“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel sorry for him,” Mal said.
“You better hurry up and return the book, Mallory, so we can get out of here.” Danior said.
Eve turned, her arms wrapped all the way around, so it looked as if someone was groping her from the back. “Oh Emilion, —smoochy sounds— I’m so glad we could still see each other tonight.”
Danior stamped her foot. “Dang it, Eve. See if I help either of you again.” Mal noticed she was trying to hide a smile.
“That reminds me. We, umm, sort of have another mission tomorrow night and I’m going to invite Sera,” Mal said as she flipped through the small book quickly, finding several pages had been torn out. It took a few minutes, but she was able to match the jagged edges of both pages she had brought with them. They were from this diary.
TWENTY EIGHT
T here was a secret stairway from their suite to the widow’s walk on the roof of Caravan Manor. Mallory liked spending time up there, looking out over Bohemian Lake. On clear days, she could even see the edge of town. It was strange being out there in the dark with only a few lights dotting the landscape around her.
“Ye were hard on me earlier.” Balthasar leaned against the wrought-iron rail beside her
“I’ve been hard on a lot of people lately, including myself.”
“Well, if ye don’t want my advice, get to clearing my relative’s name and let’s put an end to this.”
“Are you so sure she’s innocent?”
Balthasar nodded at the weather vane, and it spun around in the dead quiet of the evening. “That’s enough of yer doubting. She’s blood, and that’s good enough for me to try to help. Think on it, and I’ll look around for more evidence. I’m not going anywhere until ye’ve cleared her name and mine.”
He disappeared, and Mallory sat down to look up at the stars in the dark sky. They were much brighter without lights around her.
She thought about Balthasar being Sera’s ancestor–she wanted to help the girl, in a way, because she did like her. If only the circumstances were different. There was so much going on. Mallory needed time to think–alone–and without ghostly witch hunter interference.
It did occur to her that she could possibly access information about the magistrate who accused Balthasar of his wife’s murder from the Bohemian Lake Historical Museum website. She was a member, although she hardly ever used the knowledge compiled by countless Bohemian Lake residents through the years.
She went downstairs to open her laptop, before remembering the lack of power meant no Internet. Things would need to be done old school.
Mallory located an old book in the manor’s library and returned to her room. It was titled Witch hunters of the Bohemian Lake region. The pages were well worn from people leafing through it over the years.
There was enough information about the infamous witch hunt craze of the area to tantalize but not really answer questions. There was a grisly wood carving of Balthasar hanging from a tree along with illustrations of his weapons and drawings of him. There were paragraphs describing the terrible things he’d done.
But there was no wife or magistrate mentioned. Whoever the accuser was, he’d had the power to have Balthasar arrested and hanged. There weren’t a lot of people like that in those days. The Bohemian Lake region was a lawless area at the time.
Mallory wrote down a few names to check out the next day with Mick when she could go to the museum.
“Balthasar!” Mallory called out.
No response.
Damn it! “Balthasar!” Of course, he was ignoring her. He preferred to show up only when it was inconvenient. She needed to know if he recognized any of the names.
After midnight, Mallory jerked herself awake every time her chin dropped to her chest. Her eyelids opening slowly giving her room vague notice until the next time, until she drifted away to a thick forest. Mal felt she was dreaming yet it seemed so real. She looked down to see she had on a belted tunic over short knicker-like pants that ended at the knee. Below her pants were knee-high white socks—no, a type of hosiery—and black shoes with a brass buckle on top. She could feel a hat on her head. All at once, sound rushed in like she hadn’t been fully in the dream yet. Hearing a woman scream, she looked up and was horrified to see men dragging a woman away. The sound of wagon wheels clattering, and saddles creaking assaulted her ears. The smell of fresh horse dung strong in her nose.
“No! Mama!” She heard herself scream after the woman.
A slap across the face. “Tis enough of yer screamin’, boy.”
Mallory was stunned. The slap felt so real, but she wasn’t a boy, was she?
She looked over to find Balthasar Popescu mounting his horse before staring down at her. This can’t be happening.
“Well? Yer clearly out of children’s smocks, boy, ye should be learnin’ the ways of a man. Ye’ve no use for a woman any longer.”
Balthasar grabbed the back of her shirt collar and pulled her up and over his horse, settling her in front of him. He whipped the horse and off they went, following the direction the men had gone dragging the poor woman. She looked down and realized she had the body of a boy. Mallory guessed she was dreaming and yet it felt so real. They stopped about a mile away. The woman was crying on the ground, her hands bound by a thick rough rope. The men threw another rope over a branch about eight feet above their heads, tied it off on the saddle horn atop a large horse, and knotted a noose at the other end.
Mal started screaming again. Calling for help from someone, anyone. Balthasar covered her mouth.
One of the men dragged the boy’s mother up onto the back of the wagon, forcing her on her feet, then the noose was slipped over her head. The knot was snugged close to her neck. One man reached for the executioner horse’s reins leading it away. The woman’s eyes widened. She struggled to pull the noose loose with her bound hands. But it was no use, she was on her tiptoes now. They moved the wagon away. She had nothing to hold her up. Her body weight caused her to start swinging as she was pulled farther up by her neck. The sounds of choking and gasping. Gurgling. Swinging faster. Her eyes and tongue were bulging now. The creak of the rope. She was dead.
Mallory bit Balthasar’s hand, sobbing. He shook her, so hard her hat fell off. The men responsible for killing the boy’s mother turned.
“Magistrate. He’s got white witch hair, like his mother!”
“Hang him! Before he can perform devil magicks!”
Magick! Mallory could hear the boy’s thoughts. His poor mother, she wasn’t even a witch.
Balthasar bellowed, “Ye’ll not harm this boy. Tis young and not learnt of magicks yet. We got to him in time!”
Mallory was tossing and turning in her bed. She felt her soft sheets with her hand. Then she was back in the forest rinsing her face in the ice-cold stream. She waited for the ripples to stop to see her reflection. She was a grown man now, not young, but not old, with shoulder length white hair and black eyes.
He kept on the move, never staying in one place too long in his county, except when needed for a trial. He’d been hunting for the ex-magistrate Balthasar Popescu for twelve long years. He’d taken his time, learned useful trades, and saved all his coin. He scavenged for food in the forest or he went without. It had paid off. He’d volunteered and been appointed the magistrate. He was now verifying some intel received from his spies. He went on foot, carefully hiding behind trees when he caught sight of the little cottage and waited. Three small boys were playing in front of the house when their mother, a small woman, with flowers woven into her long black hair, came to the door, calling them to dinner. A bit later, Balthasar himself entered the cottage. So, it was true. The infamous witch hunter was now married to the High Priestess of Bohemian Lake. It was time to enact his revenge.
Mallory jerked awake with a scream. She forced herself to take deep breaths. It was morning now. She got out of bed, thankful that the witch hunter was nowhere to be seen. It would take some time before
she could look at him without remembering that moment.
They were real events–at least they’d seemed real. Mallory had the strongest feeling that the little boy had grown up and taken his revenge on Balthasar. All Mallory had to do was find some way to prove it.
She was thrilled to find out that they had hot water for a shower–the power must have come back on during the night. Every electrical gadget in her bedroom was blinking. She showered, got dressed and headed downstairs.
Danior had left a plate of waffles on the island and coffee in the pot. The sun was shining brightly through the kitchen windows. Everything was looking up–including the witch hunter sitting on the stool.
“It’s about time,” he said. “I thought ye were going to laze about all day!”
Mallory yawned and heated up her waffles. “I called you last night, but you didn’t answer.”
“Yes, well, I’m not some damn hound to be summoned at yer beck and call,” Balthasar growled.
“Sorry. But I need to know the magistrate’s name. The one you say had you, falsely strung up.”
Mallory found it difficult to talk to him after last night’s dream. But she had no choice if she wanted to be done with him. What he’d done had happened centuries earlier.
“I don’t know his name,” he asked. “Why does it matter?”
“Would you like a waffle?” Mallory offered cheekily, before she started eating.
He frowned. “Ye know I can’t unless you want a mess on yer floor.”
“Suit yourself.” Mallory poured syrup on her plate. “Did you find out anything last night about Sylvia’s murder? Anything that would help us clear Sera’s name?”
“Mayhap,” he said in a coy manner, pulling at his mustache. “I’ll trade for yer information.”
“I don’t think you’d want to if you heard it.”
“Tell me and I’ll decide.”
“You killed an innocent woman in front of her son.”
His black brows knit together over his fierce eyes. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
Mallory shrugged. “So, it’s true. You were a monster.”
“You don’t understand what it was like back then. Ye weren’t there, girl.” He couldn’t manage to pound his fist on the table–it never actually met the wood. But the silverware rattled anyway.
Mallory stood up and put her hands on her hips. “You might’ve been tough when you were alive–but you’re not anymore. Stop trying to intimidate me into doing what you want!”
The balcony doors flew open as he left the suite, and the blender whirled to life, practically dancing on the counter.
After turning off the blender, Mallory sat down at the table for a minute and tried to gather her wits.
“Like a child throwing a temper tantrum.” Mal mumbled to herself.
Despite her current position on team witch hunter, she was beginning to think she might like the little boy turned magistrate who’d hanged Balthasar Popescu.
TWENTY NINE
S ince Mallory knew Mick Spirit would be her best source for Balthasar Popescu lore, she set out for his house.
“You think this Mick is my accuser’s descendant?” Balthasar asked, popping out of thin air.
“No,” Mallory growled, still annoyed with him from earlier. “Your accuser’s descendant might not even live here anymore.”
“Can’t yer witch friend from that shop cast a spell to locate him?” he asked, meaning Star. “We could get these answers faster.”
“Yes, I’m sure we could but that’s not her area of expertise,” Mallory protested. “She’s a medium.”
Balthasar didn’t reply; they had reached Mick’s little house.
Mick was standing on the lawn, his gray hair blowing wildly in the wind as he watched his grandson push tree branches from the roof and hammer down loose shingles. Mick waved when he saw them and ushered them inside once Mal explained the reason for their visit.
“I’m afraid all I can offer you is some warm beer and a few gingersnaps,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Mallory smiled and nodded. Choking down warm, possibly skunky beer wasn’t all that great, but it would have been impolite not to. Balthasar paced while they talked first about all the gossip involving the storm and, when they were all caught up, Mick brought out his research. “Well, like I was telling you earlier, Popescu was a witch hunter–no doubt about it. Some historians feel certain he caught and hanged at least twenty female witches. He probably killed several dozen men too.”
“It was more than that,” Balthasar boasted.
Mallory shot him a dirty look.
Mick, unaware of the drama, leafed through his documentation and cleared his throat. “People around here were scared of him.”
Mallory thought of the dream she’d had and understood why. Magistrate and witch hunter.
“Is it possible he might have been hanged for something he didn’t do,” Mallory asked.
“Oh yes. It seems he went from killing witches to loving them. He disappears from the historical record for a time, then reappears in a Bohemian Lake county document.” Mick handed her the copy of the old paper. “He got married… to a known witch—not just a witch, but the High Priestess.”
“See, I told you.” Balthasar exclaimed.
“Rebekah.” Mallory whispered.
“Yes. It looks like he tried to start a new life with her, but I have a feeling he couldn’t get away from his past. He and his wife had children in quick succession. I have their birth certificates—handwritten notes made by the local midwife who kept extraordinarily neat records of the children she delivered.”
Mallory looked at the records and passed them back to Mick.
“What about my wife’s murder?” Balthasar asked. “Tell him I was innocent.”
“The next time we see his name, it’s on a docket at the prison. He was sentenced for the murder of his wife—a known witch.”
“Balthasar killed many witches. What makes you think he wasn’t guilty of murdering his wife too?” Mallory asked.
“Well, besides the stories from the villagers which included how in love they were. I found a few documents on other prisoners who were being held at the same time. It seems there was an issue with corruption at the time and there was chatter after Balthasar’s sentence was carried out that one of the prisoners had been paid to plant the evidence in exchange for his freedom. It was never proven and he was hanged shortly thereafter.”
“Traitorous bastards—the whole lot of them!” Balthasar shouted. His anger blew all of the documents they’d been looking at onto the floor.
“What was that?” Mick asked, looking around.
“Oops. Sorry.” Mallory got on the floor and picked up all the papers. “Do you know the name of the man who condemned Balthasar to death?”
“No, but I think I know where I can find it. I’ll have to go back to the archives at the Historical Society.” Mick took some of the papers from her and started looking through them. He shuffled through the documents, squinting at them despite his glasses.
“I’d appreciate that. Thanks for your help, Mick.” Mallory shook his hand.
“No problem, Mal. There’s supposed to be a journal or diary too. You could ask Hatti Dustfeather about it. She might know where it is.”
Mallory just nodded. She didn’t have to ask Hatti; she knew exactly where it was.
Mallory arrived back at the manor with Balthasar floating along in front of her. The sun was shining and she couldn’t bring herself to go inside just yet. Maybe it was all the talk of the past or maybe it was the dream but she found herself in need of a walk in the woods. She was thinking of the cottage where she’d seen Rebekah in the dream and eventually found herself on the path to her own secret retreat—the little stone cottage she’d grown up in. Oh, how she’d loved that place. It had always been sunlit, merry, and constantly filled with wildflowers, delicious aromas and music.
The overgrown pat
h wound in front of her, twisting and turning. She was thinking of ways to tell the ghost to vamoose when without any explanation, he did. Watching him disappear gave her shivers.
Maybe hearing about his past had left him in need of some time alone, too. Whatever the reason, she certainly wasn’t complaining. Instead, she bent her head to avoid a low swinging branch of a tree. The tree limbs leant close to one another, their branches intermingled in a strange embrace, making a vault above her head like an archway. The stone wall that ran along the garden was encompassed in green, choked with grass and moss and vines. On and on, for a moment Mallory thought she was lost, and then it appeared, their family cottage, their secret retreat, the gray stone now covered in nature.
Mallory stood, her heart thumping in her breast, the strange prick of tears behind her eyes. The chimney, the lattice windows, the purple clematis vines that crept along the hill and encroached upon the house itself.
Bakalo was already sitting and waiting for her when she entered the tunnel where the door was hidden. “You clever cat, you. How is it you always beat me here?” Mallory’s eyes shifted to the contours of the wrought iron scroll work that decorated the screen door as she opened it. She bent her head and placed the skeleton key in the lock of the oversized arched door, twisting one full circular motion, Mallory heard the click of the lock release. As she eased the door open, the familiar rush of rosemary and mug wort tinged the air. Her mother must have been out here recently to assess the damage.
She took several steps into the large open space that was the living room. The memories seeped in and reduced Mallory to the child who’d spent her days here loving, and laughing, surrounded by people and music. The faded oriental rug covered the inlaid wood floor. A carved mahogany credenza sat along one wall and on it there was a hand-painted German Black forest cuckoo clock. The curtains were long, and the bottoms pooled on the hardwood in clouds of dust, allowing only a few shafts of sun to illuminate the yellow walls, the purple velvet fabric on the drooping sofa, the paintings of their ancestors, and her mother’s prized collection of tambourines. Mallory took a towel and began cleaning up some of the water that had gotten inside. The floorboards still needed replacing due to warping and well, bloodstains but she’d cleaned up most of the surface mess that had occurred during the Bloggers Convention mayhap. Thankfully, the mirror that had held her mother captive had sucked up most of the mirror shards with it’s strange vortex before the portal had disappeared altogether. Not even the blogger’s body had been left behind. The only trace that anything had happened at all were a few shards and the blood. They’d hired Jack and Juniper’s company, Spirited Construction, to fix the place up, but they couldn’t start until next month. She couldn’t wait to move in here.
Ouija, Death & Wicked Witchery Page 14