Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  He winked at Abby. “Bridget was just leaving.”

  The distance between Abby and Bridget crackled with intensity.

  “And believe me when I tell you, darling, so is she,” Bridget warned.

  Maxine’s words echoed through Abby’s mind as she saw Bridget glance at the loft where she had lit the candle then narrow her striking blue eyes. In an instant, the air turned so thick you could slice it with an athame. She snatched up her cape, drilled Abby with another scathing glare, and raised one, disapproving eyebrow in Jack’s direction.

  “Have fun with the help, Darling.” Switching her gaze to Abby, she added, “Enjoy him while you can.”

  The door had barely slammed behind her when Abby found her sea legs. “So, that’s Bridget Bishop. The woman one who knew I’d be driving your car.”

  Jack rubbed his jaw. “I see where you’re going with this, but she doesn’t even know you.”

  “Of course not.” The question remained — why did Abby feel she knew Bridget, at least on some level, all too well.

  Jack rested his forearms on Abby’s shoulders. “Forget it. She’s gone now.”

  Surprisingly, Abby felt that, too. When Bridget left, the overwhelming feeling of dread simply vanished. Abby sighed against him. “I know.”

  “Remember when you told me about your dreams,” he began, “and that some of them came true?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Do you ever get flashes like that during the day?”

  Abby thought of the oppressing sensation she’d experienced in Bridget’s presence. “Sometimes.”

  “Do they mean anything?”

  She angled her head to get a better look at his face. Serious. He was dead serious. “They’re usually significant, if that’s what you’re asking. Why? Do you get flashes, too?”

  He broke their connection long enough to pace. “Just lately.”

  “What kind of images?”

  Jack cleared his throat then turned to face her. “I see a woman being hung on Gallows’ Hill.”

  Abby’s knees buckled, but she locked them. Her hand instinctively went to her throat. “Who is she?”

  “I can’t see her face, but it’s not like some reoccurring dream. The scene keeps progressing. Every time it returns there’s more to it.” He shrugged. “This last time there was a dark-haired woman waiting and watching. I still couldn’t see the face of the woman being hung, but there was such a sense of urgency. More powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced. Crazy, huh?”

  “No, I don’t think it is.” Abby’s throat burned. “Anything else?”

  “Well, there was one other thing. But it wasn’t a flash or anything like that.”

  “What was it?”

  “This sounds so ridiculous.” He paused a moment, and when she didn’t placate him, he continued, “I had a sense of writing.”

  “A book?”

  Jack shook his head and thought a moment. “More like a journal.”

  “And?” She could tell there was more. Knew there was more.

  “Through the Boston Historical Society I heard about a recent acquisition of some seventeenth century documents,” he explained. “They’re on temporary display at an antique book store owned by one of the society’s members. I think the shop is called Pages From The Past.”

  “You think the journal you sensed, if there is such a journal, is there?”

  Jack considered her question. “Don’t ask me why, but I feel sure of it.”

  Without hesitation, she grabbed his hand. “Then let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Twenty minutes later, they parked on the quaint, tree-lined street and got out in front of the shop.

  “Dammit.” Jack pointed to the Open by Appointment Only sign in the window.

  “Now what?” Abby asked.

  Jack pulled out his cell and punched in the phone number listed on the sign. He listened, then flipped shut his phone.

  “What?” Abby asked.

  “He’s out of town today. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” she repeated. “We can’t wait until — ”

  “I know.”

  Jack scanned the neighborhood. Late afternoon shadows shaded the leaf-dappled brick sidewalk. A dog barked in the distance. There was no one out and about. He went to the door and found the top half was a glass panel. The bottom was solid oak. He took off his jacket and wrapped one arm, and in one swift motion he broke the window with his elbow. Knocking away the jagged shards, he slipped his hand inside and unlocked the door.

  “Jesus! What do you think you’re doing?” Abby asked, glancing up and down the street to make sure no one was around.

  Without a word, he opened the door and motioned for her to follow.

  Abby hurried across the glass-splintered threshold and, for what it was worth shut the door behind her.

  The shop was much larger inside than it appeared from the street. A familiar old-book smell permeated the air, mingling with the scent of aged leather and furniture polish. Dust-free shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling and were flanked by tall, rolling ladders for easy access. In the fading daylight, faux candle night-lights enhanced the rustic look of the rough-hewn floor and paneled walls, creating a relaxing twilight atmosphere.

  Abby caught up with Jack halfway through the shop. “What are we looking for?”

  “I’m guessing a display case.” As they walked, Jack slipped on his jacket and continued to explain, “From what I understand, this guy wanted to premier the documents in his shop then donate them to the Historical Society next month.”

  “Jack, look.” Abby pointed straight ahead.

  At the back of the store, there was a huge display case filled with books, documents, papers, and journals. Even from this distance you could see everyone was yellowed with age. Fragile. Antique.

  Abby’s breath quickened and her palms grew damp. Whatever Jack was looking for, it was in there. She could feel it.

  Scanning the length of the case, Jack pointed to a leather-bound journal in the middle of the second shelf. Stepping behind the counter, he slid the glass sideways and reached in.

  Abby held her breath as Jack eased the journal from the case. Opening the book, his fingers were cautious, turning the first few pages with care. He stepped to her side, so they could read together:

  October 31, 1692

  I must guard Abigail’s amulet with my life. I must ensure its safe delivery into the future for it is the tether to her soul. When the time comes, we will need this necklace. On that fateful date we must have the amulet to succeed or, God help us all, we will unleash an evil, the likes of which the humanity has never seen.

  “Oh, Jack,” Abby whispered.

  He met her gaze. “Oh, shit.”

  Turning the page, they continued:

  November 15, 1692

  It has been 15 days since the death … no, the murder of my beloved. I rage. I cry. I curse. And still I find no relief. I went to her grave again today and sat on the stone bench by the big tree. If it were not for the promise of our next meeting, I would surely die.

  Abby squeezed Jack’s arm as he flipped the next page …

  December 1, 1692

  I have discovered something very important, indeed. Maxine came today to make sure I still had the amulet, and that I fully understand its importance. She is not an easy woman to convince, but I assured her that I did. What she told me next is every bit as important as the amulet itself. By the time Abigail and I experience our “coming together,” Bridget’s powers will be waning. This, coupled with the amulet, may give us a fighting chance. And fight we shall.

  Jack turned to Abby. “Maxine?”

  “Bridget,” she hissed.

  The stea
dy ticking of the old school clock on the wall behind the counter punctuated the silence.

  Jack Hawthorne — speechless. That not only was a first, but it said so much more than words could ever say.

  “Maxine and Bridget?” Abby finally repeated.

  He shook his head. “No way in hell.”

  “But — ”

  “But nothing. That has to be a — ”

  “Coincidence?” she finished. “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I don’t.” He maintained eye contact.

  “Well,” Abby began, dragging the word out on purpose. “We’re here in the present, aren’t we?”

  Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “So, what you’re saying is that there might be more of … us.”

  “I don’t know.” Abby shivered. “What do you think?”

  Jack took a moment to consider the thought. Meeting her gaze, he answered, “I honestly don’t know.”

  She sighed. “This journal, if it was your journal, mentions women named Maxine and Bridget. Don’t you find that highly suspect?”

  “I do,” he agreed without hesitation. “Logically, if we’re here, it would seem possible there could be others.”

  “Others?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “What are we doing? Playing out some modern-day, X-Files scenario from 1692?”

  “Prior to today, I’d have said absolutely not.” He shook his head. “Right now, it beats the hell out of me.”

  Abby pointed to the yellowed pages. “Maybe you should read on.”

  December 15, 1692

  I have spoken again with Maxine, and I now understand the possibility of Abigail and my “coming together” will not be in this lifetime. So, this day I will ensure the amulet’s passage through time by making Maxine its keeper, and I will write instructions for its safekeeping. As much as it saddens me, I will gladly wait as long as it takes for the heavens to align and give us the chance to make it so.

  Having read the journal thoroughly three times and carefully replacing it, Jack left several hundred dollars in the display case. From a nearby payphone he anonymously called 911 and reported the shop had been vandalized. Breaking the law had gone against his grain, but in this case his hands had been tied. Hell, the situation itself had demanded immediate action. A question of life or death had given Jack no choice.

  On the drive back to Jack’s house, talking was not an option, and the unnerving quiet that ensued was deafening. Silence screamed in Abby’s ears all the way home. As they walked through the front door, the shrill ring of the phone nearly sent Abby through the ceiling.

  “Son-of-a — ” He stalked toward the telephone, snagged the receiver and barked, “Hello.”

  When Jack’s voice abruptly changed from homicidal to serious, Abby held her breath until he hung up. “What is it?”

  Jack rolled his shoulders restlessly as he crossed the floor to stand beside Abby.

  Her stomach tightened. “Well?” His expression didn’t give her a clue, so she waited for him to answer.

  “Nothing to worry about.” He enfolded her in his arms. “The police have just rounded up some men, and they want you and I to have a look at them.”

  Abby tensed. “A line-up?” The knot in her stomach hitched.

  Jack’s silence answered her.

  She instinctively moved closer to him. “When do they want us?”

  “Now.”

  Abby stood beside him in the dying firelight. Again the two cast one single shadow. Something once-in-this-lifetime had happened between them tonight, and she refused to let anything take that away from her. “Let’s get this over with,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” He pulled her closer. “Then, we need to talk.”

  • • •

  “That Corey bitch and Jack better play house while they can,” Bridget spat. “As if I care. I’ve had over three hundred years to get over Jackson Hathorne. The fool, however, is necessary for my plan.” She paced the confines of her parlor, her scarlet robe flowing about her feet.

  “Let me see,” she mocked, her low, menacing laugh resembled a growl. “In order to banish the lovely Abigail Corey back in time and inherit her powers, I need three things.” She ticked each item off with her blood-red fingernails.

  “A loyal man who is pure of heart — check.”

  “That miserable amulet — check.”

  “And Abigail Corey on All Hallows Eve, present day — check.”

  She parted the curtain and smiled at the almost full moon. “This time tomorrow, Abigail Corey will be no more. I will have her man — if I want him. But most important, I will have all her power. Her pale blue eyes narrowed in anticipation. “Then nothing can stop me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Salem Massachusetts

  31 October

  Year of Our Lord, 1692

  The slap on the horse’s rump echoed through the suddenly quiet night. As Abigail’s lifeless body dangled from the tree, a cheer rose from the mob. Jackson closed his eyes. Sealed his heart. Released his soul.

  “I will find you, Abigail. I swear. I will search eternity until I do!”

  • • •

  Neither Abby nor Jack had been able to identify the biker from the line-up at the police station, and he watched her edgy frustration settle into silence once again on the ride home. Jack respected her need for space and didn’t push, but didn’t like what he saw when the click of the deadbolt behind them didn’t ease her concern. Seeing the undisguised fear still present in her eyes, Jack would be damned if he slept on the couch tonight. He took her hand in his, and, side-by-side, they walked to the loft.

  Within minutes, Jack was settled beneath the soft, feather comforter with Abby nestled in the crook of his arm. He lifted her delicate fingers and kissed their tips before releasing her hand to rest comfortably on his chest. Unlike the law, he couldn’t offer her justice tonight. He couldn’t cite concrete facts as to what was going on. He couldn’t even assure her the bald man would be arrested and everything would be all right. But he could hold her. Protect her. Defend her with his life.

  Jack’s heart thudded beneath the palm of Abby’s hand. Lulled by its slow, steady rhythm, he sensed her relax. His blood began to pulse in sync with hers. Two hearts beat as one. She snuggled closer to him, and he felt her surrender to sleep.

  “Per chance to dream,” a voice whispered crisply and clearly, waking Abby with a start.

  She raised herself on one elbow and checked Jack’s face in the moonlight. Not that she believed for a moment he had spoken, because she didn’t. It simply hadn’t sounded like Jack. Making sure he was all right, she also realized he apparently hadn’t heard it either, because he was still sleeping soundly. When Abby replayed it in her mind, she realized it hadn’t been the words that had scared her as much as the voice. The voice had been edged with enough hatred to turn Shakespeare’s promise into a deadly threat. Abby knew sleep would not come easy tonight just as surely as she knew the telltale nightmare was on its way …

  Jack tossed and turned as the reoccurring dream reared its ugly head, scratching and clawing at his subconscious like a starving animal waiting to be fed …

  Despite being fast asleep, Jack and Abby’s hands reached out. Their fingers entwined. Their past unfolded …

  • • •

  Jackson Hathorne raced through the darkness like a thief in the night, dragging Abigail Corey behind him like a rag doll … the hounds of hell hot on their heels … frantic barking … tracking beasts … horses’ thundering hooves. coming closer.

  Abigail’s lungs burned … she struggled to keep up … she scrambled on shaky legs … she held fast to the amulet. “I’ll … die … if … if we don’t stop.”

  “You’ll die if we do.” Jackson fought his
way through the overgrown path. The mob is catching up … so close … pouncing like lions, the frenzied riders ripped Abigail from Jackson’s arms.

  “Satan’s whore,” one man shouted.

  Closing her eyes, she murmured frantically, as there was not much time.

  Bridget tied Abigail’s wrists behind her back … ripped the amulet from her neck … hissed as the stone branded her palm … she threw the pendant hard and fast … slipped the noose over Abigail’s head. “He’s mine now.”

  “My spell will protect him ’til I return … Jackson, wait for me — ”

  “I’ll find you, Abigail. I will search eternity until I do. I swear.”

  • • •

  Jack bolted upright in bed. Abby sat straight up beside him.

  “Abigail?” he asked, desperate to clear his head.

  Abby could hardly breathe. “Jackson?” she whispered.

  Unbelieving, Jack turned to face her. Bathed in moonlight Abby sat wide-eyed and pale beside him. “I had this dream.”

  “Me, too.” Her hands were trembling. “You were in it.” She thought a moment. “At least he looked like you would have in the seventeenth century.”

  “The hanging dream on Gallows Hill — ”

  “It was me, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  “Or a likeness of you back in the burning times.” Jack tried to whitewash his use of the phrase, and when he couldn’t, he turned on the bedside lamp. “The woman’s name was Abigail Corey.”

  “And his was Jackson Hathorne — without the W.” Grateful for the light, Abby still shivered. “Bridget Bishop was there, Jack, in my dream. And the amulet. And even Maxine.”

  Now it was his turn to say, “In mine, too.”

  They compared identical details, then sat in silence for a long time.

  “Weird, huh?” Abby asked lamely, simply not knowing what else to say.

  “Having the same dream?” Jack pointed out. “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty damn weird. I can see how all this could fit into one of our dreams.”