by Melanie Rawn
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
WYATT YOU’VE GOT MAIL
GODZILLA TODAY ONE THIRTY
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty—six
Twenty—seven
Twenty—eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty—one
Thirty-two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Copyright Page
In memory of my mother,
Alma Lucile Fisk
August 24, 1928-June 19, 2002
and in memory of our ancestor,
Mary Bliss
1625-1712
accused of witchcraft
(two trials, no convictions)
Prologue
December 2001
SHRUGGING OUT OF HER OVERCOAT, Denise quickly stripped off the heavy black velvet skirt and tunic—making a face as the embroidered designs of silver moons and golden stars caught the shadows in her bedroom. The things she did to please the masses … some of whom had seen Eyes Wide Shut a few too many times. Cloaks and carnival masks, indeed. If only one of them had looked even a little like Tom Cruise … but his movies had been spoiled for her by the film they’d made of that damned vampire book. How she loathed that dreadful woman back home in New Orleans—that amateur, that fake, that smirking fraud with all her worshipping sycophants—
Well, one did have to play to the mundanes, after all. Although what they considered appropriate to the occasion still had the power to appall her. They expected some sort of show, some nod to traditions they didn’t even begin to understand. She drew the line at conical black hats and brooms.
The face reflected in her bathroom mirror was anything but haggish. Of warts and wrinkles there were none. Instead: bright green eyes flecked with golden brown, cheekbones to kill for, a full red mouth that smiled as the tongue came out to lick the last tastes from the lips. Shaking out her hair, she saw the smile fade as she surveyed the tangles wrought by a night of phenomenal sex. It took her four seconds to decide she was too tired to wash the long golden mass of it.
Naked, she settled onto her bed with a cup of hot tea to refresh herself and a laptop to record the night’s events. But she was only halfway through her narrative when her eyelids began to droop—not surprising, considering it had been a long day and a vigorous night. Still, she didn’t want to sleep until she got everything down while it was still fresh in her mind.
… draped over the lushly padded platform, billowing like a black silk parachute. One by one they came to me, and one by one I made my mark on them
No, “upon” sounded classier. She backspaced and retyped. mark upon them. The masks stayed on
“Upon” again? No, too close together in the paragraph.
their faces, and in the anonymity they found pure release of purest passion. They thought they knew me, my face and my nature—and they thought they also knew my body—but I did not know them. Or so they thought. Wrapped in their black masks, rapt in their passion,
Ooh, that was nice. Interior rhyme.
they believed themselves ghosts Without identity. Yet one day when they least expect it—
Oh shit, the opening line from Candid Camera. She really was tired. Backspace.
Yet one morning, one evening,
No, that was bad, too.
one morning, one midnight (alliteration was always good), I will see any or all of them again, and know them by my mark upon them—by the scent of their blood that I have fluted—
Better stop now. She was using too many dashes and her thoughts were getting disorganized. Hitting SAVE, she shut down the laptop and placed it beneath the bed. She was yawning prodigiously by the time she crawled naked beneath silk sheets.
Let’s see how Ms. Goddess-Almighty likes this one, she thought with a smile. Too chickenshit to do any honest research … thinks she knows everything about everything … her and that dreadful woman back home … damn, I’m tired … I must remember that Chinese guy name … he was something else … those black eyes, practically ovulating with lust—ooh, I like that, have to remember that one … that moonshine-and-magnolias bitch wouldn’t last three minutes with him … there’s a good reason my sales are through the roof … .
On this happy thought, she fell asleep.
WAKING TO THE SOFT FRAGRANCE of sage, she purred as gentle hands straightened out her limbs. Sated though she was, she still smiled and stretched, ready for more.
“Shh,” whispered a man’s deep voice. “I want you to lie very still, exactly as I position you. And keep your eyes closed. Can you do that for me, Denise?”
Flat on her back, arms a little out from her sides; surely her legs should be spread wider if he intended—
As a sudden slither of cold silken cord brushed her left side, parallel to her heart, she knew horror for the first time in her life. The cord warmed as it touched her body, and she broke out in a sweat. She tried to move, to speak. But with that first whisper of silk she was effectively paralyzed. Helpless, she could only lie there as the cord traced its fiery way around the outlines of her body. Ribs to hip, hip to knee, knee to toes. Back up the left leg, then down the right, up again to delineate curves and hollows. Each finger and the precise angle of her elbow carefully limned. Her hair twisted aside while the burning cord measured her skull. Down neck and shoulder and arm, finally meeting its beginning near her heart. And then there was the faint metallic scent of blood, an instant’s hiss, and a white heat where the cord met and sealed itself.
“That should do it,” said a voice—not the man’s, but a woman’s. “Thanks for holding her steady. You’re a good Come-Hither—and I know one of the best.”
“Don’t mention it. We battled pretty hard over who got to help you tonight.”
“Why, sugah-plum, Ah didn’t know y’all cared,” the woman drawled in an exaggerated Southern accent—no, not just Southern, Virginian. Denise thought her heart would burst her chest. You! her mind screamed. You bitch! How dare you!
“Oh, Blue-eyes,” the man replied, a grin in his voice, “the pair of us sigh and tremble whene’er you speak. We worship at your feet, we kiss your ring, we—”
“—are gay right down to your darling, dimpled toes. Do shut up, won’t you?”
And the cord was taken away by cool, steady fingers. Denise wanted to shriek, to rip out eyes, to wash her hands in blood.
The man seemed to sense it; his was a truly gifted mind. “Behave yourself, Denise. We have your Measure now, and we won’t be reluctant to use it if you make it necessary.”
“Such as staging a repeat of your little exhibition tonight,” the woman added. “You’re not responsible for other people’s fetishes, but how you use them for your own purposes is very much an issue. The girl nearly bled to death tonight in the emergency room, you know. And I doubt even plastic surgery will minimize the scar on her throat.”
“It’s no use,” the man said quietly. “Even if she knew, she wouldn’t care.”
“She gets a chance.
Everybody gets a chance.”
“She’ll blow it.”
“Probably.” There was an audible sniff of a suddenly stuffy nose. “But we have to make the effort.”
With the removal of the cord a portion of control returned; Denise opened her eyes and pushed herself sluggishly up on her elbows. The pair wore black hooded cloaks—ridiculously theatrical, not even worth sneering at—to hide their faces.
“I—know—who you—are,” Denise ground out, her tongue like a fat treacherous slug in her mouth.
“Imagine my chagrin,” the man said. “Your point being—?”
“Won’t—forget—”
“See that you don’t.” He brushed at the heavy wool of his robe. “Nor am I likely to forget the stink in here. Really, Denise—musk and patchouli? And on a red Baphomet candle, no less. Overdoing the lust spells a bit, aren’t you?”
“It’s no worse than the rest of her décor,” the woman observed. “I thought that French Gothic sideboard was going to grow tentacles and attack us.” All at once she sneezed, and a hand came up to rub her nose. On one finger was a milky moonstone set in silver. “Damn! Come on, we’re finished here.” She turned briskly for the door, and the man followed, and with a snick of the lock they were gone.
THE CIRCLE MET IN A top-floor room of an elegant little Manhattan town house. One of the men was elderly to look at but youthful in his movements as he swirled onto his shoulders a robe of deep green silk. The youngest of the women, not yet thirty, was less flamboyant in donning yellow that made her long black hair into a river of shadow. Another woman, blonde and elegant in blue, sat by the hearth sorting a lapful of herbs. The garnets in her many rings shone by firelight like sun through fine cabernet sauvignon.
“They’re late,” said another man, who entered the room shrugging out of a suit jacket. For all its expensive tailoring, the wool was rumpled and a button was coming loose. He reached for the black robe that hung with two remaining others on a wooden garment rack, saying, “What’s that dreadful smell?”
“I’m afraid it’s me, Elias,” said a young African-American man wearing a dark maroon cassock. “Kate’s got me reeking of gardenias, of all things.”
“Martin!” The woman by the fire glanced up, brows arching mildly. “If you can’t experiment on your friends, who can you experiment on? I’m thinking of marketing it under the name ‘Victorian Whorehouse.’”
“It’ll be interesting when Ian gets here, stinking of garlic as usual,” commented the old man in green.
Kate grinned. “‘Italian Victorian Whorehouse,’” she amended.
Slipping into his black robe, Elias gave in to amusement—but only for a moment—by saying, “‘Gay Italian Victorian Whorehouse.’”
“Now, there’s a concept.” The old man shook his head as Elias began to pace. “Stop fretting, Eli. Lulah tells me that Holly’s always late, and we all know that Ian’s almost as bad.”
“As Simon says,” came a new voice from the doorway, breezy and warm, like a golden summery day, “I just love arriving in time to hear my character impugned.”
“Just stating the facts, son.”
Ian went to the garment rack and pulled his red robe from its hanger. Martin helped him on with it, making a face when Ian sniffed ostentatiously. “Not a word,” Martin warned.
“If you think you’re going to foul the hot tub trying to wash that off—Kate, what in the world were you thinking?”
“Purity—of action and purpose, at any rate,” she retorted. “The rest of him I leave to you.”
“You smell fairly disgusting, yourself,” Martin told his lover.
Ian winced. “Denise had this lurid little candle going—a seated Goat all oiled up with this incredible stink. Nothing subtle about our Southern cousins—no offense, Holly.”
“None taken, y’all,” replied the tall freckled redhead who was the final entrant into the room. She nodded her thanks to Elias for his help in donning her robe: silvery gray and smelling of rosemary. Her moonstone ring glowed subtly in the candlelight.
“Any trouble?” Elias asked quietly.
“None. Ian’s good. I’m sorry to be so late—she didn’t get home until three.”
“And she’s not at all happy,” Ian contributed. “Marty, what happened to my candle?”
“Right where you left it, along with your ratty old wand. One of these days we’re going to have to cut you a new one.” His partner opened an ancient brass-studded leather chest and gathered a few things to distribute among the group.
As the others readied themselves, Elias stayed beside Holly. He didn’t wish to be too obvious about it, but checking was necessary and he knew that she knew it. She was still a novice at all this, at least where his Workings were concerned. What she had or had not done while in California or Virginia or Washington, D.C., was of little interest to him except for any annoying habits she may have picked up. Nothing serious had arisen so far, but this was only their third Working together.
So he made his inventory. Silvery robe for stability; rosemary for purification, clarity of thought, and, of course, remembrance; a willow wand for healing; a white candle for spiritual strength; moonstone for calm and balance; an ibis feather for wisdom and, most appropriately considering her profession, words. All were either spelled for or inherently possessed powers of protection. He could not risk her in any way. No one could ever, ever put her at risk.
He gave her the chalice himself, allowing a smile as her brows arched. “Waterford?” she asked, and he nodded. “Just for the colleen, or is this usual?”
Kate responded to the question with, “He ordered it this summer when he heard you’d be joining us. Mine are always Orrefors in honor of my Swedish grandmother.”
“Et le mien,” added Simon, “c’est Baccarat.” He held out an exquisite bowl that fit into one palm.
Holly cradled cut crystal in both hands, weighing it. “This is gorgeous. But somebody better’ve worked something on it to protect it—I’m a terrible klutz.”
Elias noted her nervousness, aware that it had nothing to do with the expensive chalice. “Shall we get started? It’s nearly daylight, and this has to be done the same night as the Measuring.” As Ian opened his mouth to comment, Elias went on, “And no debate about when a day officially starts or ends, either. It’s dawn to dawn when you’re working with me.”
The solemn young woman wearing yellow smiled a little and said, “Dusk to dusk, Elias.”
“Celebrate the Hebrew Shabbas whenever you like, Lydia,” he replied. “For Witches—”
“Yes, Elias,” Martin said patiently. “No, Elias. Whatever you say, Elias. Can we get going with this? Even if you say it’s still Thursday, tomorrow—whenever it comes—is inevitably Friday, and I have to be in the office at ten.”
“Past your bedtime, lambie?” Kate cooed innocently.
It was the work of a few moments to renew and replenish the Circle on the floor of this room. Kate drew the boundaries with salt, mixed with a few herbs of her own choosing. The faintest fragrance of verbena warmed Elias’s senses as she passed. A subtle woman who could use the fewest herbs or scents to the greatest effect, Kate was teasing Martin with that overwhelming gardenia, Elias felt sure. She loved to play with her craftings—indeed took more joy from her talent than anyone he had ever known.
Lydia went to Ian for fire to light the incense within her silver thurible. The fragrance of the smoke thus released was Kate’s work, as well: jasmine spiced with cinnamon, exotic and intriguing to the nose. For just an instant he thought about how wonderful Susannah’s skin would smell with either scent rubbed gently into it. Elias himself smelled of cypress and rue. Of death and repentance.
Neither were attributable to Kate’s sense of humor.
Lydia’s movements became as light and flowing as the gray mist emanating from the thurible: inner centering manifested in outward grace. Elias watched her with satisfaction. Magic is within; everything else is just props. The maxim was true e
nough, at least in his experience, but he had to admit that the grounding and readying rituals, with their jewels and scents and wands and candles, seemed more potent since Holly’s arrival. It wasn’t exactly that he needed her special ability; she just made his Work a lot easier.
Earth, Air, Fire, Water called and honored; Circle renewed; compass points guarded by Kate, Simon, Martin, and Lydia with candles on the floor in front of them; time to begin. Elias, Ian, and Holly took different points of the pentacle laid out in golden oak on the parqueted hardwood floor, candles at their feet.
“Have you the Measure of the woman Denise Claudine Josèphe?” Eli asked.
“This is her Measure, attested true,” Ian said, withdrawing the sealed cord from his pocket, letting it hang full-length from his blackthorn wand.
“And by me, attested,” Holly said.
“Her breath and sweat and the touch of her skin are upon it,” Ian went on.
“Also by me, attested. And the spell bound.”
Elias nodded, accepting the cord onto the hilt of his dagger. Air, Water, Earth—he had only to add Fire and she would know agonies whenever she attempted magic, until and unless he canceled the spell. But that was for her next offense—and offense there would be, he was sure of it. Denise was a thrill-seeker, an adrenaline junkie, and a fool. She wouldn’t be within a thousand miles of his jurisdiction if he hadn’t owed Jean-Michel for helping with the renegade Seax Wiccans last spring. Being a Magistrate was work enough, and they all helped each other out when needed, but presiding over New York and environs could be especially bothersome at times.
Elias examined the seamless golden cord looped nine times around his athame. If cut slightly, so as to fray just a bit, Denise would do no more magic, ever. If it was severed, she would die. But Denise was merely an idiot, not a criminal. He had seen that death done once—the slow slicing of twisted rope so that each faculty, each Talent, each sense, down to the smallest particle of selfhood, unraveled and vanished.
