by Ann Gimpel
Reticent and quiet at first, Eletea finally began to talk.
Time’s Curse, Chapter One
Liliana Curtis sank to a crouch still clutching her cell phone in a death grip. She’d given ground. A whole lot, truth be told, but what choice was there? At least Katerina, her well-loved daughter, was safe for the moment.
Safe and about to be wed to a Druid high priest. One who was no doubt teaching her magic as fast as she could absorb it. Liliana blew out a harsh breath. Her strategy had been to conceal Kat’s witch heritage, bury it so deep her daughter grew up thinking magic was a crock.
That approach had worked—until Kat’s recent trip to Scotland. Liliana had done her level best to stuff the cat back into the bag, but it was too late. Kat was thirty-five, a respected anthropologist, and she’d been dragged backward in time. Twice. Of course, she’d reject her mother’s staunch instructions to return to California immediately.
Liliana hissed in frustration, feeling witch power rise within her. She may have legally changed her name from Roskelly to Curtis, but it hadn’t done shit to alter the dark magic that was her birthright.
Born a Roskelly witch, she’d shunned the wicked power licking at her heels. Her own mother—Gloria—had done the same, which made things easier. At least she’d had an ally. Most of the time. When she’d become pregnant, her mother had told her in no uncertain terms it was a mistake to perpetuate their line. She hated to admit it, but her mother had been right. Not much she could do about it, though.
Defiance only went so far. It was long past time to figure out what to do now that her daughter had discovered the truth.
Liliana splayed her hands on the hardwood floor, so she wouldn’t fall over. She didn’t often allow herself to think about Katerina’s father. He’d been the love of her life, but he hadn’t had a shred of magic. Not a lick. Not a flicker. Loving her had sealed his fate. If she’d had the strength to walk away, even after they’d conceived a child, he’d still be alive.
She winced and blinked furiously, determined not to cry. Old history was just that. Old. Warren’s death didn’t hurt any less, though, for being long buried in the past. She rolled her shoulders and rocked back on her heels.
Rhea Roskelly was her ancestor and one of the most powerful Black Witches ever born. Steeped in wickedness, she’d lived almost three hundred years. The old witch had been thrilled by Katerina’s birth, mostly because it gave her another chance to perpetuate the Roskelly bloodline.
Liliana clenched her teeth until they ached. Rotten and self-serving to the core, Rhea had shown up in the hospital, and then suggested moving in to help care for her great-great-granddaughter.
Warren, bless his innocent soul, had fallen in love with the idea.
Of course, Rhea had sprinkled gobs of charm around, liberally laced with compulsion spells to manipulate Warren into agreeing. Liliana felt stuck. Wiped out from giving birth, and focused on her newborn, she’d let things ride for a while, figuring the harm would be minimal. Turned out “a while” had been far too long. Warren and Rhea became thick as thieves—because she was feeding from his energy.
Black witches did that—strengthened themselves on humans—but they far preferred misery to joy. First, Warren’s father died under mysterious circumstances. The man just keeled over at his desk one day. A few weeks later, his mother was run down in the street by a drunk, and Liliana saw the writing on the wall. Kat was only three months old then, but magic was already stirring within her, no doubt a product of Rhea’s meddling. The child could look at the carousel suspended above her crib and make it dance and turn. Delighted, she’d clap her chubby hands together and do it again.
Liliana did her damnedest to oust Rhea, but the old woman’s magic far exceeded hers. Worse, Warren had turned from a sweet, kind man to an embittered, taciturn shell from witch poisoning. She’d never seen it firsthand, but it was easy to recognize, and there was no going back.
Frantic, she’d tried to craft an antidote, but Rhea had her claws sunk in too deep.
Liliana had walked in on Rhea and him one day. Warren looked like a corpse, eyes shut, head thrown back as inhuman guttural growls issued from his throat. Rhea rode him with abandon, straddling his skin-and-bone hips. Neither of them noticed her, so she sent her own magic spinning in an arc.
Testing. Hoping.
Hope fled fast.
Warren’s soul was gone, replaced by a seething dark place. Liliana had blinked back furious tears and sheathed her power. No saving him, and she wasn’t strong enough to take on her ancient kinswoman. Enraged, helpless, she’d backed out of the room, snatched up her baby, and made a run for her mother’s house.
Gloria lived six hours away in Nevada. Teleporting with a baby held risks, so she’d driven. By the time they’d gathered forces with a few other White Witches and returned to Liliana’s, Rhea was gone and Warren’s body putrefying in the same upstairs bedroom where she’d last seen him.
There’d been an inquest, but magic smoothed everything over, and Warren joined his parents in the local cemetery.
Liliana pushed upright. Her eyes stung, but crying was a waste of time. She’d always carried guilt for Warren, but the hard truth was she was also responsible for his parents’ untimely deaths. If she’d been more on top of things…
“Stop it.” Doubling up a fist, she punched the back of a sofa. Her hand smarted, but she deserved to hurt. Magic was an enormous responsibility, and she’d been the witch on duty. The one who should have intervened.
After Warren’s death, she and Gloria had turned their lives into a campaign to keep Katerina safe. Despite their diligence, Rhea had almost broken through, nearly completed the ceremony that would have sealed Kat’s fate and bound her by blood to Black Magic. It was the final straw. Gloria, who like all White Witches, was sworn never to use her magic to influence outcomes, did what she needed to ensure Rhea was remanded to a mental hospital. The old witch ended up in a locked ward where she sat out her remaining days in shackles to mute her power—and make certain she didn’t teleport out of there.
As far as Liliana knew, Rhea was dead. The hospital had given them the news shortly after Kat’s tenth birthday. The little girl had been devastated. She’d loved her great-great grannie, but Rhea had also planted magical markers, enchantments to ensure Kat would long for the impossible—a life with Rhea by her side.
Her cell jangled about the same time as the pager clipped to her belt buzzed. Liliana gritted her teeth. Had to be the hospital. She snatched up the phone, clicked the display, and said, “Dr. Curtis.”
“Sorry to disturb you on your day off—”
“Never mind that. What do you need?”
“Mrs. Johnson is dying. She’s asking for you, and she won’t last until you’re due back in tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.” She rang off before the clerk could thank her—or deliver any more news that would require her presence in the hospice wing of San Francisco General Hospital.
Liliana loped for the stairs, intent on changing into scrubs, her normal hospital garb. She lived in a remodeled Victorian in the city’s Marina District. It was the same house she’d been born in, and she loved it fiercely. It was alive in a way newer structures could only dream of being. She’d moved back there after Warren’s death and never left.
One of the upstairs bedrooms had been converted into a combination sewing room/changing area to keep her potentially contaminated hospital garb away from her primary closet. Neatness wasn’t her forte, but she tried hard, mostly because she hated having to rewash something that had sat in an untidy pile on the floor.
Hanging garments as she removed them, Liliana slid into a dark blue scrub top and matching pants. She’d promised her daughter a long-overdue explanation of why she’d kept the Roskelly side of things hush-hush. Part of that talk would have to include the truth about Warren. Kat thought her father had died on a medical mission to sub-Saharan Africa.
Liliana hadn’t ever had the heart—or the
stomach—to fess up about what really happened. Besides, explanations hadn’t been possible while Kat didn’t believe magic existed.
She gave herself a quick once over in an antique oak full-length standing mirror before dragging her hospital ID around her neck. Green eyes stared back at her. Set in a strong-boned face with a square jaw and high cheekbones, her almond-shaped eyes held a hint of Asian blood. Jet-black hair would have fallen past her waist, but it was tucked into its usual bun, a long queue she wound low at the base of her neck.
Satisfied she’d pass muster—because she did not want anyone looking too closely at her—she snatched up her medical bag and her computer carrier. Realizing she didn’t have shoes on, she put everything down to rustle in a corner for black leather loafers.
Finally ready, she retraced her steps. The large, empty house echoed around her. Filled with antiques—except she’d bought them new—the furnishings, paintings, and knickknacks matched the home’s nineteenth century construction.
Liliana drove automatically. She liked Christine Johnson, a woman in her late nineties whose body had simply worn out. She’d been sunk in a delirium this past week, but everyone had a few hours of lucidity before they died.
Almost everyone, anyway. Too much medical intervention, which translated to too many drugs, could rob the dying of their last chance to tell their loved ones farewell.
During that time—the lucid spell—Liliana prepped their soul, shepherding it toward the proper passageway. After losing Warren, she’d devoted her professional life to ensuring no souls ended up shanghaied by darkness. She’d been an emergency room doc before her life turned upside down. It was only after Rhea sucked Warren dry of anything remotely resembling humanity that Liliana had secured a fellowship in end-of-life care.
She’d been doing hospice work ever since. Enjoyed it because she eased people’s suffering as they exchanged one plane of existence for what came next. Being able to see spirits—and demons and ghosts—helped immensely.
She turned into the multistory hospital parking garage and headed for the physician parking area. Good thing she was here because she needed to talk with administration. Not that she couldn’t have finessed that from anywhere, but it was easier from the hospital. She never took any time off. What would she do with it? She’d done all the traveling she wanted to, and she got bored and restless staying home.
After pulling into a likely parking slot, she gathered her bags and stepped out of her Tesla. The all-electric car had been a bit of a pain in the rump because small things kept breaking, but the company had fixed every last one of them. As she hurried inside, she considered how much time off to request.
She needed to locate her mother, so she could fill her in on everything that had transpired with Kat. One smallish problem was Gloria was supposedly dead. Except she wasn’t. She’d retreated to the later part of the 1800s, one of her favorite time periods, and was living in Glasgow. At least that’s where Liliana thought she was.
Not much communication across time. Witch magic wasn’t strong enough to accommodate it. She made her way to her small office located next to the hospice ward and hoped to hell her magic would be up to the task of splitting the veils of time. She hadn’t done much more than ferry souls to the afterlife for the last twenty years.
The message light flashed on her phone. She ignored it and dialed the extension for HR. No reason to settle into the comfortable desk chair. She wouldn’t be in her office long enough to bother.
“Good morning,” a cheerful receptionist’s voice chirped.
“You’re chipper for it being this early,” Liliana shot back. “It’s Dr. Curtis. I’ve had a bit of a family emergency crop up. I’m working now, but when I leave, I’ll be gone for the next two to three weeks.”
Keys clicked from the other end, and Liliana cursed her hypersensitive hearing. All her senses were far sharper than any human’s, thanks to her witch blood.
“My goodness, Doctor. It doesn’t appear you’ve ever taken any of your vacation time.”
Liliana rolled her eyes. “No. I haven’t. Look, I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you I won’t be here.”
“It’s fine, Doc. The staff from your ward will keep you apprised via phone.”
She screwed her mouth into a moue. “Um, that might not be possible. I’ll be out of cell range.”
“Wow! Where are you going?” The clerk hurriedly added, “Sorry. It’s none of my business. I’ll be sure to note you won’t be available by phone.” A pause. “What about email?”
“No.” She bit back a growl. “I’ve earned my off time. The other two hospice docs can cover the unit while I’m gone.”
A rapid intake of breath was followed by, “Yes, Doctor. Of course, Doctor. Was there anything else you needed from HR?”
Liliana considered an apology for being surly but decided against it. She needed to sit with Christine. It was why she was here. She could have called hospital administration from anywhere.
“Nope. I’ll check in as I can.”
“Very good. Have a lovely rest of your day.” The clerk disconnected.
Liliana dropped the receiver into its cradle and glanced around the overflowing shelves covering three walls of her office. The fourth housed a window, or it, too, would probably be filled with medical texts, journals, and other trappings of her trade.
She loved medicine, had been a healer in one iteration or another for the last hundred plus years. Her age was one reason she’d been so delighted—and surprised—to conceive Katerina. And why terminating the pregnancy like her mother urged was out of the question.
Modern science had changed medical practice, and not in especially good ways. Some doctors hardly even looked at their patients, let alone talked with them for very long. Computer programs had reduced treatment to algorithms. If X, then Y. If Y, then Z. It was only the true outlier diseases that received more than cursory attention. Most of her colleagues were more invested in avoiding lawsuits than anything else. It translated into reams of unnecessary tests that did nothing but drive insurance rates up—and insurance reimbursements down.
“Not going to fix that problem. Not today and probably not ever,” she muttered as she trotted out of her office. She’d stop and get the latest on Christine from the head nurse.
And then she’d worry about her rusty magic and how the hell she’d manage something as complicated as a time-travel casting.
Christine’s passing had been one of the more numinous ones. Liliana had sat with the woman for a while after death claimed her. Birth and death were two of the mysteries. How life begins—and how it ends. Because Christine was open to it, she’d linked with her mind, not bothering to be subtle about things. The woman had relaxed into Liliana’s reassurances all would be well and embraced the brilliant, blinding light.
Her task as guardian of newly departed souls complete, she’d left the hospital, her mind overfull with all the things that needed to happen before she could leave.
A quick glance at a wall clock told her it was pushing six at night. She’d been home for a couple of hours. It had taken that long to locate everything she needed for her casting. Including a grimoire moldering in a far corner of her library.
Said tome was spread open on the floor in front of her, offering its wisdom. Getting it to talk with her had been her first task. Magical books weren’t indexed and they either took pity on you and showed you what you needed…
Or not.
Maybe because she’d neglected this book so badly, it had taken its sweet time offering answers.
She assessed her hastily assembled outfit with a critical eye. In an attempt to not stick out like a sore thumb, she’d located a long, black skirt and lace-up black boots with flat soles—in case she had to run. A blue long-sleeved tunic was topped with a light jacket and a black woolen cape that fell to knee level. No zippers. No metal fasteners. She’d tucked a small assortment of medical paraphernalia into her many pockets. She knew better than to bring
electronics with her. For one thing, there wasn’t much point. They wouldn’t work, and they’d be a dead giveaway she wasn’t who she was trying to pass herself off as.
She’d be damned if anyone would get close enough to frisk her, but women had zero rights where she was heading. She might not have much choice about who laid their grubby, grimy hands on her.
Liliana checked the progression of her spell, noting it was about halfway to maximum velocity. She’d taken her time inscribing a pentagram on the basement floor but carefully drawing all the elements correctly hadn’t been sufficient. Another witch, one who’d actually practiced magic actively over the past few years, could have simply barked the words and been gone, but she’d tried that. The light illuminating the pentagram had sputtered and died, almost as if it was laughing at her paltry efforts.
So she’d backtracked. Apparently, she lacked the skill for magical shortcuts.
Pages rustled, threatening to conceal the needed spell.
Liliana leapt forward and slapped a hand across the open book. “Oh no you don’t,” she adjured and refocused her attention until one hundred ten percent was on her casting. Not on Christine Johnson. Not on running checklists through her head to satisfy herself she hadn’t forgotten anything.
The pentagram brightened.
Liliana blew out a frustrated breath. It would be so much easier if Gloria would materialize. Surely, she knew what was going on, that Rhea had dragged Katerina back to the 1700s.
A bleak thought surfaced. Maybe her mother had been abducted by her Roskelly kinswomen. Rhea was still very much alive at the tail end of the nineteenth century, and Scotland was her preferred playground. The more Liliana thought about things, the surer she was her own mother might be in deep trouble. Gloria’s magic was strong. Twice as robust as Liliana’s had ever been.
Rhea hadn’t taken it well when her own daughter spurned her.
Liliana’s fledgling spell flickered, started to fade. She growled annoyance. Done babying it, she jumped into the center of the pentagram, chanting like a madwoman. Her Gaelic was as rusty as her magic, so she butchered a few of the words, but the spell developed a life of its own.