Witch in the Wind (Bandit Creek Books)

by Brenda M. Collins

  As the aroma from the cellar grew stronger, she realized it was the same smell from that first evening outside the house, then later today at the bank.

  “I knew it was familiar, Busby.”

  Even as a small child she hadn’t liked the strange smell that seemed to drift up from the root cellar. Her mother had said some of her concoctions were a bit stinky until they settled.

  Avy nudged Busby to move, tucked the flashlight into the waist of her jeans, and followed him down the stairs. The click of his nails on the wood was as reassuring as his presence.

  As soon as her foot settled on the dirt floor at the bottom of the steps, her heart jolted in her chest. Busby dropped to a crouch and growled. The cellar lay in ruins. Jars smashed. Baskets of herbs up-ended. Strange objects strewn everywhere. Some of the debris had landed on a rough hewn table that was pushed up against the far wall. Was this part of the original break-in? Or had someone come back a second time while she was out?

  She tensed her body ready to bolt back up the stairs. She squinted, scanning every corner for movement or shadows. Nothing. Maybe the sheriff hadn’t thought to check the cellar. Why would anyone ransack a cellar anyway? Avy forced herself to breathe in slowly through her nose. The dust tickled making her eyes water as she tried not to sneeze.

  Busby must have decided the scene was secure because he was no longer growling. What could anyone want in the cellar? Her heart pounding, and senses on high alert, she moved further into the small room looking for some sign of what the intruder was looking for. Even the smaller boxes and jars had been opened and their contents dumped. Something small then, but what? She pulled her flashlight out of her waistband and kept moving forward, with Busby matching each step. Her gaze followed the sweep of the flashlight from side to side. The beam suddenly bounced back to her from something beneath the table. She bent over and found a battered old trunk with worn leather straps, elaborate brass banding and corner guards. It was covered in decades of dust and almost completely hidden in the shadows.

  “Looks like the thief missed this,” she said. She pulled it out and knelt down, then eased open the lid with one hand while using the other to angle the light.

  Busby nosed up beside her. The dust made him sneeze. “Bless you,” Avy said, without taking her eyes away from the strange piece.

  The trunk seemed to be empty. She reached inside and felt around the inside being careful not to use too much pressure. If this was a family heirloom, she didn’t want to damage it. Her fingers tingled as she slid them around the bottom. Busby nudged her from behind and she almost fell in. “Stop that!” she snapped at him, her nerves at breaking point, and instantly felt sorry. He didn’t back away but this time nudged her elbow forward.

  She sat back on her heels and looked at the dog nose to nose. “You are a strange one, Busby. Sometimes I almost think you’re trying to talk to me.” Busby licked the tip of her nose and whined.

  She shook her head, but went back to her examination of the trunk. Again, Busby nudged her arm towards the back. Leaning further in, she ran her palm along the back side of the trunk. The contact sent prickling heat into her hand but didn’t hurt her so she continued up the side towards the upper edge. It started to sting but Avy forced herself not to pull away. When she connected with the left hinge, static jolted through her. Before she could jump back, something smacked into her knees from the front of the trunk.

  Shaking the feeling back into her hand, Avy sat back on her heels again and looked at the hidden drawer that had been obscured by the brass banding around the base of the trunk.

  “I didn’t see that coming. A hidden compartment? This is starting to feel like a spy movie.”

  She shuffled back a bit so she could pull the drawer out completely. It seemed to hold only one item. A dark blue velvet sack. Bringing it out carefully, Avy untied the string at the neck and eased her hand inside. She slid out a red lacquer box. Avy recognized the design on the lid, a gryphon.

  Busby nosed the box and sniffed. He was not showing any sign of fear and had stopped growling like a jungle cat ready to strike.

  “You figure it’s okay for me to open it.”

  She studied the box from all sides but didn’t gain any new insights so, being careful with the hinges, she lifted the lid. Inside lay a very old book. Its cover was intricately stamped leather, although Avy couldn’t make out the design in the dim light. It was held closed with rough, raffia-like rope.

  “Wow.” She turned the book over in her hand. Gently. “This is really something.”

  She looked at Busby. The shadows were playing tricks with her vision. Busby’s deep brown eyes seemed to be glowing. A trick of the light. At some point, he’d picked up the velvet pouch with his mouth. She gave it a little tug and he released it. “I’d better hold onto that.”

  She slid the book back into the box, slid that back into its pouch and stood up. For a moment, the edges of her periphery darkened and she thought she was going to be sick. She leaned on the table, closed her eyes and waited for the sensation to pass. Every joint and muscle in her body ached with fatigue. But even more so, her spirit was exhausted. Tired of fighting the overwhelming grief. Tired of fearing a future without her parents. Tired of putting one foot in front of the other to get through each day since she’d gotten the horrible news about her parents’ death.

  Busby whimpered and rubbed against her leg. She opened her eyes.

  “I know I can count on you, my boy.” She rubbed his ear and took a deep breath to steady herself. She remembered from her college psychology course that grief was a process and she just had to get through the stages. She was going to survive this. She felt her eyes watering and blinked to keep from crying. She didn’t even know what she wanted to cry about right now. Her emotions were swinging all over the place. Maybe grief did that to you. Made you emotionally unstable.

  When she turned to head back upstairs, she noticed that not all the shelves had been ransacked. The bookshelf that backed onto the stairwell had been mostly spared. Only the top shelf had been cleared but the bottom three lay undisturbed, as if a child had stopped mid tantrum. Had the thief been interrupted?

  A visceral force sparked within her core, vibrated with energy, churned and grew. Rage.

  Her parents must have come home unexpectedly. They interrupted the thief. That’s why they were killed.

  The rage consumed her. Her vision blurred to a red haze. Thoughts and images swirled around in her head, picking up speed as they went. The energy seemed to bubble up from deep inside her and spill into the room. She swallowed hard fighting the bile rising in the back of her throat. Fighting to regain her control.

  Sucking in her breath was painful, so she raised her hand to her throat and massaged it with her fingers.

  A second breath, a third, and the vise around her lungs loosened a fraction. It took more after that but finally she could draw in a full breath.

  She became aware of Busby tugging on her pant leg and howling. She almost thought she could hear him repeating, Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. But that was crazy. She dropped her hand to his neck and rubbed thinking to soothe his anxiety. His hackles were standing on edge. She turned fully towards him, looked squarely into his fear-filled eyes but spoke calmly. “It’s okay, baby boy.”

  She drew in another deep breath to calm them both and released it slowly. “We’re okay. But we’re going to make sure the bastard pays for what he did.”

  She suddenly became aware of muffled rumbling noise over her head. She swung her gaze around the room but that clearly wasn’t the source. It was coming from upstairs. She raced up the steps, two at a time with Busby close on her heels.

  The acrid smell from the cellar clung to her as she stepped into the main floor. She stopped and looked. The house was in shadows. She had been in the cellar no more than ten minutes. Fifteen minutes tops. Surely it was too early for sunset. Yet the light in the living room and hall had dimmed to gray.

  High winds rattled the wind
ows and whistled around the house. What the hell? She glanced at the wall clock. It was barely past six in the evening. She hadn’t heard a storm advisory.

  Above the chaos of the storm outside, she heard someone hammering on the front door. It sounded like someone was going to beat it down if she didn’t answer it. She strode down the hallway as it rattled in its frame. A muffled voice reached her. Someone was out there. She reached for the doorknob. Before she had a chance to yank on it, a blast of air smacked the door open, knocking her back with a painful crack to her chest, and smashed it into the wall.

  Marcus stood framed in the doorway. His long slicker was flapping open. Loose strands of his wavy dark hair whipped his face.

  She stood facing him, trying to catch the breath the door had knocked out of her. His mouth was moving but she couldn’t make out his words after the crash of the door and the noise from windstorm outside. She rubbed her ears with the palms of her hands trying to hear what he was saying.

  “Avy. Stop the storm. You’re going to bring down a rock slide,” he shouted.

  Chapter Nine

  Marcus had stopped to check on his patients at the vet clinic when the storm hit out of a clear blue sky. With no warning, it roared over Crow Mountain and barreled into the town. And Marcus had known it wasn’t natural. It was Avy.

  Just as her door opened, he felt a small vibration rumble through the mountain. Anger scalded his veins as he stepped inside ready to get up in her face and order her to put a stop to this.

  Then he looked at her more closely and took an instinctive step back. Her face told him he’d already startled her and confirmed she was having some sort of melt down. But it wasn’t the witchy tantrum he’d expected. Her aura pulsed a deep royal blue, dark as midnight with a thick edge of blood red. It throbbed like a heartbeat and shimmered with Guardian power. Her lips showed none of the petulance he’d seen from young witchlings in The Otherland when their emotions overrode control of their magic. Hell’s bells. He had to stop her before she brought the whole mountain down on their heads.

  Her startling blue eyes locked on his. “What?”

  He tried to speak more slowly, calmly. To reason with her. “You’re going to start a rock slide. You have to stop this.”

  She blinked and shook her head. “Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”

  Her expressive face hid none of her emotions. Through the shock of his sudden appearance, he could also see traces of confusion, sorrow, the remnants of anger. She didn’t know she was doing it. She didn’t know she had magical powers. But even if he was wrong, it no longer mattered. There was no more time to be careful or delicate. What did she need to know to handle this? The bare bones.

  He backed her further into the hall and slammed the door against the wind. Something crashed in the yard. It sounded like a patio table hammered into a cluster of trees. The metal squealed as the wind pummelled it against the sturdy tree trunks. With a final wrenching protest, the table freed itself and bounced across the yard and away. Marcus held Avy firmly and tried again. “Avy. You’re a witch.”

  At first, he wasn’t sure she’d heard him over the roar of the tempest outside. Suddenly her face transformed from shock to anger. Mad was better than stunned, he thought. Maybe. She shook his hands off her shoulders with one sharp jerk. “I know that,” she spat at him. “My parents raised me in their religion—Wicca.”

  He couldn’t stop his own voice from rising. “Not a religion,” he growled leaning so close to her face that he could smell her perfume. “Magic!”

  She stepped back as if he’d hit her. Her mouth was open but no words emerged.

  He heard another voice. It seemed to be in the room and in his head at the same time. Doesn’t know.

  Marcus glanced around and then down for the source.

  Pushed up against Avy’s leg, the familiar was staring up at him with jet black eyes. Willing him to hear. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t know.

  Goddess protect us. Only the witch who called the storm could stop it. And Avy didn’t even know she’d done it.

  It was hard to keep the edge of panic out of his voice as more debris whistled past the nearest window in the living room. A lawn chair. Closely followed by a garden umbrella. He had to make her understand. Quickly.

  Marcus took a calming breath and, gently this time, took her hand. “Avy, you are an elemental witch, as were your parents. Your magic is out of control. You have to stop this storm.”

  He could see realization sweep across her expression. Somewhere deep in her bones she must have known the magic was there, hiding in her very marrow. She knew what she was in her heart, if not in her mind.

  Her fingers tightened on his hand. He could hardly hear her words over the howling gale outside. “I don’t know how.” Her lip trembled and her eyes watered. “I was just upset.”

  Do not cry, he wanted to yell at her, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept his voice even and spoke quietly. “It’s okay, I’ll help you.” But how? He racked his brain. He was guessing she’d never had an initiation, the threshold moment when a child transitions into a magical young adult. What the hell had her parents been thinking? Not preparing her. Not training her. No time to worry about that now. He slid his hands up to her shoulders again and massaged. To calm her? Or himself?

  They both swung around when something beat on the window. A slim crooked shadow showed through the pane. A branch torn off a nearby tree.

  Marcus squeezed Avy’s shoulders to regain her attention. “You’ve never used your magic, have you?”

  Avy shook her head. No.

  “Okay. Something focused your magic to call up a storm with this much force.” He glanced down and noticed the velvet sack still clutched in her hand. He sucked in his breath. He could guess what was inside.

  “Where did you get that?” He put his hand on the box but didn’t try to yank it from her. He’d likely get zapped by it if he did.

  She glanced down and seemed surprised to be holding it. “I found it in the cellar.” He could hear the dread in her voice. “What is it?”

  “A talisman. It’s protecting something important. Did you look inside?”

  This time she nodded affirmative and found her voice. “It’s just an old book.”

  “Damnation,” he said. “It’s probably your family’s grimoire.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the dust and leaves obscuring the view. She knew so little. How could he get her up to speed when the mountain was ready to crumble? He tried again. “Every magical family collects their wisdom in a grimoire and then passes it on to the next generation.” She nodded understanding, so he continued. “Did you read it?”

  “No” she said, “I haven’t even opened it yet.”

  His tension loosened a notch. “That’s good, Avy. It means we don’t have to figure out a particular spell to stop this.” He pulled her by the hand into the living room and stood her in the centre.

  The familiar immediately followed but Marcus stopped him. “You’d better watch the door, Busby. We don’t want any mortals stumbling in on us.” he said. In a lower voice Marcus added, “And if I fail, go to The Otherland for help.” The familiar nodded and turned back.

  Marcus raced into the kitchen, banged cupboard doors open and closed until he found a box of salt. Back in the living room, he walked a circle around her letting the salt tip out as he went. Then he stepped into the circle with her and faced her. He mumbled, “It’s a wonder you didn’t kill yourself,” as he took both of her cold hands into his.

  “Avy, you need to focus on your magic and draw the storm back to you.”

  Her eyes shot up to his. Terror.

  “I promise it won’t hurt you.” He squeezed her hands. “It’s a natural part of you. You just need to call it back.”

  If only, he thought. A newly transformed witch might build up to a storm like this over years of training, but Avy had to suck it back on her first try.

  As long
as I can ground her, I can take most of the hit. He hoped.

  He planted his feet more firmly on the hardwood floor and pictured his family tree. The many branches reached around him, enclosing them in their protective embrace. The roots thrust into the floor. They pushed through to his element, the earth, beneath. He sent them deeper, growing and spreading outward.

  From the front hall, he could hear the familiar. Please Goddess, Please Goddess, Please Goddess.

  Avy’s eyes snapped open and her head spun to where the dog sat in the hall just beyond the edge of the room. She mouthed, Busby?

  Great, now she can hear her familiar. Marcus shook her hand sharply to get her attention. “Avy, you have to focus on this. Close your mind to everything else.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes again.

  “Okay, let’s take a slow, deep breath.”

  They drew in a breath in unison and then released it. Hers was uneven. He felt her fingers spasm in his.

  “And another.”

  Her inhalation was steadier this time. The wisps of her hair began to move as if disturbed by the air around her. A tiny spark shot out whenever two strands touched. Her aura radiated all around her like a perfect, multi-hued sunset.

  “And again.”

  Finally, her hands relaxed in his and the tension in her body eased. He could feel her magic vibrating like a harp string.

  “Avy, can you feel your magic? Look inside yourself for the thread that connects you to the storm.”

  Her hands twitched again. She was concentrating so hard deep creases outlined her eyes. Her mouth was a thin line against her teeth.

  Then he felt the tug and a small smile slipped across her lips. “I’ve got it.” She seemed almost triumphant. He didn’t want to tell her that was the easy part.

  “Now pull the thread back to you. Tell the wind to ease its anger and return to you in calm.”

  She stood stone still, her hands slack in his. He felt a power surge jump between them. It was like holding a live wire, jolting him. His heart pounded in his chest but he focused on drawing the storm’s power in. He should be able to use his body as a conduit. Earth would absorb the storm with harm to none. If it ran through Avy instead, it might short-circuit her nervous system. Maybe even kill her.