Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  Rowan sways, and Chester helps them lean against his patrol car.

  “Are you going to need medical attention?” I ask. “Chester can take you.”

  “I don’t use commercial medicine. Never have, never will. Let’s see how I feel tomorrow.”

  The investigator looks beyond physically exhausted. I don’t want to press for more information, but I have to.

  “Just one more thing before Chester takes you to rest up. I’d like to show you something. Is that okay?”

  We get in the patrol car and sit side by side; Chester, in the back, cranes over the seat well as I place a screen in Rowan’s lap and hit Play.

  The witch watches attentively, wincing as the video reaches its conclusion, Jake’s awful cry as he sees the body of his friend. But they make no comment on Harper.

  “That’s it?” Rowan asks. “The boy who’s fallen… Is that the act supposed to have been caused by magic?”

  “You mean you’re not seeing any magic being worked in what I’ve just showed you?”

  “No, I’ve seen two kids arguing. Or rather, I’ve seen one kid, the girl, who’s shouting at whoever is recording this. I presume that’s his voice we hear at the end.”

  “And her…” I pause, not wanting to ask a leading question. But Rowan Andrews is no fool. They’ll be fitting together the pieces to get a clear idea of the scenario I’m investigating. “Her hands? Are they…?”

  Rowan restarts the video, slowing it right down. Frame by frame. Then again. And a third time.

  “What am I doing?” Rowan asks, moving their hands in the way Harper does in the tape. Their gestures are choppy, tense, angry. There’s no flow to them. No purpose that I can see. Chester and I look at each other, at a loss.

  “I’m giving someone a piece of my mind,” Rowan says eventually. “I’m suppressing the urge to strangle them with my bare hands. I’m probably calling them a motherfucker. But I’m not doing magic. The only thing these hands are channeling is anger.

  “I’m presuming the scenario is this—you don’t need to confirm. The girl has been accused of magically causing the boy to fall. And it’s easy to see why. Her hands are perfectly in sync with what happens.”

  Rowan backtracks and takes us through the crucial few seconds. Harper’s hands come together and push downward. A few beats pass, then the first scream as someone realizes Dan has fallen.

  “It’s a strong gesture,” Rowan concludes. “Suspicious, to someone untrained in magic. But believe me, when hand movements are used in our craft, it isn’t like that. In some traditions, it’s flowing and fluid, like conducting music. In Western European magic, which is dominant among white New England witches, it tends to be controlled and precise. But there’s no tradition where gestured magic looks like this.”

  I exhale. So it’s not Harper.

  That tallies with what the school principal told me about the girl not having the gift. Her mom told me that, too.

  Except that leaves the mom as the only known person of ability in Sanctuary. I think back to the scene at Fenn’s workroom—the blasted-off door and blown-out windows. There’s one other place I’ve seen blown-out windows recently, and it’s the ruined villa right behind me.

  Could Sarah Fenn be responsible?

  It was plain that the witch wasn’t being completely honest about what happened at her booth. Is there anything else she hasn’t been telling me?

  I recall the half-painted pentagram, the paint slashing across the facade of their little wooden house in the twisty streets of the Cobb. I’d linked it to the accusations against Harper, but it could just as easily have been because of her mom.

  But why might she want to harm her daughter’s boyfriend—the son of one of her oldest friends?

  What if the answer lies in another part of this puzzle? The other video filmed on some high schooler’s phone. The sex tape that was playing on the wall at the party.

  What if Sarah was angry at Dan for allowing it to go public, humiliating her daughter?

  That’s a reason for her to lash out at him—though it doesn’t seem motive enough for her to intentionally kill a boy she’s known his entire life.

  A mother’s anger. A tragic accident. A boy left dead. It’s plausible.

  Chester is silent, waiting for my instructions. I ask him to get Rowan to their accommodations to rest up after what just happened.

  While they head out of town, I head in, to the historic quarter where the Fenns live. There’s a goddamn WCON-TV news crew parked outside their house. The reporter hurries over as I pull up. Anna Dao. Does the court beat, and we all know her by sight.

  “Routine visit, Anna,” I tell her before she can get in a question. “Sorry, no story for you today.”

  Dao pouts and instructs her cameraman to film anyway as I knock on the door. When there’s no response, I figure that Fenn knows there’s a journalist on her doorstep, so I add that it’s police, and soon after the chain rattles and the door cracks open all by itself. At first I wonder if it’s magic, before I realize that Fenn is tucked behind the door to avoid the camera.

  “Good technique,” I tell her, and receive a frazzled smile.

  “How can I help?” Fenn asks, leading me through to the kitchen. Despite that smile, I sense wariness in her voice.

  This time around, I’m noticing everything. The house is like some museum of witchcraft, with weird objects on every surface and wall. That thing on the mantelpiece—is it just a twig, or could it be a shriveled finger? Is that mirror for doing makeup, or for seeing visions?

  What just happened at the villa is making me jumpy. Everything in here is acquiring a sinister aura.

  “Did you work out the mistake?” I ask.

  “What mistake?”

  “The one you made in your divining rite. The one that wrecked your workroom.”

  She grimaces. “Magic is extremely complex, Detective—that sort of thing especially so. There are literally a hundred mistakes I could have made.”

  “You were able to secure your booth though?”

  “Yes, thank you. Though I had to call Pierre out again. Is that why you’re here?”

  “Mainly to make sure that you’ve not been subject to any further trouble after that special issue of the Sentinel. I’m going to be visiting Beryl Varley today, to remind her of reporting standards and advise that there is a duty of care in respect of your daughter, seeing as she’s a minor.”

  “Varley published lies about my daughter and claimed she’d be executed if they were true, so I’d like her to get rather more than a ‘reminder of reporting standards.’ But I can’t tell you how to do your job.”

  “Understood. Ms. Fenn, can you think of any reason why someone might wish to harm Daniel Whitman on your daughter’s behalf?”

  The question is unexpected, as I intended it to be. Fenn controls her reaction well, but not so well that I don’t spot it.

  She lies.

  “No, I can’t, Detective. I’m sorry. And honestly, I’ve yet to see a single good reason why anyone is even linking my daughter’s name to Dan’s death.”

  I let that pass, as I must. Then: “Ms. Fenn, are you the only witch or magical person in Sanctuary?”

  “Yes.” She pauses. “That I know of.”

  Something changes between those two responses. What is it?

  The first sounded genuine. So why add the second? Has Fenn got wind that Rowan is in town? Did she sense them at work at the villa?

  If she’s responsible for the magic at the party and knows there’s an investigator who’ll confirm its use, is she preparing to shift the blame on to some mystery witch?

  “There could be one that you’re not aware of?”

  “I would have thought that was unlikely, but with everything that’s happened, it’s certainly not impossible. Why are you asking about magic? Do
you have proof that it was used at the party house? I mean, proof beyond whatever Jake Bolt thinks he saw?”

  Her expression is shrewd, and it occurs to me that it’s not for nothing that witches were called “cunning women.” I fleetingly consider telling her yes. Her reaction would be revealing.

  But those words Remy threw in warning—flight risk—stop me. If Sarah Fenn is behind whatever happened and she knows I have proof of magic, she’ll also know it’s only a matter of time until we can connect it back to her. She might leave town.

  For now, I sidestep her question by offering advice on dealing with the news crew and telling her again to get in touch immediately if she or Harper feel threatened in any way. So, of course, when I finally take my leave, the news van has gone.

  Fenn looks relieved. As she closes the door behind me, I hear her pick up some keys from a dish in the hallway.

  Flight risk.

  Don’t run out on me, Sarah Fenn. Or I’ll have no alternative but to believe you’re guilty.

  Fifty

  Sarah

  That was close. Too close for comfort.

  Any reason why someone might wish to harm Daniel Whitman on your daughter’s behalf? the cop said, just tossing it out there.

  Are you the only witch in Sanctuary?

  What has the detective figured out? What has she heard—or what is she guessing at? Does anyone else know that what Dan did to Harper was rape?

  Did she phrase the question like that to trap me? Because what it really means is: Did Dan do something to Harper that deserved revenge? I was tempted, just for a moment, to tell her the truth. To say, Yes he did. He raped my daughter. But while Harper’s still the primary suspect, I’m not handing them anything that pins a motive on her.

  And why was the detective asking about magic? Has she brought in a magical investigator who has found its presence at the villa, just like I did?

  Time to finish this.

  I need to speak to Abigail. I’ve been trapped in here waiting for the news crew to leave, but now the coast is clear. Time to make her keep her word and come out publicly behind Harper’s innocence.

  Except Abigail’s cell phone rings and rings with no answer. I call the house phone instead, but still she doesn’t pick up. Frustration almost chokes me.

  Well, there’s someone else to speak to. Another accuser I need to help see the error of their ways.

  I head to my car, with a stern reminder to myself to park it in the alley out back from now on, where I can slip in and out unobserved. I don’t know the exact address I’m going to, but I’ll recognize it. And I have a landmark to guide me—the huge, white box of the Black Hill Beacon Chapel.

  If the chapel folks knew I was driving by, they’d probably convene a prayer ring to try to pray me away.

  I’ve nothing against religion. In fact, I admire people who hold firm to their values. Many of those within the three Abrahamic religions of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam have made their peace with witchcraft, even if it’s an uneasy peace. But all faiths have those who’d happily vote to outlaw us if offered the choice at the ballot box. Luckily, politicians don’t have the appetite for it. We’re pretty watertight under the First Amendment.

  And all faiths have those who’d go further and return to the days of persecution if they could. While that’s not the official stance of Beacon Chapel, several members of the Black Hill congregation would as soon light a bonfire under me as shake my hand. When my house got attacked last week, my thoughts went to them. But they’re mostly old men, and crabbed letters to their representatives are more their thing than spray-can graffiti.

  The chief’s wife is a pillar of the congregation. I don’t know where Mary-Anne Bolt stands on the matter of witchcraft. But I’d bet my gramma’s crystal ball her husband hasn’t told her he’s a client of mine.

  Their house is two streets away from the looming church. A drive-by tells me instantly which it is, among these identical suburban homes. Summer’s Coming! says the sign in the front yard, featuring a kitten and a puppy rolling on a beach. I’ve heard Mary-Anne changes it every season, the kitten and puppy gamboling tirelessly through leaves in fall, snow in winter, and flowers in spring. Through the open window wafts the smell of baking, doubtless destined for a church sale.

  All around are signs of a home that’s raised four boys, from the oversize garage to the basketball hoop screwed to the side of it.

  Jake is the only boy still at home. His mom and pop have turned out three upstanding sons, one gone to the military, one to the ministry, and one following his father into law enforcement. The eldest is married already, and rumor has it that the Bolts will soon be grandparents. But the automatic smile drops fast from Mary-Anne’s face when she answers the door and finds me standing there.

  “Sarah Fenn,” she says, wiping her floury hands on her apron. Team Jesus, is printed on the front in a swooshy sports font. “Can I help you?”

  “I was looking for Tad. I think I read something in the newspaper about him taking leave of absence from the station during a current investigation…?”

  I’m trying to appear as unthreatening as possible, but she doesn’t react to my attempt at humor.

  “He’s out back, doing yard work with Jake.”

  “May I go around? I just want a word.”

  “It’s hardly appropriate, I would think.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Mary-Anne won’t say. She’s evidently considering whether or not to shut the door in my face. Finally, she sighs.

  “It’s a free country. But there’s something I could use Jakey’s help with, so give me a moment.”

  She pulls the door halfway, and I hear her at the rear of the house calling out to her son, summoning him indoors. Two things strike me. One: We moms are all the same, beneath the skin. We’d do anything to stand between our child and danger. And two: That’s what Mary-Anne Bolt thinks I am—a danger.

  It’s a strange, prickling feeling.

  Up till now, and excepting the usual hard-core bigot, I’ve believed that my neighbors consider me and my services to be a good thing. They might not all consult me—though goodness knows, enough of them do. But they like having that option. Back pain? Go see the doctor, the acupuncturist—or the witch. Relationship problems? Pick from the divorce lawyer, the counselor—or the witch. To those who don’t need me, I’m an irrelevance. To those who do, I’m a help, a friend, a guide.

  The suspicion bristling off Tad’s wife is a novel experience, and an unwelcome one. Has everything that’s happened poisoned how I’m seen in this community? Or has she always felt like this, and now feels it’s acceptable to show it? Neither thought is comforting.

  I find Tad vigorously turning over the soil in some raised vegetable beds. When he sees me, he slams the fork down so hard its sharp tines thud into the bottom of the container. His face, already red from his exertions, looks thunderous.

  “What can I do for you, Sarah?”

  I gather my courage. “I wanted to tell you that Abigail and I spoke yesterday, and she no longer believes Harper had anything to do with Dan’s death.”

  Tad grunts as if I’ve raised something trifling.

  “I’m off the case, Sarah. It’s nothing to me. I’m supporting my boy in this, and I know what he believes. He was the only person right there, after all.”

  “In a house that was pitch-dark and noisy, when he was most likely drunk.”

  “Jake knows what he saw.”

  “If we’re talking about what people know, then I know quite a lot myself. Don’t I?”

  The chief’s eyes narrow as he works out whether I’m saying what it sounds like I’m saying.

  I am.

  It’s painful to do this. Psychically—almost physically. To make even this veiled threat goes against every principle instilled in me by my grandmother and the women
who trained me. We witches use our art to support and uplift people.

  And I’ve supported Chief Tad Bolt with his addiction. It’s one that shades from barely legal all the way into criminal.

  I’ve helped him with it for years. A carefully crafted ritual to suppress his cravings, and it works. The problem is that each time he goes for months without a blowout, he puts it down to his strength of will and the power of prayer, and gets complacent. It doesn’t help that the ritual flattens what he calls his lawful urges, as well, which causes strife with Mary-Anne. So he often neglects to keep his four-monthly appointments, with the inevitable result.

  If it got out, he’d lose his job and position in the community—and most likely his wife and the respect of his God-fearing sons. I see him thinking this through.

  Tad’s eyes flick back to me with a mixture of fear and fury. Time to defuse the situation.

  “No one wins from this turning into some kind of show trial,” I tell him. “Least of all Jake. There was a news crew outside our door this morning. If Jake sets himself up as a star witness, they’ll be outside your door tomorrow. So I’m asking you, for the good of all our children, get Jake to see that this isn’t the way. There are things I could do…”

  Tad’s arm flashes out. I flinch, but he’s already checked himself so the blow never lands. It’s so close, though, that the air itself slaps me.

  “Get out,” he snarls. “Stay away from my son and my family. It’s like I said in my statement, Sarah, I trust in the law of the courts and the law of the Bible. My son has sworn on the Good Book that he’s telling the truth, so it’s up to me to make sure the law takes its course. If Harper’s innocent, then so be it. But that’s not what Jakey believes, and I believe him.”

  Have I frightened him enough to comply? Or angered him so much he’ll plow on just to hurt me? Tad may be full of bluster, but he isn’t stupid.

  But given the threat of what I know about him leaking out, I’m quietly confident that a few more hours of yard work and reflection will bring him to the right conclusion. And when Abigail withdraws her accusation, that will make it easy for him and Jake to do the same.