Water! That’s it!
She didn’t need to understand its language or figure out how to send it back to where it came from. All she needed to do was kill it.
She yanked her athame free from her waistband and brandished it in front of her. The creature snarled, eyeing the blade warily. As she struggled to her knees, it tracked her movements carefully. Hatred and cunning burned in its soulless eyes. She forced herself to try to stand. Her right foot slid out from under her, though, and she crashed to the floor again.
It leaped for her and she slashed with the athame. As the blade made contact with its hide, the creature howled and jumped back. She seized the moment to gain her feet. With a surge of strength she didn’t know she had, she jumped onto the bathroom counter.
She crouched there for a moment, dizzy, as blood continued to flow down her shirt and paint the water pink. The beast coiled all its muscles, readying itself to spring. Samantha brought her hands close together and a ball of energy formed between them, electricity sparking from her fingertips. If there were any chinks in the porcelain of the bathtub, if any part of the metal was touching the water, then she would have no hope of reviving Anthony. His body would fry too.
She shrieked a prayer heavenward even as she threw her hands down, hurling the crackling sphere of energy into the water.
There was an inhuman scream and the creature convulsed uncontrollably as the electric current running through the water entered its body. Finally it collapsed in a smoking heap, the smell of burned hair filling the room.
Samantha turned and looked at the bathtub. She judged the distance and then jumped, crashing down in the tub near Anthony’s body. Pain ripped through her and she struggled to remove the stopper. Finally it came free and the water began to drain.
Straddling his chest, she began CPR, praying that she wasn’t too late. She felt a couple of his ribs break under her hands, but she kept going. After thirty chest compressions she hauled Anthony’s head out of the water. Slipping and sliding, she managed to twist in such a way that she could give him rescue breaths.
Nothing.
“Don’t you die on me,” she pleaded in the midst of her sobs.
She did more chest compressions and more breaths. Still there was nothing. No pulse, no sign of life. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Anthony Charles was dead.
20
Samantha balled her hands into fists, scarcely aware that she was still bleeding from the wounds on her chest. She stared down at Anthony’s pale, still face in anguish.
“No!”
He couldn’t be dead. Not now, not like this. She slammed her hands down on his chest and sent a jolt of electricity through his heart.
His body arced and when she removed her hands it collapsed again. A shudder went through him and his eyes flew open. He began to gag and cough up water.
With a sob, she clung to him, terrified of what had almost happened and even more terrified that she had cared so much for a man she knew so little about.
Anthony made a gasping sound, followed by more violent coughing.
“What?” she asked, bending close.
“Blood.”
She looked down and realized that though the bleeding had slowed, it had not stopped altogether. She took a deep breath, then placed her fingers on her chest and forced herself to start healing.
As soon as the bleeding stopped she struggled to her feet and climbed out of the bathtub. Once she steadied herself she grabbed hold of Anthony and hoisted him to his feet. He made a groan of protest.
“We can’t stay here,” she said. “We’ve already stayed too long.”
“Can’t move.”
“You can and you will,” she said grimly, picking him up and half dragging, half carrying him into the bedroom.
She eased him down to the floor and took stock. He was wearing a pair of khaki pants and nothing else. He was beginning to shiver from the cold and masses of bruises were springing up on his torso, some from fighting the hellhound and some from her attempts to resuscitate him.
She went into the closet and found a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She touched his hand and gave him a little boost of energy. While he changed, she busied herself with the body of the hellhound.
She had hoped that when she killed it the body would turn to ash or in some other way disintegrate. Instead it lay still, a giant, demonic corpse. She didn’t know how to send it back to where it had come from, and she couldn’t leave it here. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to touch the skin, which was rough and covered in tiny hairs that were more like barbs.
She superheated it until it began to burn itself from the inside out. There was nothing mysterious or accidental about spontaneous combustion. It was an old trick used by only the strongest of witches. A living body would fight against it, adapt, and adjust, making it one of the most difficult ways to kill something. With a dead body it was much simpler.
In a matter of seconds the hellhound’s body had completely burned.
She turned to look at Anthony, who was sitting with his back against the bed. He had changed into the dry clothes, but the effort had left him gasping for air.
“What—what was that thing?”
She shook her head. “Their rightful name I don’t know. I’ve always thought of them as hellhounds, monsters summoned to do dark work. They’re most often used to kill people.”
“Why me?”
“Because you were stupid and careless,” she said, her voice harsh even to her own ears. “You lectured me about not knowing what I was getting into with witches when it was you who was the ignorant one.”
He was finally regaining his breath and after a moment he asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were working with someone who was trying to find her cousin’s killer?” she demanded.
He looked startled and quickly dropped his eyes. “You have your secrets; I have mine,” he said, coughing.
“Well, your secrets just got someone killed.”
He blanched. “Serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. This isn’t a game we’re playing at! They killed her right in front of me. And a few days ago they killed the woman who was helping her. The only reason you’re alive is because they said they were killing someone else, and from the description, I knew it had to be you.”
He refused to look at her.
“Okay, we have to go,” she said.
She bent down and helped him to stand.
“I think I need to go to a hospital,” he said in a weak voice.
“A luxury we can’t afford. Now, do you have any family nearby?”
“No.”
“Okay, new plan.”
Half an hour later they were in a motel room a couple of miles from his house.
“This is the plan?” he asked as he sat down on the bed, grunting in pain.
“For now. I can’t risk moving you any farther.”
“They’re going to know I’m not dead.”
“Of course. If we’re lucky they’ll think you got the message and cleared out completely.”
“And if we’re not lucky?”
“They will find you, and next time they won’t fail to kill you.”
“You’re a very cheery person—you know that?”
“I don’t have time to sugarcoat this for you,” she snapped. “I’m going to go out and get some food. You don’t leave this room until I say it’s okay. They could have spies everywhere.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“But my museum—”
“Won’t matter at all to you if you’re dead,” she interrupted. “Now, if you’ll promise to be a good boy, I’ll take a look at your ribs.”
“Fine,” he said with a grimace.
Looking into his eyes, though, she knew she couldn’t trust him to stay put. Ed had once told her that it was impossible to keep someone alive when they so badly wanted to die. Ant
hony didn’t have a death wish, but neither was he capable of sitting and doing nothing. There was nothing she could do about that, though.
An hour later, after getting Anthony’s ribs started on the mend and bringing in a supply of food that he could easily store and eat in the motel room, she returned to her hotel. Her own body was protesting everything that it had been put through and she was having a hard time pushing forward. The nausea she had been holding at bay since the coven meeting had become overwhelming.
Once she got upstairs and into her bathroom, she sank to her knees in front of the toilet and threw up all the blood she had drunk. The smell made her even sicker and it was a good half hour before she stumbled to her feet, shaking and spent. She dumped her clothes unceremoniously in a pile on the floor with her cloak and athame, then fell headlong into bed.
She reached for her phone and put Karen’s number in it before she forgot it. Moments later she was asleep.
Blood everywhere. And someone was hurt. Someone was dead. And there was blood on her dress.
“Make no mistake, that’s how we deal with traitors.”
Samantha sat straight up, screaming, then fell back onto her pillows and sobbed quietly. More nightmares. More half memories. She needed to be able to remember, no matter how much it hurt. It had to be better than this living hell of twisting shadows.
She sat up and took several calming breaths before closing her eyes and willing herself to remember.
In her mind she again saw the corridor lined with doors. The door marked 5 was still open and she could see her younger self lingering just inside the doorway. She gave her a small wave, grateful for her help, fearful for her too. She knew, though, that the little girl had taught her all she could. Samantha set her eyes on the door marked with a 6.
She hesitated as she reached it, wondering what she would find. She forced herself to turn the doorknob. The door swung open slowly on hinges that creaked like the sound of fingernails scraping a chalkboard. A solemn little girl with large, round eyes stared back at her. Her six-year-old self was wearing a white dress with a touch of lace at the neck and sleeves. There were drops of red smeared into the fabric and Samantha swallowed hard as she recognized them as blood.
“What have they done to you?” she whispered.
The little girl looked down at the blood and made a soft whimpering sound. “It’s not mine,” she said at last in a very small voice.
Samantha didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Whose is it?”
“Miss Kimberly’s.”
“What happened to Miss Kimberly?”
The little girl stared at her solemnly. “You don’t remember?”
“No,” Samantha admitted.
A look of relief flashed over the little girl’s face. “Good!” she said before stepping backward into shadow.
“No, wait!” Samantha called. “Don’t go. I—I have to know.”
“You don’t want to know,” the little girl warned her.
From behind Samantha the youngest girl said in a voice that trembled, “I liked Miss Kimberly.”
Samantha licked her lips, trying to still the pounding of her heart. And then she remembered. She had liked Miss Kimberly. A large, jovial woman in her fifties. She always gave Samantha a treat after a coven meeting. Rainbow sherbet. Sometimes Miss Kimberly babysat her and would play games with her. And at Halloween she helped Samantha carve pumpkins. How had she forgotten her?
“Tell me,” Samantha pleaded. “What happened to Miss Kimberly?”
“Miss Abigail… got mad at her.”
“And?”
“You don’t want to remember.”
“But I have to.”
“You don’t want to remember!”
But she did remember.
She was standing in a circle with the rest of the coven, her mother to her right. She glanced up at her and wished they could go home. She was tired. Miss Abigail was finishing a ritual and she looked very pleased with it.
“Next week we’re going to do something amazing,” Miss Abigail said. “Once we have made the ultimate sacrifice we will have the power to do whatever we want and no one will be able to stop us.”
“We can’t.” The voice was Miss Kimberly’s.
Everyone turned to stare at Miss Kimberly and Samantha was very afraid for her.
“Why not?” Miss Abigail said, her voice full of fury.
“Because it’s wrong—that’s why. Look at us. How did we get here? Do any of us even remember? Fifteen years ago we were all just looking for a place where we could be ourselves, where we could use our powers, share our knowledge. And now, what? What is it we’re trying to accomplish? We’ve sacrificed animals to gain more power. I didn’t think it was right, but I went along. But what have we used that power for? Not to help mankind, but for our own selfish gain.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when you moved into your mansion last year.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. But I should have. I didn’t let myself think about how I got it, the people who were hurt so that I could have what I wanted. But now, you’re talking about sacrificing a human… a human! No amount of power, no amount of things or respect or anything is worth that.” Miss Kimberly turned in a circle, speaking to all who were present. “Remember how we used to be? Before we decided to follow Abigail?” She began pointing to people in the room. “You just wanted the strength to help cure your mother’s cancer and now you want immortality. You wanted the self-confidence to get a promotion and now you won’t stop until everyone in the world looks up to you. You wanted people to fall in love with your music so that you might share your gift with the world and now you don’t care about the music or the message but just how many people worship you and how much money you make.”
Then Miss Kimberly turned and stared up at Samantha’s mother. “And you—”
Her mother raised her hand. “Silence! I know who I was and I promise you that I will never go back.”
Suddenly Miss Kimberly grabbed her throat, struggling to speak. Her eyes bulged out. Samantha whimpered and tried to move to her, but her mother gripped her hand tight.
“Yes, we have grown, changed, and it is right that we do so,” Miss Abigail said. “These powers are ours and we ourselves are gods. It is time we were treated as such.”
And then she stabbed Miss Kimberly in the heart. The woman fell and Samantha wanted to scream but no sound would come out.
“Make no mistake, that’s how we deal with traitors,” Miss Abigail said. She reached down and retrieved her athame. She held it up before her face and then licked the blood on the blade. She shivered. “We have our first sacrifice and it is more powerful than we ever dreamed!”
“You see?” her mother asked, staring down at her. Her voice was stern, angry. She grabbed Samantha’s chin and forced her head back around. Miss Kimberly lay on the floor, not moving. “That’s what happens to witches who disobey.”
“No!” Samantha screamed and slid to the floor. Her six-year-old self wrapped her arms around her and they held each other and cried.
In the morning when she woke she could still taste blood from the ritual the night before. She spent nearly ten minutes brushing her teeth and gargling before she felt like she could leave her room.
Downstairs in the lobby of the hotel people were milling about and there was a long line at reception. Samantha lingered for a few minutes listening to visitors and locals alike talking.
Every year in early October Salem hosted a Halloween parade to kick off the season. Normally thousands of people would turn out for it, which was nothing compared to the hundreds of thousands who would descend on the city for Halloween itself. It was the day before the parade and already the town was getting crowded as more and more people arrived from other states and even other countries.
Everyone she heard was saying a record-breaking number would attend this year’s parade. Hotels for thirty miles around were filling up.
Ed had
been right about the people flocking to Salem to protest the death of witches or just to revel in the spectacle. She hadn’t heard anything yet from him and she couldn’t help but worry about when and where the most recent victim was going to turn up.
When it seemed that there was nothing new to hear in the hotel, she left. Essex Street was crowded with people and she found herself starting to feel a little claustrophobic after having seen it mostly empty for a few days.
Tourists were cramming into any shop that even looked like it sold anything remotely related to witches. People were wearing handmade T-shirts that had NO BURNING logos on them. She also saw a handful of T-shirts sporting witches’ hats or brooms with a circle and line through them.
So both camps were represented by the crowd, those in favor of witches and those against. She shook her head. It seemed so bizarre. When she was a kid, tourists had enjoyed pretending they believed in witches, but no one really had.
And if they had, they certainly wouldn’t have come out in favor of them. The times were changing and it made her feel that much more out of control. She noticed several people holding signs with antiviolence slogans outside Anthony’s museum. So the crazy woman attacking the mannequins hadn’t gone unnoticed. The museum itself was dark and closed.
She felt a brief surge of guilt for not having checked back in with Anthony, but quickly suppressed it. Distance was better for both of them. The more contact she had with him, the greater the chance that the witches would find him.
She still felt unsteady from the night before. She kept experiencing weird power fluctuations, and she wasn’t sure whether it was because last night had been the first time in years that she had participated in something like that or if it was because of the blood. Someone brushed past her and then yelped when he got an electric shock.
Finally she turned onto the street where Red’s was and then came to a sudden halt. Several hundred people were outside the building, waiting to get in. She stared in amazement at the throng before retracing her steps. She stopped in a cute bakery where she had to stand in line for only fifteen minutes to get a bagel with cream cheese.
The Thirteenth Sacrifice Page 21