The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  Instantly, a cloud of darkness swirled around the princess and a terrible howling sounded in the air. An enormous demon appeared before her, growling, snorting and gnashing his teeth.

  “Heaven assist me!” Odoline cried, but no angel came to her aid.

  The demon stared at Odoline with hungry yellow eyes, then opened its gaping, ragged mouth. “When the balance of good and evil is tipped towards hell, nothing can save you,” it said.

  Odoline was sure this wasn’t true. She’d read about angels as well as demons and knew that each one had their strengths and weaknesses. “State your name,” she demanded, knowing the demon would be compelled to answer by the witch’s blood that flowed in her veins.

  “Malphas,” the demon hissed, foaming at the mouth.

  It was a name that Odoline knew well. Malphas was the mighty prince of Hell with forty legions of demons under his command, second only to Satan. Malphas, builder of towers, strongholds and monuments. Malphas, destroyer of desires and dreams. Malphas was also known as “the giver,” because when conjured by a witch, he was bound by her magic to spare her life and present her with a familiar. “Bring me a companion,” Odoline said, making the sign of the horns with her fingers. “And then be gone.”

  The demon threw his head back and roared. “Because of you,” he said, “all witches will suffer! They’ll be forever cursed to hide their gifts from the light.” Then he vanished from the room leaving behind the stench of sulphur and a heap of black feathers at Odoline’s feet.

  When Odoline bent to inspect what Malphas had given her, she discovered a handsome, bright-eyed raven with a gold ring around its leg.

  That was the day Odoline declared herself a witch.

  It was also the day the hunts began.

  After Madame St. Clair had recited Odoline’s tale one last time, she’d tugged at something around her neck. To Eleanor’s surprise, it was a scarlet ribbon. She was sure she’d never noticed her mother wearing it in the past. “Take the key,” her mother had whispered, “to remind you of our past. Demons may cross your path, but you have the power to beat them.”

  As Eleanor had dropped the ribbon around her own neck, her mother had struggled on, her words catching on every breath. “The time will soon come when witches won’t be born, but made. The first will come to you. She’ll need to learn. You must teach her.”

  “How will I know who she is?” Eleanor had asked, desperate to make sense of her mother’s words.

  “Perdu knows,” her mother had answered. “He’s always known.”

  Within hours of her mother’s passing, two men had come to the door wearing the dark frowns and wide-brimmed hats of undertakers. “May we assist you in your time of sorrow?” they’d asked. Eleanor hadn’t the faintest notion of how they’d gotten there, or how they’d found out about her mother’s death. In her grief, she’d considered letting them in, thinking her mother might have summoned them without her knowing, but Perdu had kicked up a terrible fuss. Flying to the peak of the roof he’d cried out as if he were in agony. In an instant, a flock of ravens had appeared, darkening the sky overhead. In the midst of their cacophony, Eleanor had sworn she’d heard the words, “All my trust.” She’d told the men, “Thank you for your offer, but there’s nothing for you here.”

  She herself had dug a grave under a hawthorn tree and laid her mother to rest. Then she’d gone to the bees to tell them their mistress had died. Perdu had grieved alongside her as she’d wept among the hives, and followed at her heels as she’d cast spells of protection over every inch of the land and every corner of the house.

  —

  “Here’s to you, Maman,” Eleanor said, finishing her tea and holding her cup to the air. Then upending the cup on its saucer, she turned it three times round. If ever she needed the counsel of the leaves, it was now. When she turned the cup and saucer over again, she heard a loud clang. Setting the saucer aside, she discovered that the key her mother had given her was resting inside the teacup’s bowl, its scarlet ribbon spilling over the rim.

  “What witchery is this?” Eleanor whispered, staring at the key in disbelief. She hadn’t worn the thing in ages, hadn’t looked at it in months. She’d kept it hidden in her room, safe from any chance of losing it. Placing the key around her neck, she rushed to the counter to fetch a jar of salt. Spreading a thick line of grains in a wide circle around herself, she chanted a spell of protection.

  Thrice around, the circle’s bound.

  Sink all evil to the ground.

  O goddess good, of day and night,

  Protect this place with all your might.

  By the magic power of three,

  Summon the angels to accompany me.

  So may it be, so may it be, so may it be!

  As Eleanor spoke the last words of the spell, Adelaide came through the door, wobbling to and fro and smelling of absinthe. Standing outside the circle, she shook her head. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Quiet,” Eleanor shushed her, reaching out to Adelaide, inviting her to cross the line.

  Adelaide immediately saw the fear in Eleanor’s eyes. “What’s happened?”

  Clutching Adelaide’s hand, Eleanor answered, “I’m not sure.”

  As Beatrice slept, Twitch lay on her pillow, propped on his elbow, chin in hand. With a lovesick sigh he stared at the girl, then reached out to tuck a curl behind her ear. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “If only I could tell you to your face.”

  “Stop it,” Bright scolded, cuffing Twitch on the back of his head. “You know it’s against the rules. Besides, it won’t do her any good. Flattery does nothing but cloud a girl’s judgement.”

  “Humph,” Twitch said, before resuming his adoration of Beatrice.

  Although she wasn’t about to admit it, Bright was enjoying watching the girl sleep as much as Twitch was. It was a relief not to have anything to do outside of observing the sweet-faced creature. Twitch was right, she was a beautiful thing—so full of new-found magic that Bright could taste it in the air. It was fresh, like morning dew on rose petals, delicious as the nectar in a honeysuckle blossom. Still, Bright wasn’t about to encourage Twitch’s silly notions. When it came to Beatrice Dunn, they couldn’t afford to make mistakes. That’s why they wouldn’t be building her any dreams—not yet.

  A NOTE on WAYWARD GHOSTS.

  Most witches needn’t bother with ghosts. There’s magic enough to be found among the living. Still, it’s important to know how best to deal with stray spirits, if and when they should cross your path.

  The likelihood of this happening is great. Spirits of a confused, uneasy nature often clamour after magic and those who practice it (especially newborn babes with witchery in their blood, and young, inexperienced witches). For the most part, they mean no harm. Do not confuse their activities with the work of various otherworldly folk—demons, goblins, imps, elementals, shadow beings, angels, fairies, nymphs, gnomes, elves and so on.

  Most hauntings are brief affairs marked by the typical signs—strange shadows on the wall, odd reflections in mirrors, scents lingering in the room, draughts of cold air, bumps in the night. Should these signs persist or increase, they may indicate an infestation. Poltergeists are often the most troublesome of the lot. They can move objects with ease—within a room, about the house, and in rare cases, from one time or place to another. Should these things happen, be wary but not afraid. Do your best to allow the spirit to pass through, unchecked. It’s likely they have important business to which they must attend, just as you have yours.

  If wayward ghosts insist upon disrupting your life or your dwelling place, look first to yourself for the reason why. Have you done something to encourage their presence? Did you leave your house or yourself unprotected? Have you moved a sacred object from its proper place? Did you bring a relic of unknown origins into your home? Has a person of questionable motives crossed your threshold in the recent past? Have you disturbed sacred ground, either knowingly or unwittingly? Have you undertaken munda
ne tasks during sacred hours? Did you trifle with magic to call upon the dead? (There are proper ways to go about this. Rules must be obeyed.)

  Whenever possible, make amends without directly addressing the deceased. Endeavouring to make contact without taking proper precautions is a recipe for disaster. Such activities should only be carried out by experienced witches skilled in the art of necromancy.

  —From the grimoire of Eleanor St. Clair

  Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.

  “WHERE’S PERDU?” ADELAIDE asked, hands on her hips. She’d come downstairs that morning and the bird hadn’t announced her arrival. He always made a point of it, especially when she’d slept in: she swore the bird liked to stir up trouble.

  “He’s with Beatrice,” Eleanor answered, pouring tea into a pair of cups—one for Adelaide, one for herself.

  Adelaide pondered the name “Beatrice,” but found she couldn’t place it.

  Placing a small pitcher of honey on the counter, Eleanor prompted, “Our new girl—”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” Adelaide said. “I almost forgot.”

  She’d been dreadfully tipsy when she’d come home for the night so the memory of her conversation with Eleanor was sketchy at best. Squinting against the sunlight that was streaming through the shop windows, she tried to think if there was anything important (other than the girl, of course) that she might’ve forgotten.

  After her fruitless trip to see Mr. Beadle’s witch, she’d stopped by the Fifth Avenue Hotel for a late supper. She’d hoped she might run into Judith Dashley ahead of their scheduled meeting with the mysterious Dr. Brody.

  Although she hadn’t had any luck spotting Judith, the soup du jour had been clam chowder, which she loved. The hotel kitchen served it beer-garden style, with brown bread and a side of baked beans drowned in syrupy molasses sauce. The dining room had bustled with the usual evening crowd—ladies gossiping after a long day of shopping, businessmen courting out-of-town clients, and politicos embroiled in a heated discussion about the best way to get their man into the White House. The election was less than two months away, and Senator Roscoe Conkling and his merry band of Republicans had set up shop at the hotel for the duration. He and two of his Conklingites were at the next table going back and forth about what would win more votes: promising to back the struggling economy with the gold standard, or reminding the public that theirs was the party that’d preserved the Union by winning the war.

  Conkling stood firm on his views. “Men want to be assured that the money they make, however much or little that might be, is as good as gold.”

  The man to his left shook his head. “Times are tough for the average Joe. Best not get them thinking about money. Heaven knows Garfield’s business record doesn’t instill much confidence.” The portly fellow had a line of beer foam clinging to his moustache.

  “Hear, Hear!” the man to Conkling’s right bellowed. “I say let’s not make this about Garfield at all. Who cares about a farm boy from Ohio? The only way he’s going to win is if we point the finger in the other direction. Blame the Dems for everything that’s gone wrong—secession, the war, hard times…need I go on?” He was long-necked and gangly, the Jack Spratt to his foamy-faced companion.

  Conkling looked as if he’d smelled something rotten. “Do you really think we can play the war card again? How long can we get away with waving the bloody shirt?”

  “It worked for Hayes,” the portly one replied.

  “Barely,” the gangly one sighed.

  “Barely’s good enough,” Conkling said. “So long as you’re the winner.”

  Adelaide didn’t know much about Conkling’s political leanings, and she didn’t much care to, but she knew quite a lot about his reputation among women. The greying yet virile statesman had been known to go a round or two in the boxing ring as well as between the sheets with several of his colleagues’ wives. The previous summer he’d been caught with his pants down while tending to Mrs. Kate Sprague at her summer home in Rhode Island. Her husband, the Governor of the Smallest State, had reportedly held a shotgun in his hand while showing Conkling the door.

  After waving away the dessert cart, Adelaide had treated herself to a glass or three (or had it been four?) of absinthe. Each time the waiter dutifully poured her more, she’d squinted at the dose line and pronounced, “It looks a little short.” Balancing a slotted silver spoon across the rim of her glass, she’d gotten on with the artful task of preparing her drink. First came a sugar cube, carefully set on top of the spoon. Then came a measure of cold, clear water, meted out in drips. When done correctly, it created a beautiful, cloudy mixture. To Adelaide the stuff looked as inviting as the tall, refreshing glasses of milk they served at the Central Park Dairy on hot summer days. Here’s to life’s short play and all that, she’d thought, as she’d raised her glass to her lips. Here’s to Anthony Comstock and all the fine ladies in the WCTU! Here’s to the green fairy and to making mischief! Here’s to the Fifth Avenue Hotel and its resident ghosts! (Thinking back, there was a distinct possibility that she’d said those things out loud.)

  As the anise-flavoured liquor had wriggled its way through her senses, she’d turned her attention from the obstreperous politicos to the hotel’s owner, Mrs. Marietta Stevens, who was making her evening rounds through the dining room, stopping at every table to hand out compliments and gather whatever morsels of information her patrons cared to offer. Each time she’d said her goodnights and farewells, she’d ended the conversation by saying, “It’s by my guests’ happiness that I prevail.” It was an effortless performance that Adelaide greatly admired.

  Time and again the press had referred to the widowed Mrs. Stevens as “a woman of lowly beginnings,” but Adelaide regarded her as a woman to be revered. What’s more, she thought that if she hadn’t married Mr. Paran Stevens, the famous hotelier, she would’ve made one hell of a mind reader. Marietta had the knack for knowing what people needed before they knew they needed it, and the forethought to commit a person’s secrets to memory until such time as they might be of use. Adelaide prided herself on the fact that she and Marietta were more alike than different, and that a woman of such influence chose to come to her for advice. While she wasn’t sure there was anything in particular she could do about the romance that’d blossomed between the widow’s son and Edith Jones, she figured she should at least ask if there’d been any progress one way or another. When Marietta had reached her table, Adelaide had asked, “How goes the disenchantment of Miss Jones?”

  “Slow,” Marietta had replied, settling down next to Adelaide.

  Adelaide wished she didn’t have to choose sides in the matter. Edith Jones was a lovely young woman, keen and bright and observant. Adelaide was convinced that if no one got in her way she’d go quite far in life. “You said the girl has an active mind, no?”

  “It never stops.”

  “Not to worry, then. She’ll think herself out of her passion for your son, eventually. I say let the affair run its course.”

  “I suppose that’s all I can do, for now,” Marietta replied. “I’ve more pressing matters at hand.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  Marietta had stared across the room, thoughts clearly turning in her head. Fingers steepled, she’d finally looked at Adelaide and said, “Perhaps.”

  Waving to the waiter for another dose of absinthe, Adelaide leaned close to Marietta and said, “Go on.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Marietta whispered, “but it’s the ghosts.”

  Shaking her head, Adelaide said, “I thought you believed they weren’t real.”

  “Let’s just say they’ve been rather convincing as of late.”

  “How so?” Adelaide asked, intrigued by Marietta’s words.

  “Extinguishing gaslights in the corridors, knocking over chairs with abandon, showing their ghoulish faces to the help. The chambermaids are beside themselves and my poor housekeeper, Mrs. Fisher, can barely keep up with their wild tales and silly supe
rstitions.”

  Adelaide gave a sympathetic nod. “Perhaps you should consider that such occurrences might be reason to rejoice. I’ve heard encounters with wayward spirits are all the rage among certain circles.”

  Marietta rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may, for every spook-loving Judy that thrills at the mention of ghosts, there’s a shrinking violet who’ll pack her bags and head somewhere else.”

  “Your ghosts may be less trouble than you think,” Adelaide suggested. “You just need to persuade them to follow your command.”

  “The trouble is they’re not on my payroll. I haven’t any clout when it comes to making them behave. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who can reason with spirits, would you? I don’t want some sideshow charlatan, mind you, but the genuine article.”

  The sideshow remark wounded Adelaide, but she’d let it slide since Marietta had no inkling of her past. “I might,” she’d answered. Eleanor had never said she couldn’t talk to ghosts. She’d only said she wouldn’t.

  “Well if you come across such a person, please send her straight to me. Imagine the business I’d pull in if I could get those sneaky little ghouls to do my bidding!”

  After another round of absinthe, Adelaide had finally made her way back to the shop, her limbs numb and heavy, her head feeling as if it might float away on the cool autumn breeze. Aside from the brief moment of confusion she’d suffered when she’d first come through the door, it’d seemed a positive sign to find Eleanor off her nut and circled by a line of salt sprinkled on the floor. Perhaps she could talk to ghosts after all! Waiting for her chance to broach the subject, Adelaide had only half-listened as Eleanor went on about Perdu and a late train and some girl who’d fainted in the shop. When Eleanor had gotten to the part where she’d announced that she’d taken the girl on as hired help, all Adelaide had been able to think was that it didn’t seem quite fair that she hadn’t gotten any say in the decision, especially after it’d been her idea to put the notice in the paper in the first place.