by Dani Lamia
Phoebe faced her great-aunt Hester, reading her eyes. Since childhood, Phoebe had associated that clear water blue with hardness, self-centeredness, and a dark mysterious strength. In front of her now, that same woman, transmogrified and empowered by witchcraft, had turned icy cold.
In the tight bounds of Glendarah’s rope, and the gaze of her great-aunt, Phoebe could feel the emotions in the room. Her psychic abilities began to flood her with information in the form of sensations.
From Hester, Phoebe felt jealousy, narcissism, and even a little fear. The fear surprised Phoebe, but she gave it little thought. Curious about the information she was receiving, Phoebe looked to Dzolali.
In Dzolali, Phoebe felt adoration, masked by the duty to her coven, and a faint trace of hope. She held Dzolali’s gaze for a little longer, thinking herself into the Latina witch’s mind. It took little more than wishing it so to be welcomed inside, and beyond the surface lay a myriad of mixed and conflicting emotions and thoughts. Phoebe felt Dzolali’s feelings for her, earnest and powerful, not just a conjuring by Hester or Glendarah’s doing. She also felt a deep, insatiable drive in the woman. Flashes of Dzolali’s torrid past flooded in. The scenes featured Dzolali with many men and women, and no two partners were the same.
Phoebe forced herself to separate from the Latina’s mind. The scenes of her exploits were intense, and they interfered with her read of the woman. The overriding feeling from Dzolali was that she didn’t want Phoebe to die.
Phoebe then focused on Glendarah. Contempt was a main contributor to the woman’s outlook of the youngest Pyncheon. There was fear of change mixed with devout faith in Hester and in the house. Glendarah was supremely confident in herself, and the most fearless of the three.
“Well, what is it?” Hester pressed, eyeing Phoebe suspiciously.
Did she feel my communication with her? Maybe she sensed me reading the others. “I’ve no intention of joining you, Hester,” Phoebe voiced quietly.
Phoebe sensed relief from Glendarah and distinct disappointment from Dzolali. Most distressing to Phoebe was that her great-aunt Hester was pleased. Hester thought time had no meaning, that she could maintain her youthful appearance indefinitely.
More images sprang from Hester’s mind and flooded Phoebe’s, triggered perhaps by the relief she felt over Phoebe’s decision. The pictures were of Hester visiting her niece, Harriet, Phoebe’s mother. Harriet was ill in these images and becoming more so as they went on. But there was more to it. Phoebe could see Hester moving about Harriet’s bed while the sick woman was asleep, replacing the prescribed medications with lookalikes that she had created.
Phoebe gasped and stared at Hester in shock and renewed hatred. “You killed my mother!” she shouted.
Hester’s confident demeanor faltered, though it was from surprise rather than guilt or denial. She narrowed her icy blue eyes and came closer, whispering, “She denied her heritage, too.”
Phoebe spat, wetting Hester’s altered face. In response, Hester slapped Phoebe’s cheek, following through with her arm. Phoebe shrieked from the pain but did not flinch from her great-aunt. Her anger was too strong. The memories of her mother’s suffering flooded her, blinded her to any danger. Thoughts of murdering Hester came to the surface, primarily those of strangulation.
“Stop! Hester, please stop this and let us go,” Holgrave shouted. “No purpose can be served by keeping us or killing us.”
Hester turned to Holgrave and tried to tell him to be silent, but pressure against her throat prevented it. Hester forced a cough, cleared her throat, and tried again. Her voice failed her, and it felt like thumbs were digging into her neck. She found Phoebe’s eyes, hateful, wide, and intensely focused on her throat, and knew what to do.
Hester lifted her left hand, sweeping it in a backhanded slapping motion.
Phoebe cried out in surprise as her head was struck. She had seen and comprehended the motion Hester had made, but she was standing too far away to have made contact.
In that moment, Phoebe put it together. Hester’s cough coincided with her visions of strangling the miserable old hag, and she had struck back to break her concentration. In a heartbeat, Phoebe regained her will and brought an even more violent image to mind.
Hester turned to Glendarah. “We must get started qui—” She was struck in the side, hard, and the impact of the attack interrupted her speech. It was big, like a man’s fist, and for Phoebe’s second attempt on her, it was surprisingly well delivered.
Glendarah surmised what had happened and summoned her power, focusing it into her right hand. A white glow appeared there, erupting from the tips of her fingers and culminating into fiery tendrils of white. She then raised her hand and thrust it out, looking like a baseball player throwing a ball.
The brilliant white light flew from Glendarah’s palm and struck Phoebe’s bound body, encapsulating it briefly. Phoebe cried out once again, though this time the assault was much more intense. Her entire body felt like it had taken an impact and an electrical shock at the same time. The shock lasted a few moments, leaving behind a metallic taste in her mouth so strong she became nauseated.
The feeling was intense enough to ruin Phoebe’s concentration on Hester, and her assault ended for the time being. She was certain that she was going to lose her dinner, not that it would matter soon. If anything, she wanted it over with and tried to let herself regurgitate, but nothing came up, and she couldn’t make the feeling pass.
What was I just doing? Something about Hester and mom.
“Phoebe! Are you all right?” Holgrave called to her.
Bleary-eyed, Phoebe put great effort into lifting her head and turning it toward the familiar voice. A handsome man with dark hair and a well-trimmed beard was there next to her, bound as she was.
“Oh, hi,” Phoebe said. At least, she thought she said it. The attempt was made, but she didn’t hear herself speak. What the hell happened here?
Glendarah, having dealt with Phoebe, turned to Hester. “Are you all right, my love?”
Hester nodded and put her hand on the place Phoebe had struck, her ribs on the left side. “Good thing she doesn’t realize what she’s capable of,” she whispered.
“Let’s finish this before she does,” Glendarah urged. “The witching hour passes soon.”
Hester gave her another nod. “Release the raven, and call forth our High Priest.”
Glendarah moved swiftly, her heels clicking along the cement as she went to the birdcage. She pulled off the black fabric cover, revealing the big raven, who eyed Glendarah not with animal-like trepidation but with expectation.
“Dzolali,” said Glendarah, who noticed her standing motionless. She felt a storm of emotions in the young witch’s mind and saw that she was staring at Phoebe. “Dzolali! Help me with the cage! Now!”
Dzolali snapped out of it and joined Glendarah at the cage, releasing the clamps that kept the floor connected to the wire top. Together, they pulled the top of the cage over the raven’s head, freeing him.
“Ugly-ass bird,” Phoebe mumbled. Slowly, her memory was returning. She stared at Hester, remembering that she was angry at her for something.
“Phoebe,” the man at her right, Holgrave was his name, called again.
She looked at him, noting his expression of concern. Phoebe blinked and turned to the witches. She focused on the redhead, and more memories poured back into place. The memories of passion, muddled by her bewitching, stirred more feelings and visions. As they did, Phoebe’s anger accompanied them.
“I’m all right, Holgrave,” she said firmly.
Hester gestured to the body of Ned Onenspek, using both hands. His corpse was dragged along by her unseen grasp, leaving his blood upon the concrete in streaks. The limp body slid along as it gained momentum and tumbled into the hole Holgrave dug. Onenspek’s feet were left visible, sticking out above the surface of the fl
oor. His black shoes were shiny loafers and his socks argyle. His trouser legs had slid up with the help of gravity, revealing his hairy, pasty white legs.
Phoebe, who normally would find this sight funny if it were not for the circumstances, looked away.
Hester put her hands together, palms out, thumbs and forefingers touching at the tips, and gave a pushing motion. The blood bubbled and moved toward Holgrave’s hole, now Onenspek’s tomb. As if the foundation of the House of the Seven Gables itself had tilted, the blood ran into the hole. Much of it was coagulated, and fully staining the off-white cement, but it would have to do.
Hester spread the large round black rug over the area, its white pentagram design face up. Dzolali and Glendarah moved to the rear of the basement staircase and returned with a large version of the statue of Ba’al that Phoebe had seen in the living room on the mantle. It was identical other than its size. The two witches placed it near the pentagram rug and retrieved candles from the area behind the stairs. They set them all around Ba’al, who had been placed facing the captives, and lit them.
“Ladies,” Hester called and stepped to the edge of the rug, their captives to her right and in her view. Glendarah took Hester’s left hand, Dzolali her right. Glendarah took Dzolali’s hand, completing the circle. They bowed their heads in the direction of the statue. “Spirit of Ba’al, pray thee watch over our coven this hour.”
“So mote it be,” Glendarah and Dzolali said in unison.
Phoebe noticed a trail of black smoke gathering around the raven, who had not left his perch though the cage had been freed from the base. The cloud first encircled the bird’s feet, then curled around them like a long snake, which continued coiling around and around, working its way up.
The circle of witches watched as the blackness formed from nowhere and maintained its proximity to the raven’s perch.
Phoebe stole a glance at Holgrave, who watched tight-lipped and grim. Though the man had eluded her powers of perception, she had not attributed it to anything other than her own inexperience with the gift. Now, however, having flexed the muscles, she decided that there was much more to this Holgrave Maule.
Phoebe and Holgrave watched as the black envelope of smoke thickened to the appearance of a heavy curtain. It stretched from the floor to the ceiling and simply stayed there, strangely in motion but contained.
The three witches shared glances, clearly gleeful in anticipation of what was to happen next. Phoebe, though no fan of birds, felt a touch of concern for the creature, for the blackness that had appeared around it was so thick that she felt that it would surely die from inhaling it. Even though the black smoke remained on the other end of the basement, Phoebe took in the aroma of a multitude of things burning.
Phoebe coughed and felt her nausea return. Oddly, the witches had no trouble breathing. Hester laughed with a sort of triumph and clapped as the smoke bent into another form, that of a very tall man wearing a black robe with a hood covering his head. The bird was gone, the perch pinned beneath the newcomer’s bare feet.
“Hail, High Priest Panas!” Hester called and bowed. The others did the same.
What in the hell just happened? Phoebe thought and found from Holgrave’s expression that his thoughts were on a similar path.
The hooded man stepped from the birdcage’s base and into the pentagram. All in the coven had their eyes on him as he came forward, as if waiting for acknowledgement.
Phoebe stared into the shadow cast by the hood. What she could see of the face was covered in black hair, kept short but unkempt. The whiskers skewed in every direction, and the lips set beneath the mustache were thick and pink, and what she could see of the nose was plank-like along the bone. The nostrils were flared and round. The man the witches called Panas stepped up to Phoebe in three strides. He stood before her, paying no attention to Holgrave.
Phoebe cranked her chin up to meet his eyes, though all she could perceive was a faint glimmer beneath the hood. He seemed to see right through her, and Phoebe could feel the presence, feel it as sure as one could sense a passing pedestrian by the faint breeze felt on the skin.
“She meets my gaze,” said Panas. His voice, deep and effortlessly penetrating, vibrated the air in Phoebe’s proximity. His exhale was unpleasantly warm, and the scent upon it was foul.
“Dude. Mint,” Phoebe commented through a grimace, though she did not look away.
Hester arrived at Panas’s right, her expression stern. “Do not look upon Panas, and watch your tongue.”
“Oh, bite me, Auntie Hester,” Phoebe spat back. She shifted her eyes to Hester just long enough to say her piece, then returned to the stare down with Panas.
Panas grinned, revealing rotting teeth. There was little whiteness to be seen in between the stains of red, brown, and black.
Hester rose her tightly clenched fist and shook it. Phoebe felt a tightening in her stomach, powerful and painful. She let out a brief cry, and her partially digested dinner did finally erupt, flowing weakly over her lips and down her chin.
Holgrave was about to protest, but Panas raised his index finger. Holgrave’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Holgrave was silenced, left in awe of the coven’s high priest, whose eyes could not perceive his bound figure with the hood so far forward over his head.
Phoebe coughed and gagged, writhing against the tight restraints.
“Cease,” Panas commanded, and Hester unclenched her fingers.
Phoebe sucked in oxygen with a harsh rasp and shot her great-aunt an intensely hateful glare. Hester smiled and flicked two fingers, which resulted in a twinge of pain in Phoebe’s innards. The younger Pyncheon gasped but did not look away.
“Enough!” shouted Panas.
Hester dropped her hand immediately and the grin died on her lips.
Panas reached to his hood with both hands. The flesh among them was wrinkled like dried tobacco leaves. The nails were long, discolored, and appeared sharp. He pushed his hood back, revealing his face to all.
“Matthew,” uttered Holgrave, shocked. “Matthew Maule!”
22
Panas
Panas shifted his golden eyes to Holgrave for the first time. The eyes, like two embers amongst earthen ash, were sunken into the grayish brown flesh. His eyebrows were thick, long, and as black as the rest of his facial hair. Together with his pronounced brow, they remained shaded from the lights overhead.
“Do not speak that name!” protested Hester, becoming shrill. She thought a moment. “How do you even come to know it?”
Panas answered for their captive. “He should, Hester. He is Holgrave Maule.”
Hester turned to the high priest of her coven, appalled. “And you knew this? You knew this and never spoke of it?”
Panas turned his glimmering eyes upon Hester. The gesture shut down any further conversation. She cast her eyes to the floor and stepped back.
Phoebe recovered her breath and much of her composure. She took in the features of the man Holgrave had called Matthew Maule and compared the two men. There was no resemblance whatsoever.
Panas stepped slowly around Phoebe, looking her up and down. “Short for a Pyncheon,” he commented.
Ugly for a Maule, Phoebe wisely chose to keep in thought.
Panas laughed. The sound was animal-like, thunderous, and painful to the eardrum. It was his response to her thought, and there was no doubt.
Fuck. Phoebe rolled her eyes, wondering how she could keep a thought to herself.
“My niece chose her mate poorly,” Hester offered as some excuse.
Panas smiled. The high priest was in her head, reading her as clearly as headlines on a newspaper. His hand reached for Phoebe’s mane and lifted it away from her neck. She grimaced in disgust at his cold, slimy touch.
“She does bear the mark,” Panas commented. “I thought as much.”
Phoebe passed he
r eyes over the coven. Their eyes showed intense interest, though Dzolali’s gaze held a hint of sorrow. Phoebe looked away quickly, not wanting to form a thought that could be read.
Panas returned to Phoebe’s view and looked into her face. “And there’s no way, young one, that you can be persuaded to join my Hester’s coven? To take your rightful place as a Pyncheon woman?”
Phoebe thought to scramble her words, filling her mind with images of her past life. The apartment, her job, former boyfriends, her stupid car, places she had wanted to visit before she died. Anything at all.
“Try as one might,” Panas replied to Phoebe’s attempt, “your answer is given. And it is a shame to waste one with so much potential. So it was with your mother.”
His statement cemented the visions Phoebe had gleaned from Hester, and her rage built ever more.
“She’s not our last chance,” Hester said reverently.
What? What the fuck does she mean by that? Phoebe’s mind screamed clearly.
Panas smiled. It was an ugly sight. “True enough, High Priestess.”
Phoebe shifted her eyes back and forth between Hester and Panas. There was no answer to her question coming.
“Do not fear, Phoebe Pyncheon,” Panas said instead, though not in a way that would prevent that very emotion. “You will not be completely wasted.” He turned to Hester. “It was the spirit of Alice Pyncheon that joined with this one on the night of your séance. It is time we disposed of her with finality.”
To Phoebe, Hester appeared to go whiter around the cheeks. “As you wish it, High Priest.”
Panas bent to pick up the skull Holgrave had retrieved from the hole that Ned Onenspek now occupied. He held it high, as if admiring Alice’s bone structure, and set it down in the middle of the pentagram. The coven again formed a circle and joined hands.
It was Panas that led the chant, “Ba’al, hear my plea. We call upon the spirit of Alice Pyncheon. Bring her forth, Ba’al, to stand bound in our circle.” He repeated this twice while the rest of the coven remained quiet, bowed.
