Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  “Let’s try this another way. Forget everything we’ve just been discussing and tell me, hypothetically, what if there was never any witchcraft?”

  “But Rowan said… And at the villa, we saw…”

  “You, and I, and Rowan are the only ones who know what happened at the villa. What if Rowan had detected no magic? What conclusion would we have drawn?”

  “That Dan wasn’t killed by a witch.”

  “Keep going. So how would he have died?”

  “An accident,” Chester breathes. “Maybe like Harper said, he was startled by the tape and he fell.”

  “Yes. And if it wasn’t murder, then there’d be no need for a motive. All this talk about what Dan may or may not have done becomes irrelevant. No one digging into whether he was a rapist—and therefore no discussion as to whether or not Sarah Fenn broke him in the act of bringing him back from the dead. No necromancy. So who gets a happy ending that way?”

  My deputy exhales.

  “Everyone, pretty much,” I continue. “No death penalty for Izzy. No prison for Sarah. No one calling Abigail Whitman’s dead child a rapist. No justice for Harper Fenn, of course…”

  “Dan’s dead. I’d say that’s some justice.”

  “Closure, at least. If we choose, we can end it like this, Chester. Abigail will fight all the way, but when I think of the alternative…”

  “What about Rowan?”

  And there I pause. Because yes, what about our magical investigator?

  “You don’t think they’d agree, given the fate that awaits Izzy if she’s convicted?”

  “They told me that they regard any use of magic to do harm as abhorrent,” Chester says. “That’s got to include murder, no matter how justified. And you saw how shocked they were by those sigils. Just the pictures on your phone really freaked them out.”

  I nod. I have the same fears. It’d be ironic if our attempts to protect two witches was thwarted…by another witch.

  Surely Rowan would accept that a girl untutored in witchcraft, and ignorant of the heinous nature of the magic she’s used, shouldn’t be judged as harshly as someone knowingly reaching for banned magic to do harm?

  And what about the risk to the magical community of a full-blown trial? I’ve lost count of how many times Rowan has decried the biased way the law treats witches. They’d understand that what we’re seeing here in Sanctuary—this multiplying fear and hatred of witches—could flare up nationwide if this case goes to trial.

  I explain this to Chester, who nods. It looks as if we’ve reached a decision. My chest is painfully tight as I consider what I’m about to do.

  Why did I join law enforcement if I ignore the law when it doesn’t suit me? Because there’s something higher than law. Justice.

  I think of what Remy said when he waved me out of his office that day. You keep pursuing truth and justice, Mags.

  Here in Sanctuary, the path has split, and I can pursue only one of them.

  I’ve made my choice which.

  Ninety-Five

  Sarah

  “What do I do now, P?”

  “No idea, Magic Girl.”

  Pierre wraps his arms around me as I huddle against him. The pair of us have cried ourselves empty, while the cops gave us some privacy. I’m so exhausted that all I want to do is sleep. But across town Abigail has been whipping up the crowd against Harper and me.

  “Should I run? The detective says she’ll bring Harper to me, so the pair of us can get out of town and lie low. Can I trust her—or is she planning on taking us both to a cell?”

  “I don’t know. But I do trust her…I think.”

  “Yeah, me too. Is she really the same cop who turned up that night…”

  “The very same.”

  “How on earth do you remember? I don’t recall a thing other than the magic, the spellwork. And Dan himself. I don’t think any of the others recognized her, either.”

  “Shorter hair,” Pierre says. “Little heavier. But cute don’t change.”

  “Pierre!”

  I smack my friend’s bicep, and he gives a faint chuckle. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world, and it’s a small comfort.

  “Should I tell the detective that magic was used at the villa? I never shared that, because while Jake was insisting that Harper had magic, it seemed like a really bad idea. But maybe I should have, because she doesn’t have it, even if I can’t prove that. Except will I look bad for having withheld what I knew…?”

  I trail off unhappily. Ever since the party, I haven’t stopped trying to find ways to prove Harper’s innocence, and to discover what happened to Dan. But it feels as though everything I tried was the wrong way to go about it.

  “You’re tying yourself in knots,” Pierre says, stroking my hair. “I have faith in this cop. She’s thorough. She will have called a magical investigator in already—or be planning to. She’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  The yard door opens, and I startle upright. But it’s not a lynch mob headed by Abigail. It’s only the two police coming back inside. Pierre’s words had reassured me, but now I’m scared all over again, because the detective’s expression is absolutely bleak. She lowers herself to the couch opposite, and Chester Greenstreet takes out his notebook. My heart rate quickens.

  “Just for the record,” the cop says, “so please answer truthfully: Your daughter, Harper Fenn, has no magical ability?”

  Her tone is flat, more like a statement than a question.

  “She does not.”

  “Isobel Perelli has no magical ability?”

  What is this? Izzy? I dart a look at Pierre, who’s plainly troubled by the question.

  “She does not.”

  “Can you confirm that, Mr. Martineau?”

  “She definitely doesn’t.”

  “Ms. Fenn, do Bridget Perelli, Julia Garcia, or Beatriz Garcia have magical ability?”

  “They do not.”

  “Thank you so much. That’ll do, Chester.”

  Greenstreet snaps shut his notebook.

  “I’ll need those answers on tape at a later date, Ms. Fenn, but for now, that will suffice. It’s my conclusion that no magic was involved in Daniel Whitman’s death. The probable cause was an accident due to his being startled by the projection of a tape showing a sexual act between him and your daughter. That act, while it may appear to have nonconsensual elements, was in fact consented to by your daughter.”

  “What are you…? No.”

  I don’t understand. What is she saying? The first part is everything I’ve desperately wanted to hear. But the rest? Harper was raped. I stare at the cop. She looks absolutely sick as she repeats herself.

  “I’ll recap. Daniel Whitman’s death was an accident. Your daughter consented to their sexual encounter.”

  Then I do understand. I moan, because it hurts so much, and Pierre’s arms tighten around me.

  I remember Abigail in my kitchen when this all began, wielding grief that was as sharp and deadly as my sickle. My son’s life for your daughter’s innocence, she said as she tried to make me resurrect the horror that would have been Daniel’s days-dead and burned body.

  Now the cop is making the same offer, but it’s all back to front. Your daughter’s life, for Dan Whitman’s innocence.

  If we stick to the version of the story that she just set out, this will all go away.

  “Abigail will never agree,” I tell the detective.

  Harper will never agree, I think to myself.

  “Leave Mrs. Whitman to me. I need to know that you can answer for Harper.”

  Aira leaps to my shoulder and kneads me with fierce paws.

  “Why should she say that?” I demand. “Is there really no other way?”

  The cop is silent. Her wretchedness at our situation is plain in her face. But I�
��m furious. Time and again, society demands this of us: Keep quiet. Play along. Don’t push back.

  Our silence is the price we’re expected to pay for peace.

  When I said I’d do anything to keep my daughter safe, I never imagined this.

  I give no guarantee on Harper’s behalf. But I nod, and the detective sags with relief.

  “Thank you, Ms. Fenn. I’m going to step into the next room and call my boss. After that, we’ll leave you until morning, when we’ll return and take you to Harper. We’ll get the two of you to a safe place out of town until things have calmed down. No one knows you’re here tonight, so you’ll be safe. Chester will take you through some practicalities.”

  I listen with one ear as Chester explains how they’ll take my car away to a secure spot so no one connects it with me being here. With the other ear, I’m straining—we all are—to overhear the detective’s conversation.

  I hear her repeat mass hysteria, then mob mentality. She’s unsparing about Abigail.

  “The woman’s been claiming all this time that a witch killed her son. Now she’s saying that he’s already died once before, six years ago, and a witch resurrected him. I mean, which is it gonna be, lady?

  “And not only is the chief, Tad Bolt, not helping—he’s part of it. This evening he stood up and told everyone he was a gambling addict who used prostitutes. And guess what? The local witch made him do it. I’m not blaming Bolt exactly; he’s under a lot of stress with his son being sick. But he’s certainly not competent. And yeah, that sickness? That’s because of witches, too. This whole place just took a one-way ride back four centuries, Remy.”

  I can’t follow her boss’s side of the conversation, though I do hear frequent cussing. And then the crucial question—she asks permission to take me and Harper outside Sanctuary to a safe location.

  And her boss gives it.

  It’s done.

  The cops take their leave, promising to be back at 7:00 a.m. to drive me to Harper. My bed for the night is Pierre’s spare room—the one Izzy uses when she sleeps over with her dad. It’s full of childish decorations: Disney princess posters, boy band and teen-actor photos cut from magazines.

  Though I’m worried I won’t be able to sleep, I find my eyes closing as soon as I slip beneath Izzy’s cheerful pink comforter. And when I wake, this nightmare will be over.

  Ninety-Six

  Abigail

  A sound wakes me in the night. I check the clock. 3:30 a.m.

  It’s someone moving around in Michael’s bedroom. Quickly, I come to full alert, reach for my robe, and slip out of bed. Adrenaline is flowing. Do I stay put, or try to flee?

  I hear the closet door slide back. Now would be the moment.

  But I’m undone as I step onto the landing. I’d forgotten how squeaky our antique floorboards can be. As one of them creaks unignorably loud, I’m paralyzed with fright.

  Until, in an instant, my husband’s voice unfreezes me.

  “Abigail? Is that you?”

  Michael steps onto the landing—fully dressed.

  “Darling! It’s only you. You scared me.”

  Truth be told, there’s something about him that scares me still. In the oblique moonlight through a window, his face is half-dark, half-bright. It makes his expression impossible to read. In his hand is a tiny medical monitoring device, its screen dully illuminated.

  “Where are you going?” I ask when he doesn’t respond.

  “To the hospital. To check on Jake.”

  “Surely he’s asleep. Can’t it wait till the morning?”

  “The morning will be too late.”

  “Too late? You mean he’s getting worse?”

  “I mean he’s getting better.”

  Michael bends to brush a kiss an inch from my cheek, then lopes athletically down the stairs. His words make no sense at all. I’m still puzzling over them when I hear his car start up. The gleam of headlights rakes the walls in an arc as he pulls down the driveway.

  It’s only once I’m back in the darkness of my bedroom that I understand.

  In the car on the way home from the rally, I’d been rejoicing at how fired up everyone was. How full of revulsion at Sarah’s filthy works. How ready to act against her and Harper. Michael, though, had sounded a note of caution.

  “But will they wake up angry?” he’d said. “Will they wake up afraid? That’s what we need.”

  That’s what we need.

  I scrabble for my phone and dial his number. It goes to voicemail. I cut the call and dial again. Voicemail. And again.

  On the fourth call, I open my mouth to speak—then swallow the words just before they come out.

  He’s acting under a magical compulsion. Nothing I say will make any difference. A voice message from me could only incriminate both of us.

  I end the call. Switch off the phone.

  Try to sleep.

  Fail.

  Ninety-Seven

  Maggie

  Surf boys and girls are creatures of habit, and at 8:00 a.m. on a sunny morning, I’m catching the rays with Chester on the Green Point boardwalk, watching their tanned bodies race through the water. One of them, upright and carefree on a paddleboard, sleek in her wet suit, is Harper Fenn. She hasn’t noticed her mother yet, though the witch is pacing the sand barefoot.

  The world feels different this morning. Hope has crept back in. Hope that a fresh start is possible for this mother and daughter. That acceptance and closure will finally come to Abigail Whitman and tranquility be restored to Sanctuary.

  The path I’ve chosen is to do the wrong thing in the eyes of the law, but it sure as heck feels right.

  Sarah talked excitedly about Harper all the way here, and I imagine the pair of them happy in a place like this—though ideally, far from Sanctuary. Chester has been extolling the pleasures of Oregon, which he’s doubtless heard about from Rowan.

  My conversation with Rowan last night was difficult. But I pushed through it to a place I feel good about. I laid out my theories—and my fear about how inflamed Sanctuary has become in this short time. What the consequences might be nationwide if this case went to trial.

  The investigator understood me right away.

  “One guilty witch gets away with murder, so that our kind doesn’t have to walk in fear. That’s what you’re proposing.”

  “Technically, Isobel isn’t guilty,” I said, “because all accused are innocent until guilt is proven, and the case would be closing before anything’s proven either way.”

  Rowan studied me as though I were a bird whose plumage they had thought was familiar, but on which they’d just spotted unexpected new markings. Eventually, they nodded.

  “One innocent witch. I understand.”

  I held my breath, not wanting to push their consent to my proposal. But I had to make sure that by saving Izzy and Sarah, I wasn’t putting more people at risk. So, I had one more question for my investigator.

  “Sarah’s told me that what the dog walker found was for something she called a sunstone rite. But the media is linking it to this sickness. Can I believe her? Or could Izzy be responsible for the sickness? It’s only been affecting people linked to the case.”

  “Sunstone spells promote clear thinking in times of confusion. The photos of what was found at the site match the usual ritual form. It’s a creative, rather elegant idea that might even have worked. As for the sickness, witches aren’t capable of smiting whole towns. That’s persecution-era propaganda.”

  So it’s not Izzy causing it. It’s simply what I told Remy—panic and hysteria.

  “Isobel will need urgent remedial instruction to make sure she masters her abilities and knows the right and wrong ways to use them,” Rowan had concluded sternly. “I could take care of that myself.”

  So we made plans to sit down with Izzy and her parents as soon
as the Fenns are safely over the state line. Meanwhile, Remy will issue an official statement that the investigation is under review.

  That review will continue for a few weeks, to give Sanctuary time to calm down. I will make Abigail understand that pressing her case will keep the spotlight on her son, and that not everyone will believe he only molested children because a witch made him do it.

  If she doesn’t fall in line, then as much as I don’t want to threaten a grieving mother, I’ll have to play hardball. Point out that her statements at the vigil and last night’s rally could constitute hate crimes. Note that the two attacks on the Fenns’ house coincide with public gatherings for Daniel and inform her that the Supreme Court takes a dim view of “fighting words” that incite others to violence.

  Once all the loose ends are tied, and the TV crews lose interest, the case will be formally dropped.

  Chester nudges me. Harper has peeled her wet suit down to her hips, revealing a thin vest, and is paddling back to the shore. She looks good here. Her hair tousled, and her body ink of a piece with the rest of the surfers. If she chooses this life, her talents will be in demand wherever she goes. A few years from now, I can picture a pair of booths side by side, like Jonny Maloney’s tattoo shop and his witchy mom’s storefront.

  I hope that vision comes true. This mother and daughter deserve it after what they’ve been through. The hostility in Sanctuary has been frightening these past few days. I remember the illustrations of witch persecution displayed at Sanctuary’s Old Square, and what was done to Sarah’s home. If you burn a person’s house, then you’ve already accepted the possibility that you’re burning them in it.

  A shout snaps my attention back to the Fenn reconciliation down at the water’s edge. It’s not getting off to a great start.

  Harper has zipped her wet suit back up and hoisted her paddleboard under one arm, storming off toward a boathouse. Sarah is standing at the water’s edge, looking shocked and shaken.