Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  His son’s sickness is plainly taking a toll on him. It’s so frustrating. I need him fired up if we’re to bring everything to its proper conclusion. Why did Jake have to pick now, of all moments, to fall sick?

  And I freeze.

  Why now, of all moments, to fall sick. Why now, when he has evidence of Harper’s wrongdoing. When he was the first one to speak up, the best and most credible witness of Harper’s crime, the source for Varley’s reporting in the Sentinel?

  What if it’s not mono that’s responsible for Jake’s wrecked state. Could it be Sarah removing her daughter’s prime accuser by witchcraft?

  And even if she isn’t, wouldn’t it be convenient if Tad and Mary-Anne thought she was?

  I need to plant the seed carefully. I speak to Tad rapidly, insistently, praying that enough of what I say is registering in a brain preoccupied with his son’s condition.

  “The detective’s used to tackling gangbangers and drug dealers,” I say. “She might even be good at that, though I doubt it. But this is outside her brief. Witchcraft—and the way Sarah and her daughter have misused their power. Who knows what else they’ve been responsible for?”

  I let my gaze fall sadly on Jacob and reach for the boy’s other hand, lying limply on his bed. Let Tad draw the obvious conclusion.

  “These are crimes against our community,” I press. “As such, they need to be investigated and prosecuted by our community. And that means you, Chief. Sanctuary needs you. Come back on the case.”

  That connects with Tad. I can see it in his wretched eyes. One more step, and he’ll arrive at the same conclusion. Maybe that’ll come when Michael’s bag of medical tricks fetches up short on fixing Jacob. Then everyone will see that the chief’s son—like my son, like Alberto—is one more victim of the witches.

  My thoughts stray to Alberto as we wait for my husband. It’s strange. I loved him so much, then when he ended it without a word, I had to unlearn all that love. To teach myself to hate him instead.

  And now I know the truth, thanks to Julia’s confession of her debt to Sarah, never realizing that the affair she asked Sarah to end was with me. It was never Alberto’s choice to walk away from me at all.

  When he understands that, when news of what I said last night reaches him, what will he do? Will it break Sarah’s spell and bring him back to me? Or have I ruined everything by painting him as a man manipulated by his clinging wife and a witch?

  Do I even care? It feels like my heart got stuck partway through that change from love to hate—and then Dan’s death burned it to ashes. I can’t think about Alberto now.

  When the doorbell rings, it’s a welcome interruption. Back to business. I leave the Bolts at Jake’s side and go let Michael in.

  “It’s probably only mono,” I tell him. “But wouldn’t it be useful if it was witchcraft?”

  Michael’s gaze meets mine, and I see a gleam there. We’ve understood each other better these past couple days, united in protecting Dan’s memory, than we have in years.

  I watch as he runs through the standard battery of tests. I saw him do them once before—to our son, the day he fell from the window.

  “I’m sorry Tad, Mary-Anne.” My husband’s voice has that quelling tone that doctors use for breaking bad news. “What I’m seeing is alarming, and I’d like to give Jakey an immediate shot of antibiotics.”

  Mary-Anne lets out a sob, wringing her hands in her apron as Tad nods curtly. I try not to shudder as Michael draws a slender hypodermic from his bag and tests Jake’s arm for a vein. Who knows what’s in the vial he upends? I shrug off a shiver of misgiving at how readily Michael has seized on my suggestion.

  “He needs to be in a hospital right away. I’d like to get him admitted to my R and I unit, if you agree. We’ll start with emergency intervention to stabilize him and begin investigations immediately. Tad, your insurance will be good for everything.”

  “R and I?” the chief asks.

  “Rare and Infectious. My area of specialization, and the Yale team is second to none. Jake will be getting care from the best minds in the country.”

  “Yet you don’t know what this is?”

  “I’ll admit it’s like nothing I’ve seen before. If I was inclined to superstition…but no. I’m a man of science.”

  He’s playing his part perfectly. But we’re both good at that—we’ve acted the perfect family for so long.

  It’s Mary-Anne who first takes the bait.

  “You’re saying it’s magic?” she asks fearfully. “Witchcraft?”

  Michael spreads his hands.

  “I can’t say it’s not.”

  Mary-Anne whimpers and crosses herself.

  But Tad? Tad Bolt comes back to life as anger flashes in his eyes.

  Seventy

  Sarah

  I didn’t want to leave Harper alone, but she’s gone up to her room and gone to bed. We’d had a tense, hushed conversation in the taxi on the way back from the school. When I asked if she had felt afraid, I got a brittle laugh.

  “Those losers don’t scare me.”

  “But do you feel safe here, after what Abigail said last night? Should we get away from Sanctuary—maybe go someplace else?”

  “I’m not running. I want to see their faces when they realize I’m innocent. I want to hear them say ‘sorry’—for this investigation, for everything we’re going through, and for what Dan did to me.”

  Mary-Anne Bolt joining my coven feels more likely than Abigail ever acknowledging that her son is a rapist, but I didn’t say that.

  “But maybe we should think about it?” I pressed. “Someplace new, where you won’t have this label of ‘witch’s daughter.’ I could get another job—a normal one. Not practice for a few years. It must be hard for you.”

  “You know what’s hard, Mom? Seeing you, with so much power, working yourself to the bone for people who secretly fear and hate you.”

  And that hurt. I help people. I mend their hearts, their bodies, their minds. It’s a privilege. And it hurt because I fear that Harper doesn’t see how incredible, how astonishing she is even without the gift.

  Because I worry that words are driving us apart, I said nothing, just reached out a hand and wound our fingers together. She didn’t snatch her hand away, and I counted it a victory, of sorts.

  “I’m going to have a bath,” she announced when we got home. “Maybe a nap after.”

  I heard the water running and the bathroom door close.

  I don’t want to leave her, but the urgency of what I have to do is overwhelming—even more so after Beatriz’s attack today.

  The rite I’ve decided upon requires the creation of a perimeter. Witches have performed such spells since earliest times: defensive wards around a traveling encampment, a girdle of fertility for a field the whole village relies on, a rite of protection upon a house in time of plague.

  And there’s another class of spell with a long and honorable pedigree. We call them sunstone rites, for the mineral that Vikings used to set a course by even on overcast days. We witches use them to bring clarity in times of confusion, to resolve disputes and settle arguments.

  Laypeople imagine they’re “truth spells,” but it’s nothing so straightforward. Magic is the art of doing things the crooked way, not the straight. Sunstone magic helps people see the gleam of truth amid the clouds of prejudice, ignorance, and lies.

  Combine the two, the boundary and the sunstone rite, and I think—hope, pray—that I can bring Sanctuary to its senses.

  But to create the boundary, I need help. It requires four people, as many spell templates do. We call it the Power of Four. Four can draw an enclosure; four is the smallest mathematical root; there are four cardinal points of the compass and four elements. That’s why those witches who, like me, use covens, generally work with three other people.

  Except
my coven is now one short. Abigail is lost to me. And after what Abigail said about Alberto, and what’s just happened with Beatriz, I don’t know how much longer I can count on Julia.

  Three can still create a boundary. A triangular one. And because Sanctuary is bounded by the shore to the south, if I set points east and west along the coast, then position the third far enough north, the town will be contained within the triangle it forms.

  I need to get back to my booth and finish my preparations. It won’t take long, just a few hours. Maybe Harper won’t even know I’m gone. I make a sandwich for her and write a note, like I did when she was little.

  My booth is still in one piece, but as I pass the front, I see eggs have been thrown at the window.

  Well, that’s common enough if you’re a witch—or anyone in a position of authority. I remember a kid at school once doing the same to a disliked teacher’s house. If that and today’s bullying are the worst fallout from Abigail’s speech, Harper and I will cope.

  The heap of dog shit left on the yard step isn’t wholly unexpected, either, but is more upsetting in its sheer, rank offensiveness. I cringe, but at least my neighbor is a pet salon, so they’ll have something for scooping it up. I pop into their yard, and as always, the staff working there turn toward me.

  Except today, there’s none of the usual friendliness in their faces. No one offers me a glass of wine or brings over a customer they’ve just clipped to show me their handiwork. One girl, the chattiest, silently bends back over the spaniel she’s brushing. The others follow her cue. The yard is muted, apart from the yapping and huffing of the animals. The manager comes out of the salon, and when I explain my request, she fetches me a scoop bag, then turns away without a word.

  What’s caused this? Harper’s interview? Abigail’s accusations last night?

  As I close the yard door and let the latch drop, I hear talk resume. Gives me the creeps knowing that’s next door, says one. It’ll hurt business, adds another. If we lose our jobs because of that––, says a third, using a slur for witch that we’re all familiar with, even though polite folks pretend no one would dream of using it anymore.

  As I scoop up the poop, I tell myself they’re just worried. Nothing more.

  I don’t believe it, though.

  Taking down the wards, I unlock my workroom. The phone’s red message light is flashing in the darkness of the office beyond. With a sinking feeling, I know I should ignore it. But what if it’s important? What if it’s Harper, or the cop, or Bridge or Pierre? Or someone calling to tell me my mom in Florida has had an accident?

  All those people have your cell-phone number, my brain insists as I press the button anyway.

  Six messages. The first two are from long-standing clients. They’re warm and sympathetic. They heard Harper’s interview and hope she’s doing okay. They believe her and send their love. And then the hatred kicks in. One male voice, ranting about how stick-hoppers like my daughter are corrupting good American boys.

  Two from women, rambling and abusive, one whose husband left her, which she has now realized is somehow all my fault. Another man informing me courteously that I’ll burn in hell.

  I take a deep breath, then a few more. Calmer, I switch off the answering machine. The little red light winks and dies.

  The sooner I can complete this rite, the better.

  The brew is progressing as it should. No more ingredients to add. Just a slow steeping and infusing.

  I can prepare the three sunstones, though. Carefully, I oil them, lay stalks of clary sage and dried evening primrose petals across, and wrap them in clean linen cloths. The chart I’ve selected is rolled into a leather tube.

  Then I pick out everything else I’ll need to prepare the sites. Herbs for the rite must be dry enough to burn, but fresh enough to have vigor, so I clip them from the yard and spread them across my drying racks. Small crystals I pick out and net. They’ll hang from tree branches.

  With a whetstone, I sharpen my silver sickle. My skin tingles at the thought of it, but it has to be done.

  When everything’s ready, I lock up tight and layer a strong deterrent charm onto the booth and yard. It’s too strong. The grooming salon next door will be all but deserted until I lift it again tomorrow, but I think of those girls, so quick to bad-mouth, and squash my guilt.

  The site preparation I’ll do now. I place my bag, heavy with the sickle, onto the back seat. Aira curls around it, keeping it safe as I drive, as though she knows what’s at stake.

  Each site centers on a tree—the anchors of my spell. Oaks are the most congenial to my tradition of magic. With my sticks, I etch sigils into the soil around each trunk. I loop the nets of stones from low branches and clear a space of bare earth where the herbs will burn. Both Bridget and Julia know how to spark the flints witches use instead of matches or lighters. Then I take my sickle in hand and draw it across the back of my forearm.

  Blood amplifies magic. And this spell must cast its net across miles, must whisper sense into the ears of thousands of people. So I grit my teeth and cut deep. The blood runs down my forearm into the cup of my palm, where I consecrate it to the work before flinging the drops wide.

  By the time I’m driving from the third site, the fingers of my left hand are numb and nerveless on the wheel. There’s nothing more to do now except wait. The brew should complete tonight, and I’ll go speak to Bridget and Julia in the morning.

  For now, what Harper and I need most is normalcy. Perhaps a mother-daughter movie night in our pj’s, with Aira purring alongside us. I do a run-through of Harper’s favorite snacks.

  When I get home, though, she’s not even touched the sandwich I left. My note is unread. The house is quiet. She’s sleeping, I remind myself. Nothing to get alarmed about.

  But I can’t stop myself from going upstairs to check, and I half know what I’ll find.

  Her bed is empty. Her window is open—she must have thought I was still downstairs.

  And Harper is gone.

  Seventy-One

  Sarah

  I get up repeatedly in the night to check if Harper’s come home, but her bed is still empty when I rise for the last time at 7:00 a.m.

  Again, I tell myself not to panic. For all her bravery about not being intimidated, after the disgusting school incident, it makes sense that she wants to get away from Sanctuary. I’m glad I didn’t have to tell her about the girls at the grooming salon, the hateful messages, and the eggs on the window.

  It’s time to set this town to rights before it tips too far against us.

  I know Cheryl leaves for work at seven thirty, so I head straight to Bridget’s. But as I park, I become aware of faint voices in their yard. Cheryl hasn’t gone yet. I head for the side gate, but as my hand is on the latch, I hear something that stops me in my tracks.

  My name.

  “…has Sarah done for you that you’re not telling me about?” Cheryl says. “If she’d do something like that for Julia, when you’ve been her friend since grade school…?”

  “Nothing. Honestly, nothing.”

  Bridget sounds distressed, and I want to throw open the gate and tell Cheryl to butt out of what doesn’t concern her. But my friend’s wife is relentless.

  “Are you sure? What about your business—would that do so well if you weren’t bosom buddies with a witch? Or my pay raise? It was going around in my head all yesterday. Everything I’ve achieved in the past few years, that I’ve worked so hard for and was so proud of. Did I deserve any of it?

  “What about the ‘windfall’ that paid for Izzy’s therapy and bought you that ridiculous car? Was that really some generous great-aunt you’d never mentioned till then?”

  “You know it was. It was an inheritance. Ask the lawyers. As for my business, that’s because I worked my ass off for years. What—you think because I never got a college degree, I’m too stupid to ma
ke a success of my life? Is that what you think of me?”

  Then, tears. I can’t tell from which of them, though my money’s on Bridget. My tenderhearted friend.

  “Babes. Darling,” says Cheryl, in a caressing tone that I’m sure no kid at Sanctuary High has ever heard. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry. It’s just…yesterday. You didn’t see them. Harper is so wild, and Sarah… They’ve got that cop eating out of their hand in a way that’s really unnatural. She wasn’t even interested in Beatriz’s side of the story.”

  “You know that Bea’s been jealous of Harper since forever.”

  Cheryl snorts. “I’m perfectly aware. Bridge, darling, I’m sorry I said all that. I went too far. But promise me you won’t get any more involved than you already are. Abigail is off her rocker, stirring things up. Now Julia’s husband has been dragged into it. I don’t want our family to be the next sucked into the storm.”

  I wait to hear Bridget launch a passionate defense. To remind her wife of our three decades of friendship. Above all, to insist on Harper’s innocence. But she does none of those things. Instead, she sniffles.

  “I hate it when we fight.”

  “Me too. Me too…”

  They fall quiet. I imagine them embracing. Perhaps Cheryl petting Bridget like she’s a pooch at the salon.

  “You’ve wanted me to step back from the coven ever since we got serious,” Bridge says. “You’re not just using this as an excuse, are you?”

  “You know how I feel about witchcraft. My faith… None of that’s changed. But this is because I worry about you, darling. These are big accusations. Who knows what dark deed of Sarah’s will surface next? I don’t want you—or Izzy—hurt as collateral when it does.”

  Bridget doesn’t reply. She’ll be thinking of the same dark deed that I am. The one that took place right where Cheryl and Bridget are standing now, and which has haunted us all ever since.

  But if I don’t confess, no one will ever know about that. Alberto wasn’t there. Pierre’s too loyal. Julia and Bridget were a part of it. And Abigail and Michael are hardly likely to tell the world that their golden boy owed his life to something so unnatural.