No Rest for the Wicca

by Toni LoTempio

  “No bull, it’s fact,” I thrust my jaw forward aggressively. “What I learned from my mistakes is not to press my luck in unfamiliar territory—although I imagine it’s exactly just what I’m about to do, which sort of makes me a damn liar, doesn’t it?”

  He pushed his bowl off to one side. “Yes, but a very attractive one.”

  I felt color start to rise in my cheeks. Fortunately, the waitress brought my juice and a fresh cup of coffee. I downed the juice in one swallow. As I reached for the creamer, Cole’s hand shot out, covered mine.

  “I know the details of the events leading up to your transfer from Homicide.”

  I snatched my hand away. “I’m certain you do.”

  “I don’t know all what transpired, but I can tell you this—not many people would have tried what you did in the line of duty.”

  “You’re right. And do you know why? I took a risk, a very foolhardy one. I thought I could beat the odds. I thought I had it all covered. My conceit cost an innocent her life, allowed a dangerous criminal to escape. I vowed never to put myself in the same position ever again, and yet…here I am.”

  “Indeed.” Cole leaned back in the booth. “Why?”

  You have to help us.

  I took a swallow of coffee. “Let’s just say I’m a sucker for people in distress. Not to mention the fact if there is a witch killer on the loose, both myself and Xia could be in danger. Hell’s bells, Xia almost got killed herself. Call this an act of self-preservation. But don’t mistake it for heroism or bravery, because it most definitely is not.”

  “As you wish.” Cole signaled for the check. “Let’s get a move on. After all, we don’t want to be late on our first day, do we?”

  I gave him an eyeroll as I slid out of my seat. “Heaven forbid.”

  Professor Atticus Graft was not exactly what I’d expected. I’d had a vision of a Vincent Price look-alike, someone tall, distinguished, slick black hair, pencil moustache, with a sophisticated air and a deep, rich voice.

  Well, I had the voice part right, anyway.

  He stood barely five-six, slight of build, with thinning strawberry blonde hair and a sparse goatee. His pale blue eyes could best be described as watery. Frankly, I could see nothing Vincent Pricey or mesmerizing about him at all—until he spoke. His voice could charm devils out of hellholes. He certainly had the female students mesmerized, I thought, glancing around. Practically all the students attending his lecture were female. I wondered if there might be some significance attached.

  I slipped into my seat just scant minutes before he began his first lecture. Cole had gone off to the faculty advisement room in keeping with his cover as a substitute professor, leaving me to register, get my Entrée program, and race around the myriad of halls looking for Lecture Room One all by myself. Now, as I sat in the back of the large classroom, I found myself oddly stirred by Professor Graft.

  “Good morning,” he beamed at us from the podium, “and welcome to your first class of the day. Those of you who have been enrolled in the voodoo arts program for awhile are familiar with my method of teaching. I drone on and on, boring the hell out of you, and when you least expect it, bam! I ask someone who looks half asleep a question just to see if you’ve been taking a catnap, or actually paying attention to me.”

  There came a smattering of laughter, and he continued.

  “Many think voodoo is some sort of mystic rite, mumbo-jumbo connected with zombies, pagan gods, and the likes. I hope to enlighten you, during my series of lectures, that voodoo is actually a religion shrouded in mystery, in myth, if you will, for centuries. If there’s anyone here who thinks all there is to voodoo is black magic spells, pins stuck in dolls, and the living dead, get out! I mean it. Get out now.”

  He stopped speaking, and the room fell so silent you could her a pin drop. I craned my neck, looked around. Everyone’s gaze fastened on the small man at the podium, his arms outstretched.

  “Good. If you approach my lectures with an open mind, boys and girls, you’re about to discover a powerful spiritual system that will benefit your life immensely.

  You see, voodoo encompasses much more than the mere magic portrayed in film noir movies of years ago. I’m sure you’ve seen them on cable channels—I was a Teenage Zombie, Zombie Nightmare, and my personal favorite…Dawn of the Dead. But it’s so much more than the Hollywood stereotype.”

  One boy in the front raised his hand. “Do you mean the portrayal of raising the dead—zombies—is false?”

  Graft shook his head. “Not at all. I merely meant to impress upon you voodoo is much more than that. It encompasses a broad pantheon of immortal spirits, rituals, and the miracle of spirit possession. It encourages a personal relationship with the divine, or the lwa, as their gods are referred to.”

  “So there could actually be zombies walking around Central City? Cool,” grinned the boy, which elicited a spasm of laughter from the other students.

  A girl with flame-colored hair sitting in the front row raised her hand. “Professor, just what are the similarities between voodoo and witchcraft?”

  He smiled. “We’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves, my dear. As most of you know, I recently received a grant to further my studies along the lines of voodoo as it relates to witchcraft and the study of black magic.”

  Another hand shot up. “Black magic has its roots in religion too, doesn’t it?”

  Graft nodded. “Satanism, the worship of Lucifer. The dark side of religion, some would say. There are shades and textures to both. I hope to enable you to have a better understanding of the protective, beneficial powers of white magic and the malevolent, dangerous realm of black magic before this course is through.

  “Now, what do most of you think of when you hear the word voodoo? Black magic, right? Evil curses. Witch doctors sticking pins in dolls, causing pain and heart attack, even death, to enemies. And let’s not forget the zombie, clawing its way out of the grave, moving mindlessly toward an innocent, hands stretching out, locking around their throats.

  “The thing is, if those images spring into your mind, they’re not wrong. Voodoo does encompass all of those things, but it is more—oh, so much more. Voodoo has survived centuries of repression and evolved into a religion with roots stretching back thousands of years. The same, of course, can be said of witchcraft.

  “Possibly the most important difference would be the object of worship. Black magic witchcraft, or Satanism, revolves around the worship of Lucifer. Thinking of the African spirits as gods is a mistake. The spirits are the immortal souls of the ancestors—people who were formerly alive, just as you and I. That is why voodoo uses the term ‘serve the spirits’ rather than worship.”

  The flame-haired girl raised her hand again. “Professor Graft, I’m confused. I’ve always been under the impression voodoo is something evil, something to be feared.”

  He nodded. “As with magic, there are two sides to every coin. White magic-black magic. Black voodoo-white voodoo. You see, my dear, it’s no different than anything else. The age old battle. Good versus evil.”

  Some of the class laughed. I glanced around the room. One girl, off to the left, seemed bored. She sat, slumped in her chair, chin resting in her palm. I thought she might even be asleep, and suddenly her hand shot up in the air.

  Graft glanced in her direction. “Drucilla. Yes?”

  “Wicca and witchcraft have certain days, Sabbats, when their powers are supposed to peak and reach great proportions. Does voodoo have anything similar?”

  “An excellent question.” His watery eyes darted around the room, and for a moment I felt them rest on me. He cleared his throat and continued.

  “Believe it or not, as a result of voodoo’s early adaptation to the Catholic religion, many voodoo holidays coincide with traditional holy days. Some differ, such as February 25th, which is the ritual feeding of the springs, or April 29th, Case Kanari. On that day, the souls of those who died in the past year are sent to the realm of the dead. As for any pa
rticular day on which voodoo powers reach its peak, it’s hard to say. It depends on the relationship between follower and their particular lwa. There are those who believe there are certain days when witchcraft and voodoo are perfectly in sync. It is on those days the gods—the lwa’s—are at their most powerful, ready to grant their supplicants their heart’s desire.” He smiled and glanced down at his watch. “We’ll go into all this in more detail at the next lecture. Now, I imagine I’ve bored all of you enough for one morning.”

  More light laughter. I noted Drucilla start to gather up her books as the other students sat, rapt with attention.

  “I’ve written your first assignment on the board, here. Textbooks may be purchased at the student store, or through our library. I wish you all a good day. If any of you have any questions, please feel free to visit me in my office.”

  He stepped down from the podium. Everyone rose, started talking. I picked up my tote bag and started down the aisle. As I fell in behind some others, I glanced casually over at the podium. Drucilla had engaged Graft in conversation. She had a rather intense look on her face; he looked for the most part supremely pissed off. Curious, I let my totebag slip from my fingers.

  “Oh, damn,” I cried, as pens, coins, and different articles flew helter-skelter across the floor. I bent and began to retrieve the articles, inching closer to the podium as I did so.

  “It’s very distressing to me,” Drucilla remarked. “We were very close. I find it impossible to believe she’d just take off.”

  Graft, stuffing papers into a battered leather briefcase, shrugged. “Florrie’s always been a bit odd, my dear. Frankly, her behavior seems right in line.”

  “To you, maybe,” Drucilla sniffed. “You saw a different side of her. But to me—it just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Trust me. The girl assisted me with my notes. She seemed very confused about the similarities between voodoo and Wiccan magic. It found her attitude very disconcerting. I need an assistant who shares my beliefs wholeheartedly, and doesn’t try to turn my own words against me.”

  Drucilla’s face flushed. “Pardon me, Professor, but you know full well Florrie’s passion for these beliefs. When she argued with you, she did so out of a sense of—of justice.”

  “Misguided justice,” he replied with a curl of his lip.

  She took a step forward, arm upraised. For a moment she looked as if she could strike the man, but instead she balled her hand into a fist, brought it, clenched, back to her side.

  “In spite of your differences, you have to admit she’s a good worker, loyal. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. You’re going to hold her job, right?”

  Graft shoved some more papers into his briefcase and didn’t look up as he answered, “Well, it’s not entirely up to me. She also works for Gene, you know. My recommendation was to post the position if she didn’t return by the end of this week. After all, I can’t have my research held up because some girl takes a snit and decides to pull a disappearing act. Morrow, naturally, agrees.”

  Drucilla gave a little cry. Her hand shot out, plucked at the man’s sleeve. “Professor Graft, surely you can wait a few more days. I know Florrie. Whatever made her leave, she wouldn’t desert her friends, or her studies here. I’m sure she’ll be back—“

  “And as I said, important research cannot be held up for the whims of a college girl. Now, if you’ll pardon me.” He scooped up the last of his papers, snapped the briefcase shut, and glanced over at where I hunched near the stage. He pushed his tortoise-framed glasses down on his nose and glared at me. “Might I help you, young lady?”

  I rose, clutching my tote. “No, thanks. I’m just overly clumsy today. I think I’ve got everything.”

  His expression softened as he studied me. “You’re new to the University, aren’t you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around?”

  “Yes, I just started today.” I held out my hand. “Morgan Hawkes.”

  He took my hand, held it for a moment, released it. “Ah, yes. I remember seeing the name on my roster. You’re in our Entrée program, I believe?”

  “Correct.”

  He cocked one shaggy brow. “So, how did you like your first lecture?”

  “Interesting,” I remarked. “You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity.”

  Graft picked up his briefcase. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get a lot out of this course. Now, if you’ll excuse me, since at the moment I have no assistant, there are some notes I must assemble for my book.” He gave me a once-over. “If you’re interested in getting extra credits, my colleague and I might be in need of a new assistant,” he said. “You’re quite welcome to apply.” His gaze raked over my black pants, white shirt and cardigan. “The position also pays nine dollars an hour. I’m sure you could use the extra cash.”

  I had the odd feeling I’d just been insulted. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  He gave me another once-over. “Do so,” he said. “I’m sure you could learn a lot from us.”

  ***

  The apartment where Mrs. Alban and her daughter lived was about two miles from the University. Since my last class of the day was a discussion on Magical Aromatherapy, given by a Professor whose name I couldn’t even pronounce, I decided to skip it in favor of possibly gleaning some useful information.

  Mrs. Alban’s ruddy face brightened as she opened the door and saw me.

  “My goodness. Morgan Hawkes, isn’t it? Well, come in, come in. What brings you to this end of town?”

  I glanced around as I entered the small living room. The furniture appeared worn, but everything was neat, tidy, in its place. My eyes traveled to the mantle, and to the photograph of a serious-eyed girl in a silver frame. I gave Mrs. Alban a small smile.

  “Actually, I had hoped to run into Florrie. I started some classes at the University, and—“

  “Ah, I wondered what you’d done after—well, you know.” She patted my arm. “It must have been such a trial for you, dear. I often asked your cousin how you were doing. She said you handled it just fine, but—my dear George was a beat cop, you know. He had two partners shot on his watch. It takes a lot out of you.”

  But I’ll bet George wasn’t directly responsible for their getting shot, I wanted to blurt out, but instead I just plastered a big, wide smile across my face. “Like I said, I decided to take up the Entrée program. Xia said Florrie went there also. I thought maybe she’d have some pointers for me.”

  Mrs. Alban motioned me to sit. “Well, maybe she would, dear. Maybe she would.”

  “Is she here? I checked at her dorm, but they said they hadn’t seen her.”

  Unfortunately, no. She usually stays here on the weekends, but we—we had a little tiff. I haven’t seen her for a few days. But she’ll come around. She always does.”

  I crossed my legs at the ankles, leaned forward conversationally. “Too bad. You two are so close. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  Mrs. Alban pulled a face. “Nothing her getting a regular part time job wouldn’t cure,” she spat.

  I widened my eyes. “Why—what do you mean?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” the woman wrung her hands together. “I know I butt in a lot, but it’s only because I care so much, you know. Florrie started doing extra credit work for one of the professors, and she’s getting a little too involved with the subject matter, if you ask me.”

  “Really? Well, it can happen.”

  Mrs. Alban jumped up. “I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a glass of iced tea? I made it fresh. With mint.”

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as she disappeared into the tiny kitchenette, I jumped up and hurried over to pick up Florrie’s photo. As I stared into the girl’s clear eyes, a mist suddenly formed in front of mine. My head started to pound, and suddenly I heard them, voices, all talking at once, all reverberating inside my head.

  You have to help us.

  It’s too late for me—but you can save the others.

  Seven. They cannot get the seven
. If they do—it will be too late.

  “They,” I muttered. “Who are they? Why can’t you tell me?”

  “Morgan? Are you alright?”

  I turned. Mrs. Alban stood behind me, a glass of minted ice tea in one hand. I set the frame back on the mantle, took the glass, and returned to my seat, hoping I didn’t look as confused as I felt.

  “I was just admiring Florrie’s photo.” I took a long sip of the tea. “She’s a lovely girl.”

  “Yes,” her mother agreed, “she is. Headstrong, though. You know, we’ve both always had an interest in the occult, but lately Florrie’s really gotten carried away with it. Did you know she spoke to your cousin’s friend about joining their Dianic Wiccan group?”

  “Really? But Florrie doesn’t have the blood.”

  “I told her so. She said you don’t have to be a pureblood to be a good Wiccan. It can be learned. And working for those two professors didn’t help things. They filled her head with such nonsense.” She let out a snort. “Why, do you know I saw her on her computer one night looking up secret societies. Can you imagine?”

  My heart was hammeing so loud in my chest I was certain it could be heard three blocks away. “Secret societies? That does seem odd. You think her professors had something to do with that?”

  Mrs. Alban clasped her hands together. “Well, I’m not sure, of course, but she started acting very strange after she began working for them. The older one, especially, filled her head with such nonsense.”

  I frowned. I’d been in both Graft’s and Morrow’s classes today,and both men had appeared to be around the same age, mid-fifties. Which one could she mean? As I opened my mouth to ask Mrs. Alban sighed. “How they could argue! I heard them on the phone, sometimes. It’s a miracle she never got fired.”

  “That is unusual,” I tried to keep my tone calm. “Which professor was that again?”

  The old woman’s hand fluttered in the air. “Oh, I don’t remember. She did so much for both, and she argued with both. Florrie always had definite opinions, you remember, don’t you, Morgan?”