Rowan's Responsibility : The Willoughby Witches (Book One)

by Terri Reid

  “And maybe that’s just what he wants you to believe,” Cat replied. She turned to Agnes. “Mom?”

  With a tired sigh, Agnes nodded. “Fine. Go ahead and look,” she said. “But I’m not happy about this. We should be asking his permission, not trespassing in his thoughts.”

  Cat smiled. “I’ll tread softly,” she said.

  Placing her hands on the either side of his head, just as Rowan had done earlier, Cat closed her eyes and breathed slowly. Seeking a connection between her spirit and his, she gently bonded with him. She accessed older memories first. Henry walking in the woods with friends. Henry in front of a class teaching. Henry placing a tender kiss on his mother’s forehead before the casket was closed. Henry sobbing in a darkened room, away from the rest of the funeral party.

  Cat could feel the pain and the grief as if it were her own, and tears slipped down her cheeks in response. Taking a shuddering breath, she moved forward. She saw him picking up the motorcycle at the shop in Milwaukee, shopping for supplies at the various stores at a mall, and packing up his trailer. She glanced through his paperwork with him and paused when she saw the file entitled, “The Willoughby Witches.”

  She continued the drive with him, picking up on some of his random thoughts as he traveled. She chuckled softly at the conversations he had with himself and then gasped when she watched the stag jump out and the motorcycle careen out of control.

  She moved forward to the memory when he first saw Rowan in the field and finally lifted her hands and broke the connection.

  “Well?” Rowan asked.

  “He’s here to study us,” Cat said. “He’s a professor of anthropology, and he’s writing a book about legends of the Kettle Moraine. He rented the cabin near the lake, down Old Pine Road, to stay in while he does his research. He has no idea that we’re real. He thinks he’s looking for an age-old story.”

  “So, he’s not here to murder us in our sleep?” Rowan asked pointedly.

  Cat shook her head. “No. No, he’s not,” she admitted. “Sorry. You were right. I should have waited.”

  “Yeah, but he’s here to study us,” Hazel said. “How cool is that?”

  Agnes studied the sleeping man for a moment. “I think the fates have thrown this professor into the mix for some reason,” she said. “It will be interesting to see his reaction when he wakes up to find himself in the midst of the Willoughby Witches.”

  “Well, he won’t know,” Cat said. “And I, for one, am not going to tell him. We don’t need some professor sticking his nose in our business, especially not after what happened earlier tonight.”

  Agnes felt a stirring inside of her. She closed her eyes and let the answer come, a small, still voice in her mind. She turned to her daughters with a sigh. “No. We have to tell him,” she said. “That decision is beyond us now. He is part of whatever happens, and he needs to know.”

  Rowan felt the disappointment blossom in her heart and slowly spread. Once he knew about them, he would treat them with the same disdain or, worse, greedy anticipation others had shown. Her experience with others had shown her that they either treated you like you were crazy or they wanted to use your powers to profit themselves in some way. With a sigh, she wondered sadly which category Henry would fall into.

  “Mom, please,” she entreated. “Can’t we just give him a library card and have him figure it out on his own? The last thing we want to do is have one more person look at us like we’re weirdos.”

  “Yeah, internationally-known weirdos,” Hazel added. “Not just limited to southeastern Wisconsin anymore.”

  Agnes shook her head sadly. “Whether he considers us weirdos or not, we have to tell him the truth,” she said. “He’s been pulled into this event, and he needs to decide whether or not he wants to be a part of it.”

  “Nose goes,” Cat said, placing her finger on the tip of her nose.

  “Nose goes,” Hazel repeated immediately after.

  “Oh, no,” Rowan said, shaking her head, her eyes widening with real fear. “I can’t. I couldn’t. I’m really not good at this.”

  Her sisters folded their arms and shrugged. “Sorry, the sexy English guy is yours,” Hazel said with a wicked smile.

  “Yeah, tough luck,” Cat added.

  “This is not fair,” Rowan argued. “I found him, I healed him. I am not going to tell him.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” Agnes said. “But, other than being the last in nose goes, the spirit has determined that you are the one who needs to tell him.”

  Rowan sighed audibly, knowing once her mother felt the spirit wanted her to do it, she had lost the fight. “It’s because I’m the ginger, right?”

  Agnes chuckled. “You guessed it, dear,” she said. “Sucks to be you.”

  “Then what?” Cat asked.

  “What do you mean?” Agnes responded.

  “He was on his way here to study us, the same night you have a vision that a stranger is on his way here and has knowledge we need. Then Henry gets sidelined by a black stag, rare in nature, but not so much in witchcraft,” Cat listed. “Then, he stumbles here under some kind of superhuman power, considering the degree of the injuries he sustained. Rowan heals him, and then a wolf appears out of nowhere to finish the job.”

  Hazel shrugged. “Yeah, that pretty much sums up the drama of Henry,” she said. “So?”

  Cat looked at her sister in frustration and then shook her head. “So, then we’re going to let him know that we’re witches and send him on his way?” Cat replied, shaking her head. “Hey Henry, we know you’re a target, and we know that it’s probably because of us. So here’s some more information to involve you even further in our age-old problem and then we’ll let you go to fend for yourself.”

  “Wow. We suck,” Hazel said.

  Agnes looked at Hazel and sighed. “No, we don’t suck,” she said. “But Catalpa’s right. We can’t very well tell him the truth and set him free.”

  “We’re going to keep him our prisoner?” Hazel asked. “This is beginning to sound like a really bad horror flick.”

  “So, I’m not telling Henry that we’re witches,” Rowan inserted. “Good!”

  “No, you are telling Henry that we’re witches,” she said. “And then we’re going to have to figure out some way to keep an eye on him while he’s here.”

  “Hazel or Cat can do it,” Rowan said. “I really have too much on my plate…”

  “No, that’s not going to work,” Agnes said. “Henry is connected with you, Rowan. You’re just going to have to keep him out of trouble.”

  “This is so not fair,” Rowan said. “How am I supposed to keep him out of trouble?”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Agnes said. “You are a certified genius.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was a wood nymph, clothed in diaphanous silk that billowed out behind her as she walked towards him. Her hair, deep auburn, flowed behind her, dancing in the wind like autumn leaves. Her fragrance was calming and sweet, lavender. He remembered it from his childhood. He reached out to her in his dream. His body was broken and bruised, yet he would crawl on his hands and knees to be closer to her beauty.

  But he had no need to crawl because suddenly she was beside him, her eyes filled with concern. She touched him, her cool, delicate hand on his hot brow, and he felt a wave of peace flow through his body. She lay next to him, her body pressed against his, the silkiness of her skin cooling the hot pain throughout his body. He turned to her when he felt the pain leave his body. He watched her eyes and saw the pain move into them.

  “No,” he murmured in his sleep.

  “Shhhhhh,” she whispered, placing a tender kiss on his lips. “Let me heal you.”

  He felt another pain leave and heard her stifle a gasp. “Stop, please,” he insisted. “I don’t need…”

  “You need me,” she whispered softly, her words echoing in his mind like a spell. “To bind the wound and heal the tear, To erase the pain and calm the fear,
I gladly take the pain from thee. As I ask, so mote it be.”

  He felt her move over him, like lovers in the night. Her magic seeped into him, moved through him, and they became one as she healed him. He felt the comfort, but he also felt desire and passion.

  “I need you,” he whispered softly. “I need you.”

  She lifted her face and looked down at him, her face filled with love and acceptance. “Take me,” she said, brushing her lips over his. “We were meant to be together.”

  He sat up, ready to take her, but suddenly she was gone. He was alone in the field, and the sun was in his eyes.

  Henry woke in a room that smelled of lavender and chamomile, with his eyes still closed. He could feel the warmth of the sun through his eyelids. He buried his nose in the soft fabric of his pillow case and inhaled deeply. Home, he thought, a feeling of well-being enfolding his body, I must be home.

  Then the scent of lavender brought forth another memory. A woman dressed in a thin cotton nightgown walking out of the darkness towards him. Her red hair flowing in the wind, her porcelain skin glowing in the moonlight, and her body clearly outlined as the wind whipped the thin fabric against her as she walked.

  Was she just a fantasy? Henry shook his head. He really needed to stop this. He had found himself wrapped up in daydreams more and more often. It seemed his mind found imagined life much more interesting than the life he’d been leading.

  Suddenly, the memory of the wolf and the motorcycle accident came flooding back. His eyes flew open, and he felt panic rising in his chest. “Where the hell am I?” he muttered as he sat up in the bed.

  He looked around at the room. Soft sage green walls, white furniture, and floral curtains that were lightly blowing in the breeze from the opened window surrounded him. There was nothing frightening or ominous about the room. Perhaps the lavender lady had brought him home.

  Then reality hit again. There was no way she could have brought him home by herself.

  Perhaps she was part of a cult, he thought. Although, to be truthful, he’d never heard of any lavender cults in Wisconsin. Perhaps they were a secret cult, and they killed and tortured people who stumbled upon their land.

  Maybe he had been drugged. He shifted his shoulders, experimenting with the muscles he knew would be sore. But there was no pain whatsoever.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” he whispered. “I should be in incredible pain. I must be drugged.”

  He lifted his hand to his forehead. The skin was smooth.

  He glanced to his side and found his phone. Grasping it, he pressed the camera application and turned the viewer to selfie mode. In shock, he studied his face. Not only was the gash in his forehead gone, as well as all of the bruises and scratches he knew he had, but the scar he’d received last year when he’d fallen on a sharp rock was gone too. He slowly rubbed his chin with his finger. What the hell was happening?

  “Taking a selfie?”

  He dropped his phone and turned toward the voice. She was tall and lithe, like a young tree. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and that face was mostly covered by a pair of fairly large tortoiseshell glasses. She was dressed in a lab coat that reached to her knees.

  “Are you a doctor?” he asked.

  Her smile was warm and a little shy. “No,” she said. “Well, not a medical doctor.”

  She stepped closer. “Why were you taking a selfie?” she asked.

  “My scar is missing,” he replied, rubbing his finger over the now-smooth section of his chin. “Did you take it?”

  Well, crap, she thought. How was I to know that was an old scar?

  She cocked her head slightly and stared at him, acting confused by his statement. And once he reflected on what he’d just uttered, he shook his head and tried again. “That’s not quite what I meant,” he stammered.

  She walked closer to the bed and he realized that she was carrying a tray. “I brought you breakfast,” she said, her voice soft and calming, as if she were dealing with a slightly crazed animal.

  “I’m not crazy,” he clarified.

  She shook her head. “No, of course not,” she replied, placing the tray down next to him on the large bed and quickly stepping back. “You want to know where you are, which is, of course, quite understandable. And you want to know what I’ve done with your scar?” She met his eyes questioningly. “Is that correct?”

  “Well, I’m not accusing anyone, but my scar is definitely missing,” he explained, embarrassed. “It was here yesterday, and now it’s gone.”

  “Well, that is a puzzle,” she replied, feeling more comfortable than she thought she would. “You don’t find much use for used scars, so one would wonder why one would want to steal them.”

  He laid back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “I’ve gone completely bonkers.”

  She smiled and stepped forward again and lifted the covering off the plate, sending the delicious aroma of eggs, toast and peach compote to his nose. “Maybe you just need to eat something first,” she suggested. “I find that things make much more sense after a meal.”

  He slowly opened his eyes and glanced down at the tray. “That looks amazing,” he said, and to his embarrassment, his stomach growled.

  “Why don’t you eat something,” Rowan suggested. “And then I’ll answer your questions.”

  He lifted the tray and situated it over his lap. “Thank you,” he said, and then he paused. “I do apologize. That should have been the first thing I said when you walked in. It’s obvious that you took care of me after my accident.”

  Her smile widened, and she pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Mother was right,” she said. “You are a gentleman. Please, eat. I’ve already had breakfast.”

  He scooped up a forkful of eggs and closed his eyes in pleasure as he tasted them. “These are delicious,” he sighed, scooping up a larger forkful. “These are the best eggs I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

  She smiled, warmed to the heart by his compliment. “Thank you,” she replied. “I studied herbs, and I love to use them when I’m cooking.” She bit her lower lip in concern. “I actually tend to experiment more than cook, so I suppose I should warn you that the compote was this morning’s experiment.”

  He pierced a chunk of peach with his fork and brought it to his lips. “It smells amazing,” he said, inhaling the scent. Then he popped the piece into his mouth, and his eyes widened. “What it that spice?”

  “Cardamom,” she replied. “One of my favorites.”

  “It’s really superb,” he replied, going down for another piece.

  She smiled and stepped back again, leaning against the door. “Now, to answer your first question. You are at a farm that belongs to my mother, my two sisters and me. The farm and the house have been in our family for generations. I raise herbs…”

  “The lavender, I remember,” he acknowledged.

  She nodded. “Exactly,” she said, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “That is probably our most popular herb, but we also grow many other herbs on our land and in our greenhouse. My sister Hazel runs the goat farm. We raise goats and make cheese and herbal remedies with the milk. And my sister Catalpa runs the store, does the books, and deals with all of the business side of things.”

  “Very industrious,” he said. “And your mother?”

  Rowan smiled. “My mother oversees us all,” she said. “I’m Rowan by the way.”

  “I’m Henry,” he replied. “Henry McDermott.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said.

  He smiled at her as he took his last bite of toast. “Unusual names,” he said. “Hazel, Rowan and Catalpa. Is your mother a botanist?”

  He just had to ask that question, she thought. He just had to!

  Rowan smiled, walked forward and picked up the tray. She shook her head as she stepped back from the bed. “No,” she said with a sigh, squinting her eyes and crinkling her nose, anticipating the fallout. “She’s not a botanist. She’s a witch.”

  Chapter F
ourteen

  Rowan turned and carried the tray over to the dresser in the corner of the room, trying to calm her own fears. Would she turn around and find him laughing at her? Would he be staring at her like she was a creature from hell? Or would he simply be hurrying away from her to hide in the bathroom?

  But when she turned and saw Henry, open-mouthed, staring at her, she couldn’t hold back her laughter. At that point, Henry’s face relaxed too, and he joined in the laughter.

  “That was a great joke,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “That thing about witches…”

  She shook her head and folded her arms protectively across her chest. “Henry, it’s not a joke,” she said soberly. “It’s true.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “There’s no such thing…”

  “You need proof, right?” she asked with a long sigh. “Fine, I’ll show you.”

  She casually waved her hand at the tray holding the dishes. It shook for just a moment and then slowly levitated from the top of the dresser and floated across the room. The door opened by itself, and the tray floated out of the room. Then the door closed.

  She shrugged. “I taught myself that trick when I was about eight,” she said. “I loved to bring snacks to my bedroom but really hated taking the dishes back down to the kitchen.” She smiled at the recollection. “I recall destroying quite a few dishes while I was practicing. But mom was pretty patient.”

  Henry’s eyes were wide with wonder. “How did you just do that?” he asked.

  “I told you,” she replied with just a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I am a witch. My sisters and my mother are witches. We are, in fact, the Willoughby Witches.”

  “Really?” Henry asked, his eyes now widening with interest. “Really? You are the Willoughby Witches? The ones with the legend? You are truly—”

  “Yes,” Rowan interrupted. “We are.”

  “I can’t believe how lucky I was to stumble upon you,” he said.

  “Yeah, literally,” she mumbled. Then she took a deep breath, ready to warn him about the danger they felt he was in. “But you need to know—”