Spellbound

by Jean Copeland

  Hazel glanced back at her as she slept on the bench in her back seat. She wanted to touch her, to make sure she was okay, but she kept her eyes forward in case anything else decided to ambush them.

  She looked over at Sarah, whose leg was shaking up and down. Hazel shook her head, disappointed that she hadn’t been more aware of how all of this was affecting her.

  “Hey, are you okay?” she asked.

  Sarah rubbed her arms as though chilled. “Those men dissolved into ash when Goody Raven struck them with her blade. I have witnessed the reverend preach of demons many a time but imagined not in my wildest nightmare that I should ever encounter one. I thought he hath been speaking in metaphor.”

  “I know how overwhelming this is for me. I can’t imagine what it feels like for you. You must be—” She cut her sentence short when she noticed the black Suburban parked in front of their motel room.

  It was far too fancy a car for anyone staying at this place. The man in a black suit standing with his arms crossed behind the vehicle proved her point.

  Slowing the car, she reached back and shook Raven’s arm, causing her to stir. “Raven, I think we may have a problem.”

  Raven shot straight up and reached for the blade she’d used earlier. “What’s wrong?” She looked around and then peered out the window. “Shit.” She put her blade back down. “Those are Morgan’s guys.”

  Hazel wasn’t sure what that meant. Were they in trouble? Or about to be the next group vaporized into ash? “What do you want me to do?”

  Raven pointed to the Suburban. “Park next to them. I have a feeling we’ll be riding with them anyway.”

  “You need to rest. You aren’t going anywhere,” Hazel said. She didn’t know Morgan, nor did she answer to her.

  Raven’s voice held no agitation, only acceptance. “I go wherever Morgan tells me.”

  Hazel put the car in park and got out. She was about to help Raven out of the back seat when another man in a black suit beat her to it.

  “Your bags are already in the car, Ms. Abbot. Please get in.” He didn’t bother to turn his head in her direction.

  “I’m not getting in a car with you. I don’t know you.” Hazel hoped her voice sounded more authoritative than it felt.

  The hulking man finally turned toward her, clearly unaccustomed to being questioned. “I wasn’t asking. The Queen requests your presence. This particular course you three are on has become too dangerous to attempt on your own. You will come with us.”

  Raven placed a hand on her back. “Get in the car.” She looked up at the man. “Who’s taking my car down to New Orleans?”

  The man nodded once and opened the door. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Once the three of them were in the back seat, Sarah grabbed Hazel’s arm. “Are we under arrest?”

  Hazel put her hand over hers. “No, no. We’re going to New Orleans.”

  The driver peered into the rearview mirror and finished answering for her. “We’re taking you to the Roanoke Airport. From there, you’ll fly to New Orleans. Then we’ll take you directly to Madame le Fay.”

  Sarah looked confused. “We are to fly? As real witches do through the sky?”

  Hazel and Raven exchanged smiles. Raven leaned over Hazel and addressed Sarah. “You thought cars were impressive? Wait until you see an airplane.” Raven withdrew her hand, letting it rest on Hazel’s leg on its way back.

  A few minutes later the car drove into the airport, past a large gate, and directly onto the airstrip where a private jet awaited them.

  Sarah’s mouth opened in awe. “’Tis a giant metal bird.”

  “Yeah, it kind of is,” Hazel said. “Except we’ll be riding inside of it.”

  “Have mercy,” Sarah said breathlessly. “Like Jonah inside the belly of the whale.”

  “Okay,” Hazel said, unsure how to address that one.

  Sarah shook her head adamantly. “I shall not enter the belly of that bird willfully.”

  Raven looked at Sarah. “Well, just like Jonah couldn’t refuse God, you can’t refuse Morgan.”

  The car stopped, and the driver opened their car door. “Ladies…and Raven.”

  Raven hopped out and moved her shoulder around in a large circle. “Funny, Max. You should take your show on the road.” She hit him in the arm.

  Hazel peeled off the cloth on Raven’s back, wanting to check on the wound. She felt her breath catch. “It’s almost completely healed. That’s impossible.”

  Raven shrugged. “Still stings like a bitch.” She winked. “I told you I’d be fine.”

  Hazel had more questions, but her attention shifted to her aunt shaking with fear next to her. “Everything okay?”

  Sarah’s hands gripped Hazel’s arm. “If God had meant for man to soar through the sky, would he not hath given us wings?”

  Raven put her arm around her and led her toward the plane. “Good thing we’re women, then. Seriously, it will be fine. Besides, you’ve already traveled three hundred and something years through time. A few hours on a jet is nothing.”

  Hazel wasn’t sure of a lot of the things happening around her. Just a few days ago she was preparing for tourists to infiltrate her small town, and now she was boarding a private jet, heading for New Orleans for an audience with a witch queen. Not to mention fending off a demon attack. If she hadn’t experienced it, she would never have believed it. As she was walking toward the plane, she tried another time to reach her mother, but there was still no answer. She thought about leaving a message and then changed her mind. As angry as she was with her, she didn’t want to worry her either. This was a conversation that couldn’t be started via voice mail.

  She took the short staircase onto the jet and was blown away by the inside. It was just how she would’ve pictured a private jet. The smell of leather and wine, clean large seats, and television monitors along the wall. She sat down next to Raven, enjoying the familiar way her body felt. She felt safe, and even if it was only temporary, she’d take what she could get.

  * * *

  Somewhere over Tennessee, Sarah sat mesmerized, staring out the small window at the puffy clouds that seemed close enough to run her fingers through. Until now she’d always envisioned God’s kingdom above the clouds: God sitting atop his throne meting out harsh judgments of eternal damnation for the sinners or ushering the pious chosen ones through His gate toward life everlasting. Wasn’t that where the expression “Heaven above” originated? She strained her neck searching the white vastness for heavenly signs but only felt the warmth of the sun on her face.

  She closed her eyes and recalled the summer days of her yet blossoming womanhood helping Ayotunde harvest crops. One day, as Ayotunde gathered squash on the far end of the farm, Sarah sat in the grass with her eyes closed, the sun kissing her face as she held out her apron for Ayotunde to fill with the yield.

  “Ay, lui miesie! Get up off your bottom and help me pick,” Ayotunde had yelled playfully. “Your brother needs take this to market to sell.”

  At that, Sarah ran to her and knocked the bundle of squash in Ayotunde’s arms to the ground. She screeched with laughter, hoping Ayotunde would chase her. And she did.

  “Oh, you wicked child,” she’d yelled as she pursued her. “If I get the switch from your papa for bruised squash, I give you it, too, on your bare behind.”

  Sarah slowed just enough so that Ayotunde could catch her, and they tumbled to the ground together in laughter. After that, the game had become a regular part of the summer harvests, always ending in the two young women entwined together under the warm New England sun.

  For many years, Sarah had fretted that her husband’s touch had never felt as glorious as Ayotunde’s.

  Hazel tapped her shoulder. “What are you smiling about?”

  Sarah started. “I hadn’t known I was,” she said. “I am suddenly struck with homesickness, but not for my husband Thomas.” She glanced around and then leaned toward Hazel’s ear. “For my Ayotunde, my father’s hous
e servant.”

  “I remember you telling me about her.” Hazel’s smile grew wide across her face. “Do tell.”

  “’Tis a troublesome burden,” she said softly. “God hath punished me for my thoughts and dreams of her.” Her eyes fell to her lap. “He leave me barren these ten years of my marriage.”

  “Wait. You think you’re childless because you were in love with Ayotunde?”

  Sarah looked at her quizzically. “What mean you in love? That is a sacred emotion for mine husband only.”

  Hazel cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?”

  Sarah looked down again and fiddled with the cap on the mini bottled water in her lap.

  “Sarah.” Hazel’s voice was rich with compassion and sincerity. “In spite of what you’ve been told or not told, it’s natural for some women to fall in love with other women. God isn’t going to punish you for it. That’s a myth created in religion to force people into submission. Maybe you don’t have kids because your husband is shooting blanks.”

  “I know not what are blanks.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hazel said. “Look. I can totally empathize with you feeling out of place and even homesick, given how far you’ve come, but you were sent to the future for a reason.”

  “Aye. To escape false accusations—”

  “I guarantee you that’s not the main reason. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but I’m certain that creep Lucien McCoulter, or Samuel Cranwell, is behind it.”

  Sarah nodded. “I doubt it not. There be no love lost between Samuel Cranwell and me. The man lusted for power in 1692, and he yet lusts for it centuries later. I think it not well that he learn I have come to this century.”

  “What does he have against you? Didn’t you say your husband took him out of the gutter and gave him a job?”

  “Aye, and gave him the word of God. Not long after, working fields for an honest wage satisfied him not. Cranwell liked not to take orders and took to drink again. When Thomas asked him to leave our homestead, he set out to preaching on the street by the meeting house. Many a parishioner took to listening, so much fervor had he for God. When he learned of the church’s need for a new reverend, he campaigned for it…fiercely.”

  “Did he get it?”

  Sarah shook her head. “At my urging, my Thomas went to meeting and spake against his appointment. He told of Cranwell’s drinking and indolence. One other farmer, Joseph Warren, claimed thievery against him. The magistrates chose Reverend Parris instead.”

  “I imagine that didn’t sit well with Cranwell.”

  “Aye. Indeed not. Soon after Reverend Parris took the pulpit, my husband’s barn caught fire, and Joseph Warren’s sow gone missing. The marshal sought to question Cranwell, but he were gone, too. ’Twere rumored that he and his followers ventured to the wood to form their own congregation involving the black arts. They were not seen again in Salem Village.”

  Hazel’s body visibly shivered as she listened. She turned and nudged Raven awake. “I hate to break this to you, but it appears we have more than one time traveler on our hands, and they aren’t all as sweet-natured as my aunt.”

  “Huh?” Raven said, still groggy.

  Sarah relayed the story again to Raven, who sat quietly dumbfounded.

  “Goody Raven?” Sarah shook her gently. “Art thee bewitched?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Raven said. “This explains why Morgan demanded we all see her immediately.” Her tone turned grave. “I can’t let Sarah out of my sight for even a minute until Morgan tells us exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  Fear plummeted into Sarah’s stomach worse than a sudden drop in altitude. “Good heavens. What have I done?”

  Hazel whipped her head toward her. “What do you mean? You didn’t do anything except save yourself. Every one of those victims would’ve done the same thing if they could’ve.”

  Sarah’s vision began clouding with tears. “I should have stayed behind with my Ayotunde and faced my lot as bravely as the others.”

  “So you could all be rotting in jail awaiting execution?” Hazel said. “No. No. That’s not the answer.”

  “Sarah,” Raven said gently. “We’re landing soon. Let’s stay calm until we get to Morgan.”

  Hazel glared at her. “Then we can panic?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Sarah wrung her hands in her lap. “I must conceive of a way to bring Ayotunde here,” she began chanting to herself. “My dear Ayotunde.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lucien paced in his living room. After he passed the vase on the coffee table for the third time, he picked it up and threw it against the wall. The shattering glass gave his mind a nice reprieve from the demons’ failure that echoed in his head.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he said to Amon, the demon cowering on the couch. “The four of you couldn’t manage to catch one shadowhunter, a book dealer, and a Puritan?” The question was rhetorical, but that didn’t matter. He wanted his disgust with the lone survivor to be palpable.

  The demon dipped his head. “The book dealer and the Puritan are witches, and the shadowhunter, well, she is very fast.”

  Lucien grabbed the demon by the shirt and wrenched him up off the ground, his closed fists shaking with rage. “They barely know they’re witches. They have no idea what they can do yet. I gave you ties to bind them. All you had to do was what you were told.” He whisked the blade off the coffee table and held it to the demon’s neck. “You’ve failed me. What’s stopping me from destroying you right now?” A knock on the door lured his attention away. “Who is it?” His voice boomed throughout the small room, causing a picture on the wall to shift from the vibration.

  “It’s Tammi,” the voice on the other side of the door answered.

  Lucien put the demon and the blade down and did his best to get his breathing under control. He walked over to the door and whipped it open. The short blond in a tailored pantsuit sauntered in and deposited her purse on the table near the door.

  “What’s Amon doing here?” She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs.

  He followed her into the living room and but couldn’t stand still. There was too much raw energy pumping through him right now to sit. “He’s explaining to me why I shouldn’t send him back to Hell.”

  “This should be good,” she said with a smile.

  Amon fumbled over his words for the next several minutes, trying to paint himself in a positive light as he explained his failure. When he was finished, he dipped his head again. Pitiful excuse for a demon.

  Tammi Lee looked at Lucien, her eyes flashing to a brighter color blue from their shared anger. “Are these witches going to be a problem for us?”

  Lucien snarled at the question. “I’m not a fool. I have a hellhound tracking them. They’ll be taken care of, but this time, we won’t try to capture the witches. We’re just going to kill them.”

  “And the shadowhunter, what will you do with her?” Tammi Lee stood and walked to the coffee table. She picked up the blade and turned its tip on her finger, drawing a drop of blood.

  Lucien snorted. “Morgan’s pet? She’s the last in the family line. When she’s gone, nothing will be left in our way.”

  Tammi Lee licked the drop of blood off her fingertip and dragged the blade down Amon’s chest. She smiled when the metal scorched his skin, leaving a bubbling, fleshy boil in its wake. “The master will be pleased.” When the blade reached the demon’s belly button, she thrust it in, and he screamed until his form dissolved into a pile of ash around the blade.

  Chapter Ten

  After what seemed like a journey into eternity, Hazel sighed with relief when she saw the sign for New Orleans’s French Quarter. She was tired, sweaty, and ravenous but was thoroughly enjoying sitting next to Raven in the back seat, close enough to smell the cinnamon of her gum and the musk of her cologne.

  “I think this is it,” Raven said as the car slowed on their approach to Morgan le Fay’s Bourbon Street resi
dence. She stared at the two-story town house with wrought iron bars around the windows and balcony above. “Impressive architecture. Digs suitable for witches, warlocks, and voodoo priestesses.”

  Hazel nodded. “The hair on the back of my neck is already standing up.”

  Raven reached forward for Sarah, who was fast asleep. “Sarah, wake up. We’re here.”

  Sarah roused with a start. “Have we reached our journey’s end?”

  “Something tells me this is just the beginning,” Hazel said as they all disembarked the black SUV.

  Raven turned to face them as they gathered on the doorstep. “Ready?” She leaned in toward them. “Be cognitive of your emotions. Morgan can sense them and manipulate them if she chooses.”

  Hazel and Sarah clutched each other’s arms in anticipation. “Sure,” Hazel said dryly. “I mean, I think. Ready as I could ever be.”

  Raven smirked. After she announced their arrival via the gorgon door knocker, the housekeeper welcomed them into the ornately adorned French-Creole town house. Hazel wasn’t sure what to expect, but she hadn’t envisioned a witch queen’s lair to be an American historical showplace replete with French provincial furnishings and accented with various types of pirate booty that looked recently looted from some fortune-seeking mariner.

  The housekeeper, dressed in a black and white uniform, escorted them across a creaking wooden floor polished to a blinding sheen and through an arched doorway into a lavish sitting room.

  Morgan le Fay lounged cross-legged on a chaise in a black chemise and sheer tulle shoulder wrap and begrudgingly poked an iPad with her long black fingernails.

  “Volez!” Morgan spat. “Anndan tourego!” she added, then looked up at her visitors. “Marie Laveau.” She calmly pointed at her tablet. “She always cheats in Words with Friends.”

  “Hi, Morgan,” Raven said with a knowing grin.

  Morgan tossed the iPad aside and leapt up from her chaise. “What took you so long?”