Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel

by Melissa de la Cruz

  When here was a friend, a friend from home, a friend who knew and understood everything about her and her family. They could be together for eternity. Thor and Erda. Thunder and hearth. She would tame the wrathful god, build him a home, a fire, bring him the immortal children he craved.

  A future lay before her—she could see what could happen if she chose it—he would kiss her and she would kiss him back, and then he would pull her against him, slip his hand inside the bodice he had just loosened, his hand on her skin would make her shiver. It could be done. It was so easy. Perhaps this was what she was waiting for all her immortal life.

  Then the vision faded as she remembered Matt’s sweet smile and his bravery. He was flawed, mortal, weak in comparison to Troy… but he was hers.

  “No,” she said aloud. “I mean yes. It is what I want. I want Matt. I love him. I’m sorry, Troy, but you and I—we were never meant to be. You know that. You only chase me because you know I will say no.” She smiled.

  He smiled back and kissed her forehead. “Fine, have it your way. But I can hold a torch for a long time, just you wait and see.”

  Someone knocked, and they exchanged a startled look.

  “A moment please,” Troy called as he helped Ingrid back into her clothes. This was the visit they had been expecting: Mr. Putnam.

  Ingrid fixed her lace cap and tucked her loose strands of hair inside it, and answered the door. “Abby!”

  Abigail Williams rushed in, her cheeks flushed. She curtsied, then straightened her apron. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I would have come sooner, but I had to sneak out of the parsonage. My uncle has ordered silence and prayer for the remainder of the day. They believe I am still in my room.”

  “Why have you come? What do you have to tell us? Is it about Freya?”

  Abby nodded. “Yes. I have injured her I am afraid, and I have come to make penance. I am so very fond of Freya. I did not think it would come to this. But it has. My uncle is very angry—he found this—” She thrust a black book toward Ingrid.

  “What is it?”

  “Freya’s diary.”

  Ingrid scanned the pages. It was all there, written in Freya’s recognizable and pretty handwriting. It was practically a confession, detailing her practice of magic and witchcraft, and meeting young men in the woods. As if they needed any more proof. “Who has seen this?”

  “Mr. Putnam, my uncle, a few magistrates…”

  “And?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you. Freya and her friends James Brewster and Nate Brooks are being held in prison in Boston. Tomorrow a few of us are to travel to the city for the examinations.”

  “Examinations?”

  “To prove Freya is a witch.” Abby told them that Mr. Putnam and her uncle had arranged with the magistrates of the court of oyer and terminer for a special tribunal to take care of the highly dangerous triumvirate, who were believed to be the leaders of the witches in Salem Village. After the examinations, the three would be brought to the village for a special session of the court, conducted à huis clos, without the public’s knowledge. The next witch trials weren’t scheduled until June 29, but this one, of the greatest urgency, was to take place before, on June 13.

  Mr. Putnam had persuaded Governor Sir William Phips that this would bring an end to the torments of the afflicted. The sooner the three hanged, the safer the inhabitants of Salem Village and its surrounding regions would be.

  “And the richer Mr. Putnam will be,” Ingrid added, when Abby explained that upon Freya’s death her holdings from her deceased husband would go to Mr. Putnam, her patron.

  “Which is why you, too, are in danger here,” Abby said. “You would jeopardize Mr. Putnam’s plans. And it is said that Mr. Brooks died under suspicious circumstances. Mr. Putnam is very powerful, Mrs. Overbrook.”

  “I see.” Ingrid placed a hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “Do not worry,” she said. “We will go to Boston. You have done the right thing coming to us, Abby. Best you run off before your uncle finds you are missing.”

  Abigail nodded. “And you will help Freya? I could not bear it if—” She held Ingrid’s hands in desperation.

  “We will leave for Boston immediately,” she said, feeling sorry for Abby. When they had clasped hands Ingrid had been able to tap into Abigail’s lifeline. She saw the years of loneliness, desolation, remorse, illness, and misery ahead of her. The witches were not the only victims of Salem.

  chapter fifty-one

  In the Land of the Blind… the One-Eyed Man Is King

  Freddie blinked at the tall figure standing at the end of the hallway, holding his golden trident. The man wore a tall white hat and a black patch over the eye he had sacrificed for his wife’s hand—although the tales varied, some claiming the eye had been sacrificed at Mimir’s spring in exchange for wisdom of the ages.

  “Odin?” Freddie whispered. “Is it really you?”

  Odin. The most powerful god of their kind. The head of the White Council. Not Loki, whom Freddie had been expecting all along, but Loki’s father.

  Odin’s two ravens perched on his shoulders—his familiars Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory.

  Tall, handsome, and charismatic, Odin possessed the same dazzling green eyes as his boys, known in Midgard as Bran and Killian Gardiner. His hair, once streaked with gold and fire, was as white as the hat he wore. At his feet curled and crouched his wolves Geri and Freki, or Greedy and Fierce. His eight-foot-tall steed, Sleipnir, was the only one missing, and Freddie wondered if the horse was waiting for his master somewhere in the void. He noted that Odin’s infallible sword, Gungnir, hung in a scabbard by his hip, and the hand that rested on its hilt bore the ring of ancient dragon bone that allowed its bearer to travel between worlds and time.

  Freya had told Freddie that Loki had stolen Odin’s ring and that it had crumbled in her fingers—but there it was, whole and unharmed of course. No one could destroy Odin’s ring.

  What was Odin doing down here in the darkness of the abyss? Was he… waiting for him? For Freddie? But why?

  “We’re so sorry, Freddie!” Nyph wailed.

  “He threatened us!” said Kelda self-righteously, striding up to Freddie.

  Sven and Irdick shrugged.

  Nyph yanked on his sleeve. “He said he would send us straight to Helda if we didn’t do as he told. He’s the one who made us steal your trident so he could destroy the bridge, and later he made us plant it on the Dragon so that it would give Killian the mark on his back. He was behind everything. And he told us to bring you here. We didn’t want to but he scared us!”

  “We’re too young to die!” said Kelda.

  “Sorry, man,” mumbled Sven, while Irdick looked mournful.

  Freddie turned to Odin. “What are they talking about? Why are you here? Why have you brought me here?”

  “Welcome, my friend.” Odin smiled, flashing his blazing white teeth. “Back to where you belong,” he said, wagging a finger. “Naughty boy. You don’t think you escaped on your own, did you?”

  “Actually…” Freddie said, backing away and colliding into a wall that hadn’t been there before. He stumbled, and Odin laughed raucously, throwing back his head, and his ravens alighted from his shoulders to flap dramatically through the empty space.

  Odin held up the hand with the ring, wriggling the fingers. “Don’t even try. There is no escape this time. So you noticed I have this back. Did you and your family really think Loki was behind it all? I suppose I could see how you would think that, since he was the one who unleashed Ragnorak and poisoned the Tree of Life. But his powers are much too weak to be able to block the passages and take away that hot little sister of yours. Oh, no. He’s just a god with a touch of Munchausen. Poor kid.” He shook his head. “Likes to stir things up, then fix them. Enjoys the sport of it and the attention. An easy mark, plus he never did get over Freya. He loved her, poor delusional fool, which made him useful for a time.”

  “So the bridge—that was you, t
oo?” said Freddie.

  Despite his age, Odin had a youthful, blithe quality, a swagger even as he stood. “Yes, yes, I destroyed the bridge, set you and Loki up—that son of mine was getting a little too mischievous, shall we say, and needed to be taught a lesson, so I cast him to the frozen depths and locked you up in Limbo. Of course I let him out after a while—can’t have my own boy locked away forever now, could I?—but you… you escaped somehow. You’re a hard lot to control, the Vanir.” He snickered to himself.

  “But why?” Freddie asked. “I don’t understand.” Odin wasn’t their enemy. He was feared but known as a benevolent, magnanimous god.

  “Why not?” Odin yawned, looked down at his sword, and clasped the handle, drawing it from its scabbard.

  Freddie needed more time. He couldn’t fight Odin, not without his trident. He needed to come up with a means of escape. He supposed he had the pixies on his side, but once again they had proven themselves utterly useless. “Why did you do this? Destroy the bridge and destroy my family?”

  Before Odin could reply, a harsh light lit the room, revealing every smudge on the walls and the dust in the corners. Odin shielded his good eye.

  “I know why!” said Norman, rushing into the gallery, accompanied by Val.

  “Oh, what a bore!” remarked Odin, removing his hand but appearing to struggle with the glare. He planted the tip of his sword on the ground and twirled it.

  “Dad!” Freddie gave a sigh of relief. “How did you get here?”

  “Well, I was looking for your mother at first,” Norman explained. “Then I ran into this little guy, who confessed everything and brought me here to help.”

  Val nodded. “We’re sorry, Freddie. Odin wiped our memories and then he threatened us.”

  “Yeah, your friends already told me,” Freddie said.

  “Stand back, son, this is not your fight but mine,” said Norman. “He destroyed the Bofrir to hoard all of the gods’ powers. The Vanir had become too powerful, so he decided to stop us and punish his sons, who had grown too rebellious and hard to control. He certainly doesn’t discriminate. No nepotism there, eh, Odin?”

  Odin smirked. “I try to be fair.”

  “But that’s not the whole story, is it, old friend?” said Norman. “This is about you and me, isn’t it?”

  “Why I suppose it is, Nord.”

  Freddie looked to Odin, then his father. “What’s going on? You’ve lost me, Dad.”

  “An old grudge. It’s all very petty, really,” Norman said. “Odin didn’t lose his eye for Frigg’s hand, nor did he give it up to gain wisdom. Since as you can see he has none. No. This is a personal story…”

  A long time ago, at the dawn of the worlds, Nord, god of the sea, fished along the shores of Asgard. There on the beach, he spied a goddess more beautiful than the sun. She had fallen asleep in the sand in the shade of a large rock: Joanna, or Skadi, the goddess of earth, mother goddess. No sooner had Nord laid eyes on her than he knew she would be his immortal mate, his love for all eternity. And when she looked at him he knew she felt the same.

  But another had already claimed her, not just another god but the very ruler of Asgard, Odin himself. When Odin learned he had a rival, he challenged Nord to a duel. As immortals, the object was to deprive the other of something vital. He who did so would win the goddess’s hand.

  It was a fair fight, and Odin lost his eye to Nord, who won both the battle and the goddess.

  Norman stepped forward, unfurling his fisherman’s black net. “I’m sorry I won her hand, Odin old pal, but really—destroying the bridge? Destroying my family?” Norman said. “It stops here. It stops now.”

  “It’s too late,” returned Odin. “Your daughter is dead.” He smiled, studying his sword. “Her sister and my insubordinate sons, Bran and Killian, will join her in the underworld soon enough, along with your silly wife, while you and your own recalcitrant son rot in this abyss.”

  “Val!” ordered Norman.

  Val lifted a mirror, catching the light, directing it into Odin’s one good but sensitive eye, so that the god had to crouch and lift his hands to protect his sight.

  Odin screamed and fell to the ground.

  “I believe this is ours,” Norman said, taking Freddie’s trident and wrapping his rival in the fishing net.

  chapter fifty-two

  Goose Chasing

  By the time Ingrid and Troy arrived at the jailhouse in Boston, Freya, Nate, and James were long gone.

  “Looking for them, are you?” the gaoler asked. “I might know a thing or two as to their whereabouts,” he said with an expectant look.

  Ingrid nudged Troy, who removed a velvet pouch of gold. Troy glared at the shifty-looking man as he placed it in his palm.

  The gaoler, his tongue finally loosened, informed them that an examination of three prisoners had been conducted the night before in Boston at a private home of a magistrate, prominent ministers and officials present. The governor himself had been in attendance. Along with two constables, the gaoler had delivered the three accused and remained in the room where the examinations took place to keep an eye on the prisoners, then transport them back to the jailhouse afterward. Thus, the gaoler had overheard all the testimony against the allegedly wicked threesome.

  Being of the utmost urgency, these examinations had taken precedence over all others, conducted on that holiest of days, the Sabbath, so that the trio’s trials could be expedited. If enough evidence against them were gathered here, the three would be tried on Monday in the court of oyer and terminer in Salem Village.

  The triumvirate, Freya Beauchamp, Nathaniel Brooks, and James Brewster, were believed to be the leaders of the witches in Salem Village, those responsible for spreading bewitchments across New England. Mr. Thomas Putnam had filed the complaints and gone so far as appealing to the governor for speed and vigor in convicting all three. It appeared he had convinced those in the highest positions of authority that the sooner these three were brought to justice, the sooner the blight would reach a swift and conclusive end.

  When Ingrid and Troy questioned the man further, he told them that Mr. Thomas Putnam and Reverend Samuel Parris had been present to give depositions. Mrs. Ann Putnam Sr. and the afflicted girls also testified against the lethal three, whom they had witnessed sharing covenant with the Prince of Darkness. Mercy testified that Freya was chiefly responsible for the evil hand besetting the village. Sobbing, the maid confessed she would have denounced her sooner, but she had been silenced with threats of being drowned or decapitated.

  With a leer, the gaoler described the rituals the afflicted testified they had been made to endure in the forest outside Salem Village, where they had been given wine for blood to drink and ordered to dance in the moonlight without a stitch of clothing. “Those three are the devil itself,” he said.

  When Mercy was brought into the presence of the three accused, she commenced to shake and mumble and toss her head around wildly. The judge requested Mercy to place a hand on Freya Beauchamp, and when she did, the girl’s fits stopped immediately, which meant that the evil had flowed back into the witch. The touch test was solid evidence Freya was guilty as charged.

  Once Judge Stoughton had gathered sufficient evidence against the accused, the gaoler brought the trio to the prison in Salem Town. There, they were manacled, chained, and placed in cells for the night. Today they would be transported to the village to stand trial. This trial would be held at an undisclosed location, kept under wraps so as not to create a stir and keep the village under control.

  “Everything Abby said was true, only the examinations had already taken place. She lied to us so we’d leave and not stop the trial,” said Ingrid, deflated. She had believed in Abby’s sympathy, but the little girl was a lying monster.

  Troy shook his head as he walked to Courage and gave him a pat on the neck, as even the horse seemed pained by all this.

  “We must hurry, perhaps there is time yet.” She mounted the carriage and took a seat, f
ixing her skirts.

  Troy climbed in beside her. They decided the next best course of action would be to head straight to Salem Town, where they would attempt to buy Freya’s freedom. They planned to tell Mr. Putnam he could keep Mr. Brooks’s money, and more besides. The sun had already begun to dip, flooding the cobblestone street with a golden light. By now, the secret trial in the village was long over. All three would have been found guilty. They would most likely be back at the Salem Town prison to be held there until the next hanging at Gallows Hill.

  Troy shook the reins, and Courage took off at a trot. “So, if I gather correctly,” he said, “as we were driving into Salem Village from Salem Town this morning, the three accused were being shuttled along that same road. But were they ahead of us or behind us? Do you think they could have already been in the village when we arrived?”

  In her mind’s eye, Ingrid combed through the events of their arrival in the village. The atmosphere had certainly been bizarre. She remembered how Mercy and Abby had suddenly crept on them. In hindsight, it was clear the girls had been antsy and looking for a way to get them to leave. They had glanced out at the entrance of the village several times. They had been so close! They had fallen for Abby’s lies and had gone away.

  Ingrid remembered the men coming out of the parsonage: somber, fretting, shifting on their feet, letting the girls talk to her and Troy for a bit. The men had seemed nervous and impatient. She recalled how they had inspected her and Troy but also looked in the direction of the road that led into the village. They must have been waiting for the cart that would be transporting the prisoners back to the village.

  By the time she and Troy had returned from checking the woods, the village was a ghost town. By then surely Freya, Nate, and James had already been brought to the secret location for their trial—maybe Mr. Putnam’s house. His farm seemed likely, being on the outskirts, two miles from the center.