It was a typically warm humid evening in June five years ago when I bid my goodnights to Mama and the assortment of our brethren in the huge kitchen. The ones who were still awake were sipping wine or tea, reminiscing and gossiping as per usual. I had come over to help with the preparations for Litha, our midsummer celebration. Tired, I simply climbed the stairs to my old attic bedroom and switched on the window air conditioning unit before peeling off my clothes and curling into bed. Chilled air swirled over my body, and I drifted into a contented sleep, dreaming of the bonyefyres we would light at a farm out in Bedford, owned by a smaller coven with whom we were invited to celebrate. The dancing and singing and revels would last all night and long into the next day.
When I awoke, I knew instinctively it was the wee hours of the morning. But it was much too warm. And wrong, something was wrong. I found myself in the back garden, the side of my face pressing into the rich soil we used to grow herbs. I was still naked, but caked with mud and smelling of burning wood and hot iron. My vision cleared. Red lights danced across the leaves, and shouting scoured my eardrums. Struggling to my feet, I looked up to see the back windows of my beloved home explode out into the night, fierce flame grabbing at the sky.
Nobody heard me screaming. I staggered toward the house, meaning to fight my way inside. Their names ran through my mind―Violetta, Tansy, June, Victoria, Annie, Althea, Jane-Marie, Mary Cecilia, Heddy, Harmony, Bettina, Zyla, Granny, M’Laine, Mama.
Mama.
In the shifting light of the burning house, I saw I was spattered with blood, along with the dreck from the yard.
Terrified, I ran between the houses toward the front porch. Holly, roses, and azalea scratched at my legs and arms.
A man stepped from the shadows, grabbed me, turned me to him.
He was hooded, his face concealed in darkness, and gave off magic like a furnace gives off heat. He propelled me toward the front yard, shoved me roughly toward a knot of women who fussed over me, then disappeared.
Everyone heard me screaming now. I screamed to find the figure in the hood, to bring me my mama, to put out the damned flames. I was hoarse and sobbing and everything ran together until I sank beneath a wave of unconsciousness.
I have been called many things in my life: bossy, talented, moody, strange. But I had never been called crazy. Mentally unstable. Touched. At the hospital, I was given a mélange of drugs, the psychotropic raft to which I would cling for months. When they were satisfied with my compliance, they let Tina ease me back into consciousness day by day until I could stand to be unmedicated for longer and longer. And when I came up for air, I learned the full and horrifying story.
They said I had started a fire. That the house had been decimated before the conflagration collapsed half the place. Nothing much left but smoldering embers and charred ruins. And me.
The trial went quickly.
The streetlights began to flick out as I ran beneath them. My legs pushed harder and harder as the memories flooded my brain. I had no idea how long I’d been going, but judging by the part of town I was in and the lightening in the east, it had been a while. More than an hour. The homes were narrow and long―shotgun neighborhood. I came to a stop at a corner, breathing heavily, and with a start, realized I was a few doors down from Heather Mumford’s house.
The street was still quiet and dim. It was a little early for most regular work folks or early exercisers to be out and about, so I went around the corner to the alley running down the block, Dorcha beside me. Naturally, Heather’s place was deserted. The only movement came from the yellow caution tape fluttering in the breeze. I flipped the catch on the gate, ducked, and darted up the back steps. The deadbolt was no match for my lock-picking spell (a gem cultivated in junior high that let me replace mean girl Mandy Nornbock’s hairspray with Kool-Aid and then later to steal all of the awful music teacher’s vodka, which she wasn’t supposed to have in the first place so how could she rat me out?).
The house was gloomy and full of stale, mushroomy-smelling air. All kinds of things I hadn’t noticed before. The kitchen was decorated in a heavy dose of florals. A tablecloth bloomed with pink cabbage roses. Needlepointed pillows towered on the couch. A wallpaper border of ivy adorned the walls. Scented candles sat on nearly every flat surface; Demons tended to be self-conscious about smells when they came to Earth. The place looked like some Iowa farmer’s grandmother had lived here. Except for the parts where a massive mud beast had tracked in half a ton of filth.
Standing in the dining room, without a horde of police and FBI milling around, I could see now that the golem must have come through the backdoor, ransacked the kitchen, stomped into the dining room, and ended up with Heather in the bathroom. How terrified she must have been, running into probably the only room in the house with a lock, and ending up trapped.
Past the little four-seater table was the hall. Dorcha sniffed everywhere, her ears twitching. I pushed open the bedroom door, ignoring the sign that said this room had been checked already by the investigators. The open closet revealed a rack of neatly organized clothes and shoes in rows. The bed was made and on the table stood a lamp and a stack of books, including the New Earth Bible. I guess the struggle with the golem hadn’t made it to the bedroom. On the bathroom wall, the body had been removed, leaving a Heather-shaped space in the mud.
In the front room were cheap pressboard bookshelves and a large desk covered in stacked books and papers. Clearly a laptop had been there and removed. Someone had left the small desk light on, and it shone down on the pages of a thick volume. The open page was nearly covered in a layer of yellow post-it notes with very neat feminine handwriting. More books and papers littered the floor.
I leafed through some of the books, taking care with all the notes and marked pages. There were diagrams and mathematical equations, runes and sigils. Some were newer-looking, some very old, and in varied languages; I saw Latin, English, Old English, German, and a squiggly script I didn’t recognize.
I sat down and started sifting through one of the stacks on the floor. Then anther. Dorcha prowled around the room, sniffing.
Then, I noticed something I definitely did recognize. It was the book my little photocopy had come from. The photocopy I’d found at the botanical garden. From the book Mr. James H. Patterson Esquire Junior had sold to Cara Courtland. The book she’d used to conjure golems.
Then the back door squeaked open. Swell.
SEND THE TRESSPASSERS BACK TO HELL
Bumper sticker
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
orcha’s head shot up in alarm. “Hide,” I hissed. She leapt at the little flowered loveseat and midair, shrunk to her housecat size. Then she slipped neatly underneath and blended into the shadows.
The room didn’t afford much in the way of hidey-holes for me so I invoked my invisibility spell. The thing about invisibility spells… it’s hard to tell if you are invisible without a mirror. I wedged myself between two bookshelves under a high window and tried to think invisible thoughts.
Imagine my surprise when none other than Rev. Dr. James H. Patterson, IV, Esq. walked down the hall past the door.
Fighting the urge to speak, I took a slow breath. What the Hell!
I could clearly hear his footsteps (not much for sneaking, that one) as he checked the other rooms and when he came back, he glanced over his shoulder, then around. When his eyes turned to stare right at me, I could see his brain working to make sense of what had to be conflicting information. He could probably see something, but his brain was telling him the house was empty, because it should be empty.
Patterson gathered up several of the books on the desk, reading the titles and discarding them onto the chair. A few went into a tote bag emblazoned in orange with, I GAVE TO THE FUND FOR THE ARTS. He prowled around the room, picking and poking.
I said, in my most authoritative voice, “Returning to the scene of the crime?”
I kid you not, the man jerked, squealed like a wee little girl, and dropped th
e bag, which thumped on the floor. I dropped the invisibility spell and put my hand on my hip while he recovered his breath.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered.
“Was it you? Sending nasty ghosts to my house to possess my guests?” I demanded. He managed to look outraged. “Speak up, sir.” I know I couldn’t appear that imposing, still a little sweaty and in my running gear, hair sticking out everywhere. But he shook like a leaf in a hurricane.
“I just… I came to get some books,” he stammered.
“Oh? Which ones?” Patterson looked positively terrified now.
“I, uh… I… uh, I…” He fumbled and mumbled. I thought for a second he was going to make a break for it.
“Books on …?” I casually pried open the volume I was still holding. “On, say, ancient rituals of the Kabbalist Jews? Maybe a Gnostic spell book or two?”
A teeny spark of understanding kindled in my mind. Like when you guess the phrase on Wheel of Fortune, but you need Vanna to turn over a couple more letters, just to be sure.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, she had it from Mrs. Courtland. Heather called and said I should come take it back. So no one else can use it.” He swallowed and grew bolder, the fear ebbing from his piggy face. “I don’t have to tell you anything.” He picked up the tote. “Give me that book.”
“You were going to sell it, weren’t you? That’s called double-dipping. You gave up your rights when you took the money. All sales final.”
“She’s dead! God rest her soul, but she’s dead. What does she need this for now?”
Not carrying anything but my house key meant I couldn’t show him my badge. I went on anyway. “I’m FBI. And I’m a Witch. So, spill! Who wants this book, James?”
He winced. He appeared about to run, or hit me, or both.
I took a deep dramatic breath and said, “Enflamous!” The tote caught fire. It’s a neat trick―something only appears to burn. It’s not even hot. This is great for birthday parties. And, apparently, frightening middle-aged men. He squealed again. Dropped the bag again.
His face was a satisfying swirl of horror. “Oh God, oh God, please don’t kill me,” he babbled as he held his arms up in defense.
“Just tell me what I need to know, Jimmy.”
He closed his eyes. “If you don’t kill me, they will,” he whispered. “Give me the book, I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Hmmm…” I feigned thinking with a finger to my chin.
Dr. Reverend Patterson gave a little grunt of relief.
“I’m going to tell you then I’m going to move away. I’m done with this. Done, do you hear me? I’m moving to London.” He sniffed. “I can do much better with my business there than in this backwoods―”
“Yeah, yeah, save it for the Queen. Spill it.”
“Heather was an acquaintance. We’ve known each other for several years. Anyway, she invited me to this Bible study she was going to. I thought, hey, why not? Maybe I would meet someone interesting.”
“You don’t go to Church of the Earth?”
Patterson shook his head. “I’m agnostic by way of the Quakers.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “The group, the Bible study, they were just really… fringe. I went maybe twice, that was enough. I heard them talking about how they wanted to build an army for Jesus to defeat the evil that the Rift brought to us. Going on about being the hands of God. The army of God. I thought this was going over the top, to be perfectly honest. Not my cup of tea, really. But then Cara wanted this book. Heather mentioned it to the group that I deal in books, and one thing led to another. Cara came to me because, well, my shop, and said she thought it was interesting, nothing more. Kind of like when kids play with Ouija boards or something. She felt like she was doing something a little bit dangerous but not enough to be bad.”
“But Ouija boards really are dangerous,” I said.
“Yes, well… So, Heather called yesterday. She was scared. I don’t know what about, but she said she wanted me to take the book back. Didn’t say why. I told her I’d come over today.”
“So you broke in when she didn’t answer?”
He shook his fat, bald head and pushed his glasses up again. “I saw someone walking around in here. I thought it was her. Turns out it was you.” His tone had grown imperious. “I did not do anything to Heather. Or Cara. I sell books. That is all. I don’t know how all of this happened.”
You know how people say ‘it hit me like a ton of bricks’? Yeah. It all came rushing to me at once―the Arcana, the mud, the murders, the church, Charlie Bartley’s request.
“It’s not an accident,” I said, half to myself.
“Excuse me?” Patterson asked.
“It’s not an accident. Not a coincidence. Antaura, Gardener West, the whole kit and caboodle, it was a plan.”
We stared dumbly at each other for a minute.
“Okay, can I just have that book now?” he inched toward me. I held up my hand.
“Wait. Why were some of the victims from Antaura’s entourage? Like Ben Koby.” Electricity lit up my brain. “He was a Demon. Bacchus Demons. Jezebel Demons. With Humans.”
The bookman wiped a hand on his forehead. He was getting pretty sweaty. “Heather said they were practicing. Cara and the other people. They wanted to go after the Red Queen, but they didn’t know how to work the golem.” He pointed to the book. “That thing is so old, there are pieces missing. No one can translate some of that stuff. I didn’t know that’s what she was going to do, I swear.” He looked at me with pleading eyes. “And I don’t know what happened to Heather.”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
Patterson looked torn between running away as fast as his pasty white legs could carry him, and trying to wrest the book from me.
“What are you going to do with this if I give it back?” I held the book aloft.
I could see the struggle between “make a lot of money” selling to a mystery bidder and “wash my hands of this whole thing” play out on his pale face.
Resignedly, he said, “Burn it. Burn it, and then I’m moving. I’m done here.”
“Good answer. Let’s go.”
I grabbed his arm and dragged him into the backyard, where a rickety charcoal grill stood in the grass. I lifted the lid and set the book on the grate.
Raising a hand, I looked to Patterson. He nodded vigorously, so I brought my hand down and lit the thing on fire. Not fake fire this time, the real deal. It caught surprisingly fast and was soon a smoldering pile of ash.
“Run along, nerd. You’ve done the right thing.”
He turned to go.
“Oh wait,” I called. “Can I catch a ride? And my cat, too?”
“The Lord has rejected you because you welcome foreigners from the East who practice magic and communicate with evil spirits” (Isaiah 2:6)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
n hour later, I was freshly showered, wearing jeans and a clean shirt, and pulling up to Charlie Bartley’s house. I managed to convince Dorcha to stay home, on account I was just going on a fact-finding mission. Thankfully I’d written down the address from his check. It was a nice two-story in an upper-middle class neighborhood in Prospect. The yard was tidy and kept, and a newish black BMW sat in the drive.
“What… why are you here?” He yanked me inside and slammed the front door.
“Charlieeeee, you got some ‘splainin to doooo,” I said.
“You weren’t supposed to come here. To my house.” His panic was growing.
“Is Ann home?” I sauntered into the great room. All the houses built around the same time in the 90’s had these ‘great rooms.’ Big living room/dining room/kitchen combo areas. I sat on the couch, running my hand over the stiff plaid wool upholstery.
“No, but she’s due home any second.” He looked out the window. “Where’s your car?”
“Hidden.” I waved dismissively. “Don’t worry. Come here. Let’s talk.” I stretched out, hands behind my head.
&nbs
p; Charlie sat on the edge of an armchair at my feet. The place was super-tidy and full of what I suddenly realized were very patriotic, Earther items. An oil painting of George Washington kneeling in a ray of sunlight in a forest hung over the fireplace. Several wood carvings of trees sat on the baby grand piano. Framed quotes from the Bible about the Earth hung on the walls. Somewhere in the house, a radio broadcast a certain ultra-conservative Earther talking about how the Fanger-loving President was letting the country go to hell in a handbasket.
The mental gymnastics these Earther types have to go through to push their line of thinking…
“See, the thing is, Charlie, I think I’ve got this all figured out. You came to me because you know what Ann’s been up to. You know she’s got a rootin’ tootin’ Bible-thumping posse of Earthers out for blood.” I propped my feet on the glass-topped coffee table. “And you wanted me to run interference for you.” The color drained from Charlie Bartley’s face.
“The problem now that is that the Queen of Abyzou is going to kill me if I don’t bring Ann down. Ann is going to kill me if I don’t get my blood back from her and stop her from building her mudmen army. The way I see it, if you don’t ‘fess up, more people are going to die, and there’s a good chance one of them might be your wife. Or you. Or me, and I’m not letting that happen.”
Charlie kept shaking his head. He looked more like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar than a guy helping his wife do things that were illegal six ways to Sunday. “Look, I met Ann in seminary school. We had several classes together, eventually got paired up for a project. I couldn’t believe the luck. I’d seen her around, and I thought she was, you know… just a great girl.
“We had the same values, came from the same kind of upbringing. We’re both PKs. Preachers’ kids, and that’s a real point of common ground for us. We went on our first date to a worship music concert and were married a year later, just before I started dental school. We felt like God brought us together.” He stopped and looked out the back windows to a yard with an elaborate swing set.
Muddy Waters (Otherwhere Book 1) Page 19