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

by Terri Reid

  Rowan turned towards him. “Last night, the black stag on the road was a shapeshifter,” she said. “He was trying to run you off the road. Later, when he came after you as a wolf, we were able to fend him off.”

  “Wait! Wait! A wolf, another wolf, not Fuzzy, came after me last night?” he asked.

  “When you were unconscious,” Hazel said. “After Rowan healed you and when Fuzzy was going for help.”

  “You were alone when the wolf appeared?” he asked, remembering his own fear when he’d seen Fuzzy. “Why didn’t you run?”

  “Because it would have killed you,” Rowan said.

  “Besides, healing takes a lot out of you, so she couldn’t have run if she wanted to,” Hazel added. “So, she hit it with her flashlight.”

  Rowan glared at Hazel. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “We were both fine.”

  “Yeah, Buck had a broken noise and a pretty good bump on his head when we saw him today,” Hazel added. “And when he was threatening us at the store, he said he knew about you and that you were the key.”

  Cat kicked Hazel under the table.

  “Hey!” Hazel exclaimed. “You kicked me.”

  “Yes, I know,” Cat replied.

  “You know who the person is who tried to kill me twice last night?” Henry asked. “Why aren’t we calling the authorities.”

  Hazel snorted. “I’ll call, Henry, if you don’t mind giving them the report,” she said. “Um, yeah, Officer, this man changed into a black stag and ran my motorcycle off the road. Then he shapeshifted again into a wolf and tried to rip me apart.”

  Henry sighed. “Okay, I can see the problem there,” he said. Then he turned to Rowan. “You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t,” she replied. “And the only reason they would have tried so hard to get rid of you is if you are important to our fight. I think we need you, Henry.”

  He met her eyes and nodded. “You have me, Rowan.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Henry took a deep breath and looked at the women seated around the table with him. “It’s really hard to believe,” Henry finally said.

  Rowan smiled at him. “And you believe in everything,” she reminded him.

  He smiled and nodded. “At least at first,” he replied. “And, although it’s beyond anything I’ve ever considered, I believe you. So, what do we do next?”

  “This key Buck was talking about,” Agnes said. “Do you have any idea what he could be referring to?”

  Henry shrugged. “I’ve written over a dozen books on ancient legends and lore,” he replied. “But I don’t think any of them have anything to do with what we’re dealing with now. But I have indexes on all of them, so I can cross reference and see if I can pull up anything on witches, Whitewater, spiritualism and any other keywords you think I should look at.”

  “Maybe it’s not something you’ve already written,” Rowan suggested. “Maybe it’s the book you are planning to write.”

  “The Willoughby Witches?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Maybe through your research, you’ve inadvertently already discovered something that you don’t realize is important.”

  “Or maybe,” Hazel added, “through the usual research you do, you will discover something that we’ve all overlooked.”

  “Overlooked?” Henry asked. “What could you have overlooked?”

  Agnes sighed softly. “Henry, we understand the history of the spell. We understand our part in it, and we even understand our unique abilities,” she said. “But we don’t have any details about the incantation or what we’re supposed to do.”

  “How can that be?” he asked.

  “The sisters sent away their family before they performed the spell,” Cat said. “So, there is no record that was passed down.”

  “You’re going into this blind?” he asked, astonished.

  “Well, we get visions that lead us in the right direction,” Agnes said. “The night you came, I knew a stranger was coming that would be part of our journey.”

  “That’s not very specific, Agnes,” Henry said. “I could have been someone that was trying to kill you and still be part of your journey.”

  Cat smiled. “Yes, we know,” she said.

  He looked at her and nodded. “Quite a conundrum,” he said softly. He pondered their conversation for a moment and then looked up. “Let’s go on the assumption that the key…Buck, right?” When they nodded, he continued. “The key Buck was referring to will be found somewhere in the book that I’m trying to write about the Willoughby Witches.”

  “Which would make the most sense,” Rowan added.

  He smiled at her. “Exactly,” he said. “So perhaps, at least to start with, I should go about in the same manner I pursue when I write any of my books. I do interviews, research and gather scientific data. Perhaps one of those avenues will uncover information vital to the incantation.”

  “What do you need from us?” Agnes asked.

  “Just access to you doing whatever it is you do,” he said. “Your work, your play and especially, I think, your meetings when you discuss the spell and the future.”

  “But some of this is private,” Cat said. “Not things we want to have published.”

  Henry shook his head. “I’m not writing the book, Cat,” he said. “I’m helping you solve this mystery. That’s what’s important. None of this will be for anything but that.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Rowan said. “If you do all this research, you should have something to show for it.”

  “Being part of an effort to save the world seems like a fairly good prize,” he said with a smile. “And later, when this is all over, if I still want to write the book, we can all sit down and look at the research and see what you feel comfortable with. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Agnes said.

  “When do we start?” Cat asked.

  “First thing tomorrow,” Henry replied. He turned to Rowan. “Since you and I had the first connection, I wonder if I could start the interviews with you.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be working in the still room.”

  “The still room,” he said with a smile. “Now that sounds more like England than the middle of Wisconsin.”

  “And it actually looks nothing like a tiny room in a castle for making potions,” she said. “It’s a rather large building to the side of the greenhouses, but we thought the term was more conducive to marketing.”

  Hazel chuckled. “A little more homey than state-of-the-art laboratory,” she said.

  “And brings to mind witches and not mad scientists,” Rowan added. “Although, I have to admit, I consider myself a little bit of each.”

  “I can’t wait,” he said. He reached over, picked up his glass and held it up for a toast. “To our quest.”

  Hazel lifted her glass and grinned. “You’re too tall for a hobbit, Henry,” she said. “And you are surrounded by wizards. But I’ll toast.”

  “To our quest,” Agnes agreed, lifting her cup.

  “To finding answers,” Cat said. “And resolving mysteries.”

  Rowan lifted her cup last and looked around the room, an unsettled feeling in her heart. She knew this step they were taking would put them on a path that would change her family. Would there need to be a sacrifice? She knew that magic required a payment. Who would it have to be? A tear slipped down her cheek as she lifted her cup a little higher.

  “To the future,” she said. “May the fates be kind to us.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It didn’t take a genius, Henry decided, to figure out which bar was most likely for the disreputable coven to gather in. “The Dark Arts,” he said, clicking on the link on his phone. “Directions.”

  Henry glanced out the window and saw that the lights in the house were dark, for the most part. He looked down at his phone. It was nearly eleven o’clock; he didn’t think he could wait much longer.

  Using the flashlight app on his phone, he made his way slowly down
the stairs to the barn. He slipped out the back barndoor and walked over to his motorcycle that he’d secreted behind the barn after dinner. He started it up and drove it down the lane generally reserved for ATVs into the field and away from the house.

  His GPS was confused for several minutes as he traversed the narrow dirt road that eventually led to the highway, but once he was on asphalt, the GPS offered a clear route. The night was clear, and the roads were dry. But Henry used extra caution as he drove down the forest-lined roads toward his destination, only eight miles away.

  Fortunately, his GPS warned him one-quarter mile before the entrance to the bar, or he would have missed it. He slowed the bike and studied the uninviting building as he made a left turn into their parking lot. He parked in the middle of the lot next to the building. He wanted to be sure everything he did was in plain sight of the public, especially since he felt he wasn’t going to be making any friends inside.

  He took off his helmet, secured it and turned off the bike. Taking a deep breath, he reached for his phone and opened the recorder app. “Just doing research,” he told himself. “That’s all there is to it.”

  Henry thought the bar looked better on the inside than it had on the outside. Although, it still wasn’t exactly inviting. It had all the earmarks of a local pub: dart boards on the wall, a billiard table in the corner of the room, a jukebox that played—Henry winched—really bad country music, and the unmistakable scents of fried food, beer and cheap cologne.

  He walked to the bar and slipped onto a wooden bar stool. The bartender immediately walked over. He was a solidly built man with more hair on his face than on the top of his head. He wore an apron over a white t-shirt that was stretched over an impressive set of biceps and tattoos that expressed his love for his country on one arm and his love for hunting on the other.

  “New here?” the bartender asked.

  Henry nodded. “First time I’ve been to Wisconsin,” he said. “Beautiful place.”

  “If you like snow and trees,” the bartender replied.

  Henry chuckled and nodded. “That’s true,” he agreed.

  “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  Henry shook his head. “No, Cambridgeshire,” he replied.

  The man nodded. “That’s okay then,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m supposed to be watching out for some guy from England.”

  Henry angled closer. “Do you know what he looks like?” he asked. Then he quickly glanced over his shoulder. “Should I be concerned?”

  “Naw, no need to worry,” the bartender said. “It’s just coven business.”

  Henry slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and pressed the button to activate the record app. “I’m actually doing research on covens,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  “What are you, a reporter?”

  Henry shook his head. “Nothing as glamorous as that,” he said. “Just a college professor. We are required to write at least one scholarly paper a year, so I chose legends of the Kettle Moraine area.”

  “So, you got yourself a vacation that the company pays for,” the bartender said, nodding his head in approval.

  “Exactly,” Henry replied. “But, you know, I have to have some information to justify the trip.”

  “Yeah, I got ya,” he said. “Want me to introduce you to some coven members?”

  “That would be great,” Henry replied.

  The bartender looked over Henry’s shoulder at the room beyond, checking his customers. “Most of the guys aren’t here tonight,” he said. “Some special meeting. Probably having something to do with that English guy.”

  Henry felt himself relax just a little. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said.

  “But Wanda’s here,” he said. “She’s usually up for anything.” He guffawed loudly. “If you know what I mean.”

  “She’s a member of the coven?” he asked.

  “Yeah, her family’s one of them that came up from Whitewater,” he replied. “You heard that story?”

  “Well, I…” Henry hesitated.

  The bell over the entrance rang, and a group of five people came in, drawing the bartender’s attention away from Henry.

  “Sit down anywhere, folks,” he called. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Then he turned to Henry. “Follow me,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to Wanda.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Henry followed the bartender across the room. The part of his body that had been hidden by the tall bar was just as muscular and solid as the rest of him. Henry decided that he would do everything in his power to stay on this man’s good side.

  “Hey, Wanda,” the man called out as they approached a booth in the corner of the room. “This guy’s a college professor who needs to talk to some people about covens. I told him you would be a good person to talk to.”

  “Listen, Jimmer, I don’t want to…”

  Henry slipped around Jimmer and smiled down at the woman in the booth. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I truly meant no offense—”

  The frown on her face turned up on the edges as she studied Henry. She straightened her posture, pushed back her shoulders a little and eyed Henry flirtatiously. “Never let it be said that I didn’t support higher education,” she said breathlessly.

  Henry turned to Jimmer. “Thank you so much,” he said, slipping a twenty-dollar bill into the bartender’s hand.

  Jimmer looked down at the bill and then smiled at Henry. “Hey, no problem. No problem at all,” he replied. “Let me know what you’ll be drinking. First one is on the house.”

  Henry slipped into the booth and looked at Wanda. She was probably close to thirty with hair that was a highly unusual shade of blonde, blue eyes, and very substantial cleavage that she seemed to enjoy putting on display.

  “Hello,” Henry said, extending his hand across the table. “I’m Professor Henry McDermott from Cambridge University.”

  She grasped his hand lightly and then let go, sending him a provocative look, and nodded. “I’m Wanda Wildes, and I’m a witch.”

  He immediately remembered Rowan’s similar comment and decided he liked Rowan’s approach much better.

  “Then you’re exactly who I’m looking for,” he said. “May I buy you a drink?”

  She shrugged and let the collar of her oversized shirt slide off her shoulder. “Sure,” she said. “White wine.”

  Henry looked over and caught Jimmer’s attention. “Could we get a white wine and a Diet Coke?” he asked.

  “You’re not drinking?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m driving,” he said. “And it’s hard enough to remember to keep on the right side of the road when I’m totally sober.”

  “My place is just a little walk away from here,” she invited. “You wouldn’t have to drive tonight if you don’t want to.”

  Wow, zing! Henry thought. Here’s a woman who doesn’t believe in subtleties.

  “Thank you,” Henry replied. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Jimmer came over and placed the drinks on the table, and Henry thanked him. Then Henry pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “Do you mind if I record our conversation, just for my notes?”

  She shook her head and laughed softly. “No problem,” she said. “I’m way into recording things, especially when they occur between two consenting adults.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Henry said, feeling sweat bead up on his forehead. “So, are you a blood witch?”

  She nodded and sighed. “Yes, my family goes back to Salem and the witch trials,” she said. “We actually had a distant relative executed. But, she really wasn’t a witch.”

  “I always wondered how many actual witches died during those trials,” Henry remarked.

  “Only the stupid ones,” Wanda replied with vehemence.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Witches have power, far more power than those dick-head magistrates who ran t
he courts,” she said. “They could have choked the life out of them. They could have sent a plague over the entire community. They could have saved their lives and the lives of all those who were executed.”

  “So, why didn’t they?” Henry asked.

  “An harm it none,” she spat derisively. “Who in the hell gives up their lives for a motto?”

  “It would seem that many have,” he said.

  She nodded and leaned forward. “Many that were idiots,” she replied. “Witches are like vessels. Energy and power flow through our veins, and we can channel it for our use. Why not take advantage of it?”

  “What kind of use would it be, if you had your way?” he asked.

  She leaned back and smiled. “If I had my way, I’d never have to work again,” she said. “People would be at my beck and call. I would have luxurious homes, expensive cars, jewels. Anything I wanted would be mine.”

  “Like winning the lottery,” Henry said.

  She grinned. “Exactly. Except the money would never end.”

  “I heard someone say that magic has a price,” he said. “What do you think would be the price for all that luxury?”

  She shrugged again and grinned. “Maybe my eternal soul,” she teased. “But it would be so worth it.” She eyed Henry again. “Wouldn’t you want to join me in a bathtub filled with champagne?”

  “Sounds decadent,” Henry agreed with a smile. Then he slipped in, “Have you heard of the Willoughby witches?”

  The smile immediately turned sour. “Those bitches?” she asked. “They think they’re better than everyone else.”

  “Oh?” Henry said, feigning ignorance. “I thought they were a legend from back in the early 1900s.”

  She took a deep breath and resumed her smile. “Oh, the legend,” she said. “Of course, sorry. Yes, I’ve heard of the legend. I actually had family in Whitewater at the time.”

  “What do you know about it?” he asked.

  “A great source of power for the witch community was uncovered,” she said. “This kind of power could give us all the things we wanted and would protect us from unfair persecution. There would never be another Salem.”