Mark of the Witch

by Maggie Shayne

  You are very close now. Very close.

  “And you’re a pain in the ass. Why don’t you just carve me up in English next time and save us all the hassle?”

  I am not the one cutting you, Indira.

  “Then who the hell is?”

  You are. Your past self, your higher self, knows. You must remember.

  Oh, well, that was an interesting piece of bullshit, wasn’t it?

  “How about you just leave me the fuck alone today, Lilia? How about I get a few hours of peace from you and all your crap today?”

  You must not give the amulet to the priest.

  “All right, let me put it this way. Either leave me alone for the next few hours or I’m walking. I’ll leave. I’ll go right back to my apartment and my job and my life, and if the world ends because of it, too fucking bad. How’s that sound to you?”

  Do not give the amulet to the priest. Return it to the one to whom it belongs.

  I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and literally tore my body free of her hold, forcing myself to turn around. When her grip on me broke, it broke fast, and I whirled so suddenly I almost tipped over. Without opening my eyes I flung out my hand and drew the shape of a Banishing Pentagram in the air before me. “Be gone!” Then I pushed with my open palm, and the door crashed open as if I’d kicked it.

  I opened my eyes, blinking in surprise.

  There was no one there. I’d blasted the bathroom door wide open without touching it. I looked at my hands, and I smiled a little.

  I did it.

  I was still shaking like a leaf, half expecting the slashes to start striping themselves across my back again.

  Not gonna happen. I banished her ass. Maybe I should’ve been embracing my inner witch all along.

  I told myself that I felt just a little bit more in control, and that it was not as big a freaking lie as it felt like, and then I brushed my teeth.

  * * *

  “She’s going to end up in the hospital if this keeps up, you know.” Rayne was digging through the giant closet as she spoke, though digging for what she hadn’t yet said.

  It was a big closet, with boxes stacked behind the hanging rods, and shelves overhead. She’d stored various things there over the years since he’d bought this place, stuff she dug out whenever she came to visit.

  “I noticed how weak she seemed this morning,” Tomas said.

  “Pale, too,” Rayne said. “And did you get a load of the dark circles under her eyes?”

  “Yeah.”

  She poked her head out of the closet, stabbing him with her eyes. “If this keeps up it’s going to kill her, Tomas.”

  “You think it’s that serious?”

  “You trust my instincts?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Where she’s concerned anyway,” Rayne finished for him, diving back into her excavation project. “I wish you’d listen to me about Father Dom.”

  “You’ve never liked him.”

  “There’s something very wrong with that man, Tomas. Something very wrong about this whole secret one-man-per-generation subsect of the Church devoted to fighting a demon that no one is even supposed to know about.”

  He sighed, glad he wasn’t looking her in the eyes. “You can’t deny it’s real. Not anymore, not with all we’ve seen.”

  “Something’s happening. But you can’t be sure Dom’s interpretation is the only one, much less the right one. The guy’s seriously warped, Tomas. I mean, have you ever even talked to anyone else in the Church about this?”

  “You know I haven’t. I wouldn’t know who to talk to. Dom says very few people even know we exist.” He’d always taken Father Dom’s secret mission with a grain of salt, until he’d seen proof of the existence of demons at that little girl’s exorcism. But frankly, now that he’d met Indy, he was having more doubts than ever before about what was right and what was wrong, and even what was real.

  Again Rayne popped her head out of the closet. “Aren’t you even curious about what the hell a bigot like Father Dom is doing at an interfaith memorial service?”

  “I was hoping his interest in the conference was a sign that his mind was starting to open a little more,” he confessed.

  “His interest in the conference was a sign that he needed an excuse to come out here and make sure you did what he thought you should do about Indy and the so-called demon.”

  “Now you don’t think it’s a demon?”

  “Indy saw it. She didn’t think it was a demon.” Rayne emerged fully from the closet, holding his old acoustic guitar. “The word of a fellow witch is plenty for me to go by.”

  “She keeps telling me she’s not a witch anymore.” He tried to ignore the way his fingers were itching to get hold of that guitar. He’d packed it away almost a year ago, when Father Dom had told him that such pursuits were wasteful, frivolous and displeasing to God. He hadn’t agreed. But he had obeyed. What the hell had he been thinking?

  “Once a witch, always a witch. I’m going to initiate her. If she’ll let me.”

  He raised his brows, attention distracted from the guitar. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Granted, she’s never been formally Dedicated to a coven, nor done the required year and a day of dedicant-level lessons and practice. But I think her life experience is more than she would have gained from any of that. And really, the initiations are given by the gods. We just observe them through ritual. And what is all this, if not an initiation? A death and rebirth for her?”

  “Death and rebirth. That’s what initiation is to you?”

  “It’s what it is, period.” She handed him the guitar. “In my opinion, brother, you’re going through one of your own. The second-degree initiation is a symbolic descent into the Underworld. A dark night of the soul.”

  Taking the guitar from her, he looked at it instead of his sister’s eyes. How had his life gotten so far off track? How had he fallen in with what seemed more and more clearly to be Father Dom’s private obsession?

  “I think you’ll get through it, though,” she went on. “Anyone can get through anything, as long as they know the one sacred truth. The one thing that underlies everything in creation.”

  “And what’s that?” he asked.

  “That love isn’t just the most important thing, it’s the only thing. The only real thing. Everything else is made up. So when all the extraneous stuff confuses you, just take a step back and focus on love. It’s all you have to do. It’s always the right answer.”

  He had a brief flash of Father Dom saying much the same thing, only in his version the word love was replaced by the word faith.

  Was that what this was? A choice he had to make between love and faith?

  Just like Abraham, Father Dom whispered in his mind.

  “Tune that baby up,” Rayne told him, nodding at the guitar. “I’m gonna build a little campfire outside, even though it’s still daylight, and then scour the cupboards for marshmallows.”

  * * *

  I had no idea that Tomas could play guitar. He knew all the songs that people these days considered campfire classics. John Denver and the Eagles, even John Prine and Kris Kristofferson. I knew them all, too, because we had satellite radio at Pink Petals, and we listened to a lot of Americana and country and seventies hits. So I sang along a little. Mostly off-key.

  Rayne sang, too, like a freaking songbird. She could really carry a tune. And every now and then Tomas would jump in with a little deep harmony, and I just sat there in utter bliss. The smells of burning firewood, of smoke, and underneath them the autumn leaves decomposing on the ground, were like brushstrokes of sensory color, painted on the air. The music, his voice, and hers, too, punctuated by the snapping and crackling of the campfire, surrounded me like an embrace. And the sun filtering through the trees, dappling the ground beneath a baby-blue sky, made my eyes water in joy.

  When I was practicing witchcraft regularly and casting spells to summon the man of my dreams, my soul mate, I’d do
ne an exercise where I described him as if I were standing there looking at him, even though I wasn’t. The things I had written about him then came rushing back to me now.

  He is handsome, with a smile that is never fake. It’s genuine, coming right from his heart.

  He has brown eyes that can melt me like a chocolate bar in the hot sun.

  He’s deeply spiritual—he believes in magic.

  He doesn’t care about flashy cars or money.

  He’s happiest in the country, where I want to live once my life gets started.

  I guess I’d kind of been thinking his arrival would be the starter’s pistol for that. My life. I’d been crouching on my mark, getting set, for three years, waiting for that gunshot. It hadn’t come.

  He plays guitar.

  No shit. I’d actually written that. In my vision of my soul mate, he always played guitar. I don’t know why. I used to see it just as plain as…as I was seeing it right now. Except his face was always a little blurred. But everything else was clear: a man in black, strumming a guitar by a campfire in the country.

  And suddenly a feeling of déjà vu washed over me, a feeling so intense that I got dizzy and thought I might throw up.

  Oh. My. Goddess. It’s him. It’s really him. He’s the one I saw in all those visions, those dreams. He truly is my soul mate.

  There was no longer any doubt in my mind. Or in my heart.

  * * *

  A few hours and a dozen toasted marshmallows later, the old priest returned and the beautiful enchanted afternoon came to an end, like a dark curtain falling at the end of a play. He descended, and bam. Done. No more lightness or music or laughing.

  The guy was like a living, breathing pall.

  It was time to head out to meet Professor Jon Yates anyway, though, so our fun had to end either way. We put out the fire, and Tomas brought his guitar inside, leaning it carefully in a corner of the living room.

  I didn’t miss the disapproving look Father Dom sent him. And I noticed that Tomas didn’t back down from it, just returned the old man’s cranky gaze with a smile and asked how the memorial service had gone.

  Dom huffed. “Sad, of course.”

  “I’m sure. Who spoke?”

  Father Dom’s eyes danced away from Tomas’s. “Several clerics of different bents. Few with any true understanding of life and death and what it all means, of course, and none who knew what truly happened.” He shrugged. “But I can tell you more on the way. We don’t want to be late.”

  Tomas took his keys off the rack near the door, and we all went out. I was heading for the front passenger door of his old, once-white Volvo when the holier-than-thou-king managed to speed-walk past me. Odd how old and frail he could seem when it suited him. Shuffling along slowly, fighting to catch his breath, maybe pausing to lean over, one hand braced on his knee, the other up in the air, waving in a “give me a minute” gesture. But only until there was a reason to move. Or until he thought there was a reason, anyway. He was in the front passenger seat beside Tomas before I could even blink.

  Rayne saw it. I knew because she put a hand on my arm and, when I looked at her, rolled her eyes. “Guess the Padre called shotgun,” she whispered.

  “I’m surprised he’s not on your brother’s lap,” I returned, catty and not one bit ashamed of it. I opened the rear door and got in, sliding all the way over, so I was right behind Tomas. Rayne got in beside me and closed the door.

  Tomas looked into the rearview mirror and met my eyes. I stared into his, silent, willing him to stop listening to Father Dom and start thinking for himself. He must have felt it. He had to feel it. I willed him to feel it. I willed him to turn away from Father Dom and toward me instead.

  Rayne said, “Tomas, would you mind turning on the radio? My addiction to modern media is causing me serious withdrawal up here.”

  I frowned at Rayne’s request, knowing she was up to something but not sure what. Sure enough, as soon as the music came on and Tomas had found a station playing Bob Dylan, she spoke to me, keeping her voice low and soft. “I saw that” was all she said.

  I lifted my brows in a show of innocence.

  “We do not use manipulative magic, Indy. You know better.”

  I tilted my head to one side. “I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were. On my brother. And you have to know I’m not gonna put up with that.”

  I sighed, lowering my eyes. Her hand closed over mine. “Besides, you don’t need to. The power of love, remember? He’s going to come around on his own.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. He’s already there, he just doesn’t know it yet. His brain is all mixed up with demons and demon fighting, rite and rote and doctrine and vows, and the guilt trips being heaped on his head by the old goat up there.”

  Father Dom’s head came up from his in-depth study of the notebook computer he’d brought along. Images of the symbols cut into my flesh earlier filled the screen. It made me shiver to have Dom looking at my skin. He glanced back at us as if he’d sensed he was the topic of our discussion.

  We both smiled, and I wondered if mine was as phony as Rayne’s.

  Father Dom returned his attention to the computer.

  After a moment or two Rayne looked at me again. “Aside from all that, I’m glad to see you embracing your witchy side again. Welcome back to the Craft of the Wise, Sister.”

  I lowered my head and realized that I had indeed begun believing again. With all I’d seen and experienced lately, I couldn’t very well continue claiming not to believe in magic. In gods and goddesses. In demons and spells and curses. Not when they were all around me.

  “How did you know?”

  She looked at me as if I’d asked how she knew that day followed night.

  “You need to be initiated,” she whispered. “It’ll connect you spiritually with every witch who ever lived, the long line of those wise women who came before you. Will you let me do the honors?”

  I met her eyes, humbled to my core. A year and a day of study was normally put in before initiation. Testing, practice and lessons, but above all experience, were required. I felt like a fraud. “I haven’t earned it.”

  “You’re ready, Indy. In fact, you’re ready for all three levels of initiation. Though performing them all at once might be too much to take—especially in your current physical condition. So one at a time. To connect you. To empower you.”

  I didn’t feel worthy, and yet, here was an experienced High Priestess of the Craft, telling me I was. Offering to make me an official witch. A priestess of the Goddess.

  I bowed my head and nodded my acceptance. “I’d be honored, Rayne. Thank you.” Then I whispered, “When?”

  “Tonight,” she whispered.

  Tonight! My stomach knotted in nervousness. Initiation was a Very Big Deal, even to a solitary witch like me. Former solitary witch, I added mentally.

  Already we were pulling onto the Cornell University campus, making our way amid the beautiful buildings and perfectly groomed grounds toward McGraw Hall, which housed the Archaeology and Anthropology Departments. And every parking space we passed was filled.

  Rayne elbowed me. “Go on, get us a spot. Long unused muscles get weak. They need exercise.”

  I smiled, as so much of what I’d learned came rushing back to me. I opened my chakras and closed my eyes, and felt the power coursing through me, sending shivers of energy up and down my spine. “By my will and Lady’s grace, I now create a parking space,” I whispered. Then I snapped my fingers.

  “There’s one,” Father Dom said, pointing.

  I opened my eyes and saw a little VW Beetle—original, not new—backing out of a spot directly ahead of us.

  “So mote it be,” Rayne whispered with a secret smile.

  “What’s that?” Dom asked, turning the radio volume down.

  “I said Amen,” Rayne replied. It wasn’t even a lie.

  I had to keep my head down, because I was feeling something that would hav
e shown in my eyes. I was feeling the surge of my own power, the return of something I had lost, something I had missed more than I had even realized. Only now that I was connecting to that higher source again did I understand the emptiness its absence had left in my soul. God, why had I stopped believing in magic?

  But I knew why. It was because so much of my work, my studies, my practice, had been in the service of one goal. I wanted to find my soul mate. The man who would love me forever. And it had failed. No matter how much I cast or conjured, how much I meditated and visualized and wished for him, he had not come.

  And so I had decided that magic didn’t work. That it was all just make-believe. And I had been very glad I’d resisted the urge to join a coven and commit myself to the Craft, because it would have been harder to walk away had I taken the solemn vows of an Initiated Witch.

  As hard, I thought, as it was going to be for Tomas to walk away from the vows he had taken. But he would. I knew he would, because the pattern that had been invisible to me before seemed so clear now. I didn’t choose witchcraft in this lifetime. I chose it long, long ago. And him. I chose him, as well. Both of those choices were still with me today. It was my witchy spirit that had led me back to him. And the so-called demon’s machinations, for better or worse, had brought us back together.

  And his calling, too, I thought slowly. Tomas’s vows and his mission had also been essential elements in reuniting the two of us.

  He needed to see that, too. He was going to have to realize that we were meant to be.

  We all climbed out of the car and started up the sidewalk toward the building where Jon was waiting. But as we moved forward, the oddest feeling began creeping up my spine. As if someone was watching us. I glanced over my shoulder, but there was no one. Students coming and going, most with white earbuds dangling. And then I spotted the squirrel. He sat on a low limb of a nearby tree, so motionless he appeared to be stuffed, and his eyes stared unblinkingly at me.

  I reached up to touch Tomas’s shoulder, drawing his attention. He’d been walking just ahead of me—Dom, as always, at his side—but he stopped and looked where I indicated.

  “Over there, too,” Rayne said, nodding in another direction.