by Shara Lanel
Behind him, Diera was seated across from Rowena at a small card table covered in a plain black cloth. In the center was a small crystal ball held in place by a wood stand covered in black velvet. Rowena had lit candles in the sconces spaced around the room. None of them were close enough to reflect in the crystal, which was important. She’d also lit some charcoal in a censer to burn some acacia and bay laurel for clarity and seeing. Once she seemed ready to begin, Holt clicked off the computer screen and turned to watch. He knew there wouldn’t be much to see, because all the “seeing” would go on in Rowena’s mind, and she wasn’t given to theatrics to make what she did more impressive than it was. She didn’t need the extra boost, as far as Holt was concerned, because she never failed to impress him with her accuracy and insight.
“So what are we doing here? Do I have to concentrate on something?” Diera asked. Her voice held a trace of skepticism. He was proud of her for not assaulting Rowena with sarcastic questions, which he sensed she wanted to do.
Rowena smiled serenely. “I will relax into a meditative state. There is nothing you need to do. Although if you could remain silent, that would help my concentration.” She met Diera’s eyes. “I have sensed the dark magick and danger, but was unable to bring the picture clearer. I am hoping that by focusing on this girl specifically, more will be revealed. Tell me her name once again.”
“Kim Jacobs. I have a picture.”
“Show it to me. Has Holt explained scrying to you at all?”
She pulled the photo out of her purse and slid it across the table. “No.”
“I see images, but often those images need to be interpreted, and that interpreting can be where the problems come in. Holt can scry. So can you, if taught properly, but the more experienced a witch, the more accurate the interpretation. Although some witches have the birth gift of divination.”
“I see.”
Rowena concentrated on Kim’s picture, before gazing into the crystal. Holt always had the strangest urge to cough when he watched her do this. He blamed it on the incense, but it was probably his restless spirit protesting a lack of motion.
*
Fifteen minutes passed. Diera shifted in her chair, which grew harder with each passing second, as Rowena stared into the crystal. When the older woman finally blinked and looked up, Diera breathed a sigh of relief. She’d bitten her tongue several times, wanting to ask a question or make a comment or giggle nervously.
“Did you see something?”
“A dangerous herb. Nightshade.” She looked to Holt and he nodded.
“Yes, there’s a coven by that name.”
“That is the one you seek, but it is not so much the coven as a whole. They are but blind followers, much deceived by their High Priest. He is the source of the blackness. Does it say his name on that list, Holt?”
“No, nor is there an address.” He turned back to the computer and the screen lit up. “I’ll check online. Maybe they have a web site.”
“These dreams … how long have you been having them, and have they changed any?”
Diera answered, wishing she could escape this now oppressive room with the tickling smoke. Graves had used a censer when he’d prepared her for the Great Rite all those years ago. “Over two weeks now. I would see different dead people in each dream, but always in the same pattern, close in, sky view, close in, and in the end the eyes would open and they were always the same eyes.”
“Whose eyes?”
Her cheeks heated. “Holt’s, actually.”
Rowena glanced at Holt again, but he pretended to ignore the conversation, though his neck grew red. The High Priestess smiled. “I see. That is most interesting. But the dream changed last night?”
“Yes. Last night it was Kim in the coffin. She was naked, too. All of the other dead people were dressed in nice clothes, what I assume they were buried in.”
“I think you were right to interpret that Kim is in trouble. Did you recognize the cemetery?”
“Hollywood.”
She rubbed her thumb over her lips and looked past Diera’s shoulder. “Hollywood is connected to you for many reasons, so it may not be telling you the location of this girl. I don’t think it means she’s literally buried alive.”
“But what if you’re wrong?”
Her expression changed to kindness. “You could spend your day in Hollywood and never find her. You must be familiar with its size, unless the dream gave you some other clues?”
“No. I mean, obelisks and mausoleums are all over the place there, if I remember correctly. I could try to see if anything looks more familiar than the rest.”
Holt stamped his foot. “Aha! They have a web site and it gives the dates of their coven meetings, but not the locations.”
“When is the next one?”
“The dark of the moon, it says.”
Diera rolled her eyes. “So when is that?”
“In a week.”
“That’s a long time to wait if she’s in danger now, and even then we don’t know where.”
“I’ve shot an email to the web mistress. Maybe she’ll be helpful.”
“Meantime,” Rowena said. “I know of some dealers in occult supplies in town that may help you narrow your search.” She took Diera’s hands in hers. “I believe you should visit your mother’s grave.”
“I don’t go there. Ever.”
Rowena’s eyes were kind, but that just reminded Diera of the social worker on the porch. No one could understand what she’d gone through, how much she’d lost.
“You’ve dreamed of Hollywood for some reason, and perhaps that will trigger your intuition about what you have seen.” She let go of Diera’s hands. “I know you rebel against it, but you have a gift of power, my child. You just need to accept it.”
“There’s no such thing as magic, just depraved people using its trappings to exploit others.”
Holt turned shocked eyes on Diera, but she didn’t care. She was walking out of the shrinking back room as quick as she could. She turned the lock on the front door of the shop and didn’t take a complete breath until she stood outside on the cement sidewalk. Thank God a cold snap had come through. The crisp air helped clear her head. She paced down to look in the craft store windows while she waited for Holt to join her, but the windows were full of painted jack o’ lanterns, felt scarecrows, and rustic broomsticks. Where was Holt? Since she’d driven him, she assumed he wouldn’t want to be left here, but maybe she’d offended him by insulting his friend.
She didn’t care, dammit! She’d been sucked in by the show, the crystal ball, the incense, the candles, but it was all a sham. The only tangible information they’d gained from this visit was the other “night” covens. Holt hadn’t found the information on the coven web site, but then he didn’t know where to search.
Once he exited the store, she walked up to him. “I want to go to the library.”
“What for?”
“Internet.”
“But we could have used Rowena’s…”
“I’m not going back in there, and this is quicker than going home. There’s a branch near here. Unless you want to stay here. I’ll go by myself.”
Ten minutes later they entered the library. Of course, since Diera wasn’t local, she needed Holt’s library card number to access the Internet. Once there she found the Nightshade site. She wrote down the exact URL address, then looked up one of her fave domain name registries. From there she was easily able to track down who owned the site, name and address. Holt, looking on over her shoulder, whistled low.
“All that info’s out there for anyone to find?”
“Oh, yeah, if you know where to look.” For good measure she Googled Kim’s name and Nightshade Coven, but found no other references. Showing Holt the address, she asked, “Do you know where this is?”
“It’s in the Fan not far from Boulevard.”
“Do you recognize this name? Janet Montgomery?”
“No. She’s probably Isis, though
. That’s the name listed on the web site.”
“Let’s go check her out.”
“What do you think about Rowena’s idea of visiting your mom’s grave?” Holt asked hesitantly.
She scowled at him, but he touched her shoulder and heat pulsed through her body. She’d been so wrapped up in the search and her conflicting emotions regarding meeting another witch that she’d blocked out the pleasure of being near Holt and the memories of their morning in bed.
Feeling calmer, she sighed. “I guess I should face it. It’s like I’m giving it too much power by avoiding it.”
“Thata girl.”
The car had warmed in the early afternoon sun, so Diera rolled down the windows as they sped across the Lee Bridge. Diera had wanted to visit this Isis character first, but Holt had ragged on her until she found herself rounding the corner that led to the cemetery entrance. It was a bright sunny day, so the graves sparkled, looking almost cheery. The grass was lush green and neatly mowed, and a hulking tourist bus preceded them up the road, puffing exhaust. It paused in front of the pyramid, spewing tourists with cameras from its two side doors. Diera eased her car around it and continued on her way, though it had been so long, she couldn’t even say for sure she was heading in the right direction.
Holt touched her thigh, distracting her.
“You know that’s not a wise thing to do while I’m driving.”
“Oh, you mean your driving could get worse?” He grinned, so she slugged him. “Didn’t your mommy tell you not to hit people?”
Her face clouded. “No, she didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
They passed row upon row of gravestones, monuments, and mausoleums. “Look, just let me tell you, okay?” She focused straight ahead, knowing that the tomb was somewhere in this area if she could find the right row. “My dad died in prison and so did a man named David Graves. My mom died soon after.”
“Graves? Like related to Al?”
“I don’t know, but Dave had a son named Aleister.”
“Whoa, major coincidence.”
She pulled to the side in front of a row of modest-sized mausoleums. The road wasn’t wide, so it would be hard for another car to drive through. “Are you going to shut up and let me talk?”
He raised his hands to ward off her anger. “Got it. I’m mum.”
She still didn’t look at him, just gripped the steering wheel so tight that her knuckles turned white. “My parents belonged to a coven, but it wasn’t Wiccan. It was Satanist. High Priest Dave performed Black Masses in his basement.” She took a deep breath. “He told my parents he was grooming me for a great sacrifice, the highest honor. He would perform the Great Rite on me at midnight on All Hallow’s Eve with the whole coven looking on.”
Holt looked stricken. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen, and a virgin, of course. That’s why he didn’t want to wait until I was older. He was afraid some classmate would get to me first.”
“Don’t tell me your parents let him do this.”
“Yes, they did. He promised them wealth and power.” She closed her eyes, again picturing the scene. Her arms had ached from being tied above her head. She was spread on the altar, naked. Acrid smoke filled her eyes so that they were streaming with tears. She turned her head from side to side, seeking to meet her parents’ eyes. They wouldn’t look at her. The coven surrounded her in black robes and spooky cone hats that reminded her of the KKK, and an inverted crucifix, created out of neon, glowed on the far wall. From previous masses, Diera knew that black candles sputtered on the floor at each point of the pentagram, though she couldn’t see them from her position on the altar. High Priest Dave had drawn the pentagram and the circle surrounding it with thick white chalk. The coven members stood just inside the circle, dead silent, only speaking in response to Dave’s incantations. He’d used a censer of burning incense to trace the shape of a pentagram in the air above her before sprinkling her naked form with holy water and something red and warm that she suspected was blood.
Why hadn’t she screamed and struggled the whole time? She’d asked herself over and over, guilt and shame swimming through her stomach. She should have tried hard to get away from him. But now, after years of therapy, she could look back and realize she had trusted her parents to protect her, even at the sullen age of fourteen. She’d expected them to put a stop to it at any moment, and shock and fear had overridden any rational thoughts of escape. And maybe a strange part of it had been faith in her parents’ faith. If they believed in what this man was doing to her, perhaps it served some purpose she couldn’t understand.
“Diera.” Holt reached out and took her hand from the steering wheel, bringing her back to the present, to the sunlit car in the middle of the cemetery. As she blinked back tears, she noticed mustard-colored leaves floating across the asphalt road.
Holt cupped her hand with both of his and spoke again, “Diera, you don’t have to tell me details. I thank you for sharing this with me. It really helps me understand where you’re coming from.”
She inhaled deeply as a refreshing breeze filled the car, coming through the open windows. “My parents are buried there.” She pointed at the third mausoleum in the row. The name TATE was engraved deeply into the stone arch. “My mother’s family owns the plot.”
“Do you want to leave?” Holt asked, as his thumb stroked the inside of her wrist in a calming way.
“No. Rowena is right. I should do this.” But a sob choked out of her throat. She couldn’t believe she was crying after so many years. “I need to forgive them, don’t I? I need to let this go.”
“You know, I don’t think I could have let it go or forgiven them if it had happened to me. I mean just knowing it … makes me want to kill them with my bare hands.”
She laughed through her tears. “Luckily, they’re all dead.” Not that she could see the humor, for there was none.
“How did they die?”
“The cops arrested them. It’s all kind of blurry, but Aunt Maeve had known something was wrong with me after it happened. She’d asked my parents about the changes in my mood and appearance, and even they seemed different, withdrawn, self-destructive, like with drinking—and Dad told off his boss at work and got fired. Aunt Maeve finally got the story out of me and she went to child services and the police. Child services took me away before the police even had enough evidence for a case. I think one or two coven members came forward, and after that Aleister was also taken away by child services.”
“Was he there during the mass?” Holt asked quietly.
“They wore masks, so I don’t know, but I think so. He’d been there during other rites, I remember.”
“So the police arrested your parents?”
“Yes, and Dave Graves. At first on charges like child endangerment and contributing to the delinquency of a minor, but they finally also charged the evil man with rape, too, even though I didn’t report it myself.”
“And they died in prison?”
“Yes, within days, my dad and Dave committed suicide by hanging. My mom waited until she was out of prison. Her first night free after two years, she slit her wrists in a motel bathtub.”
“Diera, I’m so sorry. So sorry. I can’t even imagine how horrible that all was.” He reached up and stroked her hair then collected a tear drop from her cheek onto the tip of his finger. He whispered some words that sounded like a poem, then blew on it.
The ache in her chest eased a bit. “What did you just do?”
His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything.
“Holt?”
“A spell to ease your pain.” He sighed. “It’s as natural to me as breathing.”
Diera jerked her hand from his and yanked the door handle, so she could bolt out of the car. She stalked across the crunchy leaves and grass to the Tate graves. Another door slammed and she knew Holt was following her.
She looked over her shoulder. “Good thing I’m going back to Norfolk so
on. It’s obvious there’s nothing more than sex between us.”
“That’s not how I feel. I feel like maybe you’re the missing half of me.”
“You’re delusional. We’ve had sex once. Get over it.”
“I’m sorry, Diera! I meant to help, that’s all.” He reached her side and looked up at the marble tomb. “Do you feel it?” he breathed.
“Can you get off your witch kick for one minute?” She was pissed, but she knew what he was talking about, and that made her angrier. She’d been so closed off during her mother’s funeral that she hadn’t felt anything, not even pain. But now—she couldn’t describe it—she felt a tingling in her feet, as if an electrical current was coming up from the earth she stood on.
Holt paced up the road. “It stops here.” He cut onto the grass and walked all the way around the mausoleum. “It’s not the building. It’s under the building.”
Diera knelt. Spreading her fingers wide, she placed her palms to the earth and closed her eyes. In her mind she could see a glowing red heart beating inside a circle of white light. “What is it?” she asked, and the light told her in images.
She saw a circle of men and women, thirteen in all, skyclad. The men had shoulder-length hair and wooly sideburns. The women’s hair flowed down their backs, unbound and uncut. Holding hands, they circled in a clockwise direction around a tree stump. On the stump sat a clay chalice filled with water, an iron dagger, a white candle, and a mound of salt. The trees surrounding the dancers formed a natural circle, as if the gods had intended it that way. One woman led the dance. She had dark red hair and wore a crown of ivy on her head.
The next image showed this same woman in this same spot, but this time she wasn’t dancing. She was tied to an upright log atop a pile of limbs and sticks. Angry people, mostly men, dressed in clothes that Diera had only seen at reenactments at Henricus and Jamestown, surrounded her, chanting, “Burn the witch.” Two women stood in the shadows cast by torchlight bouncing off the trees, and one of those women held a baby with red hair.