“Two eggs scrambled, corned beef hash, and coffee, please.”
The waitress hurried off and Anthony continued to study her. “You should know, it’s always this crowded in here,” he said.
“I know. Some things never change.”
He cocked his head to the side. “I took you for a stranger, tourist, maybe.”
She laughed. “I’m not a tourist. I grew up here. Just moved back.”
“Good to know,” he said, his smile widening. He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her.
She read it aloud. “Anthony Charles, Proprietor. Museum of the Occult.”
“That’s me.”
She tucked the card into her jeans pocket. “I don’t remember a Museum of the Occult.”
“I opened it about three years ago,” he said.
“Because there weren’t enough witch museums in town?” she asked drily.
“Most of them are very limited in their view. Mine covers more aspects of the occult, both historic and modern.”
“Intriguing,” she said. She could sense no power coming off him, but because of his interests, she still had to wonder if he might be tuned in to what was going on in town. She’d been trying to finalize her plan of attack in regard to contacting the coven, and now she made a decision. “I’ve heard rumors that there are witches back in Salem.”
“Despite what we tell the tourists, there are no witches in Salem,” he said, his smile faltering.
He didn’t believe that.
He picked up his fork and dug into his omelet. She sat for a minute, studying him as he ate. She thought about compelling him to tell her the truth. Something told her, though, that she’d get a lot more from him if she let him come to her with the information.
“It’s too bad. I would be curious to meet a real live witch,” she said, keeping her tone light.
He looked up at her, his fork suspended in midair. “You really wouldn’t,” he replied, his voice husky.
Something flashed in his eyes. Fear? Hatred? She looked at him hard and realized that it was both.
Her food arrived and a minute later he paid for his meal and left. “See you around,” he said, his smile strained.
“Sure.”
He knew something about modern witches; that was for sure. And whatever it was, he had no love for them. Could he be a potential ally?
She finished her breakfast and hurried back to her hotel room, where she sat down on the bed to think. The symbol that she had on her chest stood for something dark and dangerous. That was who she had to be. She couldn’t wait for the coven to find her. She had to summon them to her. It was risky and aggressive, but it was what her mother would have done. It was who she had been raised to be. Who they would be expecting.
She opened the bag she’d brought with her from her mother’s house and carefully pulled out a box of candles.
She cleared the top of the chest of drawers to set up a temporary altar. She placed a white candle to represent herself, seeker of truth, pure of purpose, on the left side. “I name thee Samantha,” she said.
Then she carefully selected three candles from the box. She placed the first one, dark blue, on the right side. “I name thee the most impulsive member of the coven I seek.” Next to it she placed a brown candle, saying, “I name thee the member of the coven I seek who is most uncertain about the right of what they are doing.” Finally she placed the purple candle with them. “I name thee the most ambitious member of the coven I seek who yet is not a leader.”
She lit the white candle. “I am immovable, fixed.”
Then she lit the other three candles. “They are not.”
She let the four candles burn as she selected a final candle from the box, a yellow one. Yellow was the color used when it was necessary to convince someone that they should do something. Samantha set it next to the white candle that represented herself and lit it. “They must come to me.”
A Wiccan practitioner would take several days to perform the ritual, each day moving the candles slightly closer to each other until the objective was reached. But the brand of witchcraft she’d been raised with was all about power, brute force, shortcuts.
She waved her hand, feeling the energy crackling from her fingertips, and the three candles representing the other people moved almost imperceptibly. They would continue to do so until they reached her candle. She knew from experience that she had about three hours before the three witches she’d summoned found her.
She picked up her athame and tucked it in the back of her waistband, where she had often carried a gun instead. An extension of a cop’s power just as the athame is an extension of the witch’s power.
She brushed her hand against her throat, missing again the cross that used to hang there.
Finally, she was ready. She left, closing the door behind her. She walked to the Salem Common and then across the street to the beginning of the Essex Street walking mall.
Her first stop was the Witch History Museum. Obvious, but it suited her purposes. She stood on the threshold.
Marking doorways was an ancient practice, done by people of different cultures and beliefs for similar purposes: to claim and to warn. The Israelites had painted their doorframes with lamb’s blood to mark themselves as chosen so the angel of death would pass over them. In the Dark Ages the doors of plague victims were marked to warn others and to help identify them. Many Christians used chalk to mark above their doors for Epiphany, welcoming God into their homes.
Witches could leave psychic impressions on doors, marking them so that others would know they had been there. It was something she had learned to do at a young age. Hiding your presence altogether was actually much harder than broadcasting it.
She took a deep breath and then put her hand on the doorframe. She pushed energy through it, into her fingertips, and then out and onto the wood, which warmed perceptibly. And even though she was forcing energy out, she felt the rush that came with using the power. It felt intoxicating and she realized just how much she’d missed it.
She removed her hand and turned away, horrified. She’d worked so hard to give up this life and everything it entailed. It was unsettling how easy it would be to fall back into it.
She moved on, struggling to get a grip on her emotions as they roiled within her. She walked briskly to her next target, a few doors down. It was a New Age shop that sold a complete hodgepodge of materials, but given the extreme range of colored candles and gemstones on display in the window, it would make a good place to pick up supplies. When she put her hand on the doorframe a chill went through her.
Another witch had been there less than a day earlier. Her stomach twisted hard and she realized that despite everything that had happened, she had still been hoping that somehow it had nothing to do with Salem.
She swallowed the bile in her throat and pressed her hand more firmly against the wood, imprinting her energy more strongly than at the museum. Finished, she left quickly.
She walked past a few more doors and then stopped suddenly at an all-black one. She looked up at the sign overhead. MUSEUM OF THE OCCULT. Anthony’s museum. There was a crescent moon with a candle sitting on it. There were half a dozen witch museums in town, along with a pirate museum, a shipping museum, and a Nathaniel Hawthorne museum. There was something different about this one, though. She put her hand on the wall away from the door and closed her eyes. Instead of planting her energy, she sought to read the energy that was already part of the place. When she was a child, she had learned to sense power even before she learned to use it to leave an impression.
Power, real power, thrummed through the wood and into her fingers, faint but unmistakable. She opened her eyes, pulled the door open, and walked inside. The door shut behind her and she looked around the darkened interior. Dozens of mannequins in old-fashioned dress reenacted various scenes from the witch trials. Nothing original there.
But something called to her and she allowed herself to drift farther into
the building. There were no other customers there that early. The tourists were still lingering over their breakfasts and locals weren’t likely to come to the place. Eventually the older displays gave way to objects from the town’s more recent history.
And then she found what she was looking for. In a glass case against the back wall was a collection of newspaper clippings and artifacts. A sign in the middle of the display read: UNCOVERING THE TRUTH ABOUT MODERN WITCHCRAFT IN SALEM.
Her gaze fell on a ceremonial goblet with faces carved all around it, and her heart stopped for a moment. From it her eyes flew to a black robe, torn and stained with what she knew to be blood. A wicked-looking athame was displayed beneath a picture of a woman she knew well. It was Abigail, the high priestess of her coven. Bile rose in the back of her throat as she tried to look away. But though the woman had been dead for years, it seemed that even the photograph of her was enough to strike terror into Samantha. It was as though Abigail’s eyes were looking straight through her, judging her, cursing her for having turned her back on who she was.
Samantha wrenched her gaze free and next it fell on pictures of two different dead women and a newspaper article recounting the massacre of almost two dozen people.
The room felt like it was tilting and she grabbed the edge of the case to steady herself. At her touch the goblet inside the case began to glow. She yanked her hand away and turned to leave.
A figure blocked her path. Without thinking, she lifted her left hand, prepared to repel him. Just in time she recognized Anthony.
“I’m glad you came,” he said with a smile. “Although frankly I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” His eyes held open curiosity in them.
She shook herself and stepped away from the case, hoping to lessen her influence on it and its effect on her.
“Well, you know, how could I resist?” she asked. “You made it sound fascinating.”
“I see you have a talent for spotting the most important details,” he said, glancing behind her.
“What?”
“The display you were looking at. It’s the one that’s the most important, the one that really means something.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
He cocked his head and stared at her for a moment, studying her. Then he nodded to himself as though he had come to some sort of decision. “You see that woman, the one with the long brown hair?”
She didn’t want to look, but he expected her to. She glanced over her shoulder. The woman in question looked out from the photo, her smile wistful, her eyes gentle.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Do you know who she was?”
She trembled. She did, but he could never know that. She didn’t know her name or really anything about her. She only knew how she had died.
“Her name was Laura Charles. She was my mother.”
She turned to look at him, her heart feeling like someone was squeezing it.
“When I was a kid she was… murdered.” He took a deep breath. “By witches. That’s why I got a little touchy in the restaurant when you mentioned meeting a witch.”
“I am so sorry,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.
“Thanks,” he said, reaching out and brushing her cheek with his finger.
His touch sent electricity through her, but not like any other jolt she had ever felt. She had felt power, fear, darkness, but never this. There was some sort of connection.
He looked at her in surprise and she could tell he had felt it too.
“Do I know you?” he asked at last.
She shook her head.
“We’re going to have to change that.”
And something sparked between them. She started to reach out to him and then caught herself. She had work to do, dark and dangerous work, and for both their sakes he needed to stay away.
“I’m sorry. I have to go,” she said, trying to force herself to smile and failing miserably.
She turned and left him standing there. When she left the building she was careful not to leave her imprint on it. The last thing she needed was to lead the witches to Anthony… or to the deadly artifacts he was unwittingly displaying.
On the street she took a deep breath to help clear her mind. She had to focus on her mission. She could do nothing for Anthony’s mother, but there were people out there whose lives were in danger as long as the coven was allowed to operate.
She walked up the street, marking three more places, each with more energy than the one before. She was leaving a magical trail of bread crumbs for her targets to follow.
Finally she arrived at the Witchery, a restaurant and microbrewery. She walked inside. The startled employee looked up at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re not open for another hour.”
“It’s all right,” Samantha said, allowing her voice to drop, willing her words to wash away any resistance. “I require the use of your private dining room in the back.”
The man nodded slowly, as if that were a completely natural request. “Will you require a menu?”
“No, but in thirty minutes bring four pints for me and my friends.”
He went back to his work while she walked past him.
In the back room she chose a table with a commanding view of the room. She sat with her back to the wall, with clear views of the door and windows. Half an hour later the waiter brought her four pints. “Witch’s Brew,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. “My friends will be along soon. We don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a quick bow before leaving.
Samantha felt a ripple in the air a minute later. Within moments three women appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, faces angry and wary at the same time. Power rolled off each of them, causing slight ripples in the air and energy currents in the room.
“Ladies,” Samantha said, gesturing to the table. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
11
The three witches she had summoned, the three she had chosen, stood gaping at her. She smirked. So much of magic was symbolic, subject to interpretation. Every once in a while, though, it was incredibly literal. Each woman was wearing a shirt corresponding to the candle color Samantha had given them. She’d exerted more influence than even she had anticipated. And knowing that, she felt her own anxieties about the meeting ease.
To the one in the dark blue shirt, the impulsive one, she said, “Why don’t you sit and have a drink? You look like you could use one.”
The woman, who was barely more than a girl, took a step forward, but wasn’t yet entirely convinced.
Samantha shifted her eyes to the one wearing purple, the one who craved power. She was probably closer to her own age. “That is, if it’s okay with your leader here.”
“Autumn’s not our leader,” the oldest of the three, the one in the brown poet shirt, squeaked.
“Shut up, Karen!” Autumn said, flushing.
“No? My mistake, then,” Samantha said, forcing a detached, somewhat disinterested note into her voice.
It was just the right tone. The three surged forward and, one by one, took a seat.
The impulsive one reached for the glass.
“Jace, what if it’s poisoned?” Karen warned.
Jace looked uncertain for a moment. Samantha smiled and lifted her own glass, taking a deep gulp of the golden brew. It tasted awful, but then beer wasn’t her thing. It suited the environment, though, and the atmosphere she had taken pains to create.
She set her glass down. “Ladies, not afraid of a little witch’s brew, are we?” she asked, throwing down the gauntlet.
Jace grabbed her glass and downed half her beer before pounding it back on the table, eyes wide as she realized that she might have just made a huge mistake.
“Where’s the fun in poisoning someone?” Samantha asked, easing her hand to her back and grasping the hilt of her athame. “I mean, there’s only one way to really kill someone. Plunge your blade into their heart and feel it stop beating.” She
yanked the athame free and lifted it high before plunging it into the heart of the table.
All three women jumped backward, lifting their hands in protective gestures, ready to repulse her with waves of energy if she should come after them.
They weren’t raised as witches. They’d have gone on the offensive, not reacted protectively. Now she knew the three were relatively new to the black arts.
“Besides,” Samantha said, smiling broadly, like a predator about to devour its prey, “we’ve all got too much to talk about for anyone to worry about killing just yet.”
The three moved back slowly, eyeing her weapon.
“You shouldn’t abuse your athame like that,” Karen squeaked.
Spoken like a Wiccan and not a witch. Karen had been a Wiccan. What had brought her over to the dark side? If she was Wiccan that explained why she had the most doubts about the rightness of what she was participating in. Wiccans vowed to harm none and believed that whatever they put into the world would come back to them threefold. There had to be a lot weighing on her conscience. And a compelling reason why she was doing her best to ignore it. It was possible, maybe even likely, that she wasn’t aware of the coven’s true plans. Samantha had a hard time picturing her as a killer.
“You worry too much,” Jace said, downing more of her beer.
And you don’t worry enough, Samantha thought. Jace had low self-esteem, little self-identity, and even less self-control. It made her a slave to her impulses. And the impulses of those around her.
Samantha turned to Autumn, who was studying her even as she was studying them. The girl was smart enough to realize that Samantha was more powerful. She was ambitious enough to want to find a way to use that to her advantage. “So, we found you,” Autumn said. “Since you hit town you haven’t exactly been… discreet. Why are you here?”
Samantha looked at each of them in turn. “To take charge of my coven.”
They all stared back at her in surprise and then at one another.
“What do you mean?” Autumn asked at last.
Samantha stopped smiling and let the mask of jocular civility slip, revealing all that she was underneath. She let everything she had ever done shine in her eyes. She could feel the monster that she had been, climbing out of the deep dark hole she’d kept her in for so long. It sickened her, but it terrified them.
The Thirteenth Sacrifice Page 12