Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  Rowan hasn’t answered my question. They’re holding one hand over their eyes, as if to shield them, or to ward off evil. So I finish my sentence myself.

  “It’s what we saw in the villa. The smoke, twisting just like this… Before the explosion…”

  I sit back in my seat, exhaling hard. How is this possible? That the terrifying magic we’ve been looking for belongs to onesie-wearing, sweet and innocent Isobel Perelli.

  Isobel, who’s been out of school for most of the semester, giving her ample time to plan an attack on Dan. Who has been hidden in her bedroom through all these weeks of investigation, able to do goodness knows what behind its closed door.

  Isobel, whose only friend that anyone has ever mentioned is Harper.

  Is she our mystery witch?

  Could she really have killed Dan?

  “You say Starcross is rare?” I say to Rowan. “Might a family with no known magical pedigree have a copy?”

  “Impossible. You’d be looking for an unbroken line of magical practice going back to the post-Revolutionary War era when it was printed.”

  In other words, the Fenns.

  Could Sarah have been secretly teaching Isobel? Is the witch too loyal to tell me about her young apprentice, even when it’s been plain that I’m sniffing around in search of a magically able suspect?

  I’ve told myself that there’s not a single person in Sanctuary that Sarah Fenn would cover up for, if by doing so she put her own daughter at risk. But Izzy Perelli is surely the one exception. I’d bet that Sarah would keep Isobel’s secret right to the point where Harper was heading for the dock. Possibly even then. She’d probably go on the run with her daughter, rather than incriminate the child of her two best friends.

  I come clean with Rowan about the identity of the person who drew the sigils.

  “Izzy’s mother is a member of Sarah Fenn’s coven,” I tell them. “Fenn has always said that none of them have any magical ability, but what if Bridget Perelli does, and has managed to conceal it? I mean, she’s always had an affinity with animals.” A stray remark drifts back to me across the weeks. “I remember her wife saying Bridget ‘had enough cats for a coven.’”

  Rowan tries to smile. “Go carefully with that. Accuse women with cats, and you’ll have half the female population under suspicion. That’s a tactic from the persecutions.

  “And no. Bridget wouldn’t have to be gifted. Ability often skips a generation. With people living longer, we’re even seeing it skip two, so one of the girl’s grandparents or great-grandparents would be enough for it to show up. Although…”

  The witch’s gaze slides unwillingly back to Chester’s phone. Rowan had flipped it over, to avoid even glancing at the pictures, but now they pick it up and study the images again.

  “Although what?”

  “I’m not a hundred percent up on Starcross,” they explain. “It’s a Thirteen Colonies, white thing, though it steals and stuffs in bits from all over, usually inaccurately. But I was able to read a copy when I worked for the Moot. It’s the only place licensed to have one for consultation by the council, because there’s all sorts of cultural lore in there, too.

  “I don’t know the precise meanings, but this one”—they expand one of the other images from Izzy’s planner—“is something to do with hiding or concealment. If this sigil had been cast at the villa, it could account for the explosion. A reaction to my attempts to reveal the magic at work.”

  “An explosion,” I say, because more links are forming in my head. “And concealment. That’s how Sarah Fenn described it when her booth blew up. She said she’d been scrying to discover what happened to Dan, but rather than seeing anything, her bowl shattered. It took the windows out.”

  The three of us fall silent, trying to process it all. So many links are forming. If I can just keep joining up the chain, there at the end of it will be my answer, I know.

  “There’s one massive problem,” Rowan says, breaking the silence. “No witch in America would teach these sigils to a child. Sarah Fenn would have shown Isobel how to make brews and perform simple charms. Not had her copying banned sigils that even witches have tried to forget exist.”

  “What if she taught herself?” Chester says. “I mean, her parents are both friends of Fenn’s. What if Bridget or Pierre borrowed Starcross for Isobel to study—without Sarah knowing about it.”

  Rowan scoffs. “Every copy of Starcross is kept under lock and key. And most likely powerful wards. ‘Borrowing’ one wouldn’t be like checking a novel out of the library.”

  “Why would they not tell Sarah?” I object. “That makes no sense.”

  “Perhaps they only discovered Izzy’s ability after Bridget met Cheryl, so kept it quiet, given Cheryl’s views on witchcraft?” Chester suggests. “Or, you say the girl’s super-shy. Well, she would have seen the attention her friend Harper received as a witch’s daughter, and maybe she didn’t want that for herself. Maybe she’s frightened of her ability and asked her mom and dad not to tell anyone.”

  “Self-taught witchcraft is extremely dangerous,” says Rowan. “That’s one reason why registration is mandatory, so the Moot can confirm that every magical person is properly instructed.”

  “Boss?” Chester asks. Because I’ve gone quiet. Something Rowan said a moment earlier has prompted a few more recollections to link up.

  Every copy of Starcross is kept under lock and key. And most likely powerful wards.

  I remember the day Sarah’s workroom blew after her scrying attempt. Bridget and Pierre on the scene.

  Bridget, who has a talisman that enables her to get into the workroom despite Sarah’s protective wards. And who spent a suspiciously long time inside.

  Pierre—charming, gap-smiled Pierre—who repaired Sarah’s workroom. Who built it in the first place, as he told me on that first town tour he gave me.

  They’d know exactly where Fenn kept any copy of Starcross. And they’d be able to get to it.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I have seriously had enough of this god-awful little town, its lies and its feuds. And in particular, I have had enough of this messed-up case of witchcraft and murder that’s going to end my career.

  “Ma’am?”

  Chester is eyeing me warily. And he’s right. I have to pull myself together.

  No matter how delightful, Pierre is simply the latest Sanctuary resident to come into my crosshairs—along with his oddly innocent daughter, who has been doodling her rainbow journal with eldritch sigils so powerful a magical investigator can hardly look at them.

  “Guess we’d better talk to Pierre,” I say, scooting my phone back across the table. “Thanks so much, Rowan. We may be needing you again later, but for now, the mood being what it is in Sanctuary, I’d suggest a taxi back to your apartment. We’ll be in touch. Come on, Greenstreet.”

  We never get to Pierre’s, though. As I’m driving, the radio crackles and Ches answers. I hear the drawling tones of Officer Asshole through the static.

  “Something’s turned up,” he says. “Unfortunately, a TV crew got there first. They’re planning a broadcast tonight. You’re gonna want to drop everything for this.”

  And he’s right.

  Eighty-Six

  TRANSCRIPT OF AS-LIVE* NEWS ITEM AND INTERVIEW, WCON-TV CONNECTICUT TONIGHT

  *prerecorded after compliance concerns with previous broadcast

  NEWSCASTER: The investigation into a potential witchcraft death in Sanctuary has been rumbling on. The latest claim to rock this town is that a spate of sickness may be unnatural in origin—and connected to the case. And now a dog walker may have stumbled across a vital piece of evidence. Anna Dao is on location outside Sanctuary.

  DAO: Yes, thank you, Jeremy. Well, as you can see behind me, the police have now secured the site and have asked us to remain at a distance. Bu
t I saw it with my own eyes, and I can tell you it was disturbing. The only way to describe it is as a ritual, maybe even a sacrificial site. With me is the lady who found it, Jennifer Blum. Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Blum. Can you tell me what you discovered?

  BLUM: It was Rocket here who found it. Wasn’t it, Rocket? He’s a beagle, you see. Excellent sense of smell.

  DAO: And what was it he smelled?

  BLUM: Well, blood. We were on the track, here, when he ran off over there, and when I found him he was licking it off the tree.

  DAO: From what we’ve seen, police are taking samples right now. But that’s not the only thing you saw, was it?

  BLUM: No. The branches were tied with red yarn. There were little bags of crystals. But then on the ground…

  DAO: What did you see on the ground?

  BLUM: Nasty signs. Marks. All horrible and wriggly, sort of drawn into the soil with a stick or something.

  DAO: And how did you feel, Mrs. Blum. Standing in that space coated with blood?

  BLUM: Well, not very nice. Not nice at all. In fact, after a minute Rocket got so spooked he ran right out of there. I could tell right away it was nothing natural. Which is why I called you. There’s supposed to be this investigation, but we hear nothing about it. It’s like they’re doing nothing. And now people are getting sick. I’m telling you, Sanctuary is frightened. Very frightened indeed.

  DAO: Thank you so much. We’ll wait to hear if the investigation moves forward after this grisly discovery. In the meantime, back to you in the studio, Jeremy.

  Eighty-Seven

  Abigail

  The square is full to overflowing.

  After the news report about the ritual site, Michael and I knew we had to move quickly. People will be terrified that Sarah has worked magic on the town. I’ve no idea what she thought she was doing, but it couldn’t be better for our purposes. It’s the perfect moment to reveal what she did to Daniel all those years ago. And if we leave it any longer, the video of what Dan did to Harper might leak before we can get ahead of the story.

  So it’s tonight.

  The Spartans put the word out on social media. Everyone I spoke to rang two people, who rang two more. One of my fellow Yale faculty wives is sister to the guy who does the evening talk show on Smooth Sound FM, so we’re cropping up in their discussion all night, which is bringing more people to us. The TV crew that was talking to the dog walker? We reached them before they turned their satellite truck around for Hartford. We’ve even got the blood-licking beagle.

  Tad Bolt is grim-faced as he works the crowd, putting his chief’s authority behind our gathering. I don’t like that we’re deceiving him about Jake’s condition—a simple case of mono being doctored by Michael to look like a witch’s curse. But this opportunity is too good to pass up. Mary-Anne is over on the other side of the square, surrounded by members of her congregation. And not just her own church. Sanctuary’s Christian community is here in force.—I forgot that Cheryl Lee is one of their number, too. Several hold hand-lettered banners.

  By your magic spell all the nations were led astray (Rev 18:23) reads one.

  Anyone who does WITCHCRAFT is DETESTABLE TO THE LORD (Deuteronomy 18:12) is another.

  It’s not just the Christians. I don’t know anyone who attends the mosque on the outskirts of town, but there’s a neat-bearded man with a sign that says sihr = haram, and what must be the same words written in Arabic script. A few like him stand nearby, some in long prayer robes. My fears about needing a more confined space to make this gathering look good are unfounded. There are more people here than at the vigil.

  All those waverers who might have thought that our dead son was our problem? They’re now afraid for their own kids.

  “Mrs. Whitman? Mrs. Whitman!”

  It’s Beryl Varley, tugging at my sleeve. Her usual fawning expression has been replaced by a frown.

  “What is it, Beryl? I’m just getting ready to speak.”

  “I need a word.”

  The pudgy little journalist won’t let go. The only way I’ll dislodge her is to listen.

  “I need you to tell me,” she hisses, “seeing as I’ve supported you all the way in this. A little bird tells me that the school authorities have handed a recording to the police. The original of your son’s encounter with Harper Fenn.”

  So, word is slowly leaking out.

  “You’re worried about what it shows? Concerned that you’ve picked the wrong side?”

  The journalist’s eyes widen, but I press on.

  “You haven’t. You’ll hear it all in just a minute, I promise. Have faith.”

  It’s time for me to tell my truth—and see Sarah and Harper finally face the consequences of their deeds. They’ve walked unchecked among us for far too long.

  I press my hand solicitously over Varley’s, then turn and cue the Spartans marching band to strike up the team anthem. Mitch McConaughey has assembled the podium the sports club uses for medals ceremonies. As I mount it, it feels appropriate. Because tonight is when I win, Sarah.

  “Thank you all for coming. Thank you. I know this is short notice, but today’s terrifying discovery of some kind of blood rite worked upon our town means that waiting any longer is too risky. People are falling sick for no reason at all. People who were well yesterday, are confined to their beds today. Three of my son’s teammates. His beloved best friend. Even three of the officers investigating my son’s death.

  “In the weeks since Daniel died, we’ve all learned more about how magic can be abused. As many of you know, I was once one of Sarah Fenn’s coven. I lent her my support as she worked her magic. It’s not something I’m proud of. In fact, it’s a decision I bitterly regret.

  “Do you want to know why I did it? You have every right to that answer. I did it for the same reason many of you are here now. Because I was afraid. Wretchedly, utterly afraid.

  “I’ll tell you why that was later. But first, you need to hear from people other than me about how magic is preying on our town. Please reach out to uplift Carmel, the wife of one of Sanctuary’s officers struck down because he’s working for justice against the witches of this town. And to comfort Mary-Anne, whose son Jacob lies in intensive care where brilliant scientists are doing all they can to keep him alive. Carmel, Mary-Anne, please join me.”

  Wiping at tear-streaked faces, they do.

  Carmel, it turns out, hardly has two brain cells to rub together. She mostly just stands there and cries. But she’s pretty—and even better, she’s pregnant. The spectacle of her is absolutely piteous.

  And then comes Mary-Anne Bolt. And goodness, you can tell she’s a preacher’s daughter. Maternal love, rage, and brimstone. She pours it all out. Details I hadn’t known, like how Jacob fell sick right after Sarah came by their house.

  The crowd is in a frenzy by the time she’s finished. From my elevated position, I spot several of the boys at the back of the crowd peel away, a few tugging down hoodies or wrapping scarves over their faces. The lads must have more mischief planned.

  I hope they do.

  But then comes something I hadn’t expected. Tad shoulders his way forward and stomps up to take the microphone. Something inside me clenches with anticipation, like when I used to watch Dan running with the ball.

  He pays tribute to his four kids and Mary-Anne. But then it’s not Jacob he begins talking about, but himself.

  “I’ve tried to walk a righteous path, as a chief, as a husband, and a father. But the Lord knows that like many of us, I’ve been tempted. And like many of us, I’ve looked for help with those temptations. Unfortunately for me, I went to Sarah Fenn.”

  The crowd is on tiptoes, craning for a look. What on earth is he going to say? Surely not that he had an affair with Sarah?

  But it’s better than that.

  “My temptation is gambling. You may think that�
��s not a bad one, as they go. My pa liked a game of cards, and his pa before him. Maybe some of you do, too. But let me tell you, when you’ve four fine sons to put through schooling, anything that takes even a cent away from their futures is a sin. And then there’s the temptations that follow on from gambling. If you win, you celebrate in unrighteous ways. If you lose, you drown your sorrows in unrighteous ways.”

  The crowd is murmuring, shocked. The chief is being juicily nonspecific, and we’re all picturing Tad Bolt being “unrighteous” with bourbon, hookers, and drugs.

  “After I gave in to my weakness a couple times, I went to go see Sarah. This isn’t something you can fix with pills or therapy. Spilling your guts in some little room? That isn’t me—it’s what I get suspects to do.”

  A ripple of amusement runs through the crowd at the joke. And then Tad slams his touchdown.

  “I went to the witch to be helped. To be cured. And she laid her wiles on me and made it worse. So much worse that I’m ashamed to speak it in front of my beloved wife. It was Sarah Fenn’s doing, but by my weakness I put myself in the way of making it happen.”

  Mary-Anne is holding Tad’s hand in a death grip, tears running down her face.

  “That witch forced me to dishonor the badge that it’s been my life’s privilege to wear. She made me dishonor my marriage bed.” And he’s choking up, too, now. His sobs burble across the square, amplified by the microphone. “Because of her, what had been a one-time thing became a habit. A compulsion. And I never knew why—until now.

  “Like most folks here, I never had any reason to think bad of Sarah or her daughter. Her booth’s been a fixture of Main Street as long as I can remember. But sometimes familiarity means you can’t see the evil right in front of you.