Eternity: Immortal Witches Book 1 (The Immortal Witches)

by Maggie Shayne

  Duncan looked frustrated. He turned away from me, pushing a hand through his hair. But when he faced me once more, his jaw was set. “I’ll see to it you’re protected then. He willna harm you, Raven. I vow it on all I hold sacred.”

  “You mustn’t do that,” I protested. “I won’t have it, Duncan. Understand that.”

  “I love you more than my own soul, Raven, and because of it, I canna do otherwise. You understand that.” He kissed me once more, hard, and walked swiftly away in the direction of town.

  I watched him go, then sent Arianna a helpless glance. “What am I to do?”

  “Teach me,” Arianna said, “the spell that makes a man who looks like that one into your devoted servant.”

  I only shook my head at her. “‘Tis no spell, and well you know it.”

  “Perhaps not,” she said. “A shame, though. I could have used it once.”

  I tilted my head. ‘Twas the first hint she’d ever given me as to her past. “You... loved a man who didn’t love you in return?’’

  “I loved a man,” she said with a small, bitter smile, “who’d have been happy to see me dead.”

  “Then he was a fool.”

  She shook her head. “No, he was right. In the end I won his trust, if not his heart. And trusting me is what got him killed.”

  She turned and started back toward the house. I hurried after her. “Arianna?”

  “I don’t talk about that,” she said, false gaiety in her voice. “It is history. I can’t imagine what made me bring it up.”

  “But–”

  “Please,” she said, and there was a wealth of power in the word. “Let it be, Raven. And suffice to say that, having seen the way your Duncan looks at you, I am beginning to think I may have been wrong about him.”

  I went still and felt my heart swell. “Thank you for that,” I whispered. “But as to this other–” She sent me a quelling look. “All right,” I murmured. But I wondered. What kind of man could break a heart as strong as hers?

  * * *

  Duncan didn’t come to me by day after that. Only by night. Nearly every night. We’d meet in the forests or on the cliffs above the angry sea. We’d love until we were spent and then lie naked in each other’s arms, just resting. Just being.

  I loved him more each time he smiled at me, each time he whispered my name. I wanted him with me always. And he came to me whenever the sun went down.

  Except on my sacred nights, when I would make an excuse. I think he knew I was hiding something, one more secret added to the many I kept from him, but he never pressed. Only hoped endlessly that I would come to trust him enough to tell him my truths. If only he knew that I did by now. ‘Twas for his own safety that he could not know the truth about me.

  Once in the month, when the moon was full, Arianna and I slipped away from the cabin very late at night, while Aunt Eleanor lay sleeping. Deep into the woods we’d venture, there to set a small balefire alight, and to cast a magic circle, invoke the elements to aid us in our work, and feel the power of our Goddess growing strong within us. We burned fragrant herbs and special candles we’d made ourselves with loving care and magical energy. We left offerings of food and wine, or flowers we’d gathered for the occasion as a symbol of our love for the Divine.

  I often pondered the nature of my religion and that of Duncan’s. I knew, as I’d always known, that his God and my Goddess were the same. Our beliefs about Them differed, as did our ways, but in the end, there was only One. I saw the Divine as every bit as much female as male, and addressed both aspects, by referring to them as my Goddess and my God, my Lord and my Lady. Followers of Duncan’s faith no longer recognized the feminine Divine, but still prayed to Mary in times of need.

  Prayer was another way in which we were at once the same and different. When in need, we both turned to Divinity for help. Duncan’s way was to surrender his will to that of the Almighty, seeing it as a separate entity, and asking for assistance. My way was to connect to that same Supreme Being, only to do it believing it was not separate from me, just as the Earth and the Air and the very sunlight are not separate from me. I am but a small part of a very large being, and that being is the Creation Herself. When I make magic, I feel Her energy flowing through me and then direct that power to bring my will into being. For me, prayer is not a request, but a command, delivered with the very might and power and authority of the Almighty of which I am a part.

  But the most important difference between Duncan’s faith and mine was that I believed the religions of the world were simply many spokes on a single wheel, all springing from and leading back to the same, singular Source. And his decreed that there was only one way to salvation, and that anyone who chose another path was damned. Guilty of the most vile sin. Deserving of torture and death.

  I wondered sometimes if he truly believed that. And if he did, how could he love me and still live with himself?

  By the heavens, his feelings for me had to be tearing him apart inside. Or were they? I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t very well begin a theological discussion with him and not reveal more than I wished to.

  So I put my questions aside and lived in the moment. I was, for the first time in my life, truly happy. Knowing I’d see him each night made my days pass in a glow of pleasure. Holding him in my arms until the wee hours of dawn made my nights pass even more beautifully.

  I suppose I should have known that it was too good to last.

  Should have known. But didn’t.

  Chapter 9

  To the Most Esteemed Nathanial Dearborne,

  Your name is known even here in the Colonies, sir, where tales of your skill and success in exposing the practice of witchery are passed from one man of God to another in tones of awe and admiration. Such dark practices must be uncovered, wherever they hide, and burned away by the light of righteousness. 'Tis for this reason I post you now. The shadow of the Devil has fallen upon my own beloved settlement of Sanctuary in the colony of Massachusetts Bay. A witch resides amongst us, of this I am certain. Her wiles and spells have placed the souls of the entire population in dire peril. The witch’s name is Raven St. James, and while I am convinced of her guilt, there remains doubt in the mind of our settlement’s pastor. I fear the Rev. Duncan Wallace has lost the ability to see beyond her charms and sorcery, and has perhaps himself fallen victim to her sinful enchantments.

  I have heard, Reverend Dearborne, that you have, at times, traveled far in your quest to rid the God-fearing Christian world of the scourge of witchcraft, and ‘tis my fondest hope that you will do so now.

  I beg of you, sir, come to Sanctuary. You may well be our town’s only hope.

  In God’s most holy name, I remain,

  Elias Stanton,

  Sanctuary, Massachusetts Bay Colony

  Nathanial Dearborne received the letter three months after it was written to him. Amazing, he thought, how his fame had spread even to the New World. Amazing, and ironic, that an immortal High Witch, perhaps one of the oldest dark ones in the world, had become known far and wide as a witch-hunter of the highest order.

  But what better way to take the power of other witches than to execute them and take their hearts before they revive?

  He smiled to himself as he read the distraught words of this Elias Stanton. He’d found her. At last he’d found the young witch who’d so thoroughly wronged him.

  Raven St. James.

  With Duncan, still with Duncan. How? Why? Did it matter? She was a powerful witch, Nathanial had sensed that from the start. More powerful than most so young. ‘Twas the power of her ancestors, the power of a long and unbroken line of natural witches, all of it appearing collectively in the first High Witch ever to be born to her family. Even she hadn’t been aware of the full extent of her powers.

  But Nathanial had.

  He’d been weakening when he’d come upon the girl in the stocks that snowy morn. Barely functioning, and unsure how much longer he could go on. He’d needed an immortal heart, any immor
tal heart, to revive him, to restore his strength, his vigor. ‘Twould give him the power to seek out an older, more powerful one before he began to decline once more. So he’d touched the accused witches as they stood imprisoned and bent over in shameful display in the public square. He’d felt nothing when he’d touched the mother.

  But a jolt surged through him when his hand brushed over the girl’s. And he’d known, young and inexperienced though she was, he would take her heart, just so that he might live to take others.

  And then the rest of the knowledge had come to him, whispering through his sharp mind like a breeze before he took his hand away. She had a strong heart in her, Raven St. James did. A powerful heart. He would not gain longevity by taking it, but instead, power. Magical power. And he wanted it for his own. He wanted her young, tender heart beating endlessly, imprisoned in a tiny wooden box. With the others.

  Now, though, there was more driving him than just that. Events had taken an unexpected twist that day at the gallows. A twist that burned in his gut, and one he would not, could not forgive.

  Raven had cost him a young man who’d been almost a son to him. She’d turned Duncan Wallace against him, and the hurt he felt was more than he’d allowed himself to feel in centuries. Damn her. Damn her!

  Nathanial had had a son of his own, once, long, long ago. Before he’d known about immortality, before he’d taken his first heart, and thus stolen the gift for himself. So much time had passed that he remembered very little about that life—the life before. But he remembered the boy, and his love for him.

  He hadn’t thought it through, this endless life he’d managed to acquire for himself. He hadn’t thought it through!

  Nathanial’s son had grown old. Died, eventually. As had his wife, and his friends and everyone and everything he’d ever known. So much pain swamped him then that he cursed his decision to kill his first witch; to hold her heart entrapped in a small box, sucking the very life from it to extend his own lifetime.

  He’d cursed his immortality. Briefly. He got over that in time.

  But he’d never gotten over the loss of his son.

  Duncan...Duncan had reminded him of the boy in some small way—had, perhaps, come close to filling the void that remained in Nathanial’s heart after all these centuries.

  Until Raven St. James had turned Duncan against him.

  She would pay. She would pay with her very heart. If it took him a thousand lifetimes, Nathanial would make sure of that. He would get her, take her heart, take her special brand of magic and make it his own. He would repay her for thwarting him, not once, but twice, for he’d attempted to kill her when she’d returned to her former home after the hanging.

  But he’d been weak. And she’d defeated him.

  Only once before had he been defeated in battle by a woman. Only once. He hadn’t been weakened, then, but at his strongest. But she had been a woman possessed of a fury beyond anything he’d ever seen. All because he’d murdered her lover. She’d nearly killed him, would have, had he not been clever enough to get away. He would never face that one again if he had his way.

  But Raven, he would face Raven.

  And soon, for it seemed her day of reckoning was at hand. He knew where she was hiding. And as if the fates had decided to take his side for a change, he knew where Duncan was, as well. As if he were meant to go there, to dispose of the bitch once and for all, and to make Duncan come back to England with him. And he would. He would win Duncan back again, he would have Raven’s heart. Not because he’d die without it. Not this time. No, this time it was sheer vengeance that drove him. He wanted Raven’s heart. . . because she had taken his. She’d taken Duncan.

  * * *

  Duncan stood at the pulpit in the log structure that was his church, going over his notes for this morning’s service. His sermons had taken a turn of late. He didn’t preach about hellfire and the damnation of sinners anymore. He could not. To do so made him squirm inside, knowing that according to the beliefs he was supposed to be preaching, he was damned himself. But more and more he questioned those beliefs. More and more he felt with everything in him that loving Raven St. James could be no sin. No more so than breathing...because it came to him just as naturally.

  He looked up when the groan of the heavy door announced a visitor, and quickly hid a frown of displeasure when he saw Elias Stanton coming in.

  He looked ill, Elias did. Pale, weak somehow. The man came inside and sank onto a wooden bench as if his legs were too tired to carry him any farther.

  Duncan set his notes aside and hurried forward. “Elias? Are you ill?”

  Shoulders slumped, Elias only shook his head.” ‘Tis no natural illness plaguing me, Duncan. ‘Tis far darker than that, I fear.” As Duncan frowned, Elias lifted his head, revealing the dark circles beneath his eyes. “But I’ve not come to you for that. You’re no physician. ‘Tis my soul needs cleansing, Reverend. I’ve come to confess. Will you hear me?”

  Duncan blinked in surprise. “Aye, you know I will. But confession is nay part of our dogma here, Elias.”

  Nonetheless....” He lowered his head once more.

  Duncan nodded, clasping Elias’s shoulder briefly. “Go on, then. Tell me what troubles you so. I’ll help you if I can.”

  Tiredly Elias nodded. “‘Tis the woman.”

  And Duncan knew without asking what woman he spoke of, but he asked all the same.

  “That St. James wench,” Elias spat out. “Who else?”

  A tingle of warning whispered through Duncan’s limbs. He took the bench in front of Elias, turned sideways to look back at the bowed man, and warned himself to keep quiet. To give nothing away. To simply...listen.

  “I thought myself strong enough in my faith to resist her, you know. Fool that I was. No man could withstand such an onslaught.”

  Swallowing the retort that leaped to his lips, Duncan only nodded. “What is it she’s done to upset you so much?”

  Elias brought his head up fast, and his eyes lost some of that tired look when they riled instead with anger. Rage.

  “What has she done? Have you not seen it yourself, Reverend? The sidelong glances. The way she parades her beauty so proudly about this town. The devil is in her, I vow it!”

  “I’ve nay seen anythin’ of the sort,” he said, too quickly, he knew.

  “She’s taken to haunting my dreams,” Elias went on. “She comes to me by night, while I sleep. Tempts me to sin of the most vile sort while I’m helpless to resist. I tell you, only a witch would be capable of such things!”

  Duncan closed his eyes slowly. God, he’d been afraid of this. “Aye, only a witch,” he said slowly. “Or a man lustin’ after an innocent. Take care, Elias, not to blame your own failin’s on another.”

  “‘Tis witchery, I tell you! And I’m not alone in my opinion, Reverend!”

  Duncan felt his eyes narrow on the man. “Aren’t you, now?” And he waited, dreading what he was about to hear.

  “I didn’t speak of it to you at the time,” Elias said slowly. “But I wrote to a man in England about her. A famous witch-hunter. And now, at last, I have his reply.” This as he tugged a folded sheet of vellum from within his coat. “He believes all the signs are there, Duncan. He says she’s dangerous and that we ought to exercise extreme caution, that she could destroy us all! Read it for yourself!” He thrust the letter at Duncan.

  Duncan recoiled from the sheet as if its very touch could burn him. “Nay, I’ve no need to read the words of a man like that. How can he judge and condemn a woman from across the sea, Elias? Think on this! He hasna even met her.”

  “A man with his experience has no need. Besides, he will. He’s on his way here. Could arrive within a fortnight. Perhaps sooner. Then we’ll see—”

  Duncan surged to his feet. “You’re bringin’ a witch-hunter here? To Sanctuary? Good God, Elias, do you know what you’ve done?”

  Elias rose very slowly, staring hard at Duncan from head to toe. “I see. I guessed it long ago,
but I doubted my own instincts. Now, though, I see it clear. All those nights you spend out there, on the pretense of spying on those women. She’s got to you, too. Hasn’t she, Reverend? Hasn’t she?”

  Duncan averted his eyes. “Dinna be a fool.”

  “Have you fallen even further than I? Has she lifted her skirts for you already? Have you been sampling her tender—”

  Duncan lashed out, unable and utterly unwilling to restrain himself. His fist connected with Elias’s face, and the man reeled backward, over the bench and onto the floor behind it.

  “You dare!” Elias blustered, clutching his nose as blood ran from beneath his hand.

  Duncan gripped the front of the man’s shirt and lifted him to his feet. “Raven St. James is a fine and decent woman. I’ll nay have you sullyin’ her name, nor causin’ her harm on account of your own rampant lust, Elias Stanton. You’re a ruttin’ pig of a man, with a mind so bent on the carnal there isna room for reason nor decency left in you anymore.”

  Elias stepped back and Duncan let him go.

  “Leave her alone,” he told the bastard. “I’m warnin’ you, Elias, leave her alone.”

  Elias sniffed, rubbed his nose again, and examined the blood on his fingertips. “I’ll forgive you, Reverend. Only because I know the power of her spells on a man. She’s obviously worked them on you as well. But she’ll get what’s coming to her. And I've half a mind to set the wheels in motion now, myself, rather than wait for the witch-hunter’s arrival as he advises in his letter. What more evidence do we need, after all?”

  “Do you spread any more of this malicious gossip, Elias, I’ll kill you myself.”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he took a hasty step away. “You? A man of God, threatening murder?”

  “Murder is what you have in mind for Raven. Dinna try to deny it.”