Krewe of Hunters, Volume 1: Phantom Evil ; Heart of Evil ; Sacred Evil ; The Evil Inside

by Heather Graham

  He frowned. “You could spend the time with Malachi and see if there was something else in his mind that might help us, something we haven’t discovered yet.”

  “Jamie is his friend, and has been his doctor,” Jenna pointed out. “I can get more done here.”

  He arched a brow. “Jenna—”

  “Maybe I can get near David Yates,” she said.

  That brought a frown. “It could be dangerous for you to be here,” Sam said, looking at Jamie as if for help, but not wanting to give away what happened yesterday.

  “I’m a Federal agent,” Jenna reminded him. “And that’s not going to change. I can handle myself around dangerous people. But, besides that, no one is going to attack me. The killer would know that the second something happened while Malachi was in custody, the whole concept that he was a maniacal killer driven to acts of extreme violence because of some strict fundamentalist upbringing would be in the trash, and the hunt would be on again. I’ll be fine. I’ll be more helpful here.”

  Sam wagged a finger at her. “You need to be careful.”

  “I always am,” she assured him.

  “Jamie?” Sam asked.

  “Sam, she just looks really sweet. There’s little as tough as an Irishwoman,” Jamie confirmed.

  She looked at her uncle, not sure whether to appreciate his support, or tell him that she wasn’t exactly a sumo wrestler. But she did want to explore on her own, and even though it seemed that Sam wasn’t scoffing her “sight” in the way he had been, she knew that he had difficulty believing in any kind of ESP.

  “See? Tougher than nails,” Jenna said. She smiled, liking the way Sam was looking at her. It was nice to feel that he came with the instinct to protect, even if she didn’t feel that she needed to be protected. Certainly not in broad daylight, and not when the streets were filled with people.

  Then again, she had to admit, protection wasn’t exactly what she wanted when she looked at him….

  Not good.

  “All right,” Sam said, “but you need to stay out of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble could I possibly get into?”

  “Legal trouble, too,” Sam said gruffly.

  “Seriously, there’s nothing for you to worry about. The killer honestly can’t act at all. We’ve agreed we’re not dealing with an all-out psycho who’s acting willy-nilly, but with someone possessing very specific, material motives. So, you see, in the devious little plot—whatever it might be—that’s going on, I couldn’t possibly be safer.”

  Soon after, she walked Sam to the door. She found him hesitating as he said good-night; he looked at her awkwardly, which seemed odd—he was so totally a man of the world. She couldn’t imagine that he had ever been awkward in a social situation.

  But they weren’t exactly in a social situation.

  He started to say something, and then didn’t. Then he touched her cheek again, and his fingers seemed to linger just a minute.

  “Be careful, kid, really,” he said, and his voice was gruff.

  She smiled at him. “In my experience, honestly, a ghost never killed anyone.”

  She hesitated. “The scariest unknown in the world is the human mind,” she continued on. “But in that, a ghost is no scarier than a dog, really. But any kind of suggestion is like hypnotism. People have claimed that all kinds of things have ‘made them do it.’ A dog, video games, television, the movies, ghosts—or the devil. I’m not afraid of ghosts. I can be very leery and careful of people, but I won’t do anything that could remotely be considered dangerous, okay?”

  He nodded. He stood there another minute, looking at her, and she was surprised that, although he no longer touched her, she could feel warmth emanating from him that almost reached out and stroked the length of her body. Heat rushed through her, and it was very hard to maintain her even eye contact with him, to give nothing away of the sudden longing that rushed through her.

  Was it him?

  Was it wishful thinking?

  She wasn’t without self-confidence, but she knew his type.

  Type? she mocked herself. Wasn’t that judging unfairly?

  He was wealthy; he was a powerful man, and he had the kind of steadfast assurance that was sensual in itself. He drew attention when he walked into a room. Men admired him, and women fantasized about him.

  Which, of course, she was doing right then.

  And women would easily come, and just as easily go, out of his life.

  “Good night,” he said somewhere in the middle of her internal monologue. And then he was gone.

  * * *

  That night, she felt something on her bed. And again, despite her assurances about ghosts to Sam, despite her beliefs, she felt an odd sensation of fear. She wanted to reach for the light. She wanted to run out of the house.

  There was an old woman sitting at her bedside. A very sad-looking old woman.

  For an insane moment she thought that the ghost, apparition or figment of her imagination was going to say something incredibly grave and overused, such as “The truth is out there!”

  But the figure simply stared at her with dignity, and then spoke softly. “You must save the innocents. Let not the blood of the innocent be shed.”

  And then, Jenna felt a stirring of the air, and something that seemed cold and warm at the same time touch her cheek.

  An old woman’s gentle touch.

  “Let not your blood be spilled—for the devil lives, he lives in all of us. Sometimes his name is Envy, and sometimes it is Greed. Let not the blood be spilled….”

  It was everything she could do not to scream.

  The vision faded into the night.

  Jenna leaped from her bed and hurried into the kitchen. As she knew, Jamie always had a bottle of good Irish whiskey on hand.

  She found the bottle and gulped down a burning shot.

  And then she took another. She noted that the darkness of night was just beginning to break. Morning was coming. Sleep, just a few hours, brought on by the relaxing quality of the alcohol, would be great just about now.

  * * *

  At his office, Sam thanked God for the competency of Evan Richardson, legal assistant extraordinaire. Sam inspected the paperwork on the motions filed. The prosecution would fight many of his motions regarding what could and could not be brought into evidence. In defense of his client, Sam would make court appearances himself, but Evan was exceptional at keeping the legal paperwork moving at an expert rate. Since they were not going for an insanity plea, Sam had planned to deny the prosecution’s request for their expert psychiatrist’s opinion on Malachi’s mental stability.

  “But what if you do have to switch over to a mental competency plea?” Evan asked worriedly.

  Sam smiled. “At that point, we’ll allow them their expert. Not now.”

  “All right. Are we moving to keep allegations regarding the other murders out?” Evan asked.

  Sam shook his head. “No, because we have a discrepancy on that. If the prosecution wants to bring up the other murders—which I don’t believe they’re willing to risk at this time—we have witnesses that will cast the shadow of doubt, affecting their entire case.”

  “Well, all right,” Evan said. He chewed on the nib of his pencil. “Sam, you’re taking a huge risk here, you know.”

  “If it comes down to it, I won’t risk sending my client to prison. We’ll plead insanity,” Sam assured him.

  Evan still looked glum.

  “Cheer up, I’m not going down in an earthquake. I can win this, man. I won’t take you off a cliff with me.”

  Evan still didn’t look convinced. Actually, he looked like a young man whose older mentor had gone entirely senile.

  Sam had to wonder if he was crazy himself.

  * * *

  When Jenna walked into A Little Bit of Magic that morning, both Cecilia and Ivy were working. After allowing her to get reacquainted with Ivy, following Ivy’s massive, enthusiastic hug greeting, Cecilia finally asked the ques
tion it looked like she was dying to ask.

  “Hey, how’s it going with Malachi?”

  “Slowly,” Jenna admitted.

  The shop was busy, but both the owners seemed to have the ability to have a conversation and keep an eye on their clientele, as well. Ivy hadn’t gone with the completely black look as Cecilia had done; her hair was still a shaggy mix of brown and blond, colors that complemented her hazel eyes.

  “Well, if you are trying to prove his innocence, that’s going to be hard,” Ivy said, making it obvious that the two women had discussed the situation.

  “Actually,” Jenna told them, “I came to ask you two a few questions about Wicca.”

  The warmth left Ivy’s eyes. “If you’re trying to say that this is the result of witchcraft—”

  “No, no, no! Not at all,” Jenna assured them quickly. “I know that—”

  “Our beliefs aren’t so different!” Ivy said. “All gods and goddesses are part of the Source, and the source is like the one god of Christianity and Judaism and Islam. Catholics see saints—we see other gods and goddesses. Praying in itself is important, as is the goodness that we are supposed to practice in everyday life.”

  “I know, I know—honestly, I know,” Jenna assured them. “But we all know that other people—in any time—can twist and contort what is supposed to be good and pure into other things, or try to make it appear that what is good—isn’t.”

  They both stared at her blankly.

  “There is a horned demon, right?” Jenna asked.

  Ivy shook her head. “No demons. And no devils.”

  “Ivy, there is a horned god,” Cecilia reminded her. “But he isn’t evil. He isn’t a devil. He is one of the oldest of gods. Many believe that his image has been drawn on walls by cavemen. He is…”

  “He is the connection between us and the earth, the wind, the sky, the greenery,” Ivy finished, as though reading a pamphlet.

  “Ah, but when you talk about people contorting things, he could easily be contorted,” Cecilia told her. “He is often connected with images of the Green Man, and he is seen sitting with immense arms, embracing the heavens and earth, with a very erect phallus. He is the cycle, fertility, birth and the sexuality that is essential for rebirth.

  “And,” Cecilia added, “though as far as I can tell none of the Witch Trial victims was a pagan, I can see how the prim and so-called proper people of the day would try to make him into a devil or a demon. Oh, he’s considered the god of the underworld, so I suppose, in Christianity, that would make him the god of hell. You know—he is represented with cloven hoofs and horns and all that.” She shivered. “People were so…easily scared!”

  Jenna smiled and agreed. “Well, there were Indian raids, babies died, there was so little light…and they’d been killing one another for decades and decades over religion on the Continent by the time the Pilgrims came here.”

  “Why are you asking all this?” Cecilia asked curiously.

  Jenna wasn’t about to explain to them that she’d seen one, in postcognition—murdering people. “I’ve seen one running around,” she said.

  Ivy groaned. “Yeah, yeah! And you’ll see witches with warts on their noses, too. It’s Halloween. A holiday for one and all.”

  “Hey, now, tolerance is what we need, and it’s what we’re all about,” Cecilia reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah, and if I ran around dressed like Jesus Christ or the Virgin Mary, people wouldn’t be pissed at me?” Ivy demanded.

  Cecilia sighed. Before she could speak again, a woman walked politely up to them, excused herself, and asked about her psychic reading with Merlin.

  “I’m sure he’ll be right out,” Ivy assured the woman. “Merlin is excellent at keeping his appointment times, but he’s very thorough. I know you’ll enjoy your time with him, and that he’ll be tremendously enlightening.”

  As she spoke, the man Jenna assumed to be Merlin came out of the curtained-off area in the back, followed by a young woman who seemed to be glowing.

  She had certainly enjoyed her reading.

  The man came toward them. He had long, curling brown hair, and was wearing a cape covered in stars and moons against a deep blue velvet background.

  As he came even closer, Jenna realized she knew him and smiled. “Tommy! Tommy Wainscott!”

  He smiled as well and walked forward, giving her a hug and whispering, “Merlin, please, if you will, Irish!”

  Tommy had gone to school with Cecilia and Ivy. They’d all been friends. On her many visits to Salem, he’d liked to tease Jenna a lot about the color of her hair.

  “Merlin!” she said quickly.

  “Merlin,” Ivy said, a dry edge to her voice. “Your next appointment is waiting.”

  “I’d heard you were here,” Tommy said, brown eyes dancing as he looked at her. “Will I get to see you?”

  “Sure,” Jenna said.

  “Gotta go now! Business is good, but there’s competition in town,” he told her. He turned, thoughtfully rather than dramatically, to the young woman who was his next appointment. “If you will, please?” He indicated the back.

  Jenna smiled. “So Tommy is a medium now?”

  “He’s very good,” Ivy said.

  “I believe you,” Jenna assured her.

  “He can stand against any of them,” Cecilia said. “Even the new blood with the big boobs.”

  “Who’s the new blood with the big boobs?”

  “Samantha,” Cecilia said.

  “Oh? Samantha Yeager—who wanted to buy the old Lexington place?” Jenna asked.

  “The one and only,” Ivy said.

  “She’s working at a shop down at the end of Essex Street. It’s right next to Winona’s Wine Bar. I think her people come in on the spirited side to begin with. Also, she gets lots of men who wouldn’t step foot in with a medium if their lives depended on it otherwise…”

  “Ah. I’m curious about her,” Jenna said. “Maybe I’ll go for a reading.”

  “Merlin is much better!” Cecilia assured her.

  “Much!” Ivy added.

  Ivy frowned. “You’re not into a different—lifestyle these days, are you? I mean, it’s absolutely fine with us. We love our friends no matter what their religion or whatever, including sexual likes.”

  Jenna smiled. “No, no lifestyle change. Just curiosity.”

  “She’s investigating stuff for the Lexington House murders, silly,” Cecilia reminded her. “But, hey, we’re curious as all get-out about Samantha, too! You’ve got to come back and tell us all about it.”

  “Will do,” Jenna promised.

  She left the shop and walked along the pedestrian mall. Haunted Happenings remained wonderfully in full swing. She noted a row of small buckets and saw that the town fathers had figured out how to have kids bob for apples in a more sanitary fashion than when she’d been a kid. One mouth in a tub—and then it was washed and refilled. The bobbing-for-apples crew—attired in pirate gear—was busy.

  A medieval group had set up to sing and play a bit farther down, and one shop front boasted The Best Haunted House In All New England.

  Still farther along, a busy group had children doing mock gravestone rubbings.

  There was something for everyone.

  At last she came to a shop where a large sign advertised Madam Sam, the Best Reading In All New England!

  Not in Salem—just like the haunted house, she was the best in all New England!

  She noted the wine bar next door and smiled.

  Bells chimed when she opened the door to the shop. Like the other merchants, the store was enjoying the busy trade of Haunted Happenings. Men and women in and out of costume looked at beautiful dolls, herbs, gris-gris bags, magical stones, jewelry and clothing.

  Jenna approached the counter and asked about a reading with Madam Sam.

  “Well, you’re in luck!” the girl behind the desk with black pigtails and a huge nose ring told her. “A lady just became faint, and had to go back to her h
otel. We’re otherwise booked all day, so you are lucky, lucky, lucky!”

  “How lucky indeed,” Jenna murmured. “The woman is all right?”

  “What?”

  “The lady who was faint—she was all right?”

  The girl waved a hand in the air. “Oh, her husband just took her back to her room. It’s the Fates! You’re the one who should have the reading!” she said happily. “Come along—we have to adhere to a schedule, of course. You’re ever so lucky!”

  Jenna followed the woman to the back and a setup that was similar to that at A Little Bit of Magic.

  The clerk opened a heavy damask drapery for her and led her into the small cubicle where the medium was working.

  Madam Sam was a beautiful woman. She was wearing a low-cut gypsy-style dress, and her hair was ink-black, long and sleek as it fell down her back. Her eyes were so blue they were almost violet, but Jenna could see, even by the dim light that added atmosphere to the cubicle, that the color had been enhanced with contact lenses. She wore very heavy makeup, especially around her eyes, adding to her look of the sexy gypsy reader.

  She wore a live boa constrictor around her neck; the animal somehow seemed to increase the size of her breasts and enhance her sensual mystique. There was something about her that seemed familiar, but Jenna couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “Ah,” Madam Sam said softly. “Welcome. How curious that you have come to me for a reading!”

  She didn’t offer Jenna a hand but instead indicated a chair in front of her table, which held a crystal ball and a large tarot deck.

  Jenna said. “You know me? Have we met?”

  Madam Sam—or Samantha Yeager—laughed, a low, throaty and melodious sound. “Of course I know you. Your name is Jenna Duffy, and you’re attached to that delightfully devilish rogue, Sam Hall, and you’re here to investigate the recent horrors that have occurred in Salem. Have we met? No, never, I’m afraid.”

  “Very good,” Jenna told her. “I mean, we haven’t met, but you do know exactly who I am.”

  “Oh, yes, and you work for the FBI,” Madam Sam said.

  “Okay…”

  “Aye, yes, well, my other powers may be questionable, but I do read the local papers very well,” Samantha said, grinning. “You didn’t have to pay for a reading to speak with me.” Her voice had changed; it was tinged with amusement, and the sound was down-to-earth.