Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  I picture the panic as Dan fell. Harper saw it. They all would have. Did the kids rush to help him, or stand back in horror? Was he still alive after he fell? Could he have been saved?

  Could I have saved him, if I’d been here?

  But then came the fire. It must have flared up fast. An accident, or a prank gone wrong. I can see kids stampeding toward the door. Dragging in deep breaths of the fresh air outside, fingers hitting 911 on their phones, telling themselves the first responders would deal with both the fire and their injured friend.

  No wonder poor Abigail is half-mad with her loss. And maybe what’s eating Harper is guilt, if she got the hell out of there with everyone else and left Daniel behind. I need to tell her there’s no shame in that. Self-preservation is our most fundamental instinct—only parenthood overrides it.

  That’s all that my brain can figure out of what might have happened here. Will my craft tell the same story?

  I try to steady my hands as I lift my sticks again, bracing myself for what I know is coming. I’ll be tuning in to it all: those kids’ panic and fear, their horror and grief.

  And I screw my eyes shut as it hits. It’s too much emotion, from too many people. Too intense. It rips through me like claws.

  Which is when the second thing hits me, and I gasp and fall to my knees. The sticks fall from my trembling fingers. I gag and spit acid bile into the ash so I don’t choke.

  Magic.

  Powerful, brutal magic.

  Enough to burn a house and break a boy.

  And I realize what I’ve somehow never known until now: I’m not the only witch in Sanctuary.

  Twenty

  Maggie

  “Uh, boss?”

  It’s Chester. I’ve been reading over my old attendance log from six years ago, trying to work out if the fact that it shares a cast with my current investigation means anything, or is pure coincidence, when my assistant sticks his head around my door.

  “Phone call. Beryl Varley at the Sentinel. She’s their news editor—a sensible sort.”

  “Got it.”

  As the phone connects, I’m braced for a question about whether it’s true that we have a murder-by-witchcraft allegation, because in a place like Sanctuary, word about Jake’s testimony is bound to get out sooner rather than later. Time for a trusty, old “We cannot comment.”

  But when she comes on the line, it appears that Beryl Varley isn’t that sort of operator. I guess this is a local paper, not the Washington Post. Varley lives alongside the people she writes about.

  “Our intern just brought something to my attention,” she says. “Relating to the Whitman tragedy. I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Much appreciated, Ms. Varley.”

  “It’s ugly. But”—she laughs uncertainly—“you’re a cop. You’ll have seen much worse. Only, why do girls these days let these pictures be taken? They must know they’ll end up all over the internet. I’ll send you the link. It’s a…a whaddya call it? A screenshot. I’ll send you the screenshot, Officer, ’cause apparently these things often get deleted real quick.”

  “That’s very kind, ma’am.” I’ve barely spelled out my email address before she’s off again.

  “And on the tribute page in Daniel’s memory, too. It’s just disgusting. What must his poor mother think? You’ve got to wonder if these youngsters aren’t totally out of control.”

  Beryl Varley’s views are from another era, but I bet they make for popular opinion pieces—it’s always easier to blame young people than to help them. I’m picturing a cardigan-clad old biddy, maybe a graduate from one of the less distinguished women’s colleges, when she slips in a question so easily I’ve almost answered before I realize what she’s done.

  “I take it Harper Fenn isn’t a person of interest in Daniel Whitman’s death, Officer?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Varley, but I won’t be making any comment at this stage. You know how it is. Thank you so much for reaching out.”

  I hang up to forestall any more unwelcome questions, the receiver suddenly slippery in my palm. Which is when it dawns on me for the first time what a colossal media shitstorm this case is going to be if Jake Bolt persists in his story and his father backs him.

  No one’s been executed for unnatural homicide in this country for years. That’s probably because the last high-profile trial went down as one of the biggest scandals in legal history. It was a cautionary tale in a wrongful conviction seminar back at police academy, and it’s the sort of story that stays with you.

  Somewhere in Pennsylvania in the 1950s, two rich folks were found dead in their bed. There was no sign of foul play, so their only son inherited. Then a couple years later, some girl went to the cops and said the son had bragged that he’d killed his parents and gotten away with it. Turned out he’d made the same boast to a few other women, too. But just as the son seemed bound for the electric chair, he pointed the finger at his parents’ maid, a Polish girl named Agnes Nowack.

  Agnes was a witch, he said. She’d been in love with him and believed his parents prevented their marriage—and so had killed them with a curse. Bit by damning bit, evidence against her was unearthed. Spellwork trinkets knotted into one of his father’s handkerchiefs and sprayed with his mother’s perfume. And crucially, a back-alley midwife who swore the girl had asked for an abortion because her lover refused to marry her, even though she’d killed his parents to clear the way for them.

  Nowak admitted to being a witch and to being in love with the son, who had indeed gotten her pregnant though she’d lost the baby. But she denied any part in his parents’ deaths. In court, the son had lawyers and a parade of witnesses. So it was Agnes that went to the electric chair. And there the case might have ended if the abortionist hadn’t confessed on her deathbed that she had been paid and her testimony scripted.

  A campaign saw Agnes pardoned, thirty years too late. Is Sanctuary ready to be the center of another scandalous trial of a teenage girl?

  The new-mail alert jangles on my screen.

  Here goes.

  The image loads slowly, rows of pixels at a time from the bottom up, and this drawn-out reveal somehow makes the whole thing worse, even more obscene.

  The first distinguishable thing is a young man’s jean-clad rear. The pants are settled low and gaping on the buttocks in a way that suggests they’re unbuttoned at the front. A slender girl’s leg dangles outside his thigh.

  The next section of the picture makes it unmistakable what’s going on. Mercifully, you can’t see too much of the girl’s body, but there’s a jut of hip bone and a gleam of thigh. Her jeans and a panty string are bunched below her pushed-apart knees. He’s not even touching her, except where their bodies are joined.

  The girl’s upper body is clothed—mostly. She’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, the bottom pulled up exposing one breast. Her skin looks sickly pale in the dim light of the bedroom, and coiling tattoos are blurrily visible on her abdomen.

  I know who these two must be, and the final portion of the photo confirms it. That’s Harper, her head thrown back on the bedcover, mouth open and eyes closed. The boy’s back is to the camera, but he has a quarterback’s broad shoulders and a sports jersey, and his haircut is an ultrashort, almost military style familiar from pictures of Daniel Whitman.

  The screenshot ends with the post displayed above the picture. It’s short and to the point.

  Harper Fenn is a slut and a liar.

  And worse.

  The poster hasn’t minced his words with the choice of username, either—SanctuaryslutXposer—and heck am I tired of only seeing slut applied to the girl in these sorts of situations.

  I sit back and exhale. I’m looking at a screengrab from the sex tape that got projected at the party. No wonder Harper went ballistic, just like Jake described. What an absolutely gross violation of privacy.

 
Another thought occurs to me as I study the picture. How was this filmed? The angle means the camera can’t be in Dan’s hand. But did he set up his phone somewhere to record—or was someone else in the room with them? From this still image, I can’t tell.

  What about whoever made this ugly post? SanctuaryslutXposer doesn’t come right out and call Harper a murderer, just a slut and a liar. But that and worse plainly hints at more. Do they know about Jake Bolt’s accusation?

  Could the poster be Jake himself?

  “Forwarding you an email, Chester,” I tell my assistant. “It’s got a website link. Make sure the computer guys archive the contents ASAP. Flag it as explicit with an under-eighteen warning: ‘need-to-see’ only. I’ve a few calls to make.”

  This photo of Harper is in the hands of a journalist—one who is either sufficiently well informed, or just plain astute enough to be asking questions about whether Harper Fenn is a suspect in Daniel’s death. With Chief Bolt having a conflict of interest, I should loop in my boss back at the state level.

  I have to follow protocol, to make sure my sizable ass is covered. But there’s rather more than my reputation at stake. A teen girl is being accused of witchcraft, facing a barbaric penalty. The clock ticks counting down till this story breaks just got louder and louder. And when it goes, it’s gonna go big.

  Twenty-One

  Abigail

  I’ve knocked at Sarah’s door twice, but no response. Her car is gone.

  That’s fine. I’ll wait however long it takes.

  Bridget’s words go through my head, and I’m aware that I’m tapping the steering wheel as I say them to myself, over and over, as if it’s a promise. As if it’s a spell.

  There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.

  Sheer curiosity drew me to Sarah when we first met in prenatal class. Our paths would never have crossed otherwise. You don’t meet witches at the golf club or the spa, or accidentally get sat next to one at a dinner party. I’d always thought only gullible people used their services. I remember when Sarah laughed and told me she thought the same about therapists—she knew by then that I’d trained to be one.

  That was when we hit it off. That, plus the fact that we were both attending classes alone. Sarah didn’t have a partner on the scene, while Michael was sitting at home staring at his unfinished research papers, terrified about how we were going to raise a child on a barely tenured salary.

  There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.

  I saw the witch paraphernalia at Sarah’s house when I went over for baby playdates. Bridget was Sarah’s only nonmagical assistant at that time, and I was eager to try it myself, lending Sarah my energies as she crafted a simple enchantment.

  I’ll never forget the thrill when her magic touched me and drew from me the first time. It was a little like breastfeeding. To let someone else draw strength from you, but to want to keep on giving, however much they take.

  I was tired after that first time. And the bigger magics I’ve helped with since can be exhausting. But you still want to give. Once a spell starts, it’s almost as if you’re hypnotized. The witch is the only one who can break that flow of energy and step away.

  “You’re dangerous people,” I told Sarah.

  I’d meant it as a joke, but she took it deadly seriously. Started talking about how the foundational principle of magic was consent. How witches all stuck scrupulously to the law.

  Well, that last bit isn’t quite true, is it, Sarah?

  There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.

  It was our children that first brought us together. So it seems only right—almost destined—that the fate of our children is intertwined like this now.

  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, my darling Daniel.

  From where I’m parked, in front of the house, I see movement at a window. Sarah has arrived home and gone in the back way.

  I have to knock several times, and it’s only once she’s pulled back a curtain and seen me that she opens the door. She looks pale and sweaty.

  I’m half-afraid she won’t let me in, after our last encounter, but I’ve an excuse ready.

  “I’ve run out of the potion. I need some more.”

  “So you were taking it?” She looks relieved. “I was worried… I thought… Come in.”

  She leads me to the kitchen, chattering as if she’s afraid of what I’ll say if I have a chance to speak. As if I might name another witness who saw her daughter kill my son.

  I say nothing, just let her bustle about. She’s finding my silence unnerving. Whatever part of me feels a pang at what I’m doing to this woman, my friend, is buried beneath my rage at what her daughter did to my son—and my determination that she’ll set it all right.

  There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us. For me. For Dan. But most especially for Harper. I’m betting that to save her daughter, Sarah Fenn will do anything.

  She finally turns to me.

  “Have you heard anything more about the investigation? Jake’s evidence?”

  “I daresay it’s with the appropriate authorities.”

  I’d wanted to intimidate Sarah, but something I’ve said satisfies her. It takes me a moment to realize that I didn’t correct her mention of Jake. She’s not as distracted as I thought.

  Too late now. In fact, it might even help that she knows it’s Jake. He’s devoted to Daniel, too. Sarah will understand that he’ll support me all the way. And so will his dad, the chief.

  “I’m not here for your potion. I’m not drinking it. I know why you want to keep me calm and tranquil. I’m here because I want Daniel back.”

  Sarah ignores my barb. Her expression is kind.

  “I don’t do séances, Abi. Channelings. It’s illegal, and you know I don’t think those messages are real—not from the deceased, I mean.”

  “I’m not talking about a séance. I said, I want him back.”

  The silence stretches out between us.

  “That’s not possible. It can’t be done.”

  “You did it once before—or nearly.”

  “Nearly.” The word comes out like a sob. “Abi, I’m so sorry. I can’t. Believe me, you’re not the first to ask. If it was…calling him back at the threshold. I don’t know. I would try—for you. But he’s been dead for days. He’s in the morgue.”

  “Michael could get him out. We’d say we’re transferring his body to the faculty hospital at Yale.”

  Sarah is shaking her head wildly. She’s acting as if I’ve led her to the edge of a cliff and have ordered her to jump.

  “His body’s all burned. There’s nothing I can do. I wish…”

  “You’ll have to do better than wish, Sarah. Otherwise, your daughter will go on trial. Jake wants Dan back, too. When you do it, I’ll get him to withdraw his statement.”

  “Abigail, how could you explain away a boy raised from the dead?”

  “I wouldn’t explain. I’d just go. Move away, and take Dan with me. We’d manage.”

  Sarah shrinks a little further away from me. So I lean in and grip her wrist, hard.

  “My son’s life for your daughter’s innocence, Sarah. Isn’t that exactly what your Old Work says: Something given for something gotten. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Twenty-Two

  Maggie

  I need to own this case before it owns me.

  So far I have:

  • One dead boy, and a preliminary autopsy result that tells me he died of a broken neck.

  • One accuser, who claims that the boy’s fatal fall was due to magic.

  • One accused, the deceased’s ex-girlfriend, who may have been after revenge for being dumped.

  • One item of footage appearing to show her using magic, although she’s not commonly believed to be a witch.

  • One publicly posted photograph
showing the deceased and the accused engaged in sexual activity. If nonconsensual, that could provide a more substantial motive, but it’s impossible to tell from the picture alone.

  And Chester’s just added to the list. He’s chased down the toxicology report on the corpse.

  “No drugs whatsoever,” he says. “Barely any alcohol. Which makes sense, ’cause Whitman was an athlete, going to college on a scholarship. He wouldn’t risk that.”

  “So much for the it-was-a-drunken-stumble hypothesis.”

  “Yup.”

  We both sit there. What am I not seeing?

  “It all comes back to Jake Bolt’s claim that Harper was using magic,” I say. “We need to stand that up or knock it down.”

  “Get someone to look at the video?”

  “Maybe. There are other ways, too. Witches can detect strong emotional residue on objects and in places—think murder weapons and crime scenes. And they can also tell whether magic was used.”

  “‘Evidence derived by unnatural means is inad…’” Chester begins, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

  “Yeah, yeah. You can’t use it in building evidence for court. But you can use it for clues and nudges in your investigation, as long as you then back those independently with police work.”

  He’s still looking skeptical. So it’s time to share a story I keep close to my heart. I can’t let myself think of it too often.

  “Colleague of mine had an abduction case. He located a vehicle that fit witness descriptions, but Forensics couldn’t find any traces in the car. He trusted his gut, though, so he called in a witch. She identified recent fear and trauma in that vehicle. It kept my colleague going, even when the car owner had a solid-gold alibi. And he got there in the end, the old-fashioned way. That witch’s work gave him the confidence he needed to persist.”

  I don’t tell Chester that the colleague was my partner, and that one of those who said the car was a dead-end lead was me.

  I don’t tell Chester that though we caught the perp, we were too late to save his victim. We found Jenny Downes still chained where he’d confined her, emaciated and dehydrated. With our investigation dragging on, her abductor had spooked and simply stopped visiting. Jenny was so weak she suffered heart failure and passed away in the hospital a few hours later, though not before identifying a photo of the man who took her. I couldn’t look her in the eye as she thanked us, before she died with her family at her side.