The Seventh Witch

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “No. The only ones who know are Great-Aunt Mary—”

  “I’ve heard about her,” he interrupted. “Is she really as scary as they say?”

  “She can be.” I turned my head to look at him. “She’s a medium, you know, and she has this habit of looking past you. Like she sees something you don’t.” I sighed. “It can be very disconcerting.”

  He chuckled again. “I can imagine.”

  “But back to this feud…Abby and Aunt Dot—” I broke off as a thought popped into my head. “Aunt Dot? What if you run into her? I wouldn’t trust her not to give you away…she wouldn’t mean to, but—”

  A sudden brush of his hand on my knee stopped me. “Don’t worry about it, Jensen. I spotted her one day coming out of the beauty shop.” He kicked a small stone by his foot. “I couldn’t believe it. Running into your relatives in a backwater like this.” He smiled. “Who’da thunk it?”

  “I know,” I said with a nod.

  A spark of fear ignited. “I didn’t give you away, did I?”

  “No, they were too busy cutting a deal to notice you.” Ethan rubbed his thighs against the cold seeping from the rough walls of the cave. “But to be on the safe side, I’m staying away from Abernathy’s. I don’t want to run into Tink or Abby.”

  Leaning sideways, I nudged him with my shoulder. “I take it the Dorans are into selling drugs.”

  Another grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Are you in a lot of danger?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  “Well, there are a lot of places in these mountains to stuff a body, and—”

  “That’s not funny,” I exclaimed, not letting him finish.

  Ethan faced me and his cool gray eyes warmed. “If I didn’t know better, Jensen, I’d think you cared.”

  I dropped my chin, breaking his stare. “I owe you, you helped me find Tink—” The words came out in a rush. “—and even though your humor leaves something to be desired, you’re not a bad sort of a fellow.”

  His strong fingers gently squeezed my knee, but there was nothing gentle in my reaction. A charge shot through me, and the chill in the cave disappeared.

  Not wanting him to see my reaction, I scooted over a bit to put some space between us.

  Ethan dropped his hand and the temperature in the cave fell.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said, slapping his thighs and standing. Holding out a hand, he helped me to my feet. “You’d better head back. It’s going to be dark soon, and these trails can be tricky at night.”

  Together we walked to the cave’s entrance, and after blowing out the lantern, Ethan moved the brush aside. We stepped out into the gathering twilight.

  “Can you find your way back?” he asked. “If not, I’ll—”

  Knowing what he was going to say, I held up a hand to stop him. “No, I don’t want to take the chance of someone seeing us together.” I gave him a big smile. “I’m psychic, remember? I ought to be able to find my way home.”

  I turned and took one step. His hand shot out, stopping me. He pulled me around to face him.

  “Wait.” With his hand still on my arm, he stared into my eyes and his face lost all its humor.

  Again I felt the jolt of attraction.

  “I’ve had to spend time with Sharon, Ophelia, and I’m not kidding, she’s dangerous. Be careful,” he warned.

  I nodded, breaking the connection. Pivoting, and with a wave over my shoulder, I left Ethan standing at the mouth of the cave and began my trek down the mountain.

  One thought kept me company on the way home…just how much time did Ethan spend with Sharon?

  The next morning I put all thoughts of Ethan aside as I stood on the porch finishing my coffee. I was more concerned about the reaction I’d had to the runes. Or should I say their reaction to me? Ever since Abby had given them to me, I’d relied on them to help me. Their answers were often confusing, but eventually they’d always sent me in the right direction. They were my safety net. What if I found I could no longer work with them? How would I interpret my hunches without them?

  And then there was Abby—I depended on her guidance, too. It would be so simple to ask her about the past, but Lydia had said I wouldn’t be doing Abby any favors by digging around in events that occurred over fifty years ago. Did I dare ignore her warning and ask anyway? After all, I barely knew Lydia.

  No, I thought with a shake of my head. I could tell that whatever was eating at Abby, she didn’t want to talk about it. And my grandmother was a stubborn woman. If she decided I didn’t need to know, no power on earth would persuade her to tell me. I’d have as much luck questioning Great-Aunt Mary. But just the thought of that gave me the chills.

  Nope, I was truly on my own this time. No runes, no Abby—I had no choice but to rely on my gift to guide my actions. I could only pray that I had enough confidence to put my trust in it.

  Turning to join the Aunts and Abby, who were still in the house, I noticed Dad and Tink scoot around the corner of the barn. What were those two doing? Okay, maybe that was at least one mystery I could solve.

  I set my cup on the porch rail and hurried toward the barn, but when I rounded the corner, they’d disappeared. Shoving my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt, I scanned the woods to the north. There…I caught a glimpse of Tink’s red jacket moving through the trees and rushed after them.

  They were so intent on what they were doing that they didn’t hear me barreling through the fallen leaves…until I stepped on a fallen branch. They whirled at the sound of the wood breaking.

  Guilt was written on both of their faces.

  Tink held a forked stick in her hands, and seeing me, she quickly stuck it behind her back. Dad didn’t have a stick. No, he gripped a piece of paper.

  I didn’t know why he had the paper, but I knew why Tink had the forked stick. Dowsing.

  Crossing my arms, I eyed the both of them. “What are you doing?”

  “Ah, ah…” Tink shot Dad a furtive look.

  “Ahem.” Dad cleared his throat and walked toward me, leaving Tink standing there with her hands still behind her back.

  “Ophelia, we’re conducting research,” he said in his best “Dad” voice.

  “What kind of research?”

  “Umm, well.” He shuffled the leaves at his feet. “We’re following ley lines. Tink’s tracing them with the dowsing rod.”

  “Yeah,” Tink piped in as she took her place next to Dad and held out the forked stick. “It’s willow, and I made it just like Abby taught me.” Her lavender eyes shone with excitement. “It’s so cool, Ophelia. We’re following the lines to burial mounds.” She glanced at Dad and smiled. “Grandpa bought this really neat map and—”

  I fastened a look on my father. “Let me see that map,” I said, holding out my hand.

  Reluctantly, he passed it to me.

  “Oh, Dad,” I muttered as I studied the paper in my hand.

  I didn’t know much about maps, but I knew enough to know someone had ripped it out of a plat directory—I recognized the county roads and landmarks. It was covered with big, black X’s.

  “So X marks the spot, is that it?” I asked with a tinge of sarcasm.

  Tink and Dad both happily nodded.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I bought it from one of the cousins on Sunday,” he replied defensively.

  Rolling my eyes, I sighed and handed the paper back to him. “You’ve been skinned.”

  “No, I haven’t,” he insisted. “He assured me each mark denotes an ancient burial mound. We’re going to prove that they were all built along the ley lines.”

  “Have you checked out this burial mound here?” I asked, pointing to an X in the center of the map.

  “Ah, no. We started at this point,” he replied as he placed a finger on an X in the corner.

  “Really?” I turned and started back the way I’d come. “You should’ve started with the center one,” I called back over
my shoulder.

  “Why?” he hollered after me.

  I pivoted and narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s the Aunts’ house.”

  Dad’s groan echoed through the woods.

  Eleven

  Snakes under the bed, runes that didn’t work, rival witches, feuds, threats, and now Dad and Tink wandering around looking for burial mounds—and all I’d been worried about was Mother’s unsolicited advice. Ha! This vacation was turning out to be more than I’d expected.

  Maybe a brisk walk would clear my head, so after leaving Tink and Dad, I veered off through the woods until I came to the gravel road and followed it up the valley.

  The only thing missing was Lady, my dog. We’d taken many walks such as this back home in Iowa, and I wished for her company now. But she was safe at home, and along with Queenie, our cat, and T.P., Tink’s dog, staying with Darci.

  “And no doubt getting spoiled,” I muttered to myself.

  Thinking of Darci, my assistant/best friend/partner in crime, I suddenly laughed, startling a blue jay. Boy, oh boy, would she like to be here now. A valley full of witches was right up her alley. And running into Ethan again? Wow, she’d love that. I bent down and picked up a long stick. No, the way this visit was going, Darci would only cause more problems. With her blond hair and great figure, these country boys would be wearing a path to the Aunts’ house. I had enough to handle without Darci breaking hearts right and left. In a way, I was relieved her college classes kept her from inviting herself along, but it would be nice to talk to her right now. I could use an ally.

  Putting thoughts of home away, I continued down the road. Run-down trailers with old cars sitting on blocks were interspersed with neat two-story farmhouses. In a few places long lanes wound away from the road and the only indication of a house nearby was a thin plume of smoke rising above the trees.

  I didn’t know how many of these farmsteads belonged to relatives, but I recognized several of the last names on the mailboxes. Old Jens had been ahead of his time—instead of leaving all his property to his two sons, his daughters had inherited equally with their brothers. As a result, the names of the family holding the land had changed as his female descendants married. Wiley, Murray, Maclean, and Drummond were all last names of various cousins.

  Stopping, I leaned against a fence rail and watched two yearling horses frolic in the pasture beyond. It really was a beautiful, peaceful place. At least at first. The longer I stayed, the more I learned about the hidden currents running beneath the placid surface of this community.

  Evidently the Dorans were one of those ripples, and a big one at that. What could’ve happened to cause a fifty-year-old feud? Had they moved into these mountains and tried to usurp my family’s position as the local wise women? Was it some kind of a witch war? If that were the case, why hadn’t Abby ever mentioned it? She loved telling stories about her childhood in the mountains and about her mother. And a tale about Annie facing off with another witch would’ve been a good one. Knowing Abby, I couldn’t believe that she wouldn’t have used such a story, if for no other reason than to teach me the difference between using magick for good or for ill.

  The whole thing baffled me.

  I pushed away from the fence and continued down the road. I’d just passed another mailbox, one with no name, sitting at the end of a lane when I felt it…a spark of magick. Shaking my head, I took another step. What did I expect? With this many witches living in such close proximity to one another, it was a wonder that the valley didn’t glow at night.

  Wait, I thought, slowing my steps and turning around to face the mailbox. Something was off. Working magick carries with it the signature of the witch that created it, and this was wrong…sloppy. As if someone had scrawled big black letters over a clean white sheet of paper. The spell felt muddied, dirty.

  I retraced my steps back to the mailbox and caught the faint scent of something rotten. Squatting, I poked at the weeds growing around the post with my stick until I found it.

  A spoiled potato. Beneath the red ants crawling all over its surface, I saw brown, squishy spots. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Yuck. Poking it again, I noticed something odd about its shape. It had been peeled and it wasn’t round like a normal potato. No, it looked like it had been carved into a shape…a human shape.

  I flipped it over with the stick. A large rusty nail protruded from the figure’s stomach.

  My own stomach twisted at the sight. A poppet. Someone had made an effigy of the person living there, stabbed it with the nail, then left it to rot in the sun. Not good, not good at all, and in spite of the warm sun beating down on me, I felt a chill.

  Dropping the stick, I stood and peered up the lane. All I saw was the bumper of an old pickup sitting under a tree. Was the person who lived here home?

  Suddenly, the tree’s branches rustled, and lifting my head, I saw a red-tailed hawk staring across the distance at me.

  Dang it—it had to be a hawk. I seemed to have an affinity with them—Abby had called them my animal guides, and said to pay attention whenever I saw one.

  “Okay, okay,” I muttered as his amber eyes seemed to call to me.

  I trudged up the lane.

  Rounding the corner, the first thing I saw was a big black dog sleeping on the porch of the old house, in front of the door. Well that settled that—I was not going to the door with the dog there. I made a move to turn and the dog lifted its head. Two brown eyes stared at me, and lips curled back to reveal strong white teeth.

  Not wanting to challenge the dog, I averted my eyes while I thought about my dilemma.

  What do you do now, Jensen? If you run, the dog will chase you.

  But the dog settled it for me. From the corner of my eye, I saw him stand, stretch, and softly pad off the porch. And trot straight toward me.

  Angling my body toward the house, I stood as quietly as I could, considering that the desire for flight raged through me. Still not meeting the dog’s stare, I waited.

  He approached with his ears back and his tail up. Stopping a couple of feet from me, he lifted his head and sniffed the air before moving closer. Finally, he halted at my feet.

  Sweat formed on my upper lip and I fought the need to wipe it away. Any sudden movement now could result in a serious bite. Keeping my breathing steady, I felt the dog’s snuffles as he moved his nose up and down my pant leg, and I prayed that the next thing wouldn’t be his teeth.

  Finally he finished, and with a soft wuff, walked away from me over to a tree. Plopping down, he calmly laid his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

  I wiped the sweat from my lip as I turned toward the house. Slowly crossing the yard, I kept glancing over my shoulder to make sure the dog didn’t change his mind. Once at the steps, I gave the dog one last look then climbed to the porch.

  Paint peeled from the front door and nearby sat an empty dish and a pan filled with dirty water. Dead flies floated on the surface.

  With a look at the dog, now sleeping on his side, I nudged the bowl with my foot. Poor thing. I wondered when he’d last had food and clean water.

  Frowning, I rapped on the door.

  No one answered.

  I knocked louder and called out. “Is anyone home?”

  Still no answer.

  Ah well, I thought with a shrug, I tried.

  As I pivoted and took a step away from the door, the window to my left caught my attention. The shades were up and curtains were pulled back.

  Hmm, if I walked over to it, I thought, I could see inside. Then I’d know if anyone was home. But what if they were and they caught me peeking in their window? Regardless of my family connections, I was an outsider, and folks around here were leery of strangers. I didn’t want to find myself looking down the barrel of a shotgun. I moved toward the steps, then stopped.

  There it was again…the same prickle of magick I’d felt at the mailbox, only stronger, nastier. I’d been too worried about the dog to sense it earlier. Glancing over my shoulder at the tree, I look
ed for the hawk. He’d disappeared.

  Not a good sign.

  With resignation, I stepped over to the window and looked in. The shock sent me reeling off the edge of the porch. I righted myself before hitting the hard dirt.

  The dog rolled over, raising his head, and stared at me again.

  Easy, Jensen, easy. I forced myself to walk with slow steps as I passed in front of him.

  Shaking by the time I reached the end of the lane, I whipped out my cell phone and with trembling fingers punched 911.

  The screen read: no service.

  I tore down the road and ran to the next house. I pounded on the door until a red-faced woman wearing an old-fashioned apron answered. As she opened the door, I caught the aroma of fresh baked bread. My stomach knotted.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice wary.

  “Y-Y-Your neighbor,” I stuttered.

  Her face relaxed and she opened the door wider. “Why you’re Lydia Wiley’s Yankee cousin, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath and pointed over my shoulder. “Your neighbor—”

  “Oscar?” she asked, taking my arm and drawing me inside. “Is something wrong?”

  “He’s dead,” I blurted out.

  Lydia found me sitting at the woman’s table trying to drink the sweet tea that she’d forced on me. She gave the woman, a Mrs. Gordon, a quick nod before striding over and pulling out a chair.

  Sitting, she took my hand in hers and leaned forward. “How are you?”

  “Was I right?” I asked, ignoring her question. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes,” she replied softly.

  “Did you call the sheriff?”

  “Yes, I left him at Oscar’s.”

  Oscar? I’d heard the name from Mrs. Gordon, but I’d been too unnerved for it to register. Now I got it as the image of the man who’d had a confrontation with Sharon Doran flashed through my mind. I stole a look at Mrs. Gordon, busy at the stove but with her head slightly cocked in our direction. I lowered my voice.

  “He’s the one who threatened to turn in the Dorans, isn’t he?” I asked.