Black Magic Woman

by Justin Gustainis

  Black Magic

  Woman

  Quincy Morris

  Supernatural Investigator

  Book 1

  Justin Gustainis

  Acknowledgements

  Many people helped me take this novel on its long journey from my study to your hands.

  John Carroll, my oldest friend in the world, gave me the idea for Walter Grobius — about whom more will be said presently. Sorry about that time in First Grade, man.

  Jim Butcher was kind enough to take time from getting Harry Dresden in trouble and read an early draft of the book. His encouragement and support kept me trying to find a publisher when I wanted to just give up. Jim's talent as a writer is matched only by his generosity of spirit. I want to be just like him when I grow up.

  Christian Dunn at Solaris bought the manuscript of Black Magic Woman and then worked with me, very patiently, to make it better. He is a prince among men. At least in my house.

  Lawrence Osborn, copy editor without peer, amazed me with both the breadth and depth of his knowledge. Anybody who can find and correct my mistakes in history and Latin and computer technology is a polymath of the first order.

  An unknown judge at the Colorado Gold Writers Contest several years ago gave me some excellent advice on rewriting the Prologue, and a great deal of encouragement, as well.

  Michael Kanaly and C.J. Henderson deserve thanks for many favors granted and kindnesses bestowed.

  Terry Bear offered nutritional advice and did copious menu planning, most of which was ignored. Pizza delivery drivers fear him.

  My wife, Patricia Grogan, is the best thing that ever happened to me. Without her to do the "happy dance" with, none of this would be worth doing. I love you forever, bear.

  To

  Libby Yokum,

  who had magic

  when I needed it.

  "This agency stands flat-footed upon the ground, and there it must remain. The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply."

  Sherlock Holmes

  "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing."

  Edmund Burke

  "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

  Exodus 22:18

  Content

  Prologue

  Primus Visitation

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Secundus Investigation

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Terminus Confrontation

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Prologue

  Salem Village

  Colony of Massachusetts

  June 1692

  Although she was sitting in a room full of people, Bridget Warren had never felt more alone in her life. She was surrounded by friends, relatives, neighbors, acquaintances, with her husband Nathaniel seated right beside her, and she might just as well be standing naked before the throne of God, so frightened was she.

  In an effort to take her mind off what she would have to do in the next few minutes, she let her gaze wander around the interior of the village meeting hall, which doubled as a church on Sundays and had now been taken over for use as a courtroom.

  The whitewashed walls, all Puritan starkness and simplicity, were broken up only by a few narrow windows and the oil lamps that were placed every ten feet. The ceiling was high, its unpainted beams clearly visible to any who might glance that way while seeking Heaven's guidance. The rows of hard wooden benches by design offered minimal comfort, lest anyone invite disgrace by dozing off in the middle of a sermon—in any case, dozing was unlikely to tempt many attending these proceedings.

  Seated in the last row, Bridget could see that all of the benches were filled. No family in Salem was failing to pay heed to the trials by sending a representative. None would have dared.

  Finally, Bridget made herself look to the front of the meeting hall, where the seven magistrates sat behind a series of tables placed end-to-end. Their expressions were both grim and righteous, as befitted the responsibility entrusted to them by the colonial governor—and, indirectly, by the Lord God Himself. Chief Magistrate William Stoughton, the colony's lieutenant governor, sat stoically at the center of this row of rectitude.

  Twenty feet of open space separated the magistrates' tables from the first row of benches. The accused were always directed to stand there, midway between the people and their appointed guardians.

  Chief Magistrate Stoughton stared at the woman who now stood before the court. His forbidding gaze seemed calculated to freeze the blood of any accused sinner subjected to it. Bridget had seen more than one poor wretch wilt under this merciless scrutiny, confessing to the charges without the ordeal of a trial—thereby saving the Colony no small amount of time, trouble, and expense.

  Bridget Warren prayed that such would be the case this time—even while knowing in her heart that such an outcome was less likely than snow in July.

  "Goodwife Carter," Stoughton declared solemnly, "ye stand accused of consorting with the Devil and of practicing witchcraft, despicable acts condemned by Sacred Scripture as well as the laws of this Colony. How answer ye these charges?"

  The woman who stood before the court neither cowered nor looked away from Stoughton's piercing gaze. She sounded both confident and calm as she replied, "I am innocent of those crimes and of any other, Your Lordship."

  "The truth of that will yet be determined," the Chief Magistrate said sternly. Raising his voice, he addressed the congregation. "Who gives evidence against this woman?"

  The question was followed by uncharacteristic silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing second.

  Stoughton stared across the length of the meeting hall, and Bridget Warren fancied that she could feel the cold bite of his gaze. She tried to rise, but her trembling legs refused to obey. Nathaniel placed a reassuring hand under her elbow, but did not try to lift her up. To stand or remain seated was her decision, and hers alone.

  Grasping with both hands the back of the pew in front of her, Bridget pushed herself to her feet. In a voice louder and more resolute than she'd ever thought she could muster, she declared, "I do."

  * * * *

  Nathaniel Warren gingerly rolled off of his wife's naked body and arranged himself in the bed next to her, holding her close. He was waiting for his heart to slow to a normal rhythm and his hand, which gently cupped Bridget's left breast, told him that her pulse was racing, too.

  After a few minutes had passed he said, "Your ardor tonight brings to mind our first months of marriage. You couple like one possessed, my love."

  "Hush, you," she said softly. "Speak not such words—they're a danger, these days."

  "What, 'couple?' Where's the danger in that?"

  She slapped his leg, but not very hard. "No, idiot, I meant 'possessed,' as you knew full well."

  "Aye, well, I suppose I did," he said with a smile.

  "Still and all, I know whereof you sp
eak. My passion did burn brighter this time. Mayhap I wanted to lose myself in pleasure, to forget that business of the trial today."

  "Like enough you're right," he said, "but I'll not complain of the result." He gave a contented sigh.

  A few peaceful minutes went by before he suddenly asked, "Will she hang, then?"

  "Sarah? Aye, she will—as well she ought." Bridget's voice had lost all levity. "Tis a sad thing, Nate, for all that she brought her doom upon herself. I had no joy over condemning her in the court. It were the hardest thing ever I have done."

  "Still, the judges believed you. But then, they have done the same for every accuser who has come forward."

  "I spoke the truth. You know I did."

  "If only truth were enough to win the day," he said dryly.

  "Yes," she said, her expression bleak. "So many good, blameless people condemned, by the words of crazy children, or jealous neighbors, or superstitious fools. But Sarah Carter…"

  "'In league with the Devil.' I'd not credit it, had I not heard the words from your lips."

  "I'd not credit it, myself, but that I saw her with mine own two eyes. She were sacrificing a goat, that day I came upon her in the wood, and she had the Devil's signs drawn in the dirt all 'round her—the pentacle, the inverted cross, and suchlike. I recognize the black magic when I see it, Nate, even if I practice only the white myself."

  "Aye, I know." A frown appeared on Nate's face. "Does not Sarah have a daughter?"

  "She does. Rebecca, her name is," Bridget said. "Aged… eight years, or thereabout."

  "What's to become of her? The father died some time back, I think."

  "Aye, a horse threw him and cracked his skull. Or so Goody Close told me."

  "So, the girl's an orphan, once Sarah goes to the gallows." Nate shook his head sadly. "What's to become of her?" he asked again.

  "They've relatives in Boston, or so the talk goes. Mayhap they will take the child in."

  "I'll pray that they do. T'would be an injustice, were she turned out into the streets to starve. The daughter should not wear the blame for the mother's wickedness."

  "Aye," she said. "There's been too many innocents ground up in the mill of justice already."

  * * * *

  Thirteen days later, Sarah Carter was hanged for witchcraft.

  She died bravely, if her refusal to engage in the pleading, screaming, and crying that usually characterized such occasions may be said to constitute courage.

  When asked for last words, Sarah Carter replied in a cold, clear voice that, some said, could be heard throughout Salem village: "May you all be damned to Hell, and that right soon."

  Then they kicked the ladder out from under her.

  Bridget Warren stood at a distance and made herself watch. The expression on her face resembled that of someone about to vomit—which is exactly how she felt.

  Nate stood with her, his arm around her shoulders. "We've no need of this," he said softly. "Why invite such sorrow into your heart?"

  "I brought it about," she said firmly. "I'll not hide from the consequences, ugly though they be."

  Nate squeezed her tighter. A few moments later, they were about to turn away and start for home when Nate suddenly growled, "Gah! I cannot believe they brought the child here!"

  Bridget stared at her husband. "What child?"

  He pointed with his chin. "Look yonder."

  She followed his gesture to one of the little knots of people ringing Gallows Hill. It took her a moment to recognize the adults as Sarah Carter's Boston relatives, who had been pointed out to her a few days earlier. They clung together, the women weeping quietly.

  But one who stood with them, a girl of about eight, was not crying.

  She was looking at Bridget Warren.

  It seemed to Bridget that she and the girl stared at each other for a long time, a contest that was halted only when the child raised her left hand, the first two fingers extended, and sketched a brief but complex pattern in the air.

  Bridget gasped, then immediately brought up her right hand to make a gesture of her own—the sign that was the standard defense against the curses used in black magic.

  Rebecca Carter continued to stare, expressionless, at Bridget until her aunt grasped the child's hand and pulled her away.

  Nate Warren had observed the brief, silent exchange between the two females. Even if he had not, the expression on his wife's face would have told him that something was very wrong.

  "Bridget, what means this?" he breathed.

  It took his wife a moment more to tear her gaze away from the little girl—the youngest black witch she had ever seen, or even heard of.

  "Mean?" she said finally. "Methinks it means but one thing, Nathaniel."

  Bridget paused to look again at the lifeless form on the gallows, then sent one final glance after the retreating back of Rebecca Carter. After a few seconds she continued, in a voice that chilled Nate Warren's blood.

  "It means this wicked business is not yet done with."

  Primus Visitation

  Chapter 1

  Lindell, Texas

  Population 3,409

  "They said they was gonna be here today," Hank Dexter growled. "Fuckers done promised us."

  He leaned his chair forward and spat a glob of tobacco juice onto the dust-covered asphalt of Main Street, where it immediately began to sizzle. Then he pushed his weight back against the chair, tilting it to rest once more against the front of Emma's Cafe. The chair, a cheap armless thing made of aluminum and plastic, normally graced one of the tables inside Lindell's best (and only) eatery. But Jerry Jack Taylor, who'd taken over the business after Emma passed away four years earlier, had raised no objection when Hank and his buddy Mitch McConnell brought a couple of the chairs outside. Emma's wasn't doing much business these days, anyway—and none at all, after dark.

  Mitch made a show of looking at his watch. "Day ain't done yet," he said. "Shit, it's just past three o'clock."

  "Yeah, and another hour it'll be just past four, then five, then six, and pretty soon after that the fuckin' sun'll be going down and it's gon' start all over again."

  Mitch didn't say anything to that. But after a while, he asked, "Why'nt you just leave, man? Clear the fuck out like half the folks in town already have, seems like."

  "Cause Jolene's in there, that's why. She's in there somewhere—with them.'" He was staring across the street at the Goliad Hotel, all two stories of it, and the hatred in his eyes was like a living thing. After a few moments he asked, "How 'bout you? Why you still hangin' around this shithole?"

  "You seen what they did to my daddy. You was there when we found him."

  "Yeah," Hank said softly. "Yeah, I was there."

  "Folks say now he was one of the lucky ones, 'cause they killed him right out. Didn't… change him." Mitch gave a laugh that held no humor whatever. "Lucky, my ass. Ain't nobody deserve that kind of luck, no sir, and I ain't leavin' till I get back at them fuckers, somehow."

  "Yeah, quite a few folks got scores to settle with the leeches. Good thing, in a way, 'cause without them, I couldn't have raised the money for them fuckin' experts, who was supposed to fuckin' be here—"

  "Hey, what's that?" Mitch said suddenly. He was staring off to the left, where Main Street merged with Route 12.

  Hank looked that way, his eyes narrowed against the glare. After a moment, he spat another wad of 'baccy juice. "Nah, that ain't nothin'. I hear tell them old boys travel around with a couple of semis, along with some four-wheel-drive jeeps and I don't know what all. Make a regular convoy out of it." He gestured up the street with his head. "That dust cloud ain't big enough for more than one vee-hicle, and it's just a car, most likely. Some damn tourist missed the highway turnoff, or somethin'."

  Hank was right about it being a single car, as was proved a few minutes later when the dark blue Mustang pulled up in front of Emma's Cafe. But he was wrong about everything else.

  The man who got out was tall and lean, with b
lack hair and a heavy beard growth that looked like it needed to be shaved twice a day. He wore lightweight gray slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back a couple of turns to reveal strong-looking forearms. His sunglasses were the style made popular by those Men in Black movies, but he had the good manners to take them off before addressing Hank and Mitch. "Howdy," he said with a nod. He didn't smile, the way strangers usually do when they're about to ask for directions.

  Hank and Mitch returned his greeting but said nothing more. The stranger did not seem bothered by their silence. He didn't come across as hostile or challenging, but there was a quality of stillness about him, as if he could have stood there all day and half the night, waiting for something to happen. It was the kind of patience you see in some hunters, the ones who always bag their limit no matter what's in season at any given time of year.

  Finally, Mitch said, "Lost, are ya?"

  The stranger seemed to consider the question seriously before shaking his head. "Not if this is Lindell, I'm not." He looked more closely at them. "And not if you boys are Hank Dexter and Mitch McConnell." His accent showed he wasn't local, but it didn't mark him as a Yankee or anything like that. Instead, he sounded like a Texas boy who had gone and got himself some education somewhere.

  Hank sat forward suddenly, bringing the front legs of his chair down with a bang. "You ain't Jack—"

  "No, I'm not," the stranger said. "Jack has a whole crew he works with, as you fellas probably know. And all of 'em are bogged down right now in one hell of a mess over in Waco. Way I hear it, what was supposed to be a simple job has turned out to be a major infestation, and Jack and his crew are about up to their ass in bloodsuckers."

  The stranger twisted his head to the left and gave the Goliad Hotel a good, long look. Then he turned back around. "But Jack made a commitment to you folks, and he's a man keeps his word. So he gave me a call. Asked me to come on over and see if I could help out with your situation here."

  "All by your lonesome?" Hank didn't bother to keep the scorn out of his voice. "And just who the fuck are you?"