In ancient times, it was said that people left sacrifices on crossroads for Hecate to consume; so tonight, the witches of Hollystone would leave an offering. In some legends, she wore a saffron cloak and one golden sandal. She was the blood-drinking queen of the underworld, and as the veils lowered and spirits passed between the worlds, they would appeal to her for help.
The coven had already cast a large circle that encompassed the crossroads, the stream, and a section of sand large enough for the bonfire that crackled and hissed in the darkling solitude of the pines. Earth, fire, water, and air conjoined within its borders. Each point in the six-pointed star they would form with their bodies had been marked with coloured candles set in glass jars. Together, they formed the Seal of Solomon, a mystical symbol with bisecting triangles that portrayed the harmony of the four elements: fire as the upward triangle, water as the downward, and air and earth in the centre at the bases. Mystics and wizards of old believed that to meditate upon the seal was to bring the power of transformation to the beholder.
As Sensara rose, Estrada grasped her hand and helped her from the stream to the altar. Sylvia then slipped off her robe and entered. Each of them would purify their body, mind, and spirit in the rushing water, and then stand skyclad throughout the ritual. To withstand the cold showed control over their bodies and spirits—to mark the Sabbat naked showed their commitment to freedom and the natural ways. Daphne went next, and then Jeremy.
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As Dylan stood and walked to his point on the seal, Maggie slipped off her robe and entered the stream. The first painful sensation that flashed through her body was followed by numbness. She feared her body would betray her with shivering and chattering teeth, but when she concentrated on a place deep within, she could immerse her body in the icy stream as calmly as if it were a tepid bath. Proud of her young athletic body, she emerged from the water feeling like Nefertiti, eyes lined in kohl, black hair wet and dripping down her back like kelp.
Estrada was last to slip into the stream. Observing his curves and shadows, Maggie understood why the Greeks had sculpted their warriors naked emphasizing the musculature, the genitals, and the exquisitely formed physique. He was a god. She shuddered at the sheer beauty of him—to love a man like that and have him love you back—surely that was the ultimate dream come true. Although she knew this was to be a spiritual experience, she couldn’t help but imagine making love to him—would give anything to have him be her first.
Entranced, she watched the crystal water swirl around his body, and then gasped as he emerged, a sleek and sinewy black wolf whose long straight legs moved with grace. Even his face had changed: nose elongated, large almond eyes glistening like obsidian, his countenance seemed edged in gold, while his sleek black hair slicked back from the smoky hollows of his cheeks.
Scanning the circle to see if anyone else had noticed this transformation, Maggie saw love emanating from Sensara, saw him absorb and return the love as glittering bonds like sunbeams connected the two of them.
Envy erupted and she fought to suppress it. They were obviously meant for each other, priest and priestess, the perfect pair. Still, she could not take her eyes off Estrada, the sleek black wolf. She had read about shamans who could shapeshift into animals. Was he one of them?
She thought of the Animalia Tarot cards Damien brought to school after he discovered she was interested in such things. Everyone seemed to be allied to a particular animal; reflected the animal’s qualities and could use its adaptations for personal power. Sensara’s slanted hypnotic eyes and lithe body reminded her of a cobra, especially the way she moved; and Daphne was like a grizzly bear, solid and comforting, with her dark skin and thick spiky mahogany hair.
Closing her eyes, Maggie heard the distant thunder of hooves beating the earth, then felt the presence of something ancient and powerful akin to her own soul: the horse. Glancing down at the image of the Celtic war horse on her arm, she broke out in a shiver of goose bumps. All her life, she’d drawn horses to her. Was it because the horse was her ally, her power animal?
Marking this as the moment when she understood this was no game, her breath caught. These were not just empty rituals like Father Grace performed when he poured the wine and doled it out in shots; reciting in Latin that this was the blood of Christ—In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Santi—as if the empty syllables of a dead language could have any real power.
People had the power to truly transform reality, could bend and shape energy with their minds. People made the magic, and that was why the church had hunted witches and murdered them, and perhaps, why this crazy man pursued them even now.
Estrada came then, his back tattooed in black angel’s wings, and stood before Sensara. Daphne reminded them all to ground as Sensara was doing. Maggie breathed deeply, relieved that she had read about visualization and practiced. Closing her eyes, she shot roots from the soles of her feet through the forest floor and deep into the earth—cosmic energy swirled from the stars through the crown of her head, down through her chakras, arms, legs, and feet, and finally into the earth. If a hurricane struck at that moment, she felt she could survive, as solid and rooted as an ancient oak.
Estrada picked up a basket from the altar, then came around to each of them and offered their bolines. These were the small white-handled knives they used to carve symbols in candles, or cut herbs or fruit, whatever was needed for the ritual. This night each person had cleansed and disinfected their tools and they would use them for a special purpose. Sensara had brought one as a gift for Maggie because she didn’t have one of her own and she had found them this place.
He came around again with a clay chalice that contained a few drops of liquid honey. One by one, each person used their boline to cut the flesh of one palm, then squeezed a few drops of blood into the chalice.
Maggie chose a new place in her palm; a place she had never cut before. She did not want to mix the scars of her past with the thrill of the present. After this night her life would never be the same.
When each had added their blood sacrifice, Estrada knelt in front of Sensara, dug a small pit and placed the chalice inside. This was their offering to Hecate.
On their way through the forest trails that night, Dr. Black had lectured her about Hecate. It was important, she said, to understand the symbology, not just perform the rituals. Fascinated by the professor, Maggie vowed that she would learn everything she could about mythology.
Favoured by Zeus, Hecate was given dominion over Heaven, Earth, and the Underworld, and the ability to grant wishes to humans. Those who died unnatural deaths clung to her. Canines could see these unsettled spirits and howled as she passed in the night with her disembodied entourage. It was said, she could be summoned at a crossroads because that was the place those who died unnatural deaths were often buried unsanctified by the church. Hecate’s compassion for humans who suffered injustice extended to revenge. Known by many epithets: Queen of Night, Goddess of the Underworld, or Goddess of the Witches, she was often summoned with offerings of cakes, blood, or meat.
Dylan told her that the coven often mixed elements of several ancient tales to create specific rituals. The gift of honeyed blood offered this night came from a Greek epic called The Argonautica. In the story, Hecate’s priestess, Medea, tells her lover Jason to placate the Goddess with an offering of honey and sheep’s blood while she bathes in a stream of flowing water at midnight.
Although the stories were ancient and the elements timeless; the crossroads, blood, and honey were all very real, and Maggie’s immersion in the stream brought her into immediate focus with the present. This was the magic.
Estrada picked up his wand from the altar and touched the middle of Sensara’s forehead where the third eye for spiritual seeing was said to be. As he began the chant of invocation, the others echoed each line in an array of tones that merged into one resonating thought: to draw down the ancient goddess through their high priestess.
Great Goddess Hecate,
&
nbsp; Who guards all boundaries and secret sites
We conjure you this hallowed night.
Grace us with your presence here
In this wild place where the elements collide.
Share with us your profound knowledge
For we are much in need.
Great Goddess Hecate,
Descend into the body of this thy priestess
Who offers her eyes, her lips, and all her cells and senses
In the name of truth and goodness.
As he spoke, Estrada used his wand to draw a pentagram across Sensara’s body. Maggie watched the traces of light that burst from the quartz crystal, seeing clearly the five-pointed star. Raising her arms to the moon, Sensara shuddered, and her shimmering aura expanded in the firelight. Stardust swirled about her head and shoulders.
“What is your desire Sandulf?” Her voice emerged as thick as the bloodied honey buried in the dirt.
“Knowledge,” said Estrada. “Remedy.”
“A panacea? Tell me what ails you.”
“A man seeks to harm us.”
“You invoked the man, as you invoked me.”
“Yes. But can we stop him? Catch him?” The passion burst from him like tears. “Can we undo what we have done?”
“The charm is astir. As momentum builds, ripples multiply.”
“Please,” he pleaded.
She shook her head. “I cannot halt what has begun. But know this:
As one of you has spun the charm,
Now none of you are safe from harm.
One who all felt they could trust,
Breeds deception cloaked in lust.
One will gain their heart’s desire;
While yet another pays with fire.
Before the dark of winter night,
Four souls pass over into light.
Once begun it cannot end,
But circles round as circles bend.”
In the silence that followed, Maggie felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Every molecule in every cell was fully charged, the energy spiralling through her body. Had she touched tinder in that moment, it would have ignited.
Sensara’s arms dropped and then her knees buckled. Catching her as she fell, Estrada held the priestess, who plunged her hands into the earth.
Maggie glanced around the circle at the others, noting the looks of bewilderment and confusion on their faces. She didn’t know these people very well, but the portent was alarming. Suddenly Maggie realized that in the vibrating rush of adrenaline, she’d stopped breathing.
She watched Sensara rise, naked, dripping, and intensely majestic, even as she stood before the fire shivering. Estrada wrapped her in a blanket. He then thanked Hecate and closed the circle. As he blew out the last candle, Maggie realized that nothing in her life had prepared her for the thrill that descended on her body like the sticky feet of a hundred thousand spiders.
8: Night’s Black Agents
“THAT WAS THE COOLEST thing I’ve ever seen,” said Maggie, as she and Dylan finally parted from the others. She’d scarcely been able to contain herself as they trudged back through the trails. While everyone else was solemnly mortified by Hecate’s prophecy, she was euphoric.
“Cool?” He caught her shoulder and spun her around. “Did you not hear what she said?”
“I heard. But, come on, Dylan. Wasn’t that the most fantastic thing you’ve ever seen in your life?” She danced on her toes. “Or, maybe you’re used to seeing a god or spirit or whatever that was talk through a human.”
“Maggie, this is no role-playing game.”
Snickering, she rolled her eyes, then clapped her hand over her mouth in a fake gasp. Though almost twenty, Dylan acted like he forty. He needed to loosen up.
“I knew you weren’t ready. That’s why I didn’t want you to come until you’d had the proper training. Perhaps, matured.”
She laughed outright then, unable to suppress her glee.
“It’s not funny!” Dylan shouted with frustration. “I saw the way you looked at him. It was bloody embarrassing.”
“Who? Estrada? Oh, come on Dylan. The man is a god. Who wouldn’t want to have sex with him?”
“You want to have sex with him? Jesus. All this time I thought you were innocent, but you’re as sluttish as—”
“What?” She slapped him so hard across the face, her palm stung. “No one calls me a slut.”
He touched his cheek, streaked red by her fingers. “He’s my mate. I thought…Ah, forget it.” He turned to leave, then stopped and glanced back. “Did you not hear the part about payin’ with fire? And people dying? Do you think magic comes cheap?”
“Don’t patronize me,” she said, and stamped her foot.
“Like a child throwing a tantrum.”
“Listen, if all you’re going to do is ridicule me, you might as well leave with them.” Sticking out her chin in defiance, she pointed down the street where the cars were pulling away.
“Right,” he said, and stormed after them.
“No. Wait,” she cried, with outstretched arms. “Dylan! Please…I don’t want you to leave. Just please don’t judge me. I have enough people judging me.” Her mother was at the top of that list. He turned slowly and scratched his head, then stood and stared as if waiting for an explanation. Sucking back the urge to scream, Maggie realized that she needed to act penitent even if she didn’t feel penitent. Anything was better than being left alone with all of these feelings. “Don’t you see?” she said, finally, with feigned innocence. “I’m just blown away.”
“I see. I just want you to see.” He followed her up the front porch steps and leaned against the cedar column with his arms crossed over his chest. Muscles taut, a tiny nerve twitched in his strong square jaw. He was handsome. Not a boy like Damien, but a man with the quiet strength of a mountain. If only he could learn to bend—but then rocks don’t bend. They chip and break and wear away and mostly last forever.
They stood awkwardly, watching the taillights disappear around the corner. When, at last, he raised his eyes to hers, they were glassy. Was he crying? Had she made him cry?
“Look. I’m not supposed to talk about Jade, but I think you need to hear this. Maybe then you’ll appreciate the peril—”
“Peril?”
“For Christ’s sake, Maggie. This is no reality show. The bastard burns women—”
“Good evening,” said Father Grace, his surreptitious approach unnerving. “Out trick or treating? A little old for that, aren’t you?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, the memory of Bastian’s bloody face still fresh in her mind. She’d eluded him the past three weeks. But now he’d cornered her by foisting himself into the middle of something that was none of his business. Dylan had just said something…something about burning women and she wanted him to explain.
“We need to talk,” said Father Grace. “I know you’re angry and you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Avoiding the priest? Dylan whispered. “How could you, Maggie?”
“It was easy, believe me.” The priest had snuffed out her magical evening like a candle.
“Have we met?” he said, turning to Dylan.
Holding tightly to his crossed arms, Dylan shook his head once. “Uh, no.”
“Perhaps you should introduce me to your friend,” he said. Lips tight, she refused to speak. “Come on, Maggie. You can’t stay mad at me forever. People have disagreements; sometimes they even lose it and slap each other.” Following his gaze, she eyed the fading imprints of her fingers on Dylan’s cheek.
She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “This is Father Grace. He’s the priest at my parent's church.”
The man was either observant or he’d been eavesdropping. She hoped it was not the latter, but she could not be sure. She tried to replay their conversation in her head, knowing just how far voices carried on a still night in the country. Now that she thought about it, she was almost certain he had not come out of the house, but had simp
ly appeared from the shadows. Had he been there all along? Hiding? Watching and listening?
“The collar gives it away,” said Dylan.
“And you are?”
“Dylan McBride,” he said, and reluctantly shook the outstretched hand. The tall muscular priest was a good head taller, and as he pumped Dylan’s arm, the veins in his neck stood out.
“McBride. That means, follower of St. Bride. I wrote a paper once on St. Bride, or St. Brigit, which is her other name. She’s the patron saint of Ireland.”
“Aye, she is. St. Brigit founded thirty convents in Ireland. Her flame burned in Kildare until her nuns were raped and driven out in the Twelfth century.” Dylan cleared his throat and spit sideways into the shrubs. “I’ve written papers too.”
Sensing the same adversarial energy, she’d seen the priest invoke in Bastian, goose bumps erupted along Maggie’s arms. She knew he could get physical and dreaded an altercation Dylan had no chance of winning. Her sudden shiver did not go unnoticed.
“Out with wet hair on a cold night like this, Maggie?” Father Grace asked, turning his attention to her. “You’ll catch your death—”
“Oh,” she stammered, touching her neck where the damp ends lay. He’d not seen her black hair before, her pale face, or wine dark lips. What must he be thinking? “There were some kids hiding with a hose down in the trailer park. The little brats sprayed us.”
“Halloween pranks.” With a slight cough he cleared his throat. “It amazes me that in the midst of the fall rains, God should provide such a clear sky on Halloween night. Even a full moon. It’s almost spooky. Of course, really it’s the Eve of All Saint’s Day.”
Dylan remained stoic, rooted to the floor.
“Did you need something else, Father?” she asked.
“Just to invite you in. Your father and I are drinking tea by the fire. Why don’t you and Dylan join us? It’s warm. You can dry your hair.” He winked.
“Maybe later.”
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 12