Sanctuary

by V. V. James

  He stabs with his finger at the dangling nooses.

  “And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us…” rises a woman’s soprano. It’s Mary-Anne Bolt, standing opposite the stage. Her supporters have joined hands all down the row, and as I watch, the whole stadium does the same. “We will not fear, for God hath willed His truth to triumph through us.”

  Bridget is sobbing and Pierre reaches for her—for his family—and draws them into a muffling hug that’s designed to silence as much as comfort.

  I’m watching Izzy Perelli’s shaking back.

  She just admitted she killed Dan. But she only meant to push him down the stairs. He was distracted by the sex tape. And Izzy just pinned that on Beatriz, which explains why Bea has been acting so cagey. Freddie filmed the rape, and his on-off girlfriend must have posted it online and played it the night of the party. With Bea’s position atop the school social pecking order, no wonder all the kids conveniently failed to notice her doing something so conspicuous.

  Who knows why Bea did it. Maybe she wanted to impress Dan by joining in his humiliation of Harper. Maybe she was hurting that even after he’d broken up with Harper, he still didn’t want her, and she wanted to embarrass both of them. I don’t want to believe that she knew it showed rape. Maybe Freddie wiped the audio on the version he sent her. Perhaps he told her that Harper was playacting.

  I hope that’s how it went.

  Has Beatriz been devastated by Dan’s death because she’s terrified that she was responsible—that her projection startled him and made him lose his footing? In a way, she was, because the distraction she created gave Isobel the chance to act.

  Two guilty girls, haunted by their roles in a boy’s death—while an entire town gathers to condemn one innocent girl.

  Except…

  Except where’s the witchcraft in this version of events? Where is the power that blasted us at Sailaway Villa? Whose dark magic was at work that night?

  What am I missing?

  “Izzy,” I say, crouching down beside her. “Those things you doodled in your journal. What were they?”

  Izzy looks blank.

  “My journal?”

  “Detective?”

  Bridget is frowning at me. Pierre looks suspicious. I reach for my phone to show Izzy the designs she drew—the Old Signs, terrifying witch marks—but of course the guardsman just took it.

  Damn. Damn.

  “The swirly shapes,” I say. “The ones like…” I consider sketching them in the air with my finger but remember Rowan’s horror at merely looking at them.

  But Izzy’s shaking her head. Those childlike eyes are vacant.

  And I feel it in my gut: she’s no witch. Not even an accidental, untrained one.

  “You can stop with the questions now, Detective,” Pierre says, his voice gone cold.

  A marching band starts up, instruments blaring. Feedback shrieks through the loudspeakers. The crowd suddenly heaves—it’s doubled in size these last few minutes—and down a path left open by metal barriers, Sarah and Harper Fenn are marched at gunpoint.

  One Hundred Five

  Sarah

  They lie.

  I see horror in the eyes of the spectators as, one by one, people I’ve spent my whole life caring for ascend the stage with a microphone and damn me and my daughter with their lies.

  It feels as if half of Sanctuary is here to spit in my face. The old man from the Greek deli. The once-chatty girl who works at Bridget’s grooming salon. Alberto, telling his story himself and painting me black as pitch. Their faces are tight with fear and hostility. Every pain and sadness I’ve tried to ease, I’m now accused of causing.

  What did I do to deserve this?

  Who did I offend?

  Mary-Anne Bolt tells her story again, but it has an unbearable new ending: Jake’s death in the hospital in the small hours of this morning. Once she’s done, she collapses to the ground as if her heart has given out. In every sense that matters, it has. An awful noise goes up from the crowd, a groan of pain at the death of another of Sanctuary’s children. Tears are hot on my face, too. How could such a thing have happened?

  Tad stalks back and forth in front of the podium where Harper and I stand shackled. His gun is in his hand, and he stares at us with more hatred than seems possible can fit inside a human-size skin. It’s only with the barest restraint that he hasn’t shot us both where we stand. All that’s stopping him is the promise of a sweeter, crueler punishment. The nooses dangle from the goalpost crossbeam.

  This is how it’ll end for me—just as it has for women like me forever. There’s no comfort in the thought. It’s a grim sisterhood of death. I feel their bony hands reaching out through the years to clasp mine.

  But I can’t let them have Harper, too. I won’t.

  We’ve been told that at the slightest movement, we’ll be shot. But time is running out. Abigail is preparing to take the stage, and I know that her accusations will be the last. After her, Tad will invite the people of Sanctuary to judge whether or not we are guilty of murder by unnatural means.

  And when we are found guilty—because of course we will be found guilty—we will be hanged.

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  So: death by bullet, or death by the noose. Better to risk a bullet with a last attempt at magic to save my child. And if I fail, at least Harper will see that when the time comes, she can feign magic as they tighten the rope, and so take that kinder way out.

  I can barely move my fingers inside the tape. But I’ve been working them, wriggling them looser ever since we were led from the cell. I tried snagging them on walls and doorframes as we passed, under the pretense of keeping myself upright in the shackles. As everyone watches Abigail rise from her seat to go speak, Michael passing her the microphone, I try twitching my fingers in the familiar gesture of pacification. If I can just sway the guard who levels his gun at me, then maybe I can try a bolder movement, a stronger spell…

  Which is when a deafening roar erupts from the center of the stadium.

  It’s not human voices, though, but hungry fire. The stage has burst into flame.

  Have they decided hanging isn’t dramatic enough, and they want us on a pyre, instead? I remember the words Mary-Anne Bolt hurled at me in the street—that we’d burn now, then burn in hell. And Abigail telling Harper that she deserved not the noose, but the fire.

  I glance at my daughter. I can’t bear the thought of her fear. But she’s staring at the fire with naked fascination. Reflected flames dance in those pale eyes, and I feel like I’ve lost her already. My girl of secrets.

  There’s hammering high overhead. A helicopter swings into view above the stadium. My heartbeat ramps up again, faster than I thought was possible. Is this a rescue? Will commandos rappel down to pluck Harper and me to safety?

  But then the chopper banks, and I see the insignia of a news channel emblazoned on its side. They’re here to watch.

  The townspeople are applauding and cheering now. The parade of accusations and confessions has stirred their blood up, and the presence of an audience in the sky excites them. In the stands, many are on their feet. “Jus-tice, jus-tice, jus-tice,” they chant. The tier full of Spartans waves #JusticeforDaniel signs and flags.

  Why doesn’t Abigail start speaking from where she is? I long for her to begin, so that all this can end, one way or another. Instead she’s motionless, transfixed.

  In the building frenzy, the officers guarding me and Harper are risking the occasional glance around, trying to make sense of what’s happening. I have a chance. Just this one chance.

  Then a howl bursts from the speakers around the field, amplified to a bloodcurdling, hellish pitch. I’ve never heard anything like it—or not since the night Abigail hugged twelve-year-old Dan’s dead body, as Michael set down his son’s pulseless
wrist.

  Abigail is still staring at the burning stage, and the howl is coming from her throat. Her finger is pointing straight ahead to the flames.

  The noise takes shape—as one word: Daniel.

  And despite myself, mesmerized, I look at where she’s pointing. In the middle of the flames, I see a writhing, staggering form.

  It looks like Daniel Whitman.

  “Daniel!” Abigail screams. “No!”

  She runs toward the fire.

  “Abi! Stop!”

  A man darts forward. It’s Alberto. But something holds him back. His own cowardice—or maybe the last traces of my fidelity spell? His arms are outstretched, but nowhere near close enough.

  Abigail stumbles to a halt before the burning stage. Whatever she sees, she’s looking at it like it’s everything she’s ever hoped and longed for. The flames are still twisting, but I can no longer make out the flickering human form I thought I saw. Only the hungry heart of the fire.

  “Daniel!” my enemy—and old friend—cries. Her voice isn’t horrified anymore. It’s joyful.

  She sets one foot upon a flaming step and throws herself into the inferno.

  As one, the crowd starts screaming. Then all hell breaks loose.

  One Hundred Six

  Maggie

  The crowd churns behind the barriers. Half want to get closer to the grisly spectacle of Abigail Whitman’s self-immolation, and the other half want to get away as fast as they can.

  Abigail’s hair has gone up like a torch. I can no longer see the figure that, for a fleeting moment, seemed to be moving in the flames. She’d called her son’s name, but she is making no coherent sound now, just shrieks of agony. Those nearest to the bonfire are calling out, begging her to jump. But Abigail Whitman doesn’t have legs anymore, only roots of fire.

  There’s another roar, a crack, and a clatter. The far tier of seating—the one filled with Spartans—has collapsed and is burning. Kids are throwing themselves off the back of the stand, scrambling over the side, as the seats begin to melt.

  Everyone’s running for their lives as smoke thickens the air. The smell intensifies: scorched plastic and paint, and the charred-fat stench of a human burning to death. Screams go up as people are separated from loved ones, or stumble and fall.

  With a clang, the metal barrier nearest to me is pushed over. People go down, trapped under it or their ankles caught between the bars. But the surge of those fleeing doesn’t stop, trampling those on the ground.

  Sending up a prayer of thanks for my training in riot and crowd control, I slip through the worst of the turmoil toward the stage. Someone needs to try to give calm instructions. But Tad Bolt has beaten me to the microphone.

  “Stay where you are,” he bellows. “Nobody move. We’re not done here yet.”

  The mic in his hand sparks, and he roars and staggers back, fingers across his face. The microphone sparks again, with a hiss and crackle, and his body jerks like a fish on a line. He drops to the ground.

  I glance up. Sarah and Harper Fenn are watching it all. The two cops guarding them are conferring about what to do.

  Bending over Tad, I reach for the keys on his utility belt. They’ll include the master key for the cuffs. Then I tug up my hoodie, try to pitch my voice higher than usual, and scream at the two cops.

  “Your boss is gonna die here, boys!”

  He’s already dead, every fingerprint melted off his hands, but they don’t know that.

  “Those witches won’t be running nowhere,” I cry as the pair still dither. Then as they make up their mind to come to Tad’s aid, I slip back into the crowd and take their place.

  “Stay calm,” I tell Sarah as I find the cuff key and unfasten her ankles, her wrists. The chief’s boys have taped up her hands in some barbaric way, like I’ve only seen sadists do to their victims. That’s what the law did to these women.

  I find a frayed end and tear a strip. It’s enough for Sarah to take in her teeth and unravel the rest. I’m on to Harper.

  The girl’s wearing the same floaty dress she changed into on the beach this morning. Her arms are naked, sleeved only in ink, and she holds out her cuffed wrists for me to unlock.

  Harper Fenn’s clear blue eyes look into mine, and it’s like looking into water, transparent and oh so cold.

  And she smiles.

  As I crouch to free the girl’s ankles, I tell Sarah where Chester parked her car last night, how he taped the key beneath the trailer hitch.

  I pull off the hoodie I’m wearing and thrust it at Harper.

  “You’re too recognizable. You’d better cover up.”

  The girl’s bruised mouth curves a little wider.

  “I’m used to that.”

  Then they’re off, into the smoke and panic.

  I straighten up with a groan and turn to see what I can do to help amid the chaos.

  High overhead, the WCON-TV helicopter blades beat the air. I summoned Dao’s team here to bear witness, and in the hope that their presence would force the residents of Sanctuary to restrain themselves. Now, I’m hoping there was too much smoke for the news cameras to see anything at all. Certainly not that rescue.

  I lift a one-finger salute to it, skyward, then turn to the cries of the injured.

  One Hundred Seven

  TWEETS FROM @POTUS—OFFICIAL TWITTER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  @POTUS 8:54 p.m.

  Quarantine lifted and order restored in Sanctuary thanks to firm action by @NationalGuard @SanctuaryCTdept GOOD JOB!

  11.1K 9.2K 5K

  One Hundred Eight

  Maggie

  It’s bright and early, and I’m packing up my rental apartment to get back to Hartford and face whatever music Remy plans on playing me—prediction: it won’t be Sinatra—when there’s a knock at the door.

  I said my goodbyes to Chester last night in our favorite sad Starbucks. So whoever this is, I don’t wanna see them.

  Until a low voice says, “I know you’re in there, Detective Maggie,” and I decide that I do.

  “Came back for that hoodie you borrowed,” Pierre says when I open the door. “That’s all, I swear.”

  “Lost it. Sorry.”

  “No problem.” He grins, then flips serious again. “They get away?”

  “They did.”

  “You know where?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Don’t want to know.”

  Pierre shakes his head. “That figures. Listen, I owe you an apology. Those last words we exchanged in the stadium? I was afraid for my girl when she started saying that stuff. You know she’s a goofy kid and doesn’t think about half the things that come out of her mouth. I spoke to you in anger, and I’m sorry.”

  I wave it away.

  “Nothing to be sorry for. You might not believe this, but in my time in this job, I’ve seen more than a few parents worried for their kids.”

  “I bet. But here’s something else. Izzy wanted me to tell you—that thing you were asking about? The doodles? She realized later what you meant. They were tattoo designs. Izzy’s been obsessed with them forever, keeps nagging her mom and me for one—as if.” He rolls those eyes. “Those doodles were inks that Harper has. She’d always show my girl her new ones.”

  My hands pause in their folding of clothes. Then resume as Pierre keeps talking.

  “She does them to herself, if you can imagine. Izzy begged her for one, but Harper refused. She’s a good kid, and I can’t thank you enough that she and Sarah got away. I’ve never wanted to hug a cop before, but…may I?”

  I nod and turn so those arms can go around me. Pressed against Pierre’s thick body, I smell his sweat and the smoke from the stadium that still clings to him. I find him attractive, this strong, decent man, and under other circumstances I might have made a bold move right now. But in m
y head swirls an image hazier than smoke. Shifting and pulsing.

  A drawing in a schoolkid’s journal.

  A tattoo on a girl’s skin.

  A shape made of ashes, taking form, dissolving, and re-forming in a burned-out villa where a boy died.

  Magic.

  “Anyway,” Pierre says. He steps back, and I let him go with mingled relief and disappointment. “I just wondered what you were planning on telling your boss, or anyone else, about what Izzy said…”

  His large brown eyes hold mine, expressing more than his words. Are you going to tell anyone my girl confessed to killing Dan? they ask.

  “You know,” I tell him, “things were awfully loud in that stadium. The marching band. The hymns. The helicopter. I remember your daughter saying something, but I didn’t catch it all. She was worried for her friend. That’s the main thing I remember.”

  “Is that so?” says Pierre. “Well, I guess that’s fine then, Detective. You know how kids are. They say a deal of things that aren’t true, just ’cause they feel they ought to.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  I resume folding my clothes, even though I’ve pretty much never folded a T-shirt in my life. I’ve had too many conversations like this in the past couple days. Too many things left unsaid or ignored. That’s not how I like things to be. I’m law enforcement. But I made my call on this one and I’m going to stick by it, whatever the consequences.

  I was prepared to let Izzy get away with murder when I thought she killed Dan by witchcraft. So I can turn a blind eye to involuntary homicide when I know all she intended was to break his leg.

  Pierre’s standing there, watching me. He just came to make sure I’ll let his daughter off the hook, right?

  Or maybe not.

  “So, Maggie, if you ever need, yeah, a handyman, you let me know. You got my number, and Hartford isn’t far. I know those tiny city apartments, always something in need of fixing. Not that I’m saying yours… Okay, diggin’ myself a hole here. If you ever want to reach me for any reason, you know where I am.”