A Witch's Feast

by C. N. Crawford

  Through the trees, she spied Alan and Tobias sitting on a fallen trunk. She’d been dying to sneak into their room again last night to look over the spells, but the idea of waking the crypt demon again gave her pause.

  Alan looked up and waved as she approached, while Tobias’s gaze darted around. He’d seemed—jumpy lately, like he was waiting for something to happen. She sat next to him on the moss-covered trunk, trying not to think of his strong arms around her the night before.

  She wiped a hand across her sweating forehead. “I spoke to my mother. She’s totally freaked out that they arrested Mariana. She’s coming down here.”

  “At least we have a ride out of here after we find Mariana,” said Alan. “My parents aren’t coming for me. They think the Ranulfs are amazing.”

  Fiona glanced at Tobias. “So what spells do we have to work with?”

  Tobias pulled the scrapbook out of Alan’s backpack. “It’s not really a spell book. More of a diary. It belonged to Great-Grandfather Edgar’s wife, Pearl.” He touched the gold-embossed cover.

  Her stomach sank. “But there were spells in it.”

  “Only at the start.” He opened the cover to the brittle spell pages, clipped into the book. “Just three, in fact. One cures corn leaf blight. The other two, I’m not sure.”

  She folded her arms. “A corn leaf blight cure? What’s the point of that?”

  Tobias looked at her askance. “Stop people from starving. It just doesn’t help us.”

  She pulled at the collar of her T-shirt, trying to loosen the tight neck. “I’m starving, if you count what they’re doing to us here.”

  Alan leaned forward. “But there’s some other interesting information in the rest of the book.”

  “Like what?” She pulled the book from Tobias, paging past the spells.

  “It mostly amounts to one thing.” Alan leaned back on his palms. “The Ranulfs were terrible people. Exhibit A.” He pointed to a diary entry. “Pearl describes a failed slave escape from the early 18th century, some of the Ranulf slaves among them. The captured slaves were hanged, drawn and quartered, right here in Virginia. Pearl approved heartily.”

  “Christ,” said Fiona. She flipped back to the early pages to find a hand-drawn family tree spanning dozens of pages. “How far back does the family history go?”

  Alan stared at the river. “Very far. All the way to the Norman invasion, when the Randwolfe family arrived in England. In the 17th century, King James sent them here to ensure that witchcraft didn’t take hold in the New World. The Ranulfs still want to establish a monarchy, led by the Brotherhood. They’re playing the long game. And they’re awfully fond of slavery.”

  Tobias squinted as a ray of sunlight pierced the trees. “Perhaps, but they were scared of their slaves.”

  “True. There was a big revolt in 1775 that had them totally panicked. The Ranulfs were convinced the slaves knew magic.”

  Fiona turned another handwritten page. “There was a slave revolt in 1775? That’s right when the American Revolution started.”

  Alan ran his hand along soft green moss on the tree trunk. “Not only the same year, but the same week of April. It was all related, but the Ranulfs were outraged. Here they were, trying to fight for liberty, and their slaves were getting ideas about freedom.”

  “So what happened?” asked Fiona.

  Alan grimaced. “It didn’t work out for most of them. Pearl’s only lament was that they weren’t burned to death or broken on the Catherine wheel like they were in New York. At later points, little rebellions worked out better, and the escaped slaves formed the Underground Railroad.”

  She brushed a curl out of her eyes. The heat felt oppressive today. “So do you think it’s true? The slaves knew magic?”

  Tobias plucked a leaf from the vines that wound around the trunk. “She talks about something called John the Conquerer. It was a plant with magical properties. The Ranulfs suspected that their slaves used it to torment them at night. With the plant’s power, they could move around quickly and undetected. Over time, some used it to organize escape routes to Canada.”

  Fiona turned the page. Pearl had drawn a flowering plant with bell-shaped blossoms.

  “The Ranulfs started to punish the slaves with increasingly severe beatings,” Tobias continued. “Over time, the slaves used the Conquerer to organize, get supplies together. Some figured out how to escape in the night.”

  Under a sketched plant leaf, Pearl had scrawled A witch’s feast. Fiona traced her finger over the curling leaves and petals. “Do you think John the Conquerer still grows around here?”

  Alan shrugged. “It’s possible, but Pearl did everything she could to get rid of it. When she caught a black farmer named Isaac selling it in 1892, she told the police he’d broken into her house. It was her little way of combating witchcraft. He was beaten and hanged by a mob.” He scratched his neck. “Not far from here.”

  Fiona turned another page and gasped. Glued to the black pages were sepia postcards, but instead of depicting scenic views or art, they were photographs of people murdered by mobs: burned men contorted on pavement, others hanging in nooses from trees or streetlights, or lying lifeless on the ground. There were a few women in bloodied and torn dresses, dangling from trees, and a victim burning on a pyre surrounded by men in suits and women in floral blouses. The bystanders grinned at the cameras, like they were at a parade. “What is this? Some kind of Purgator thing?”

  Alan shook his head. “An American thing. Lynching postcards were popular a hundred years ago.”

  Her stomach turned. “What kind of psychopath would want a lynching postcard? This is horrible.” She flipped to the next page. In one of the crowds, a woman in a headscarf stared at the camera. Behind her a young man hung from a tree, his face beaten beyond recognition. Fiona’s eyes lingered on the woman—her sunken eyes and pale skin. Unlike the other cheerful idiots, she didn’t seem to be having any fun.

  “The cellar they mentioned,” Alan mused. “That could be the institution. I bet it’s through the crypt door. And that’s where Mariana’s being kept.”

  “We can at least try out the two spells,” said Tobias. “They might do something for us.”

  The shadows lengthened as the sun lowered over the river. They’d need to return to their rooms soon for bedroom checks.

  Fiona scanned the postcards again. In one, a crowd leered at the camera, this time surrounding a charred body chained to a tree. Among the gawkers was the woman with that haunted face again, her hair covered in a scarf. There was something familiar about her.

  “I say we try the spells tomorrow,” said Alan. “Mrs. Ranulf is on high alert for witchcraft now. But tomorrow everyone will be too distracted with party preparations to notice what we’re up to. Mr. Ranulf is coming back, and Munroe will be getting herself ready for her hot date with Tobias.”

  “Guys.” Fiona flipped to more gruesome postcards, her skin prickling into goose bumps. Again she’d found the doleful woman, her sad eyes open wide. “The same person is in all these photos.”

  “What?” Alan peered over her shoulder.

  It wasn’t just the photos. Fiona had seen her face before. The hollow eyes, the anguished twist of her mouth. A chill ran up her spine. “Guys—it’s the crypt monster.”

  “No way,” Alan whispered.

  In the distance, Munroe’s voice called out, “Tobias?”

  “The Fury?” Tobias pulled the book toward him. “That’s what Mrs. Ranulf called her. A Fury.”

  Fiona’s arm brushed against his. “What is a Fury?” Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

  “Tobias?” Munroe was drawing closer though the trees.

  He shoved the book back into Alan’s bag, handing it back to his friend. “They’re spirits of vengeance, drawn to terrible injustices. Whatever the Purgators are using her for, Pearl must have lured her here with that lynching she orchestrated. Then they captured her.”

  Munroe’s footfalls crunched over fallen leaves
and twigs.

  “But what are they doing with a Fury?” whispered Fiona.

  Before Tobias could answer, Munroe appeared at the edge of the grove, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was a deep russet in the setting sun, cascading over her green sundress. “What are you guys doing here? We’re supposed to be finishing our costumes for the party.” She glared at Fiona. “You wouldn’t want people thinking you were sneaking around, would you? It’s not exactly a good time to raise suspicions.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Jack

  Two things woke Jack from his sleep: the buzzing of a mosquito in his ear, and a tall blade of grass tickling his cheek. Am I sleeping in a park? He swatted at the bug, rolling over and shielding his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. He still gripped the sapling in one hand. He must have slept on it. Nearby, a crow called out over the gentle sounds of waves lapping at a shore.

  His muscles aching, he sat up to look around. He was on the bank of the James, and its cool waters flowed just feet from his resting spot. Through the felled trees and shrubs along the bank, he could see the river’s wide expanse, maybe two hundred feet across. He glanced in the other direction, at a sprawling brick mansion on a hill. The house stood three stories high, crowned with white windows. Percy Plantation.

  He grabbed his bag and stood, brushing the grass and dirt off his black clothes.

  Papillon delivered the welcome news that Fiona was nearby—very close, in fact. But he couldn’t see her until he’d regained control of his appetite. Otherwise he risked picking her bones clean, and he’d never be able to forgive himself for that.

  He trudged up the hill, rubbing at a cramped muscle in the back of his neck. He didn’t relish the idea of speaking to George. “The Earl,” he styled himself, though it wasn’t an official title. His older brother had been an earl during his natural lifetime. In fact, as one of the wealthiest members of the Elizabethan court, he’d been known as “the Wizard Earl” for his vast collection of Angelic texts. Little brother George argued that the title should have passed to him after a great-grandnephew had died without an heir. He’d stolen the wizard’s texts for himself, and he might be the greatest philosopher alive today.

  The only problem was that George was insane. He’d never recovered from his years in Jamestown, still haunted by his time as governor of the troubled colony. It was over four hundred years ago, and the man was still traumatized. Then again, Jack reminded himself, George was the reason that he was alive at all. He’d sought out the Earl hundreds of years ago to learn the secrets of immortality.

  He strolled up to the large white door—the river entrance—and rang the front doorbell. George had more than enough money for servants, though they never stayed around long. Jack was never sure if they quit, or if he ate them.

  Songbirds trilled from a nearby ash tree, and Jack smoothed his rumpled clothes. Hunger speared his gut, and he was desperate for fresh meat to replenish himself.

  After a long wait, George pulled open the door. A slight man with a large nose, he scrunched up his small eyes whenever he encountered sunlight. Since he never left his house, it seemed to blind him. He smiled, exposing stubby white teeth. “Jack. Please come in. The scrying mirror told me you’d be coming, of course,” he guffawed.

  Everyone Jack had ever met who’d studied at Eton College had the same nasal laugh. It must have resulted from several centuries of passing along the irritating mannerism from one generation of black-suited schoolboys to the next.

  Jack smiled. “Of course. I never need to announce my visits with you.” George’s alchemical expertise extended far beyond his own.

  George pulled the door open wider, motioning for Jack to enter. “It’s always good to have a fellow philosopher here. Come with me to the drawing room.”

  Jack followed him through a Georgian hallway, large enough that it could double as a ballroom. Portraits of Percy ancestors hung on the walls.

  George’s black shoes clacked across the floor as he led Jack into a vast living room. Blood red walls reached twenty feet high, and alcoves held busts of great philosophers from the past. A bearded John Dee gazed pensively heavenward, and the Wizard Earl himself glowered at tall windows on the opposite side.

  “Admiring my brother, are you?” George sat on a crimson loveseat. “I was the lucky recipient of all of his spell books, you know, after King James locked him in the Tower.” Another chuckle forced itself through his nose. “Please, sit.” He motioned to an antique white sofa across from him.

  Jack sat, steeling himself for the inevitable barrage of pointless stories. “Percy Plantation looks beautiful, as always.”

  George licked his teeth, looking around thoughtfully. “I did have servants. But what’s the point? Spells can do the cleaning for me.” He squinted at his fingernails, chewed to stubs. “Sometimes I think I should get a wife. A pretty little thing to amuse me.” He’d been saying that for hundreds of years, but women terrified him.

  Jack arched an eyebrow. Humor him. “A wife would suit you.”

  George widened his beady eyes. “You’re good with women. Women love you. You must teach me how you charm them.” He swallowed, his body suddenly rigid. “I just don’t know if women understand what I’ve been through. Do you know what it was like in Jamestown?”

  Jack shook his head. Here we go. “I can’t imagine.”

  George leaned forward, his thin lips quivering. “I was the governor. They relied on me to lead them. And I did. But the savages surrounded us, threatening to kill us. And the colonists didn’t want to farm. The King sent us with a bunch of bloody jewelers. What were we supposed to do with jewelers?” Another nasal guffaw, like a ship’s horn. “They thought we’d find rivers of gold in the New World. But there was nothing here but death, disease, and starvation.” He shot Jack a pointed look. “It was before I had the spell books.”

  Jack nodded solemnly. “The world is fortunate you survived.” He was going to talk about the shoe next.

  “The starving time, they call it. I’ll never forget it. There I was, a direct descendant of Sir Harry Hotspur, trying to eat through my own leather shoe.” A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. “We were a bunch of desperate skeletons, slowly going mad.” He sank into the sofa, his eyes tearing up. “And then we ate Rebecca. Only fourteen, she must have been. So pretty. Would have made a nice wife.”

  “Right. But you had to eat her.” Maybe there was some way to hurry this along.

  George’s face brightened. “Yes, that’s true. We had to. The colonists were halfway in the grave, and I was their caretaker, being of superior breeding.” He nodded thoughtfully. “That filthy colonist John Smith had spent time with the Báthory family in Hungary. It was there he learned that human flesh and blood could revitalize a person. So, we did what we had to do.” A grin creased his face as he stared out the window. “And it did make me feel alive.” He sighed and pulled out his pocket watch, tracing his fingers over the back. “It was lucky my brother’s spell books helped me refine things, so that we might be young and vigorous, like wild stallions.” He looked at Jack with a simple smile. “A new wife would be proud to call me her husband, robust as I am.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Speaking of watches—” Jack pulled his own out of his pocket. “—mine isn’t working so well. I can’t control the hunger.”

  He could see by George’s glazed eyes that he was still lost in Jamestown, and the pseudo-Earl tucked his feet further under himself. “Pryse, the scoundrel’s name was. He blamed the gods for our misfortunes, raving through the dirt streets that we’d been abandoned. He got what was coming to him. The gods sent a wolf to destroy him. Ripped open his bowels in the wood when he was searching for berries.” He flared his nostrils. “One thing you can’t lose is your dignity, no matter what happens. I know that better than anyone.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “It’s fortunate you were able to keep your wits, Lord Percy.” Another lie. Anyone but George himself could see there had never
been a Pryse. Just an insane Percy, ranting in the dirt when the depredations had broken his spirit. Really, his unconscious should have come up with a more subtle alias.

  The Earl blinked his small brown eyes as though waking. “What were you saying?”

  Jack’s stomach churned with hunger, as though he were being eaten by a wolf himself. He forced his most charming smile. “I’m having a bit of trouble with my watch. I can’t control the hunger anymore. And then there was the succubus.”

  George smirked. “Pretty one, was she? Almost makes it worth the draining.”

  Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, marshaling his patience. “You know, I still haven’t seen the wretched demon.”

  “Hand it over.” George held out his hand, suddenly alert. “Do you have any other important business in the area?”

  Finally, we’re getting somewhere. He dropped the watch in the Earl’s hand. “I do, actually. I think I have a masked ball to attend, once I’m feeling myself again. But I have a suspicion I may need some extra strength for it. There might be a bit of trouble.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Thomas

  Thomas lay flat on the chipped stone, his arms trembling with fatigue. He’d managed to sleep for a few hours, waking with a throbbing pain in his head in the bright daylight. Dried blood crusted around his fingernails, a relic of his attempt to smash through the floor in a frenzy of metal against stone. He’d managed to bash in the Scorpio mark, but that was as far as his iron bar had taken him.

  Seven points… The rhythm of the words still called to him, fainter now. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up against the wall. There was a pattern here. He just had to find it. Panic rattled him as he wondered if the arrow on the Scorpio sign had pointed to something important. He’d lost it now.

  He needed to check the floor stones again. He must have missed a clue. Eirenaeus wouldn’t have left that mark unless there was a reason. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. He couldn’t remember anymore why he was so certain Eirenaeus had left the Scorpio mark, but he had nothing else to go on.