Prophecy (Soul of the Witch Book 2)

by C. Marie Bowen

  Could I have stopped her death with a phone call?

  His chest ached, and his eyes burned. “She doesn't sound good.”

  Greta didn't appear to notice his distress. She tipped her head to try to read his phone. “No, she doesn't. What is the date on the message?”

  He looked at the screen. “April twenty-first.” The glass on the phone went dark and he slid it into his bag. “So, what happened between the twenty-first and the twenty-third?”

  Greta ran her fingers across her brow and sat back in the chair. “She found the photo.”

  Frank's head came up. “What photo?”

  “The official police report states they found Courtney in the attic, an old photo clutched to her chest. The report goes on to describe the photo, but here—” She reached into her bag and withdrew an antique framed oval photograph. She laid it on the desk in front of him and pointed to a woman, seated between two standing men. “This is Nichole Harris. The photo appears to have been taken in the early 1870s.” She tapped the raised glass above the tall gentleman on Nichole's left. “I suspect this handsome young man is Merril.”

  “How did you obtain this?” He glanced from the photo to Greta.

  A shadow of a smile moved across Greta's face. “There's no official crime scene. Nothing held as evidence. The building, and all the items in the attic, including this photo, belong to The Hawthorn Group—an investment company. I reached out to THG and offered to repair the doors that were damaged when the officers entered the house in search of my client. In return, I asked to purchase this photograph—an out-of-court settlement. They agreed.”

  “Why would you want it?” His gaze returned to the photo. The blonde woman's eyes seemed to draw him in. He took in every inch of the photograph.

  “I don't. It's not for me.”

  The tone of her voice drew his attention back to her face. Her eyes smiled first, and then her lips. “I read another report, filed by an officer who never entered the house. This officer maintained crowd control and checked ID badges of those who required access to the house during the site investigation. According to his report, an elderly black woman approached him. She informed him, in no uncertain terms, that the photograph 'in the poor girlie's hands’, should be given to her doctor for the long table under his clock.”

  Frank's gaze shot to his credenza beneath his office clock and then back to Greta. “How is this possible?”

  Greta shrugged. “By the time Detective Hernandez read the report, the elderly woman had vanished. I'm surprised the officer even mentioned her comment. The old woman must have made quite an impression on the young man.”

  Greta closed her bag and stood. “Thank you for your time, Frank, and for sharing Courtney's phone calls with me.”

  “You're welcome.” Frank came to his feet. “You seem relieved. Do you have a better understanding of what happened to Courtney?”

  “Actually, I do.” She gave him a genuine smile. “You remember, I told you her spiritual powers were inherent. Although she never trained with her power, she really only needed two things—desire and belief. We know she had the desire.” Greta tapped the oval glass above the photo. “When she found the photo, it suspended her disbelief and she knew she could find her way back to him.”

  “Then, you’re saying that—” Frank blinked and shook his head. “You believe Courtney returned to her previous life?”

  Greta shrugged, picked up the long strap of her bag and hung it on her shoulder. “I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “But, that's not possible.” He rounded his desk and stared into Greta's gray eyes.

  She smiled. “Suspend your disbelief, Frank. You didn't cause this, and you couldn't have averted the outcome.” Greta picked up the photograph and placed it in Frank's hands. “Courtney's gone back to her life as Nichole. She returned to Merril, and she wanted you to have this.”

  Chapter 2

  Amy Harris

  June 12, 1875 – Denver, Colorado

  Amy Harris stood in the hallway outside the bedroom door, an empty ceramic water pitcher clutched to her chest. When her knees threatened to buckle, she locked them tight and leaned her back against the wall.

  Calm yourself.

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and she urged her heart to regain a slow even pace. She pushed a ragged breath through clenched teeth and pressed lips. Her inhale hitched as she struggled to fill her lungs.

  You will not cry. The worst is over.

  Her body trembled, and her heart rate accelerated, despite her attempt to quiet her mind. The terror that had overwhelmed her in the dark confines of the locked wardrobe clawed at her throat.

  With a gasp, she opened her eyes and searched the empty hallway. Daylight shone through the broken bedroom wall and illuminated the corridor with an unfamiliar glow.

  Everything has changed.

  From the bedroom behind her, Nichole coughed the last blood from her lungs, while Merril repeatedly assured Nichole, and himself, she would be all right. The opening in the exterior wall channeled the worried shouts of neighbors, who had been drawn to the sound of a single gunshot, followed by the crash of the porch collapse.

  Jim must be hurt. I need to move.

  The tall Highlands foreman, Jimmy Leigh, had gone through the window, taking the madman Blackie Jones with him. But Jim's heroic attempt to save Nichole had come too late. The thought of Nichole's battered and bloody body filled Amy's mind along with memory of Merril's anguished cry. Amy would have fallen to her knees in defeat as Jason pulled her from the wardrobe, were it not for the Entity.

  The Entity's composed presence had calmed her mind, and given Amy the strength to push her husband away. She’d directed Jason to go outside and aid Jim as she turned to Nichole's broken body. The moment she had placed her hands on Nichole's lifeless chest and pushed her earth-vision into Nichole, Amy felt the Entity move across her consciousness and interlace with her own limited magic. No longer a simple spectator, the Entity not only saw through Amy's eyes, it healed through her hands.

  Amy relaxed her grip on the urn enough to brush the auburn hair from her face. She paused and held the trembling hand before her eyes. With a thought, she pushed her vision past her skin to see bone and tendons—the absolute extent of her ability. She had neither the fire-skill to knit bone, nor the air-skill to fill Nichole’s collapsed lung. She had only Earth and Water.

  The Entity had observed the damage inside Nichole through Amy's vision, then extended its reach and used the delicate touch of fire to knit her splintered rib and mend her lung. In the end, it had been the Entity who pushed air into Nichole's chest and sparked the beat of her heart.

  Whoever ... or whatever, had invaded Amy's mind, had healed Nichole and then departed with a whispered promise. “I will find you.”

  Another tremor moved down her spine, and she gripped the empty urn with both hands.

  Find your center—calm yourself. Jim needs you. Nichole needs you. Your husband—

  Amy's thoughts ground to a halt. This entire unspeakable episode could be laid at his feet. Her anger at Jason steadied her.

  Two more quick breaths, a prayer to the Goddess for strength, and she pushed herself away from the wall. Her emotional stability returned as she navigated the steep staircase with the urn cradled in her arm. At the base of the kitchen stairs, she paused when Jason helped Jim through the broken back door.

  “Is Nichole all right?” Jim grimaced as he limped forward, his bloody side toward Amy, with his opposite arm thrown across Jason's shoulders for support. He faltered and took another quick step into the kitchen.

  “She’ll recover—with rest.” Amy’s gaze cataloged the big man’s injuries with growing concern. A scraped chin and bloody elbow were minor. And although he favored his right leg, it was the blood on his left side and down his leg that concerned her the most. “She's in better shape than you. Jason, sit him at the table. Jim, you'll need to remove your shirt.”

  Albert Fielding, their clo
sest neighbor, stood in the broken doorway. His clothes were covered with blood from assisting Jim into the house.

  “Hello, Mr. Fielding. Thank you for your help.” Her calm voice held no trace of her pent-up fury. She handed him the ceramic urn, retrieved the bucket from under the kitchen counter, and held it up for him to take. “Would you be so kind as to bring me water from the pump at the well? It flows much faster than the pump in the kitchen.”

  Mr. Fielding took the bucket in his other hand and disappeared out the back door with a nod.

  She turned her gaze from the retreating neighbor, flicked a brief glance at her husband, and focused on Jim’s muscular frame. “What happened to Jones?”

  Jim held his bloody shirt above his head as he twisted to view the gunshot wound along his side. Although the flow of blood had slowed, his denim trousers were soaked red from his belt to his boot. “He's dead. The fall broke his neck.”

  “I can't say I'm sorry about that.” Amy's hand touched the skin above the wound as her earth-sight penetrated. The injury had already begun to mend. “This will require stitches.” A quick appraisal of his other injuries told her his knee had been wrenched but would also heal at a remarkable pace. She raised her gaze from the wound to Jim's eyes.

  His dark stare held hers for a moment before he turned his head and nodded. “Do what you have to.”

  Jason’s blue eyes, so similar to Nichole’s, turned from the deep slice along Jim's ribs to Amy. “Shouldn’t we take him to the hospital?” Blond curls clung to the perspiration on his forehead, his face still red from the race to the house.

  Anger hardened Amy’s heart. “No. That won’t be necessary.” She stood and stepped to a tall linen closet tucked beneath the stairs. “I can manage a few stitches.” She brought Jim a folded linen cloth. “Hold this to the wound until I return.” The back door squeaked on its broken hinge. “Thank you, Mr. Fielding.” She took the urn from the neighbor's hand and pointed toward the floor. “Please, set the bucket next to Jim's chair.” She held the urn to her chest, withdrew additional linen towels from the closet, and then turned to mount the stairs. “I'll be right back.”

  “Here, let me help,” Jason offered, a footstep behind her

  Amy stopped and faced her husband. “No. Thank you. I can manage.” She tipped her head toward the back door. “You should wait out front for the coroner and police chief. I imagine they'll be along shortly.”

  “But Nichole—”

  “Is in good hands.” Amy turned from Jason's injured gaze and looked up the steps. “Besides, I doubt Nichole would care to see you just now.” Her clipped tone brooked no argument. Thankful the urn was only half-full, she pressed the linens under her arm, grasped her skirt with her hand, and ascended the steps.

  Merril and Nichole’s soft voices caught her ear as she passed the first room. She paused and looked in on the couple.

  Merril sat at the head of the bed, his back rested against the headboard. He held Nichole in his lap, the bedcover wrapped around her to keep her warm. His long dark hair, loose and dusty from the race to her side, curtained both their heads as he whispered to her.

  They both looked up as she entered the room.

  “I have water and towels for you. I'll put these in the room down the hall. This room needs to be—repaired.” Her gaze flicked toward the hole in the wall, then settled on Nichole.

  Nichole’s mouth moved without sound, and her crystal blue eyes filled with tears. She reached out her hand and whispered, “Amy.”

  Amy set the urn and towels on the dresser and took Nichole's hand. “My dear, what's the matter?” Amy sank to her knees beside Nichole and wrapped her arms around her. “Shh, now. You’re safe.”

  Nichole’s blonde curls nodded against Amy’s shoulder. “I know,” she rasped, her voice thick with emotion. “I just missed you so much.”

  “You missed me?” Amy exchanged a confused glance with Merril.

  Nichole pulled back and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I have to explain so many things.”

  Amy smiled and placed a hand on each side of Nichole's face. “We'll have time to talk soon, my dear. For now, you need to move to a different room and clean up.” Amy stood and stepped back. “Blackie Jones is dead.” She waved her hand toward the missing wall. “Jones and Jim went out the window and took the wall out as well. The porch broke their fall.”

  “What?” Nichole cleared her throat and looked from the hole in the wall back to Amy. “Is Jim all right?”

  “He took a jolt from the fall. He's injured, but nothing is broken,” Amy assured Nichole. The worst harm is from the bullet wound.”

  “Jim’s been shot?” Merril asked, shock and concern evident in his tone.

  “Yes. Luckily, the wound is only a deep graze, no penetration. It could have been much worse.” Amy retrieved the water and towels. “I'm going to put this down the hall. Merril, if you could help Nichole change rooms, and then fetch her travel case, I would be most appreciative.”

  Chapter 3

  Alyse James

  Earlier that day - South of Toronto, Canada

  Alyse James snuggled deeper into her grandmother's settee and took a sip of hot mint tea. Dark clouds hung heavy in the sky and a slow rain had fallen all day. Cuddled beside her were her two cats, Sabine and Anaïs, both black and completely content to lounge beside their mistress on this rainy afternoon. Her grandmother's grimoire lay across her lap. A forbidden treasure she paged through each time Mémé and her two uncles left the house. Today, they had taken the wagon to Toronto for a delivery, and told her not to expect them back until after dark.

  Uncle Bernard had tasked her to cut the fabric for the chair cushions to be delivered with the dining room set next month. Her uncles made fine furniture. She and Mémé produced the delicate petit point cushions. The fabric cuttings for the chairs were stacked by the canvas frame near the fireplace. Furniture craft earned their living, but it was not who they were ... or not all they were.

  Alyse had grown up with their family secret. Raised by her grandmother, Chantal James, and twin uncles, Bayard and Bernard, Alyse learned basic spellcraft before she could walk.

  She had a strong affinity for both Fire and Air elements, but lacked even the most rudimentary skill when working with Water or Earth. Uncle Bay teased her lack of water-skills unmercifully, but she knew what she lacked in Water or Earth, she more than made up for with Fire. For five years now, since her twentieth birthday, she had practiced her fine fire control becoming more than adept at its manipulation.

  She finished reading one of the fine control spells in the grimoire and consigned it to memory. She repeated the spell several times before she opened her dark eyes and focused on the lamp's flame across the room.

  “Viens à moi, feu!” she whispered, and held out her hand.

  Anaïs raised her head and watched as a portion of the flame jumped from the lamp to Alyse, and danced in the palm of her hand.

  Words weren't required to enact the spell, French or otherwise. She just liked the way French rolled at the back of her mouth. “You see, Anaïs? I can gather one flame from another and make it grow.” With a wave of her finger, the small flame in her hand stretched taller.

  Unimpressed, Anaïs rested her head on her paws and shut her eyes.

  Alyse closed her fist and snuffed the flame. She browsed through several more incantations and diary entries, when the spell to heal caught her eye. She’d read this entry before, even tried it several times on the injured animals her beloved pets gifted her. They always died. Sometimes quite horribly. “Don de guérison,” she said softly, which meant ‘Gift of healing’. She turned the page and moved on to find an interesting air spell. She could work air magic as well as she could fire.

  She gasped as her heart rate accelerated. Both cats hissed and jumped from the couch. Her vision tunneled as cold perspiration broke across her brow. A soft whimper escaped the back of her throat and she panted in terror.

  Is this me? No. Who then?


  She rode with someone in a dark space.

  Amy... Amy... The name whispered through her mind.

  Enough light entered to see the woman's hands test the dimensions of the tight space. They were locked inside a wooden box.

  Beyond the dark prison, the sounds of a fight—no, a beating. Fist connected to flesh and a cry of pain. Again and again. Helplessness consumed her, and she sobbed in sympathy and terror.

  A crash shook the floor beneath her. Pounding footsteps and a primal scream shocked her into silence. The shattering of glass outside her prison, and a single gunshot, galvanized her into motion. She screamed and pounded on the walls. “Let me out!”

  The door opened, and she blinked, blinded by the sudden brightness. A breath of freedom filled her lungs as strong arms pulled her from the box and embraced her.

  A man's breathless voice asked her—asked Amy—if she'd been injured.

  Emotion erupted in her chest, and she clung to the man's dusty jacket as her knees buckled.

  Alyse pulled back, separating herself from the terrified woman’s emotions. She'd heard her uncles talk about casting spells while twyned—how they could see through each other's eyes. They hadn't warned her about the emotional entanglement of a shared perspective.

  As best she could, Alyse lent the woman a calm strength.

  You are safe. Be calm.

  The woman turned to a blonde-haired girl who lay across the bed. One eye swollen shut, the other half-opened. The girl’s dress was torn from the throat to the waist, her breasts covered with blood.

  A tall dark-haired man wrapped the dead young woman in a blanket and lifted her to his chest. Tears left tracks on his dusty face and a low moan escaped his lips.

  Her twyned partner—Amy—refused to give up. She directed the man to put the body down on the bed, to empty her mouth of blood. Straddled above the body, she placed her hands on the girl's chest and stomach.