“No, the members are not just flattering you. They seriously think you can do great things in that arena. But ‘applesauce?’ Really? There you go again with your old lingo.” Esther paused. “Sometimes that gets a bit annoying.”
Shrugging, Gillian said, “Habit. You know I was raised with it.”
“Yes, of course, I know that. Just another one of your mother’s little idiosyncrasies. Like naming her oldest child, Gillian after Kim Novak in Bell, Book, and Candle. Or Carly, after Carly Simon, and Stevie, after Stevie Nicks. My mother always said her sister Ellen was a bit of a nut.” Looking thoughtful for a moment, she blew out some air. “Still, neither she, Carly, nor Stevie go with the flapper stuff anymore. How do you explain your holding onto it?”
“Guess I just like doing it. It’s a part of who I am now. Leave it at that. And when it comes to my beliefs and desires, I just don’t feel like doing magic at the drop of the hat, like some trained dog. Especially not today.”
Without warning, Esther leaned over toward Gillian and placed her hand on her cousin’s arm. “I know the real reason why. You mentioned it the other day. You’re talking about Willy Simon, aren’t you?”
Instantly, Gillian felt the prick of gathering tears. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, maybe you should, Gil. In my opinion, you’ve bottled up about him for far too long.”
“It was my fault, Esther, and you know it. If I hadn’t put that love spell on him, he wouldn’t have…”
“Wouldn’t have driven in the rain? Oh, come on. It had to do with bad luck and even worse weather.”
“He told his mother he hadn’t even planned to go out that night because he wasn’t feeling all that well. It wasn’t even in his consciousness. Until I put that stupid, stupid spell on him, and then suddenly, when he called me, he said he was all excited and would leave right away to be on time—like a real Houdini[11]. So please, don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault.”
It was as if Esther hadn’t even heard her. “Anyway,” Esther said, “I’m telling you to go to the meeting just for today so I’ll have Phoebe off my back. Then, after that, you can do whatever you want. And by the way, Willy came out of it all right in the end. Remember that.”
Gillian stood up. “Not so. I heard he was never the same, mentally. But enough, already. I’m focused on Rebecca right now, as should you. Please, have a little respect.”
When Esther shrugged nonchalantly, Gillian couldn’t help herself. She made sure her tone sounded firm. “As for logistics today,” she said, “are you expecting to come with me to the meeting then have me drop you home? Because I got other stuff to do afterward.”
“Nice attitude, Cuz. No, don’t worry, I’ll Uber over and back.”
At their meet-up inside the Gambit House, the entire coven was buzzing with the latest news on Rebecca Newell. Large, elegant floor-to-ceiling windows, normally letting in a colorful spectrum of light rays across the main room, now were cloaked with heavy dark blue velvet curtains that blocked all outside light. Instead of the usual cheerful brightness, an eerie glow floated out from all the thin white candles nestled in long, flat, driftwood candleholders along all the walls.
It was the perfect funeral atmosphere for honoring Rebecca. She’d love it. Huddling near her mother, Carly, Stevie, and now Esther, Gillian could feel herself calming down some. Maybe her witch status wouldn’t even come up.
After several more moments of personal chatter, Phoebe McCann, dressed in a somber black pantsuit and mauve-colored blouse, meandered over to a podium at the front of the room, and tapping on a microphone, attempted to maintain quiet.
“Settle down, everyone. Settle down,” she said in a deep, gravelly voice. “There is no doubt that the news about Rebecca Newell is dreadful. And after we had just gotten to know her a little bit last year when she announced she was writing an article about us at our academy. In my mind’s eye, I can still see her with her striking logo—the modern white N on a black circle. Remember?”
“How could we forget? She flashed it every chance she got,” someone called out.
Phoebe searched the crowd. “Who said that?”
A few titters circulated around an otherwise silent room.
Instantly, Gillian noted quite a few people’s lackluster response, while a few others showed some outright antagonism. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Rebecca had created a few skeptics as soon as she claimed she was going to be honest about the coven. At the time, Phoebe definitely also was not enthused. Interesting. Now she’s in mourning? Right.
“After all, complete honesty is my stock in trade,” Rebecca had proclaimed proudly to them.
Gillian remembered how that statement had not gone over well. In spite of feeling a slight pressure to defend her old childhood friend more than once, she also agreed with the general consensus that the local writer had become a bit of a publicity hound and was not to be trusted. And that was before I found out her shenanigans with the police!
She flashed on the memory of her reading Rebecca’s opening pages of her coven article for an honest opinion. Along with a handwritten note on the writer’s stationery with the catchy icon, Gillian had found her friend’s words to be half complimentary of the coven membership and half somewhat scathing.
Now, as Phoebe droned on, Gillian’s mind drifted back to the kind of competition she and Rebecca had always shared—whenever they played sports, went shopping, and definitely, when it came to dating boys. Of course, Rebecca didn’t have a clue that her failure at bowling strikes, hitting baseball home runs, or making tennis aces had nothing to do with her actual ability. Nor did she ever figure out why some of her relationships with boys hadn’t worked out perfectly. The depth of Gillian’s spells pointed at her friend was far beyond what Rebecca could ever have imagined.
Oh, Rebecca. I cheated you. Please forgive me. Still, just how many enemies did you have out there?
After a couple of hours, Gillian’s breathing leveled out. To her relief, no one had approached her and her family cluster to give her a hard time, magic spell-wise. But after saying her goodbyes, she was all set to leave when, from out of nowhere, the scary Phoebe McCann sidled up next to her.
Like magic?
Childhood flashbacks of nervousness cascaded over her. Ridiculous. Don’t give this woman so much power. Still, it was difficult to look directly at Phoebe for any length of time without feeling at least some kind of wariness, as if she was waiting for the next shoe to drop. Scratch that. It was more like the next boot to thump.
“Gillian, I feel it’s time we talked a little,” Phoebe said pleasantly enough. “What’s your schedule like? Are you ever free on Thursday afternoons?”
She nodded. Geesh. My regular day off from our Old Time Readers bookstore is on Thursdays. In spite of her automatic angst, she focused on Phoebe’s face. Were her lips stretching upward toward a little smirk? Knowing her, she’d probably already cased out their shop and knew exactly what Gillian’s schedule was.
After they set their date for the following week, Phoebe moved on, and, glaring at the woman’s back, Gillian’s deep frown morphed into a simple headshake—before she sighed. It was time for her to start concentrating on Rebecca, not a scary, middle-aged witch.
Outside, the rain was flitting down at a good clip. A lot faster than the weather channel had predicted, but to Gillian, that wasn’t surprising. Knowing how easy it had been years back, when she was going through her weather manipulations, she now saw the whole climate thing as pointless. It is what it is, and if I don’t like it, I’ll just recharge my powers and fix it.
But when the pace of the rain increased even faster and distant thunderheads boomed above her, she could feel herself becoming tense again. She knew what storms equaled. They meant her brain would most likely fly back to a time when she was nine years old, when her father was killed in that horrifying car accident because of stormy weather, slick roads—and her having foreseen it but had been too chicken to warn him.
Mustn’t think about that now. I should just focus on Rebecca and what the police—
With its wheels spinning out of control, a gray Toyota 4Runner skidded across four lanes and barreled straight toward her. In a split second, her chest clenched, her throat filled with acid, and something happened she couldn’t explain. She was drawing a complete and utterly paralyzed blank.
Closer, the truck charged, the glare from its headlights forcing her to shut her eyes and accept her fate. Just like you, Papa. See you soon.
She imagined the smack of the truck hitting her smaller car, her horn then blaring, her body crumbling up like an empty tin can. And then the smell when her car’s engine burst into flames. Flames that would burn her impaled body, her arms, her neck, and her face. Just like you, Papa.
But nothing happened. Her body tingling, her hands shaking, she popped open her eyes in time to see the truck miss her by two inches max before it by-passed her, continued off to one side, and miraculously, slowed to a complete stop up against a metal barrier down the road.
If her trembling lips had been working properly, she would have been able to answer when the owner of the 4Runner rapped on her car window then opened her door.
“Oh, my God, are you all right?” the potbellied, sixty-ish man with pinched eyebrows asked.
She managed a nod. Then willed herself to at least warble, “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I must have fallen asleep, and suddenly, I woke up. Just in time to see our accident about to happen.”
She drew a deep breath. “Thank goodness, you woke up.”
“I know, right?” He peered at her for a couple of seconds. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m all right. What about you?”
His gasps lasted so long, it was clear how he really was. Hope he isn’t having a heart attack. Turned out, he wasn’t.
“I’m never going to drive when I’m tired again, that’s for sure, no matter how tempting the overtime money is.” He wiped both his wet eyes with his finger.
After she suggested he leave for the fifth time, she made her way home, grateful to be alive and vowing one thing.
This is a sign. I’m going to go back to performing some spells. I lucked out this time, but something like that? Makes a girl think.
Even with her breath still uneven, she couldn’t help putting out a soft chant. “Please don’t dream about Sarah Good tonight. Please don’t dream about Sarah Good tonight. Please don’t dream about Sarah Good tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
If it weren’t for Sarah Good being my cousin and dear friend, I would have stayed away altogether. Yet here I am, about to enter the most famous witch trial in Salem, and indeed, all the colonies, have ever known, to show my utmost support of her.
Inside the packed meetinghouse, dust particles from mud-caked boots float through the air, rendering it dense, murky. Spectators have filled every conceivable space in the meetinghouse—crammed into high-walled pews, dark wooden benches, or simply backed up against walls. Wearing black hats, cloaks, and breeches, the men angle forward, their eyes boring holes into the five men sitting up front. Yet, I fear ‘tis the women in Salem who carry the greatest burden this day. They are faced with two questions: How loyal shall their community be to each of them and how shall all of this end?
Sitting off to one side, I notice that across from me sit all the accusers, the “afflicted” girls: Abigail Williams, her cousin Betty Parris, Ann Putnam, Sarah Bibber, Sarah Churchill, Elizabeth Booth, Mercy Lewis, Susanna Sheldon, Jemima Rea, Mary Warren, Mary Walcott, and Elizabeth Hubbard. With downcast eyes and folded hands, they appear demure. But I suspect that inwardly they are most probably experiencing emotions quite different from anything they have ever known. Many’s a time that my own family have discussed the reasons for these girls’ current roles. How their childhoods, stocked with adult repression and fear, now serve as a springboard to the frenzy of accusations they have created. And how, on this very day, comes a sense of their empowerment. At last, my mother tells me, they are getting adults to listen to them, and it must be intoxicating.
All at once, the proceedings appear to be commencing. One of the three magistrates, John Hathorne, announces to a man standing in front of a side room, “Bring in the accused, Bridget Bishop.”
“My Lord,” I think, “she is one of our neighbors, and certainly not a witch. I must go comfort Sarah now.”
I slip outside and across the pathway, where my kin have been imprisoned well over a fortnight, even though I do not know why. Sarah Good is a woman who has always appeared kind as well as content.
At the entrance of the prison, the guard informs me I shall not enter, but I am clever. I have brought him two loaves of my fresh baked bread, and after he makes sure no one is watching us, ushers me in.
There is Sarah Good, always a fountain of strength, always generous in spirit, now, sharing a cell with five other women. Women who are well known and respected in town: Elizabeth Howe, Susannah Martin, Sarah Wildes, Martha Carrier, and Rebecca Nurse.
The moment Sarah sees me, she stretches one hand out through the bars toward me. “They keep telling us the Devil is in Salem, and they wish him thwarted at all costs, yet not one of us is guilty of witchcraft. Why are they doing this to us? Is it because my unworthy husband claimed I presented a bad marriage to him? Or was it because on occasion I challenged one or two Puritan values?”
Helpless, unable to lend comfort, I watch her tears spill over and trail down her cheeks. What is there to tell her? There is a madness that has captured our community. I try to touch her hand, but the guard says, “Stand back madam,” and I must obey. Yet, even with his near presence, I can tell Sarah is not finished speaking. Her mouth open, she again beckons me even closer with her hand.
Despite the guard, I inch forward so as to hear her murmured words. “Dear, dear cousin, be open to people who wish to help you. They may be the only friends you have.”
Slammed awake by her alarm, Gillian felt as though she were in the midst of a panic attack. Her entire body was tingling and her heartbeats double-timed as she sat bolt upright. Damn.
Throughout her life, she’d learned the hard way that dreaming about her ancestor, Sarah Good, was not a welcome sign. It seemed to coincide with some kind of major issue in her life. The last time was eight years before, right after the incident with Willy Simon. If she remembered correctly, her cousin Sarah’s dream was about warning her that magic powers can wreak havoc big time, and if a woman was indeed a witch, she should use her powers carefully.
For some reason, Gillian never told anyone about it. It felt too creepy. Besides, why would an ancestor who had been convicted then executed so long ago, in spite of her not being a witch, give counsel on witch powers in the first place? It didn’t make any sense.
She also knew that if she did reveal her Sarah Good dreams, her mother would be so proud that she’d be bragging about her daughter’s magical ability all over the place. And as for her sisters? That’d be interesting.
Of course, Stevie would be sweet, supportive, and concerned how her big sister was feeling about it all. But Carly? She’d just see it as yet another thing to compete over and make nasty remarks because she was once again envious of her sister’s powers.
So, Gillian kept her secret close. Yet why was she dreaming about her cousin right now was the jackpot question. And the latest issue was to which person should she remain open? Anyone new in her life? Her mind drew a complete blank.
She lightly smacked the side of her head with her hand. “Got it! I must be open to the police—to help them find Rebecca’s killer,” she said aloud.
Clicking and lightly chirping at one side in her cage, Joselyn obviously agreed. “Got it, got it,” she croaked.
Eerily enough, as soon as Gillian got dressed, her cell phone rang, showing an unknown number. Normally, she’d just decline it. But, after that dream, her better sense told her to answer it. It turned out to
be Det. Adam Springer, telling her it would certainly help their case if he could find out more about Rebecca Newell.
Now he’s being helpful. Catching herself, she sighed. Don’t be so negative. Remember what Sarah said.
“All right, Adam. That’d be fine. When do you want me to come in? Since I work at our family’s store, I need to know, so I can let my mother and sisters make arrangements.”
There was a slight pause. “I tell you what,” he said, “since that may be a logistical problem for you, why don’t you meet me at the Shantytown Club at 231 First Street tonight.”
Danger, danger!
“I’m curious. Is going to a place like that police department regulation?” The question popped out before she could stop it.
His chuckle was deep, masculine, and definitely smug sounding. “It is my regulation, Gillian. When it comes to getting important info, we detectives do whatever we need to do. After all, don’t you want to find out who killed your friend?”
“You got me there,” she said as his chuckle deepened. Hmmm. You hearing this, Sarah Good? Hope you’re right.
* *
To her surprise, the Shantytown Club looked to be an upscale bar. Bars were not usually her usually her thing, but she had to admit, at least it housed several booths with tablecloths on them, which exuded a tasteful atmosphere. As an added plus, the customers partaking there appeared to be normal and not too sleazy.
Maybe Adam is halfway legitimate went through her brain as soon as she noticed him over at a high-backed, maroon leather booth, waving at her.
But the second she joined him, he was major flirtatious. Immediately, she felt as if he was undressing her body with his pointed gaze.
“So, gorgeous, you sure look great tonight. What’ll you have to drink?”
She noticed his voice definitely sounded thick. You’re zozzled[12]. How many have you had already?
“Just a red wine spritzer,” she answered coolly then took in his cringing, narrow-eyed look.
“You’re kidding,” he muttered but signaled the waitress over anyway. Once she was there, he ordered Gillian’s drink and another straight-up whisky for himself.
Endangered Spells (Witches Academy Series Book 6) Page 3