“Oh come now, Collette,” Helena said, her English impeccable, her foreign accent only barely noticeable. “We are more than friends. Come, I will take you to the others.”
Collette nodded and we followed the new witch down the stiff marble and stone corridors, with its half-columns, oak doors, and wall-mounted crucifixes until we reached what appeared to be some kind of large dining room. One of the walls, the external wall, was a crisscross of windows with a view of the river, the street beyond it, and the TV Tower just above, but the rain was coming down so hard and the clouds were so low that the tower was only visible thanks to the red light at its peak.
The other long wall was a beautiful, hand-painted display of the Last Supper that had clearly been painstakingly painted onto the wall, and then re-painted as time went on to preserve its natural color saturation. But the thing which drew my attention, if not my eyes, was the huge oaken table in the center of the room. Easily fifteen feet long, with gold trimmings, a green felt top, and tall chairs to match, this was the kind of table Bishops and Cardinals would sit at to discuss Catholic doctrine, theology, and the likes; the kind of table that would host, and probably had hosted, the Pope himself during his visits to Berlin. Well, maybe not given that the church was a Protestant church. Still, this was an important place, a holy place, and there were four witches sitting inside it now.
Take that, Inquisition.
The witches rose to their feet when they saw Collette. One by one they circled the table, approached the Necromancer, and kissed her once on each cheek and once on the mouth. They were soft, quick pecks. Tender. But the kisses conveyed respect; a respect for Collette’s station, perhaps. Necromancers were rare, and Collette was a powerful one at that. If these witches had ever been in a Coven with Collette, she would have undoubtedly been their High Priestess.
And now I’m hers; so what does that say about me?
I shook the thought off when Collette introduced me to the women. Helena I had already been introduced to. The others were, by order of how Collette introduced them, Carolina; a stern-faced German witch, Regina, a freckled French girl with a mousy voice, and finally Georgina, another English witch with blond hair and a striking pair of--—violet-?-—eyes. When Collette finished her introductions of the other witches they went back to their seats.
Carolina, Regina, Georgina… coincidence?
Helena then approached me, cupped my face with her hands, kissed my cheeks, and then pecked me lightly on the lips.
“It is an honor to meet the Red Witch,” Helena said, echoing words Collette had said to me when we first met. She hadn’t kissed me, though.
I nodded and smiled. “I’m honored to meet you too,” I said. “I’m sorry… Collette hasn’t mentioned you much in the time we’ve known each other.”
“Our relationship was a long time ago,” Helena said, releasing me from her soft touch, “I don’t imagine I come up in conversation much.” Collette and Helena shared a look—a look, perhaps, that only old lovers can share—and then a smile passed between them; another sad smile. “Please,” Helena said, gesturing toward the table, “Sit with us. Drink with us.”
I hadn’t noticed until I walked up to the table, yanked a screeching old chair out, and sat on it, that there was a tray on the table with a set of silver cups surrounding a large ceramic jug. Regina, the other French girl, waited until we had all taken our seats before proceeding to serve a cup of red wine to each of us at the table.
Helena raised her cup and everyone else followed. “We raise this toast,” she said, “To the Goddess of the Moon. Let her silvery light bathe us, protect us, and bless us. To the Horned God of the Sun, may he lend us his fire that we may defeat our enemies. And to the Guardians; north, east, south, and west, that they may hear our prayers when we call.”
“Just so,” Collette said, smiling with her chalice in hand. She took a sip of her wine and the rest of the table followed her motions. The wine was sweet on the lips; a good vintage, strong enough to tickle the tongue and warm the throat, but with a honey aftertaste that left you wanting more. One sip was customary, though, at least until the initial blessing was done.
“The Goddess’ mark is upon you, Red Witch,” Helena said.
Mid sip, I may have choked on the wine if it hadn’t been partially down my throat by the time Helena spoke again. “Beg your pardon?” I asked.
“I can see it in your aura,” she said, “It shines with silver fire—moon fire.”
“You can see it?”
She nodded.
“I can smell Auras, taste them, and sometimes feel them. I can’t always see them, though. That’s some power.”
“Practice is all it takes,” Helena explained, “Practice and concentration. You will master it if you put your mind to it; such is the power you have.”
“I keep hearing that.”
“And it’s true. You have a touch of the Shadow on you, no doubt a trick you learned from Collette.”
“She knows Shadow Magick?” Luther asked. “How is that even possible?”
Collette smiled. “She has a good teacher.”
“But no Shadow,” Luther said, eyebrow cocked.
“Ze Red Witch doesn’t need a Shadow. Her soul is like water; fluid and mutable.”
“Do you know what happens to water if you drop ink into it?” Luther asked.
“I am aware of my responsibilities,” Collette said.
“Guys,” I said, clipping the argument before it could begin. “We’re not here to argue; we’re here for something else.”
“Of course,” Helena said, “You’re here to learn how we have been touched by the devil’s whore.”
The devil’s whore. I nodded.
“Then let’s begin,” Helena said.
CHAPTER 23
Listening to these witches and their stories gave me a new appreciation for the things I had in my life, the things I didn’t have, and the things I took for granted. More than once I wanted to pick up my phone, call my mother, and tell her I loved her, that I missed her, and that I wanted to see her again as soon as I got back to the US.
I didn’t see my parents as often as they would have liked, and I only had myself to blame for that. I, with my lack of too serious commitments, had no excuse. Everyone takes their parents for granted, I would tell myself, and they’re fine with not seeing me; they know I’m okay. And I was taking them for granted in thinking that, even if they probably were fine with not seeing me and knew I was okay.
But at least I had a choice, and that was the difference between me and these girls.
Carolina, Regina, and Georgina hadn’t been given choices. Their parents had been taken from them a long time ago, and in Regina’s case her grandparents had gone too. These witches were all orphans who, by the grace of the Goddess, had in some capacity come across Linezka and come out of it intact.
But I knew better than that. I could see the hand of Fate at work, here. Could sense its fingerprints upon these witches presented to me in the fresh scent of a Northern California spring breeze; nature at its best, in its prime, at its most powerful. Linezka was unnatural; a witch who had made a deal with the devil in exchange for power well beyond her means. But she had gone outside of nature’s parameters to get that power, and now nature itself was gunning for her just like she was gunning for these witches.
What I couldn’t understand was why. Did Linezka want to be the most powerful witch on Earth, or the only witch left?
“I’m sorry for your losses,” I said, when Carolina finished her story.
She had told me about the day her parents died, and it was like something straight out of a book or a movie.
Her parents used to live close to the Bavarian Mountains, and travel from their little village to the main city was sometimes treacherous, especially in the height of winter. Her father, a logger, had never missed a beat, though. Always the snow chains would go on, every turn would be carefully taken. He had gotten to know the roads so well that t
here was never a single instant of worry on her, or her mother’s cheerful face.
The accident came suddenly. It was like a moment out of time. First the sudden jolt, then complete silence, and then the grind of metal, the crunch of asphalt beneath the roof of the car, and the screams. On and on they would go, louder and higher, until finally the sounds were a flurry of noise and the screams, the grinding, and the crunching became a single ear-piercing shriek.
When the car stopped moving and the sounds died to a dull ringing in her ears, Carolina—eight at the time—had managed to squirm out of her seat and into the middle of the road in time to see a man emerging from the woods. He was only a dark shape to her tired, shocked eyes, but he was help. She called to him, her voice spilling out of her throat in a hoarse mumble. But he paid no attention to her. Instead he went to the car, opened the driver’s side door, and… did something. Then he went around the car, huffing and panting yet not drawing breath, and he opened the passenger side door.
When she reached into the back of her mind she always saw him wearing a wolf’s head, its grinning muzzle full of sharp death. I’ll get you next, it said, but it spoke with its eyes, not its mouth. With that cold-hot stare of his which still chills her when she remembers it even now. He was going to kill her mother in the same way that he had killed his father—with the bloody knife in his hand. Only her mother was still alive and conscious, and when he dragged her out onto the snowy road, she threw a knife of Magick at him and wounded him badly, wounded him enough to kill him.
And while she went on to later die of her own injuries in the hospital, Carolina survived thanks to her mother’s courage.
Carolina was sure she was the target. Maybe they all were to some degree, but she didn’t think she would die there. A part of her always held to the belief that the man with the wolf’s head had a different plan for her; that he would take her to his lair where he kept other little girls and eat her slowly during the bitter winter which would follow.
It wasn’t until she was older, much older, when she met Helena by chance, that the story of her past made sense. Not until then did she sense the dark witch’s involvement, but there was no doubt in her mind now that the man she had seen wasn’t a wolf at all, but one of her servants. And he was there to kill them all.
“Why did you remember him looking like a wolf?” I asked.
“Because,” Collette said, “In the German telling of the tale of the werewolf, the devil is also involved.”
“Werewolves carry the blood of the beast,” Carolina said, “It is said that a long time ago a man killed a wolf, skinned it, and asked the devil to give him the power to take its shape. The devil granted his prayer, but the power came with a price; under the light of the full moon, the werewolf would become hungry for the blood and flesh of humans and seek it out.”
Werewolves carry the blood of the beast.
I couldn’t believe I had almost forgotten the German telling of the story of the werewolf. Of course! Witches, vampires, and werewolves were all said to have taken their power from making deals with the devil. How much of this was Catholic scare-mongering and how much of it held any truth was up for debate; a debate that assumed the existence of werewolves, witches, and vampires. But considering we all personally knew of at least one such witch and I was dating a werewolf, it seemed as though the prophecy was fulfilling itself.
Do I need to end things with Aaron?
“No,” Helena said, causing me to jump.
Did she read my—
“Thoughts? Your thoughts are loud, Amber,” she said, “I apologise if I was intruding.”
“It’s fine. I have a friend who does that too.”
“Tell me about him,” she said.
The room fell still and silent. All eyes were on me, each of the witches present waiting to hear what I had to say. Collette, it seemed, most of all; despite her current status as a full time resident of my home.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked.
“Tell me about your fiancée.”
“I haven’t heard anyone call him that before.”
“But that’s what he is, isn’t he? It is important for you to see the hand of Fate at work here, to understand its mechanisms so that you can prepare for what’s coming next.”
“I guess you’re right. I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to tell you about him.”
“I apologise. I’m not here to put you on the spot,” she said, her Spanish accent breaking through the tiniest of fractures in her impeccable speech to deliver a twang of southern European exoticness. “It’s just that I have met werewolves before, but I wanted to know how the wolf who won your heart fares in comparison.”
“He’s… sweet,” I started to say, “And kind. He gets angry sometimes, but never at me—and he never raises his hand either.”
“And during the full moon? Is he as in control as other werewolves?”
“Well, I don’t really know about other werewolves, but I help to keep him under control with a little magick.”
“How in control?”
“How? I… guess I just help him to sleep during the night.”
The witches shared a look among each other; a mixture of awe, concern, and disbelief. What I had just said was normal in my world, but to them it almost seemed otherworldly. At least that’s the impression I got.
“Your magick is powerful enough to disrupt the curse of the werewolf?” Helena said, though she framed it as a question.
“I guess it is. I had never thought about it that way before.”
“Then it’s true. You are the Red Witch, the one whose power can take away what even the devil gives.”
Luther cocked an eyebrow in my direction, smiled, and said, “Isn’t that what I said only a few hours ago?”
“Something along those lines,” I said.
Helena stood, ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back over her head, and said, “Then we shouldn’t waste any time. Our ritual space is set up. We may begin right now if you are ready.”
“Ready? For… her?” I asked.
Collette turned to me, took my hand, and offered her concern with a single soft smile. “I know we will never be ready for something like this,” she said, “But it iz time.”
I nodded. She wasn’t kidding about not being ready. Hot fear had crept into my throat like bile and I wanted to throw it up and out, to rid myself of the awful sensation. But this was one feeling that wouldn’t go away; not so long as that woman drew breath.
And it was that breath I meant to take away.
CHAPTER 24
It had been a long day. Collette had been blessed with enough foresight to know that we would need to be fed before going to the church so we had stopped for a bratwurst and fries before getting there. But now I was stuck with a dilemma. Do I run to the bathroom and throw up my lunch on my own terms, or hope it doesn’t come out on its own later?
My hands were incapable of keeping still, clenching and loosening as I walked the death-march along the corridor joining the study we had all been sitting in and the main church building. And as we crossed the barrier between corridor and church I became aware of the thin film of sweat that had developed on my neck and chest, and immediately hated the feel of it.
But the dizzying height of the domed ceiling and the shine of gold and polished brass stole my attention away from the sweat, only to replace the sticky sensation with another one; nausea. The church seemed somehow bigger on the inside; its marble columns with gold inlays reaching high into the sky, the statues Christ, Mary, and the Angels looking impossibly tall, and candles… so very many candles. More than I had seen in my entire life.
The cathedral’s inner lights had been shut down leaving the candles to do all the hard work lending the building a warm, orange, flickering glow, making shadows dance and stretch and claw at columns and at the faces on statues and paintings. I found myself wondering how many candle-lit masses had taken place in this beacon of gothic archi
tecture, how many desperate men and women had come in seeking the comforting—or stifling—confines of a confessional, how many weddings, baptisms… funerals.
It was easy to get lost in your own wonderment in a place like this; that is, if you cared for such things. I had always been fascinated by old churches and cathedrals, even if the religion didn’t appeal to me as a person. But you didn’t need to be religious or even interested in the religion to feel the weight of cosmic grandeur come crashing down on you. The idea—no, the certainty—that there was something more to life than what we could see, hear, and feel with our physical bodies. And that when we died, our souls would move on along whatever unknown and unknowable path awaited them. Cathedrals had a way of doing that to people.
At the foot of the altar I came upon the area the witches had set up to be their ritual space. It wasn’t much different from any other ritual space I had ever seen; five candles—a brown, blue, yellow, red, and white one—were sitting, one at each point of the five point star connected by an unbroken, interwoven band of white ribbon. Each of the candles represented one of the cardinal corners and the color of their elements; brown for north and earth, yellow for east and air, south for red and fire, west for blue and water, and finally the white one which represented the spirit.
The empty spaces between the connecting parts of the ribbon were large enough for one person to stand in, while the gap at the center of the pentacle was large enough for two or three. Each of the witches took their place at the elemental corner which suited them the most. When they were positioned, Helena called to Luther and asked him to stand in at the foot of the white candle. Since he was the conduit, he would stand in for spirit. Finally, Helena reached for my hand and walked me to the center of the pentacle with Collette following not far behind.
The cathedral fell into companionable silence when all of the witches were standing in their designated spots. The entire building was soundproof, and nor the hiss of hard rain on stone or the whizzing of cars driving along on the main traffic vein across the road from us could reach our ears. Instead, the silence was filled with the shallow breaths of nervous witches.
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