spidey sense was firing at full strength. I held out my hand and let him scamper up my arm. He crawled inside the collar of my shirt and wrapped himself around my neck.

  “Okay, Darby,” I said, settling down in the easy chair, “tell your story.”

  Beau was right. The tale was a real whopper. Let me give you the highlights.

  In the 17th century in Scotland, a group known as the Covenanters got majorly ticked off when the Stuart monarchs insisted on sticking by the whole Divine Right of the Monarch thing. If you’re light on your European history, the short version is that the kings believed they ruled at the will of God. That meant the king was also the head of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland.

  As a Southern Baptist, I can tell you that we regard modern Presbyterians as one of those oddly dignified denominations that couldn’t let out with a proper “amen” to save their lives. You’re not going to find any raised-hand-swaying parishioners in that crowd. Now, they’re not as downright, unfathomably strange as the Episcopalians, but danged close. A few centuries ago, however, at least in Scotland, the Presbyterians apparently had a whole lot more spunk.

  The Covenanters insisted that only Jesus Christ himself could be the head of the Church, and they were willing to fight in defense of that position. In 1679, their forces were defeated at the Battle of Bothwell Brig. The prisoners were carted off to Edinburgh and put on public display. Most of them caved and swore loyalty to the Stuarts, but about 250 hardcore Covenanters refused to budge.

  The King decided to send them off to the New World as slaves to punish their hardheadedness. The prisoners were put on a ship called the Crown of London, but it ran aground in the Orkney Islands on December 10, 1679, off a place called Scarvataing. According to Darby, one crewman managed to survive, but it was believed that everyone else went down with the ship. Bodies washed up for weeks. They were all dead, or so the islanders thought.

  The morning after the ship was driven onto the rocks, when the sky was still dark with scudding storm clouds, a local woman, Brenna Sinclair, found a survivor named Hamish Crawford. He was barely alive, and Brenna knew if she reported her discovery, he’d be imprisoned again.

  Instead, Brenna took Hamish into her home, a solitary house high on a cliff overlooking the ocean. There, she nursed him and the two fell in love. As Darby related the tale, no one in the area could quite remember when Brenna started living in the house. No one knew if she’d ever had a husband, and even more oddly, no one questioned the fact that she was a woman making her way alone in the world.

  At that time, neither the islanders nor Hamish Crawford knew that Brenna Sinclair was a sorceress, already hundreds of years old. Long before anyone cared about who was running the Presbyterian Church, Brenna forged a pact with the dark side that won her the biggest sweepstakes prize of them all — immortality.

  If you’ve ever seen the Highlander movies, you already know that immortality is not without its complications. When you can’t die, you have to pretend to croak every 75 years or so, re-creating yourself with a new identity so you won’t get caught.

  In the 17th century, that was a lot easier. You just picked up and moved far enough away that nobody from your old neighborhood would ever come around and run into you by accident, which is what Brenna Sinclair did when she moved to the Orkney Islands.

  In the course of a few months after she rescued Hamish Crawford, two things happened: Brenna came up preggers and Hamish found out he’d been sleeping with a witch. That put the couple at cross-purposes for more than one reason. Brenna, who believed that she had sacrificed all traces of her humanity in exchange for eternal life, did not know she could conceive a child.

  As she sat with her hand resting on her swelling belly, Brenna dreamed of the powerful line of magical descendants she would cultivate from the new bloodline growing in her body. She said nothing to the man who slept uneasily by her side each night, but Brenna had no intention of ever letting Hamish Crawford go. If he could impregnate her once, he could do it again.

  For his part, Hamish lay night after night staring into the darkness, tormented by the thought that his seed had been used to spawn a child of the devil. The devout Christian in him wanted to see the baby and its mother burned for the abominations they were, but his heart was torn. How could he be party to murdering an innocent child who had not asked to be conceived?

  In his torment, Hamish reached out to Duncan Skea, scion of an ancient Orkney family said to quietly keep to the old beliefs that had guided the island people in the days before the coming of Christianity. Duncan listened sympathetically to Crawford’s tale and advised him to play along until the child was born. Together they hatched a plan to drug Brenna, imprison her, and kidnap the infant.

  I’ll say one thing for Duncan Skea and Hamish Crawford. They had guts. It’s pretty hard to hide on an island. The Orkneys are actually an archipelago, a group of islands, that altogether cover about 382 square miles. But even with that expanded space, Hamish never would have escaped from Brenna without Duncan’s help.

  On the night of his son’s birth, Hamish wiped Brenna’s sweating brow and, gazing down at the baby in her arms, and offered the exhausted woman a drink of cool water. Brenna frowned at the taste, but it was already too late. The potion was in her system and she fell into a deep sleep.

  Quickly summoning Duncan, the two men carried Brenna to a secluded cave and placed her inside. As Hamish watched, Duncan spoke quiet words over the entrance, which closed up before his wondering eyes, forming a solid wall of rock. Leaving his son in Duncan’s care, Hamish headed back to mainland Scotland and exited the story altogether.

  If you haven’t put it together already, Duncan was Alexander Skea’s great-grandfather by an act of child abduction. One-hundred-and-seven years later, the Scotsman who came to the New World and ultimately settled in Briar Hollow, North Carolina was the direct descendant of Hamish Crawford and the sorceress, Brenna Sinclair.

  That night in 1679, Duncan named the crying baby boy Alistair. Before Hamish Crawford slipped
into a boat and disappeared into the night, Duncan promised to raise the child as his own, training him to use his powers for good. In time, Alistair grew to manhood and sired a son, Angus, who in turn fathered Alexander, born in 1766.

  Everything had been working out great up to that point. In each generation, Brenna’s blood grew more diluted, and the Skeas became less concerned that they had brought black magic into their family line. Alistair and Angus were good men, well-respected in their communities, who quietly observed the old traditions without calling attention to themselves. Alexander showed every sign of following in their footsteps, that is until Brenna finally managed to escape.

  Darby didn’t know all the details, only that Angus Skea burst into his son’s bedroom before dawn one morning in 1786 and told Alexander he must leave immediately for the New World. At 20 years of age, Alexander knew the truth about his origins and did not argue with his father.

  Taking Darby with him, the young man boarded a ship for America. As Alexander looked back at the receding coastline of the Orkneys, he saw a red-haired woman standing on the shore. She raised her hand in a gesture of farewell, and the light, salty breeze that blew over the waters carried her whispered words straight to the ear of her great-grandson. “Run if you will, Alexander Skea, but I will find you.”

  It took his vessel three months to reach the coast of the Americas, a time when fearful nightmares disrupted Alexander’s restless slumber just as feverish vigilance colored his days. Darby spoke of how his master stood on deck scanning the horizon, half expecting to see red-haired Brenna astride a sea serpent rise from the waters of the Atlantic to pull him down into the bottomless depths.

  As soon as Alexander and Darby disembarked, they headed off for the remote frontier with the intent of never being seen again. But in North Carolina, Alexander’s plans changed the moment he first looked into the black eyes of a Cherokee woman named Knasgowa. Overcome by her beauty, Alexander could not bring himself to move on. Finally, in a torment of love and terror, he told Knasgowa the entire story, only to learn that she, herself, was a witch.

  “My Mistress was more than powerful enough to protect Master Alexander and myself,” Darby said, love and admiration coloring his tones. “We were safe all the long years of her life, until in her 83rd year, my Mistress fell ill with cancerous growths that caused her to grow thin and weak. That is when she could no longer hide my Master and the sorceress Brenna Sinclair came to Briar Hollow.”

  With the last of her strength, Knasgowa taught Alexander how to bind Brenna to her own spirit for eternity. “My Master did not want to work the magic,” Darby said. “He could not bear to think of his wife locked in a dark struggle for all time with an evil sorceress, but nor could he stand the idea that his own blood would be used for Brenna’s plans to create a dark dynasty.”

  When Knasgowa was near death, she had Alexander carry her to the cemetery. There, they waited for Brenna. When she appeared, Knasgowa, though thin and frail, held the sorceress at bay as Alexander, tears streaming down his face, recited the words of the binding spell.

  Darby’s small body shook as he described what happened next. “Brenna’s screams tore at the night,” he said, “but my Mistress held fast to her with her dying breath. Together they were sucked into the earth, which closed over them. The blackness that obscured the moon rolled away and the stars once again shone in the sky. Master Alexander, wracked with grief, bade me stay with my Mistress, guarding her tomb for all time lest any evil servant of Brenna Sinclair’s sought to free her from her prison.”

  With that, the little man looked at me, clearly finished with his story. There seemed to be only one question to ask.

  “Darby,” I said, “why didn’t you stop me when I started reciting that spell over Knasgowa’s grave?”

  The brownie blinked as if I’d just asked something very foolish. “My Master charged me to guard his wife from evil, Mistress Jinx,” he said. “You are not evil.”

  I can’t tell you why, but that brought tears to my eyes. What I had done was a foolish accident, but my intention had been pure. Little did I know that I was about to open a sort of hell gate, one that Brenna Sinclair walked right through and into the 21st century.

  At that moment, looking down at Darby’s earnest little face, I have to admit I wished I was a little bit evil. Something told me that fooling Brenna the third time wasn’t going to be any walk in the park.

  Brother, was I ever right.

  12

  After Darby finished talking, we all just sat there, stunned. What can you say to a story like that? My mind reeled. Two days before, talking Tori out of a $10,000 coffee pot was my biggest problem. Now I had a ghost hollering murder, a courthouse square full of restless spirits, and a pissed off immortal sorceress.

  I must have looked as overwhelmed as I felt because Tori rested her hand on my knee to get my attention. When my eyes focused on her, she said in a tone that didn’t invite discussion, “You need to get some sleep.”

  Huh? It couldn’t be more than . . . I glanced at the clock. A quarter of one. How the heck did that happen?

  Before I could protest that we didn’t have time for sleep, Beau cut in.

  “Miss Tori is correct,” he said. “None of the wandering souls out there are yet cohesive enough to cause a disruption in the physical world. There is no more that can be done tonight. You should take some time to come to terms with this new information. You will not make good decisions if you are exhausted.”

  My nerves were so shot, their kindness brought sudden tears to my eyes. I looked up into Beau’s pale face and asked tremulously, “You’ll stand watch?”

  The old soldier drew himself up as if preparing for battle. He reached to lay a hand on my shoulder, and I actually felt the cool pressure of his fingers.

  “Have no fear in that regard,” he told me gently. “I will stand watch in the night.”

  Little Darby moved up next to my spectral friend and echoed his words, “I, too, will stand watch in the night, Mistress.”

  That did me in. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

  Even if the two of them did make about as ridiculous a pair as Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins, I knew Beau and Darby would both fight a circle saw for me.

  No, I don’t know why we say that in the South, but just go with the visual. Hand-to-hand combat with a power tool pretty much screams “loyal.”

  I gave in and agreed to call it a night.

  Tori had to help me disentangle Rodney from around my neck. The little rat was sound asleep, but when I put him in his nest box, he opened one eye and let out a worried squeak.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “Beau and Darby are on the case. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sweet, cheesy dreams, little buddy.”

  Rodney nodded his head and was instantly out for the count, but I still had to pry his tiny protective paw off my index finger.

  As soon as Tori and I made it through the door of my upstairs apartment, I dropped down on the rug and started scooping up cats. I needed all the feline comfort I could get. Winston buried his face in my collar, which made me giggle. His whiskers tickled.

  “You like my new perfume?” I asked, scratching his ears. “It’s called Eau d’ Ro Dent.”

  Tori disappeared into the kitchen, giving me a few minutes alone with the guys. Maybe you have to be a crazy cat lady to understand, but sometimes nothing sets the world right like the sound of purring and the feel of warm fur.

  By the time she reappeared a few minutes later, I was starting to feel better. Still, I gratefully accepted the steaming mug of chamomile tea she held out to me with an encouraging smile.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, cradling the cup in my hands.

  That won me a set of rolled eyes. “Your mom never made chamomile tea for you in her life,” she said.

  True. Kelly was more the “knock the kid out with NyQuil” type mom. Which actually might have been the better choice right at that moment considering how wired I felt.
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  Extricating myself from Winston’s embrace, I carried my tea into the bedroom and sipped at it while I got ready for bed. It was a little sweeter than I would have made it, but the warmth felt comforting, so I drank it anyway.

  Out in the living room, I could hear Tori making up the couch, talking to the cats as they “helped.” All four felines were Olympic-quality athletes at Freestyle Hand Under the Blanket.

  We both turned our lights off at the same time, which was just a cue for the conversation to begin. Some talks are better negotiated under the cover of darkness.

  “Tori,” I said, my voice sounding small even to my own ears, “what have I done?”

  A sigh came from the living room. “I knew you were blaming yourself,” she said. “You gotta knock that off.”

  “Exactly who else is there to blame?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, “maybe Fiona for giving you the magic. Or Alexander Skea for turning tail and running to the New World. And then there’s this Brenna bitch for wanting to live forever. ‘Cause, really, narcissistic much?” She paused and then added brightly, “Oh, I know. We can put it all on Howie and the Councilmen, or, as they’re better known, The Ungrateful Dead.”

  In spite of the fact that I was awash in equal parts guilt and good, old-fashioned fear, I laughed. The iron bands around my chest loosened up a little bit and I felt like I could breathe again. That’s what a BFF is supposed to do for you. Tori has the skill nailed. She can always make me laugh when I need it the most, and she helps me find my courage every time.

  “That sounds better,” she said approvingly. “You can’t blame yourself, Jinksy. All this stuff was set in motion long ago . . . ”

  “In a galaxy far, far away,” I interrupted. “So how about we just blow up the Death Star and go play with Ewoks?”

  Seriously, if the Force is strong with you, Star Wars will give you all the answers.

  “Works for me,” Tori agreed, “but as much as I hate to point this out, you’re Luke Skywalker in this story.”