Beyond Bewitching

by Mellanie Szereto

  “Perfect, Mr. Dawson.” She gestured to the writing desk in the corner. “Please help yourself to paper and ink.”

  Within ten minutes, he’d jotted down all the information he required to assemble the document, once again assuring her he’d have it ready to sign on the fourth of January. While she saw no reason to rush the process with her ability to travel through time, the sooner she implemented the final steps of her plan, the better.

  He gave a polite nod as he left the study, and she smiled in return. More than two years of preparations and encouraging destiny in the right direction would lead her to the ultimate objective very soon.

  And this time, the end will justify the means.

  Chapter 2

  All the women of Wyndham House gathered at the front gate in their wool capes to see Patience off on her trip to New Orleans. A gusty breeze blew at their long cloaks, allowing brief glimpses of clothing—or lack of it—beneath. A few of the younger girls who worked in the kitchen dabbed at the tears streaking down their cheeks as they huddled together in the blustery chill.

  Patience swallowed past the lump in her throat, careful not to show the bittersweet emotion of leaving the houseful she’d mothered.

  They’ll be fine. I’ve taught them the value of independence and self-respect.

  The other residents of Encanto had come to say their farewells as well, a few of the men offering to escort her partway to Houston. She’d declined, patting the rifle beside her on the seat and the pistol in her lap—not that either would be necessary. A single unspoken whisper into the most malicious criminal mind would keep her safe. The pure of heart were much more difficult to influence.

  With a snap of the reins, the wagon lurched forward, her trunk bumping against the wooden side in the plank bed. A chorus of hollers accompanied waving hands, and she gave a curt nod. Saying good-bye would only serve to remind her that where she was going, most of the people she’d known in this place would be dead. Death seemed to follow in her wake, but such was the near-immortal life of a Triad elder.

  She kept her gaze trained forward as she rolled east past the bank, the general store, and the saloon. Soon, an endless sea of dull green grasses and stunted trees filled the horizon, the monotony split down the center by a pair of faint wagon tracks. The steady muffled clop clop of the bay’s hooves on the hard ground blended with the creaks of the wagon and shoosh of the wind across the open terrain.

  Cresting the gradual rise that led away from town, she scanned the eastern side of the slope. Her position provided a clear view to the next rolling hill and beyond. No one on horseback or in a wagon traversed the parallel grooves leading her toward Houston, but she couldn’t risk sending herself to her destination so close to Encanto. A local would find her abandoned means of transportation and conduct a search to make sure she was all right. Half a day’s ride might be far enough.

  She’d chosen the name “Patience” for a very good reason.

  * * * *

  The sun warmed her back as Patience adjusted the reins in her chilled fingers. She hadn’t seen another soul in six hours of following the worn east-west road toward Gonzales, and that suited her fine. No one would have any expectations of her arriving at a particular destination by a certain time. No travelers could report having seen her if they stopped in Encanto. She could disappear without a trace or chance of discovery.

  Scanning the south side of the trail, she let half a smile slide across her face when she spied a squatty live oak, its spreading lower branches hanging parallel to the ground. Several other gnarled trees reached straight out with their arms as well, looking as if they held up the darkening sky. The grove would likely hide the abandoned wagon for weeks before anyone spotted it. She’d be long gone by then.

  She guided the horse to the right, letting him make his leisurely way off the path and to the copse. The dry grasses hid the wheel marks well since the gusty wind had already flattened them to the ground. The coming rainstorm would cover even the slightest hint of her passing to all but the best-trained eyes.

  Steering the gelding around the farthest oak, they skirted the far-reaching branches, bumping over the exposed roots of the two largest trees. The jarring impacts sent the trunk thudding up and down in the back of the wagon and Patience bouncing in her seat. She held tight to the bench and ignored the jolts of pain in her hips. Bumps in this path beat the kind that could derail her plans.

  She’d pay with her life if she failed—not that her own life was valuable to anyone but Naga. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain by succeeding. Endurance was the key. Impatience ensured failure of the plot she’d undertaken when the first of seven Macska witches had begun her fertility cycle. Each tiny step had brought her along the journey that would end with the full moon’s setting on the twenty-fourth day of January—less than three weeks away.

  The wagon lurched to a stop, hidden behind thick foliage and wide boles on both sides. Climbing from the buckboard, she tended to the horse first, removing the leather traces that secured him to the shafts. Once free, he followed as she led him forward a few steps to take off the rest of the harness. With each piece in the wagon beside the trunk, she finally spent several minutes rubbing down the gelding. As hard as he’d worked, he deserved a bit of thanks for his aid in her plan.

  Giving him a last stroke from forehead to muzzle, she slipped into his mind.

  Your days of servitude are over. Run free.

  He nuzzled her shoulder and then trotted through the trees to the south, his black tail and mahogany rump fading into the deepening shadows.

  A distant rumble of thunder warned her that the coming storm would arrive sooner rather than later. She climbed into the back of the buckboard to retrieve the items she’d stowed in the trunk. No knock interrupted her search this time, and she withdrew the trio of objects she’d carried with her throughout all her travels—the only things she’d kept after her escape from the burning jail cell.

  She’d lied to herself for more than three hundred years, claiming they were reminders of those who’d betrayed her so long ago—reminders not to trust another soul ever again. She didn’t trust anyone, but the package contained three things meant to help her recall the past she’d left behind. Ignorance, superstition, and panic had led to her trial and the subsequent verdict. The people who’d convicted her hadn’t done it out of spite, only fear. Anger and hatred had festered inside her and eaten away her humanity.

  Tucking the cloth-wrapped parcel in her pocket, she hopped to the ground. She accepted the choices she’d made in her past, knowing she couldn’t change them and probably wouldn’t even if she could. Her experiences had made her the woman she’d become.

  Another rumble sounded, closer than the last, and a raindrop filtered through the dense leaves above her to land at her feet. After a final glance around the grove, she focused her energy on changing to ethereal form for the quick trip into the future.

  New Orleans. April 1890.

  Picturing an empty alley near Canal Street, she slipped through the overlapping folds of time to her destination.

  A cautious study of her surroundings assured her no one would witness the shift into her substantial form, the clothes she’d worn in her past life gone. In their place, she now wore the bustled gown and high-heeled boots of the time. A matching hat sat perched on her head, in the manner of a proper Southern lady. Even her hair was styled in the latest fashionable updo.

  Loud voices turned to shouting as she filtered in behind a group of prostitutes strolling past the alley. Her heels clicked on the brick street, blending with the footsteps of her cover and the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves as they pulled carriages along the thoroughfare. She stepped onto the raised sidewalk and ignored the hustle and bustle of the crowd.

  Gunshots erupted ahead of the scantily clad girls, and they scattered, their shrill screams mixing with the gunfire and shouts. The stench of anger, greed, and violence burned Patience’s nasal passages. She’d come to a den o
f evil souls, with the feuding mafias hovering between a balance of power and all-out war. Each faction wanted more power, more money, and more territory. Most were followers. Only one of the leaders could possibly fit with Naga’s demand for a replacement for Kazmer.

  Ducking into a storefront, she acted the part of a fearful woman out for an afternoon of shopping. With her palm pressed to her breasts, she feigned the rapid blinking of a fainting spell as she reached to steady herself against an ornate organ. Slightly off-key piano music masked the outside noises, and none of the customers seemed to notice the chaos beyond the doors of the instrument shop. She stiffened when a hand closed over her shoulder.

  “Y’all right, ma’am?” The drawl did nothing to dispel the underlying lack of true concern for her health. “Heathens. Their souls will suffer and burn in Hell for all eternity.”

  She wasn’t the least bit surprised at the man’s attire as she turned to face him. His black suit and white cleric’s collar named him a man of the cloth, but his irises were shot through with the darkness of self-righteousness and little regard for his own sins. He judged others according to a separate set of rules from the ones he abided by.

  Do as I say, not as I do. What a mantra to follow. You’ll get the shock of your life when you arrive at your eternal reward beside those you condemn.

  “I believe I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you for your kindness.”

  His gaze lingered far too long before he tipped his hat and walked toward a display of gold crosses. He glanced back at her several times, and she risked the violence in the streets rather than stay in the company of someone with such a vile disregard for women. The clients at Wyndham House may have frequented her establishment to have their own needs met, but they never treated their sexual partners with anything less than the utmost respect and consideration.

  Such was not the case for the preacher. Although his essence was nearly black, a man who believed himself superior to her had no place as an elder of the Black Triad. She’d see him put in the cages first. His filthy soul would make a better meal to Naga than a fellow leader.

  Gathering a handful of skirt in her fingers, she returned to the sidewalk, police whistles having replaced the sounds of shooting and Italian cursing. She weaved through the gawking onlookers toward another alley a few blocks from her present position.

  Today’s incident would give rise to further clashes between the Macheca-Matranga gang and the Provenzano crew, as well as Police Chief Hennessey. In October, Macheca would order the assassination of Hennessey. The mobster had the potential to become a Triad elder, but his absence would change too much of history.

  She couldn’t gamble on that influence. With so many other irredeemable men to choose from, she’d continue her search. At least she’d given some pretense to actually conducting a search, allowing Naga no reason to doubt her loyalty.

  A strange tingle raced along her spine as she slipped into the narrow walkway she’d planned for her escape. Someone was watching her.

  The preacher perhaps?

  Had he followed her?

  Opening the small purse at her waist, she stopped, as if checking how much money she had for shopping. After a few seconds, she exited the alley and crossed the street, hoping to lose whoever spied on her. A hurried pace to avoid a trolley took her into a gathering of people waiting to ascend the stairwell to the second-story shops. She slinked into a dry goods store behind a woman and her three children, the sensation of being watched disappearing.

  She approached the clerk at the register. “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a rear door I could leave by? A strange man has been following me, and I do believe he means to do me harm.”

  His eyes widened. He gestured to a teenage girl at the counter to join him at the register. “Why, of course! A woman just isn’t safe by herself in these dangerous times.”

  The girl curtsied at Patience. “Ma’am. Yes, Papa?”

  “Adeline, please show this lady to the delivery entrance. And be sure the back alley is clear before she goes.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Grasping Patience’s hand, the girl set off through a curtained doorway. “This way, ma’am.”

  They zigzagged through shelves of canned goods and stacks of boxes until they reached a wide door dead bolted from the inside.

  Peeking through a small eye-level opening, the girl slid back the lock. “There’s a gun shop to the left. Don’t go that way. About twenty paces to the right is another alley leading out to the next street over.”

  Patience nodded. “To the right then. Thank you, Adeline.”

  Not willing to lose a moment, she slipped into the narrow lane. A few strides took her out the peephole’s range, and she took advantage of the lack of prying eyes to once again drift into her invisible form. Curiosity almost sent her to Canal Street to discover the identity of her stalker, but common sense warned her to move forward with her plan.

  With her mind focused on Chicago during Prohibition, she again entered the pleated fabric of time.

  * * * *

  Shoving through the crowd outside the dry goods store, Tanner Vale scanned the steps leading to the upper level of shops. Where had she gone?

  A glance to the other end of the block told him John Grey hadn’t found her yet, either. Tanner pointed toward the shop and stomped inside at John’s wave. After two years of searching for Sarah Pennymead, they’d finally gotten a glimpse of her. He wasn’t about to lose her now—especially when she couldn’t possibly know anyone was looking for her. He and John had been damn careful to remain inconspicuous, leaving no hint at their real motive or the path they’d taken to find her.

  Tanner sauntered to the counter, smiling at the girl seated on a stool next to a barrel of pickles. “Howdy, miss. Can you wrap me up a couple pounds of jerky?”

  Giving a nod, she hopped down from her perch. “Plain or Cajun, sir?”

  “Cajun? Has a bite to it, does it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Cajun then, little lady. Gotta have something to keep me alert on the trail to San Antonio.”

  She giggled as she weighed his purchase. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, darlin’.” Tanner grasped the package when she handed it to him over the counter. He pursed his lips. “It’s prob’ly a long shot, but you haven’t seen a woman with pretty gray-green eyes and long black hair, have you? My cousin Sarah. She was s’posed to meet me at a restaurant down the street ’bout an hour ago, but she never showed up.”

  A second of hesitation from the girl put his instincts on high alert.

  He frowned. “I wouldn’t think nothin’ of it, ’cept she wrote in her last letter that some fella who was wanting to court her didn’t take kindly to bein’ told no.”

  The girl gasped. “No wonder Papa asked me to let her out the back door! I told her to take the alley to Common Street. If you hurry, you might catch up to her.”

  “Which way do I go?” His pulse jumped into high gear, and his feet itched to get moving.

  “Turn right out the door there.” She pointed to the entrance he’d come in. “Go to the first street and turn right again. The next street will be Common.”

  Dropping several coins in the counter, he jogged to the exit and turned in the direction John had gone. Luckily, the crowd had cleared with the excitement of the mafia shootout over. Tanner kept an eye out for his partner as he approached the corner.

  John descended the last few steps of this end’s stairway, signaling to Tanner. “No luck. You?”

  Not bothering with words, Tanner motioned for John to follow as he rounded the corner and scanned the area for Sarah. He picked up his pace, knowing his friend wouldn’t fall behind in the urgent search.

  As he passed an alley halfway down the block, he glanced down its length and a glint of iridescent mist caught his attention. Making a quick right turn, he raced along the narrow passageway to the door most likely to lead into the dry goods store. Several feet beyond, he spotted the telltale fog left in the wake of a tim
e-traveling witch.

  John’s panting breaths came from behind Tanner. “Damn it! We almost got her.”

  Chapter 3

  Adjusting the cloche hat on her horribly short hair, Patience vowed to leave the age of flappers as quickly as she possibly could. The shapeless dress hid every feminine curve she possessed, and the thought of actually touching the fashionably long cigarette holder to her lips brought a shiver of disgust.

  Her steps echoed on the Metropole Hotel’s marble floor, but she aimed for the bank of elevators with a purposeful stride. She had important business to attend to, whether Mr. Capone’s lookouts in the lobby liked it or not.

  The man was ruthless in regards to money and power. If he didn’t want competition, he simply removed his enemies and rivals—permanently. He’d need more than machine guns to snuff her out, though, and she had to see his eyes before she made her decision.

  While he’d proven to have an inkling of morality when the Great Depression hit Chicago by opening soup kitchens to feed the poor, no loyal person could rationalize having a wife and a mistress. The Triad had no place for a true loner, the three leaders dependent on each other for part of their strength.

  “Hold it right there, sister.” A burly man in a pinstriped suit stepped into her path, exhaling a putrid breath of smoke. “The Boss didn’t say nothing about letting no ladies comin’ upstairs.”

  Patience resisted the urge to grab his cigar, toss it to the floor, and grind it to dust with her heel. Instead, she batted her eyelashes at him and smirked. “I’m no lady.”

  Raking his eyes over her from head to toe, he laughed. “Well, you sure as hell ain’t no man, neither. What’s your name, doll face?”

  “Cherry Divine.” She winked as she locked gazes with him. A single thought was all she needed to take control of his actions and words.