by Neil Olson
“What did you say? Sam, what did you ask it to do?”
“Protect you. I commanded it to protect you.”
The words he remembered her uttering that night. Things made sense now. He had not been able to understand why the coven’s act had become attached to him. Not to any of them, but to Will. Why would they have done that to him? But they had not. Samantha had.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“You were very young,” he replied calmly. “And scared. You were brave to do that. It was quick thinking. Who knows what would have happened if you didn’t.”
“It was a terrible thing to do to you. I didn’t understand.”
“So they were right,” Will said with resignation. “All of them. It’s been me all the time, doing this stuff.”
“Not you.”
“It’s the same thing, though. The question is how it interprets the command. It must see the coven members as my enemies. It must think killing them protects me.”
“Wait,” Sam said, her voice growing stronger. “We don’t know that. We don’t know that it has anything to do with those deaths. You keep thinking of everyone else. You need to focus on you. All we know for sure is that you’re haunted, and we need to free you.”
The dampness on his brow dripped into his eye, and he blinked against the sting.
“You’re bleeding,” said Sam. Her head was tipped back, looking at his face. She put two fingers to his forehead, touching the wound. It should have hurt, but instead it felt soothing. “And here,” she said, noticing the scrape on his chest. She put her lips to it, warm and soft, and the soothing was there too.
Stroking her back, his hand had gotten under her T-shirt. Caressing her skin, and the knobby path of her spine. He pressed more firmly, working from her tight shoulders down to the flesh around her tailbone. Her lips moved slowly across his chest. Spreading that soothing, and other sensations, as well. He pulled the T-shirt up and off as she unbuttoned his jeans, and they fell awkwardly on their sides. Kneeing and elbowing each other without complaint as they pressed relentlessly together.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
He sat on the front steps, drinking coffee. Waiting for Sam to keep her promise.
Normally a late sleeper, Abigail had been up early that morning. Early enough to see Will stumble through the kitchen door in only his pants. If she had been worried about his absence, she did not let on. All she said was good morning, though he detected a smirk on her face as she filled the ancient kettle. Of all the local women, Abby was the only one undisturbed by his relationship with Sam. Given his mother’s judgment about people, Will wasn’t sure that was comforting. However, he had pretty much established that Samantha was not the dangerous one. He was.
Sam had patched his wounds last night. After they had finished grinding each other into the study floor, but before they got started again in her bedroom. She was shy after the first time. Regretful, he assumed, yet she asked him to stay. He had no intention of leaving and lay down chastely on top of the blankets beside her. Within ten minutes, her hands came looking for him.
The hot shower stung both wounds, but the damage seemed superficial in daylight. Perhaps her witchy ministrations accelerated healing. He discarded the bandage and swept his hair over the cut. Then he got dressed and went down to make small talk with Abby, before taking his coffee out onto the steps. It was pushing eleven, and he was beginning to think Sam had changed her mind, when he saw her white Honda roll down the street. He hurried down the walk and slipped into the passenger seat. Sam pulled away fast, nearly spilling what was left in his mug. She did not look at him.
“I was starting to worry,” said Will.
“I always sit with him in the waiting room,” she answered tightly. “They took a while getting to him today.”
“Will we have enough time to search?”
“I don’t know,” she grumbled. “Lost twenty minutes swinging back here for you.”
“But there will be two of us looking now.”
“Anyway, I’m the one picking him up, so I can delay. Not too long, he gets a little crazy waiting.”
Three hours earlier she had been tender, defenseless. Stroking his hair and smiling, asking him not to go yet. He had to remind her of the plan, that she was going to be late taking Tom to his appointments. Now she was cool and distant. He should not have been surprised, this is how it often went with women. The delayed-action panic at having exposed their feelings. Somehow, he had expected Sam to be different.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “if, um, if last night wasn’t what you wanted. You were vulnerable and I shouldn’t have—”
“Shut up,” she said. “You think that was your decision?”
He felt slapped, but kept quiet. Her right hand slipped off the steering wheel and found his left, squeezing firmly.
“Don’t be sorry,” said Sam. “It was wonderful. I haven’t done that in a long time.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t mean that’s the reason it was wonderful,” she added quickly. He squeezed back, not risking words. Knowing she would continue. “It’s just, I don’t know. I don’t know if we were supposed to do that.”
“There’s no right or wrong about it,” he replied. “It’s something that happened. It doesn’t have to happen again.”
“That would be sad. I think what it is...”
“What it is,” he said, pitching in after four or five seconds of silence, “is that you don’t want to lose a friend over a fuck.” She didn’t reply, but he could see that he was near the mark. “But you’re not going to, okay? Whatever happens, things will be all right between us.”
“People say that, then later it gets ugly.”
“I’m not Jimmy.”
“Jimmy’s not a bad guy,” she said. “Sex complicates things.”
“It’s not sex that does that.”
They were quiet then, but it was a companionable silence. She did not release his hand until they hit the steep road leading to Tom’s place. Mount Gray was a large, pine-and-boulder-strewn hill, stuck between the highway and ocean. The top and inland side were public land, used for hiking and climbing. On the ocean side there were a handful of houses, and Tom Hall’s was the highest and most isolated of those. The Honda swayed and spun several times on the gravelly surface, Sam fighting with the wheel.
“You really come up here twice a week?” Will asked in dismay.
“Sometimes. Why do you think my car is kicked to crap?”
At length they pulled into the circular drive, which was big enough for many vehicles. The only one there now was an old forest-green Jeep, covered in pine needles.
“Now that’s what you want for this road,” said Will. “Why don’t you switch with him?”
“I should,” Sam agreed. “He almost never drives it.” Her voice had gotten quiet. Like the house might be listening. Or the trees. She popped her door open. “Come on.”
The “cabin”—which was easily as big as Will’s mother’s house—was hard up against the slope, even partway into it, and built on two levels, one slightly above and behind the other. With its low profile and russet shingles, the place was nearly invisible among the pines and pin oaks. A carpet of brown pine needles completely absorbed their footsteps, making Will uneasy. The cause was not hard to determine. The stealthy approach made him feel like a thief, which is what he was. Sure, he needed that book, more than Tom did at this moment. And it would only trouble the frail old man to confront him. Yet there was no escaping the fact that they were here to take something that was not theirs.
Sam stopped in front of the door. He heard her whisper a few words. Then she touched the doorknob tentatively before inserting the key. In another moment, they were inside. The front of the house was one large room. A kitchen and dining area on the right, a spacious liv
ing room on the left, with exposed crossbeams overhead. And above that, a slanted ceiling with two large skylights, letting in what sun the trees allowed. If it was an old house, it had been remodeled within the last ten or twenty years. Yet the furnishings were simple, even shabby. There were rips in the sofa and mildew on the walls in several places. At the back, there were three doors, and stairs going to the upper level. Bookcases and books, of course. Some looked old, but not old enough, and there were not nearly as many as Will expected.
“Cozy,” he said.
“I guess,” she conceded. “He seems to like it.”
“Where do we start?”
“Not the bookshelves,” Sam answered, seeing his eyes focused there. “I checked those already. Besides, he wouldn’t put it someplace so obvious.”
“Dark red cover, a foot square, no exterior markings,” Will said, repeating her description while scanning the shelves anyway. Maybe she had overlooked it, or maybe there were other tomes of interest.
“That’s what I remember. You look here, I’ll check the bedrooms.”
“We should stay together,” he objected as she started for the stairs. “You might see something I miss, and vice versa. We need to be systematic.”
“I have my own system,” she tossed over her shoulder, continuing up.
Will wrote it off to her discomfort in being here, but it was still frustrating. They needed to work as a team. He went to the bookshelves, making sure his eyes touched every spine. If they were jacketed and approximately the right size, he took the jackets off for a better look. History, biography, essays, books on Renaissance and Baroque art. It was a hodgepodge, and the books were covered with dust. Will had the strong impression that Tom Hall didn’t read much anymore. There was not enough room to hide such a large book behind the others, but he looked just the same. Nothing.
End tables, sofa cushions, oak buffet. Nothing. The kitchen was unlikely, but Will gave it a cursory going-over. Then he tried the doors. To his surprise, none led to a basement. One was a bathroom, one a closet, the third a small bedroom. Barely furnished. A single bed, a dresser and a shelf of brown paperbacks. Dorothy Sayers and Eric Ambler. For guests, no doubt. Though it didn’t seem likely Tom had guests up here.
They had been searching nearly an hour by the time he emerged from the spare bedroom, to find Sam back in the living room. Arms out, eyes closed, turning a slow circle in the center of the worn Oriental carpet. Will said nothing to distract her, but she stopped at the point where she was facing him and opened her eyes.
“Come here.”
He obeyed, stepping to within a few feet of her. She grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him closer.
“Stand right here. Good. Now close your eyes.”
“Why?” he asked, but complied.
“What do you feel?”
“A headache coming on.”
“Here,” she said, slapping his gut. “What do you feel here? Or behind your eyes. At the base of your throat. If I can do this, so can you. What do you feel, standing right here?”
A presence. Palpable. Malevolent. His old friend was back. Not that Will thought it had really gone anywhere.
“The floorboards are uneven,” he said, swallowing his unease.
She sighed in annoyance. But when he opened his eyes, he saw her testing the truth of his statement, shifting her weight back and forth.
“You’re right,” said Sam. “There’s something under here. Come on, we need to move the carpet.”
They went to the sofa, knowing they would have to drag it back in order to roll the carpet. Bent over, grabbing either end, they both saw the figure at the same moment. The gray hair had gone white, and the blue eyes behind their thick lenses were expressionless. Not alive with that remembered intelligence. Yet Will had no trouble recognizing Tom Hall after all these years. Sadly, the reverse did not appear to be true.
“Dougie?” the old man said, gazing hard at Will, something like fear in his voice.
Sam looked sick, and Will half expected her to run out of the room. She mastered herself and stepped up beside him.
“No, Grandpa, this is Will. Will Conner. You know, Abigail’s son.”
“Will.” Tom’s features softened immediately. “How are you?”
“I’m well. I’m very well, Mr. Hall.” He felt sick himself now, ashamed of them both. Why hadn’t they just played it straight and asked for what they wanted?
“What are you doing here?” Sam asked.
“Doctor Gardner’s office didn’t have the appointment written down,” the old man answered, turning and heading for the kitchen. “So it was just Doc Miller today.”
“How did you get home?”
“Jimmy was there, with his father. He gave me a ride.”
Will had the impulse to rush to the window and see if Jimmy was lurking. He could see from Sam’s face that she too was disturbed by the coincidence of her ex-husband delivering her grandfather here just at this inopportune moment. The only one not troubled was Tom, who had not even asked them what they were doing in his home.
“Does anyone want coffee?” he said, taking a bag of beans out of the freezer.
“I’m good,” answered Will. “Had plenty this morning, thanks.”
Tom looked disappointed and put the bag down.
“I suppose it’s early for a drink,” the old man said. “Willie, how are your classes going?”
“Will’s a professor now,” Sam replied, still looking unsure what to do. How to take back control of the situation.
“I know that,” Tom rebutted. “He still has classes, doesn’t he?”
“They’re going fine,” Will said. “I teach Survey of American Literature for freshman. And a seminar on myth and folklore.” He could see that Tom was only half listening. Looking around the kitchen, puzzled. Their presence had thrown him after all, yet he seemed unclear on the cause of his confusion. “You know,” said Will, “it’s noon. I could go for a drink.”
He felt lucky that Sam was so in control of her infernal powers. Otherwise, the look she gave him surely would have caused instant death. Tom, on the other hand, brightened again and went looking for a bottle. They sat in the living room. Sam commandeered the whiskey and poured two tiny glasses of the amber stuff for herself and Tom, and a spitefully large one for Will. Tom stared at his glass a few moments as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it, then fired the contents down in one gulp. He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, some hint of the wise old professor he had been returned to his face.
“Bibamus, moriendum est,” Tom said, in that strong baritone Will remembered.
“Indeed,” Will replied, though the choice of toast was unnerving. Drink, for we must die. He did not empty his own glass, but he took a deep gulp. The smoky fire burned his gums, and a calming heat filled his chest. Sam did not drink.
“Now,” Tom went on, settling back in his creaking chair, voice friendly. “What are you two looking for?”
Will was about to speak when Samantha finally did.
“That old spell book,” she said. “The one Johnny was obsessed with.”
“Yes,” Tom replied. “That. He wasn’t the only one, was he?” he added, cutting his eyes at her.
“I only cared because you two spent so much time with it.”
“I was indulgent with Johnny.” Tom shook his head a bit ruefully. Will wanted him to go on, but Sam jumped in again.
“Do you still have the book?”
“Well. Haven’t seen it in years. Let me think...”
“Mr. Hall,” Will said tentatively, when it was clear that no amount of thinking was going to bring a swift answer.
“Please,” the old man said. “Call me Tom.”
“Tom.” It felt odd, but why not? The professor’s calm, scholarly presence had brought back some part of Will’s own
paralyzed rationality. “What is the book?”
“What is it? Oh, you know, old family stuff.”
“Excuse me, but I think of old family stuff as, like, family trees and recipes.”
“There are recipes in there,” chuckled Tom. “As I remember. Some botany, herbology. Thoughts on our relationship to other people. To the world. The physical and the spiritual one. People put that kind of knowledge in books once. It’s certainly not unique of its kind.”
“There are spells,” Will said. “Are there not?”
“There are rituals for various purposes. Prayer. Healing. Conjuring. You could call them spells, I suppose.”
“And do you believe in their efficacy?” he asked, leaning forward. “Do you believe they possess actual power?”
“Words have power,” the old man said, looking him in the eye now. “You know that.”
“They have the power we give them,” Will countered.
“True. To a degree. We are not unarmed. A strong will can decide to succumb or resist. But strong language will still shake a powerful mind, and overwhelm a weak one. Therefore it follows that the words themselves have power. Maybe a lot of power, over people or things unequipped to resist them.”
Sam was right. The motor functions might be shaky, the short-term memory gone. But behind that superficial damage, the professor’s mind was sharp as ever. Will’s pleasure in finding it so was mixed with unease. If Tom was in a condition to answer for past oversights, Will had no good excuse not to confront his former mentor.
“Was Johnny’s mind weak or strong,” he asked. “Was it equal to those powerful words? To those spells?”
“Johnny was a dreamer,” Tom said, with that regretful shake of the head again.
“And were you not aware of that at the time?” Will pressed. Sounding like a prosecutor. “How could you let him play with a book like that?”
“Will,” Sam cautioned.
“No, it’s all right,” said the old man. “I wasn’t careful enough with Johnny, that’s true.”
“You tried to help him,” she said protectively. “I remember.”
