A Flame in the Wind of Death
Page 28
Simpson had been as much of a victim as the people he killed. His life had ended almost before it started, and he’d taken his revenge. And then paid for his crimes in the worst possible way.
There would be another body to autopsy and Matt had both a personal and professional interest in the ravages of Flynn Simpson’s corpse. But for now, for the first time in over a week, they could rest.
The case was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY: SAMHAIN
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Samhain: the Wiccan New Year, celebrated October 31, is one of the four Greater Sabbats, and it divides the year into winter and summer. Since winter and the New Year both begin on the same day, it is a time of beginnings and endings, change, and looking to the future. Witches perform rituals to prevent past evil and negative influences from tainting the future.
Wednesday, 8:32 p.m.
Salem Witch Trials Memorial
Salem, Massachusetts
Candlelight flickered from hundreds of white candles, giving the open space an almost holy glow.
The crowd gathered in the green space under the spreading branches of a cluster of locust trees. When that area proved too small, people flowed outwards to stand at the edges of the seventeenth-century Charter Street Burying Point, peering over the fieldstone walls.
They’d made their way from Gallows Hill, the park named in honor of the location of the eighteen infamous Witch hangings in 1692. Salem residents knew this wasn’t the actual site of the executions, and local lore whispered of the true location, but the park remained their annual gathering place. From there, hundreds of people had walked silently, lit only by flickering flames, down into Salem and into the lush green landscape of the Salem Witch Trials Memorial. As the crowd gathered, some had stopped briefly at one of nineteen roughhewn stone benches, leaving small tokens—a spray of flowers; a crystal; a card with a personal note; the stub of candle, its flame dancing in the breeze—beside the names of the lost.
Bridget Bishop, Hanged, June 10, 1692.
Rebecca Nurse, Hanged, July 19, 1692.
Martha Proctor, Hanged, August 19, 1692.
Giles Corey, Pressed to Death, September 19, 1692.
The Witches of Salem’s many covens formed the inner circle, men and women of the Craft gathering together on their most holy of days—a day when the veil between the spirit and the material worlds was at its thinnest, allowing for communication with the spirits. They were all in black, accented with jewelry and symbols in silver or gold, or the oranges and reds of flame and fire.
Standing just outside the circle, Leigh stood next to Matt. Warm candlelight flickered over him, highlighting the planes and angles of his face. When he transferred his candle to his left hand to slip his fingers through hers, she squeezed back in return.
They were flanked by friends who had come to pay their respects for those who had gone before them. Bree stood to her right, and on Matt’s far side were Paul, Juka, Kiko and her fiancé, Greg. Each held a thick white candle, the flames casting a soft glow over their faces.
Leigh thought she’d never want to see fire again, but, somehow, the purity of the candlelight mixed with the intent of the ceremony served to wash away all negative connotations.
She recognized several faces in the crowd—the young woman from Draw Down the Moon on her second visit, as well as Jocelyn and Sherry. And then Elanthia stepped forward into the center of the circle, and the crowd hushed.
She cast a circle with her wand as she walked clockwise around the ring. “I cast around us now a circle of power, inviting all Spirits that are correct for this rite to be with us this Samhain night.”
Others joined the ceremony—some dressed in elaborate masks, some forming an archway of boughs for celebrants to pass through, others shook bells, their silvery peal ringing out into the clear, dark night. Crescent-shaped sabbat cakes were blessed and shared by the participants. Winter was embraced as summer’s passing was marked. For in death is life, and in life is death, and the Wheel is ever turning.
Then Elanthia spoke again. “Mother Goddess. We raise our voices to you, in memory of those who have gone before us. We honor them. We remember them. We commit them to your peace.”
Elanthia stepped back toward the circle, and the Witches instantly separated, taking her back into their ranks.
Around them, voices murmured the names of those they’d loved. Those they’d lost.
Matt’s arm slipped around Leigh’s waist, drawing her closer, and she tipped her head against his shoulder, both comforted and comforting. “Nathaniel and Grace Abbott,” she murmured.
Matt bent his head, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Susan Lowell,” he whispered into her hair.
Down the line came quiet murmurs in turn.
“Cody Buchanan.” Bree’s voice was rough, as if she was struggling hard to contain emotion.
“Hoor Ahmadi,” Juka said, casting his eyes skyward.
Paul raised his candle. “Tracy Kingston.”
“Flynn Simpson,” Kiko whispered.
Voices rose around them, adding names of loved ones and those that were missed, sending them out into the star-drenched night sky.
Somewhere, in a tiny part of Leigh’s heart, she hoped that her father was watching. See, Dad? I’m not alone anymore. I still miss you, but I’m part of a group now. I’m going to be okay. And Matt and I are going to make sure no one smears your name.
There was still work to do—paperwork to close the case, evidence from yesterday’s fire to go over, possible charges to file against Dr. McAllister. Her father’s case to investigate.
But not now. Not tonight.
She pressed her face against Matt’s shoulder. She felt the answering stroke of his thumb against her side and a warm pressure as he dropped his cheek against the crown of her head. She sighed quietly, at peace.
Everything else could wait.
Tonight was for memories. Of parents. Lovers. Friends. Victims.
So she stood under the night sky, awash in candlelight. And remembered.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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A scientist specializing in infectious diseases, Jen J. Danna works as part of a dynamic research group at a cutting-edge Canadian university. However, her true passion lies in indulging her love of the mysterious through her writing. Together with her partner Ann Vanderlaan, a retired research scientist herself, she crafts suspenseful crime fiction with a realistic scientific edge.
Ann lives near Austin, Texas, with her three rescued pit bull companions. Jen lives near Toronto, Ontario, with her husband and two daughters, and is a member of the Crime Writers of Canada.You can reach her at jenjdanna@gmail.com or through her website and blog at http://www.jenjdanna.com.