by Sharon Joss
My mouth went dry. “What? How?”
“With water hemlock. Common as a weed, and one of the deadliest plants in North America. Almost a cliché, in terms of a witch’s weapon, wouldn’t you say?” She gave me a bitter smile. “Someone mixed it into their lunch salads. The investigators never discovered who was responsible, and no one was ever prosecuted. The department hushed it up. Gave Nate a medal for bravery. Of course Lou blamed himself, but there was no black magic involved. Neither of them ever suspected there was anything wrong with their food.”
“How awful. I’m sorry.”
“That wasn’t the end of it. Once or twice a year, someone leaves little carved wooden figures on our porches, covered in blood. It’s a form of intimidation, meant to keep us off balance. I won’t let the boys answer the door when I’m not home. Last week, a swarm of swamp lights appeared in Lou’s living room.”
“Excuse me?”
“Swamp lights. That’s what we called them when I was a kid. Or fey lights. White people call them will-o-the-wisps. Lou said they weren’t evil, just the cult playing head games, but now I’m not so sure.”
I slumped back against the bench. “Charlie and I had a similar experience,” I said. “He was pretty sure they were bad news.”
“When I was little, my grandmother told me that swamp lights are lost spirits, unable to pass beyond the veil. They serve as messengers between the land of the living and the dead. It is said that their message can only be heard by the intended recipient. Charlie’s suggestion that it’s a warning could also be correct.”
“They kept saying loosa-loosa.”
Honey gave me a worried look. “Sorry, I never learned many Senequois words, but Charlie speaks the language. Maybe he could tell you.” She rubbed her face. “I thought the nightmare was over years ago. That cult is a cancer. Now Lou is going to die and it’s all my fault.”
Instinctively, I put my arm around her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
She stiffened, her expression stony. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
“No. Lou told me. The Penfield witch cult did this. They killed Nate and tried to kill Lou. They’re the ones who cursed Lou and me.”
She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at her shoes. “They won’t give up. It’s personal for them. They won’t ever stop until they kill me and my kids.”
I understood survivor’s guilt—I’d dealt with it nearly all my life. I couldn’t imagine how hard her life must’ve been—raising two kids on her own. She looked so forlorn.
“Honey, it’s not true. You had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Oh yes I do,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She raised her worried brown eyes to mine. “I’m one of them. I’m a Penfield witch.”
CHAPTER 9
“YOU HAVE TO understand,” Honey explained. “That the history of the Penfield witches began in the 18th century, when the first settlers moved into the area now known as Penfield. The Senequois people, my ancestors, welcomed their new neighbors and helped them establish their homesteads. The Senequois tribeswomen in particular embraced the newly arrived white settler women as distant kin, and took it upon themselves to teach them about the local plants, medicinal herbs, and wildcrafting.
“Some of the women of my line became very close to several of the wives of the first settlers, or so the story has been passed down to me. They met regularly to share their knowledge. As it happened, the white women who were most accepting of the Senequois were not particular about attending church services every week. As the women learned herb lore and healing from their Senequois sisters, their children survived in greater numbers. Their husband’s crops and animals flourished. Their farms prospered. They were not plagued by pestilence and disease as severely as those on other farms. As sometimes happens, others in the community began to notice that these white women had become suspiciously friendly with the native tribeswomen.
“Fueled by jealousy and ignorance, rumors began to circulate that some of these settler women were witches. The wives of the more prosperous of these homesteaders became known as the Penfield witches. The name stuck.
“Senequois women have always shared their knowledge of wildcraft. We never excluded anyone who sought to learn from us. I grew up believing that the way of the People was one of peace and enlightenment. I was fourteen when I joined the circle, and we were known as the Penfield Eight for many, many years. By that time, only two of us could claim Senequois ancestry—my grandmother and me.”
A woman with two small children passed us, and Honey waited until they were out of earshot. She kept her voice low.
“Then, ten years ago, a brother and sister asked to join our circle. They were European—new to the area, and knowledgeable herbalists. They were so enthusiastic and eager to learn. They opened their home to the circle for our meetings and their drying shed for our herbs. They were British; unfamiliar with the ancient myths and folklore of the Senequois people. My grandmother, a storyteller of our clan, was flattered; and it was wonderful to hear the old stories again. Everyone loved this new energy coming into the group. John and Liddy had some different ideas and invited new members into our little circle. As our membership swelled, the focus of our circle began to change.
“John and Liddy were psychics, they told us—each of them gifted with the ability to communicate with the spirit world. Jonathan in particular, claimed the ability to summon certain spirits for the purpose of gaining knowledge. He was both charming persuasive, and before long, had convinced nearly everyone in the circle that the pursuit of arcane knowledge was a far nobler pursuit than messing about with weeds and seeds, as he called it. He said he could perform miracles with the power of a full and proper coven united behind him.
“It all happened so gradually, even my grandmother was convinced. He became our leader, or high priest, as he preferred we call him. It was just a name, and I went along with it like everyone else in the circle. His sister Liddy became our high priestess. The day came when John and Liddy presented each of us with a hooded black robe. That was the day I told Nate I was one of the Penfield Eight and I wanted out.
“I was pregnant with Arby, and Nate Junior was about to start kindergarten. Moving closer to Nate’s job in Picston made a lot of sense. Nate’s partner Lou owned a duplex and his tenants were moving out. It was the perfect setup for us.
“Jonathan didn’t like it one bit. At first, he tried to persuade Nate and me to move into his big house with his sister Liddy.”
“Wait,” I said. Are you talking about John and Liddy Fewkes? As in the puppet lady?”
She nodded. “Yes. Back then, they lived in a big old farmhouse in Penfield. They had more room than they needed, he said. He offered to let us live with them—rent free. He’d already persuaded my grandmother to move in with them. We’d be a big happy family. Of course Nate and I had no intention of doing that. We told him about the baby and how Nate Junior would be able to walk to kindergarten. We tried to be diplomatic.
“Liddy took a different approach. She tried to convince me that Nate was cheating on me. She even implied that he’d propositioned her. She told me he would break my heart and leave me for another woman. I’d have to raise his kids all alone. She kept at it.”
“What a horrible thing to say.”
Honey smoothed her skirt. “Of course, I didn’t believe a word of it. Lydia could be rather dramatic at times. But the pregnancy had me feeling vulnerable, and she got some of the other women in the circle to hint at the same sort of thing. I’d known some of these women a long time. I trusted them. They’d become convinced that John and Liddy were going to bring real magic into the circle, and Nate’s job with the police department made John and Liddy uneasy. John said that Nate had a negative attitude that constricted the natural flow of true power, whatever that meant. They even got my grandmother to suggest that I divorce Nate, saying that the life of my unborn child was at risk, and that the sisterhood of the coven took
care of their own.
“When I didn’t back down, John reacted badly. It was crazy, but he acted as if I belonged to him. Like I was his property and that my leaving was some kind of personal betrayal. I thought he was acting like a spoilt child, but I had no idea that this was just the beginning.
“On the day we moved, Jonathan and his sister brought the rest of the coven over to our apartment in Penfield and made a big scene. Like a protest, with a bullhorn and everything. He told us he’d already cursed Lou and this was our last chance. Somehow, he’d convinced everyone in the coven to support him on this—even my grandmother!
“Nate was furious and I was embarrassed and angry—and more than a little freaked out. Nate called in the sheriff—this was before Jim Reynolds was elected. Sheriff Bland refused to come, saying that Jonathan and his supporters had a right to free speech. They weren’t breaking any laws.
“Then my ninety-three year-old grandmother, who had never been sick a day in her life, died in her sleep three weeks after we moved. There was nothing inherently suspicious about her death, but it seemed too coincidental. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Then her body was ‘accidently’ cremated, against her explicit wishes, so that she did not receive the traditional Senequois blessings and ceremony of the dead. You must understand that for a Senequois, the ceremony of the dead, in addition to being a fundamental part of our culture, protects the soul of the departed until it reaches the afterlife. I told Nate I was scared.
“Two weeks after my grandmother’s death, Nate was dead.” She blinked away tears. “Baby Ray was born a month after he died. Everything went quiet then. Lou took care of me and the boys. We waited for them to do something. Lydia had the nerve to tell me about her prediction of Nate’s impending death had been correct. She and John expected me to come crawling back, but Lou was my rock. Every time we started to relax, another bloody warning showed up on the porch.”
“A few years ago, I saw John and Liddy at Wegmans. They acted as if nothing had happened. Just seeing them made me sick to my stomach. They told me they were planning to open a shop in Shore Haven. We’d be neighbors, just like old times. The way they looked at me--.” Honey shivered.
“I was terrified. I couldn’t stand the idea of living in the same town with the people responsible for killing Nate and my grandmother. Lou assured me that they were just playing head games. He swore he’d keep me and the boys safe. He checked around and found out the bank had foreclosed on their house. The shop in Shore Haven is a lease. They’re in financial trouble. They haven’t been in any position to start anything.”
She blew her nose. “Then last year, Liddy started putting on those stupid puppet shows. I feel like a monster forbidding Arby to watch them, but I don’t want Liddy to get her claws into my kids.”
“After all this time? I don’t get it. What’s the point?”
“John is a sociopath. His sister Liddy is even worse. They’d use anyone and do anything to get what they want, Mattie. Intimidation and black magic are their tools of choice. Be glad you don’t know them. Stay away from them.
* * *
The next day, I was sitting astride the Vic, idling at the stoplight light in front of Killer Dave’s, when a movement across the street caught my eye. It was Liddy Fewkes, leaving the flower shop. Her car was parked out front, and she got in.
An impatient driver in the car behind me honked, informing me the light had changed to green. On impulse, I whipped into the empty lot behind Dave’s. I peeked around the corner of the restaurant in time to see Liddy drive off.
I debated going in. In spite of what Honey had said about them, I couldn’t help but think that maybe her memories from ten years earlier were a little overblown. And I was curious. After what she’d told me, I thought maybe I hadn’t imagined Liddy’s doll speaking to me at career day. What if there were more dolls in the shop? I’d love to see if Lou’s coin reacted to them. With Liddy gone, John would be there by himself, and he wouldn’t know me from Adam.
I thought about summoning Blix but decided against it. If John Fewkes was as powerful a sorcerer as Lou and Honey seemed to think, he might be able to sense my djemon’s presence. Besides, it was broad daylight. As far as anyone knew, I was just another customer.
Five minutes. What would it hurt?
A bell over the door tinkled as I stepped inside. The shop was cluttered and crowded with antiques; the pungent scent of tea and dried herbs was strong, but not unpleasant.
A man stepped out from behind a striped curtain behind the counter, and I got my first look at John Fewkes. Tall, balding, with a walrus moustache and a ruddy complexion. He wore a black pinstriped suit, with a black shirt and silver tie—expensive-looking and veddy proper. This was the high priest of the Penfield witch cult? He looked more like a banker than a sorcerer.
“What can I help you with today, Madame?”
His voice filled the small shop—rich and deep. Both of them were actors, I remembered. That, I believed. Although, come to think of it, Liddy did not have an accent. One of them must be faking it.
“Just browsing,” I glanced around the cramped shop. “Ah, where are the herbs?”
He smirked. “Weeds and seeds in the back,” he declared. “My sister just stepped out. If you require assistance, you’d best wait until she returns.”
Something about him struck me as familiar, but I could not figure it out.
I wound my way through narrow, twisting aisles of mirrored armoires, ornately carved benches; dressers piled high with crockery and decorative glassware. A collection of life-sized antique carousel animals led the way to the tea room. Inside, two small tables and a loveseat flanked an authentic-looking saloon bar, sans the bar stools. Brass lamps with stained glass shades gave the room a warm and cheerful glow. Ruffled chintz curtains matched the tablecloths and cushions on the window seat. Instead of a mirror, the back wall was filled with glass-fronted cabinets containing assorted herbs, dried flowers, ribbons, and large glass canisters of loose tea.
And dolls.
A floor to ceiling cabinet, nearly six feet wide, was devoted to antique wooden dolls and marionettes. I approached the cabinet, looking for the doll I remembered, but I didn’t see it. The cabinet was locked. I held Lou’s coin against the glass, and my palm as well, but whether the glass kept me from sensing trapped spirits within the dolls, or whether these dolls were nothing special, I couldn’t tell.
I scanned the cluttered room, searching for the slightest indication that this was some sort of witch lair. The tearoom was charming, in a cliché sort of way. Nothing remotely satanic or cultish here. Maybe they kept that stuff hidden. I don’t know what I expected, but I felt sort of disappointed by the place.
There was a stairwell leading up to the second floor. Tempting, but probably locked, and I didn’t have enough nerve to try the stairs. They probably creaked.
I made my way back to the front of the shop. Fewkes had a copy of the London Times spread across the counter before him. He didn’t look the least bit dangerous.
Something drew me closer. Like a riddle that needed to be answered, I just had to know more. I approached the counter, Lou’s coin hidden in my hand. “This place is charming,” I nodded at the paper he was reading. “Anything interesting?”
He looked at me over the top of his half-glasses. “Art thou base, common, and popular?” Something flickered in John’s Fewkes’s eyes, sending a chill right through me. That look told me he’d seen something in me, and was trying to puzzle me out as well.
I frowned, uncertain whether I’d been insulted. Probably. “Excuse me?”
He closed the newspaper and folded it. “Shakespeare. Henry the Fifth. A carriage clock on the shelf behind him began to chime softly. “It is closing time, Madame, and I have an appointment. As much as I should like to continue this sparkling conversation, I cannot.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. He stepped out from behind the counter and waved me toward the door.
I suddenly remembered why he
sounded so familiar. It wasn’t the accent—it was the attitude. My gut told me that John Fewkes must be, had to be, Zeypax’s master. Rhys and Henri had told me repeatedly that djemons took on the same characteristics as their masters. The djemon I’d banished from that old farmhouse had the same arrogant manner.
“Okay, thanks,” I mumbled and slipped out of the shop. I heard him chuckle as I shut the door behind me.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just made a huge mistake.
* * *
Blix was waiting for me when I got home. He bounced up and down on the dining room table, squeaking like a windup toy. I dumped my helmet and jacket on the floor and hurried over to see what the commotion was all about. I thought he wanted to show me something on his Read and Spell tablet. Ever since I’d given it to him, he’d been glued to it and happily preoccupied for days at a time.
Instead, he clutched my cell phone in his delicate black claws.
Oh jeeze. He probably thought it was just another version of his Speak and Read tool. I should have told him not to touch it. Now, it was too late. Say goodbye to my contact list.
“Hand it over, Blix.”
He held it up to me, his yellow eyes dilated. His blue tongue flicked in and out uncertainly.
I took the phone and he scampered up my arm to sit in the crook of my elbow. I scrolled through my contact list, but Blix’s nimble fingers beat me to the punch.
All I could do was stare in amazement. He’d updated every single entry in my phone list, and somehow managed to find out their complete contact information, including address, phone and email, and categorized them as to Picston, friends, and family. In some cases, there were even satellite photos of the buildings where they lived. Even a new address and phone number for my brother Lance in South Carolina—and I hadn’t heard from him in months.