Illicit Magic (Stella Mayweather Paranormal Series #1)

by Camilla Chafer

  My flat was small, just like my unspectacular wages. Even calling it a flat was spinning out its size as something better than it was. In reality, it was one large room with enough space to squash in a bed-slash-sofa with arms so worn that the colour had all but gone in those spots. Across the room there was a TV that dated from the late eighties – requiring a thump every time the picture went – almost museum-worthy and, like everything else in the flat, in need of replacement.

  It was dark inside but I left the lights off as I entered the kitchen. The room was far too optimistically named and resembled a slightly over-sized cupboard (which it probably had been once), with a tiny worktop, a microwave, mini-fridge and sink. There was no oven or washing machine, much less a window. The other cupboard held the bathroom which had just enough space for a toilet, sink and shower cubicle. Though it always smelled damp, I was just thankful that I didn’t have to share it with other people and their sketchy interpretations of personal hygiene.

  The only light came in through a broad bay window in the main room and it cast shadows over my past-it furniture. The bay looked out over the street and had the unfortunate position of being right next to a bus stop, so the net curtains, sprinkled with mildew at the hems from where the creeping black fungus, which frequently appeared around the windows contacted them in spots, were a necessary evil. I left the curtains open. Smart move, I told myself. That way, anyone who happened by the house wouldn’t know whether I was in or out.

  I flipped on the kettle and rested my lower back against the countertop as I looked out onto the main room. Thankfully, due to my lack of belongings, I never needed much space. I had always travelled light after being shunted from foster home to foster home and never had the inclination to hoard, like some people who desperately try to put down roots. I guess I’ve just never been materialistic because stuff doesn’t matter that much to me.

  As such, my few possessions included a cluster of clothes hanging on a rail: a basic combination of smart casual that I could wear to work, two pairs of shoes and a pair of boots (on my feet). A little silver box contained some earrings and bits, and there were a half dozen books stacked by the door that I bought at the charity shop and returned when read because it was cheaper than clocking up a library fine every time I forgot to return them. Aside from two sheets, two duvet sets (one on, one tucked away) and a couple of plates, mugs, bowls and cutlery, I owned nothing else in the world.

  The carpet was threadbare and my landlady had never been one for kicking the boiler up to a decent temperature so I kept my boots on to keep my feet warm. I pressed the button on the television set and gave it a thump on top so that the green picture hazed into colour. The news was on so I went back into the kitchenette as the kettle clicked off and paid no attention to the news anchor droning on behind me while I dunked my teabag in the mug and added the boiling water.

  As I sat down, my mug in one hand so I could pull the duvet from the back of the sofa over my knees, my head suddenly snapped up and I leaned forward, listening intently to the last of the news broadcast.

  “... was found burned on a playing field in Birmingham. Her body was bound to a stake amidst what appeared to be a bonfire and she appeared to have been...” The news anchor swallowed, repulsion etched on his face, then looked straight at the camera, and, in an even voice, enunciated carefully, “burned alive. A source revealed that red paint near the body spelled out ‘burn the witches’.”

  I gulped but couldn’t turn away from the smouldering scene captured by the camera. The body was gone, I assumed hidden in a police tent almost out of view, but the bonfire’s ashes, her ashes, still sent smoke spiralling up. I wanted to close my eyes so I didn’t have to see where this woman died. The news anchor continued with a voice-over. “The crime scene resembled those in Leeds, Manchester, Harrogate, Birmingham, Grimsby and London where several other women have been found burned to death. The women are not thought to have been connected in anyway. Police say they are considering the idea that a serial killer, or killers, are at large and advise women to be vigilant.”

  I sipped the too hot tea and contemplated what the newsman had said. Of course, it wasn’t new. The newspapers had been full of grisly details for the past few weeks. They tossed theories around like the bodies piling up – first one, then two, then several within a few weeks – were the best thing to have happened to them. The current theory was a team of serial killers, roaming the country intent on dispatching women to the next world at random. Every paper was whipped into a frenzy and ruminating on who could possibly do such foul and evil things.

  But, women burned as witches all over the country? I shuddered. It was a new one and too horrible to contemplate. We were in the twenty-first century! There was no such thing as witches, I thought, not quite convincing myself. The killers had to be crazy, I decided as I sipped my tea and wriggled my toes to get some feeling back.

  Thankfully, the news anchor had segued to his colleague who had moved impassively on to another story about fraud in a supermarket chain. As she was concluding the story, she pressed her hand to her ear, listened for a moment and spluttered, “Breaking news. A source has passed us a video purporting to be from the people responsible for the so-called ‘witch-burning’ murders. We’re bringing that tape to you now.”

  The TV screen flickered again and the picture zigzagged. “Work, damn you,” I snapped as I thumped the top impatiently. The screen went black then slowly a face swam into view. I sank back on the edge of the sofa bed.

  The man was perfectly non-descript. White face, a little too pale, like he didn’t spend much time outdoors, brown eyes, short brown hair and a neatly clipped beard. He wore a black suit and thin blue tie and held a big book in his hands. He seemed utterly relaxed where he sat in a large, leather wing chair against a wall papered in taupe stripes. He could have been a professor or a TV grandfather reading a story. His voice, a rich baritone, was the only remarkable thing about him as he began to speak. “We, the Brotherhood, claim responsibility for killing the witches. For centuries, our forefathers have ignored these wicked beings but the time has come to cleanse our world of these...” Here he looked directly at the camera and waved a pointed finger as he spat out the words, his mouth twisted in disgust, “Monsters. They who try to dazzle us with their magic, who claim to be good women, why, they are nothing more than witches! They are evil incarnate!”

  The man swam out of view and new pictures flickered onto the screen. But it wasn’t the television reception fading again; it was image after image of silent women writhing amidst flames. Someone had filmed them as they burned. I pushed my hand into my mouth to stifle my screams for them.

  “We have hunted the witches in France, Germany, Italy, Bulgaria, Spain, Norway, Russia and England,” continued the man, his voice narrating the horrendous scenes. “We will find every witch and we will not rest until every last one of them has burned and their blight driven from this earth. We are the Brotherhood and we have spoken.”

  The video abruptly ended and the camera panned back to the horrified news anchor. Her mouth opened and closed like a dying fish before she recovered her composure. “We have just seen a video purporting to be from the ... Brotherhood, who claim responsibility for the murder of ... witches ... of women, throughout Europe.” She collected herself quickly, ending in an even tone, “We will bring you more news as developments arise.”

  I reached for the remote and switched the channel over. The next station was just finishing the same clip. And the next station, and the one after that and by then, I had run out of TV stations. Had all the cable stations just relayed the same message across the country too? Did every viewer have to see those images of the women dying so brutally?

  When a fist pounded on my door, I jumped so high that hot tea slopped over the edges of the mug and splashed on my fingers. I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming out loud more from fear than from being scalded.

  I was tense with fear as I got up. I was sure no on
e else was in the building other than old Mrs. Kemp and she never came upstairs, so whoever was at the door wasn’t someone known to me. I didn’t need to look around to know there was no way out of the flat other than the door by which I had entered.

  I wished I had an arsenal that I could draw on to protect myself or some kick-ass ninja skills. I wanted to zap my way out of there but I had to remind myself it wasn’t an exact art and I would probably materialise somewhere I didn’t want to be, like in the arms of a gang who wanted to burn me to death. Not an option.

  Instead, I slipped towards the kitchen as lightly as I could, trying not to make the floorboards squeak. I snatched a dinner knife from the drawer and with this pathetic little weapon in my hand, I crept towards the door.

  THREE

  With the handle of the little knife in the palm of my hand, the blade cold against my fingers, I snuck towards the thin, front door and pressed my eye against the peephole.

  A woman stood on the other side of the door. I peered at her. Boyish, short hair flicked up at the front but not quite long enough in back to curl over the Mandarin collar of her blue jacket, framed an elegant face. She didn’t look like one of my stocky pursuers, and neither of my neighbours had moved recently, so she wasn’t a new resident. Still, not recognising her, I regarded her with suspicion. Besides, how had she gotten in without a key?

  She leaned forward, her shoulders and torso in a perfect line, her head inclined to one side and peered at the peephole. She blinked and her whole body seemed to shimmer out of focus. “Stella?” she called softly.

  I paused before answering her. A quick scan along the hallway from my blinkered position behind two inches of plywood seemed to confirm that no one else was there. “Yes?” I whispered.

  “I’m here to help you.” The woman pursed her lips and nodded once as if that confirmed everything.

  “Who are you?”

  “Étoile,” she answered, emphasising the two syllables, eh-twall. Softly, but still cajoling, she whispered, “Will you let me in? I need to talk to you.” She had an accent that I couldn’t place, clipped with a slight twang. Not English, though certainly an English-speaking country.

  “No.” Might as well keep it simple, I decided.

  The woman who called herself Étoile sighed. I saw her roll her eyes in a particularly petulant fashion. She straightened her back until she was upright again and shrugged with a roll of her shoulders like she was utterly exasperated. Then she vanished leaving nothing but air and an empty hallway.

  “Holy shit!” I breathed.

  “Not exactly holy,” said an amused voice behind me as I spun around, the pathetic little knife held close to my hip while my body tensed, ready to jab in an instant. I knew it wouldn’t do much but it might be enough to give me a few seconds to dash out the door. Or I could just run now. I pondered my options. Neither were winners. She’d flatten me. And even if I escaped, I’d be outside. Where they were.

  “How did you do that?” I hissed at the woman who, just a moment ago, had been standing in the hall before evaporating and now was just feet away inside my flat. Any normal person wouldn’t have believed it, but then, I wasn’t a normal person and I didn’t know if it was a relief or a new worry that we seemed to have the same peculiar quirk in common.

  She, Étoile, was tall, a few inches taller than I, with black hair cut very short. Now that nothing stood between us, I could see she had wide green eyes in a narrow face, slightly jutting cheekbones, and a jaw that was just this side of masculine. She had the creamiest skin I had ever seen. She was dressed in a long blue coat that reached to her knees; tiny blossoms in pink and green in a Chinese pattern adorned it. She had buttoned the coat the full length, right up to the Mandarin collar. Even to my unfashionable eyes, it looked expensive. Underneath, she wore darker blue trousers and smart boots with a square heel in a similar shade. She was beautiful and unusual, the type of woman who made heads turn because she was at once elegant and unique, even if she wasn’t pretty, as such. She didn’t look like a serial killer. Always good news, but then, who can tell? Victims almost never could until they’d had it.

  She shrugged as if the answer should have been obvious and a smile flickered on the corners of her mouth. I already knew the answer but I still gasped when, with a flick of her eyebrows, she said, “The same way you do.”

  I was more surprised when I realised she sounded completely and utterly bored. Zapping, as I thought of it, had always completely freaked me out.

  “How do you know what I do?” I inquired, not sure if my question had just acknowledged that sure, what the hell, I could vanish and reappear too. Not that it was something I advertised. Or, for that matter, even knew how I managed to do it.

  “We’ve been watching you.” Étoile answered without a lot of interest as she turned away from me, eyes briefly glancing at my knife. She turned the full three hundred and sixty degrees to cast her eyes around my shabby little flat. She wrinkled her nose with obvious displeasure as she dragged the words out. “You actually live here?”

  “My real place has the builders in,” I replied as sarcastically as I could manage.

  “We have to get you out of here.”

  “Tell me about it.” Good to see she was at least on the same wavelength when it came to my dire living conditions.

  “No, I mean tonight.” Étoile cocked her head to one side as if she were listening to something far away before her head inclined towards the television. She stepped closer to it and her mouth opened a little bit as the newsreader recapped the evening’s stories. She uttered a soft moan of sadness. The TV sizzled, snapped off and I sighed. Great, just when I was getting curious with the news. How would I find out what else was happening now? Trust my TV to burn out at the least appropriate moment. I’d only just settled on the idea that my pursuers tonight might be the same as the – what had they called themselves? – the Brotherhood and now I wouldn’t be able to find out anything more.

  Étoile took a step further into my living space and I followed her gaze as she examined the shabbiness, the lack of personality, the lack of... anything. “We need to get you somewhere safe,” she said, at last.

  “Who’s we? I’m not going anywhere.” I ignored her assumption that there was more than one person who had a say in what was going on.

  “We are your friends and we want to protect you. It’s not safe for you here anymore. Not since the Brotherhood are actively hunting our kind down.” Étoile spat the words out with distaste and turned to focus on me again. “We’ll take you somewhere we can protect you, and we’ll look after you.”

  “What if I don’t want to go? I’ve known you for, oh, a New York minute, and you want me to swan off with you who knows where? I don’t think so.” I shook my head in defiance. I was used to doing things my way, being totally self-sufficient and looking out only for myself. Not like that was getting me anywhere, nagged a little voice at the edge of my mind.

  “I suppose a fiery death sounds better?” Étoile raised an eyebrow and I had the fleeting thought that I wished I could do that. It was just plain cool, the opposite of me. She nodded at the TV and the black and white snow the picture had settled on.

  I shook the thought from my head. “Not much.”

  “Then you need to trust me.” Étoile scanned the room again, this time looking for something specific and her eyes alighted on my old sports bag. She grabbed it and tossed it on the sofa bed. “Pack whatever you need. We’ll have to leave the rest. I imagine you’ll get over it.” She tilted her head again as if she were listening for something and not liking whatever she heard or didn’t hear, but her voice was urgent. “And, hurry.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I squared my shoulders and faced the woman down. I’d had a lifetime of being shunted around with barely any notice from home to home as a child and as an adult I’d suffered through countless temp jobs and grotty flats. Was it too much to ask me what I wanted to do?

  “I’ll force you if I have to
, and, trust me, I don’t want to. If I lose another witch, I’m toast.” I looked questioningly at her and she pulled an apologetic face. “A poor choice of words, perhaps.”

  “Lose another witch? Are you calling me a... witch?” I wasn’t sure whether I should feel quite so affronted.

  Étoile looked at me as if I might as well just flap my jaw and spare us both the idiotic questions. Despite my sympathy for the women on the TV screen, I wasn’t too happy about being called a witch. From my knowledge, witches were invariably portrayed as warty things with terrible dress sense and even worse hair. I might not have supermodel looks but I was vain enough not to appreciate such a moniker, or the weight of the word. I might come to regret that.

  Étoile nodded at the television again which was starting to spit out some noise. Perhaps it wasn’t totally kaput after all. “I was too late for her.” I knew she had to be referring to the embers that had been the last image. I gulped.

  “Where are we going?” The words were out of my mouth before I realised I had made a decision to trust her.

  “We don’t have time for questions. I’ll answer as we go, but right now, you need to get your stuff together so we can get out of here.” Étoile’s voice had increased in its urgency and I noted fear in her voice for the first time as she cocked her head. I didn’t know what she was listening for but finally, she looked straight at me and hissed, “They’re coming.” She didn’t have to tell me who they were.

  I took a deep breath and, hoping I was doing the right thing, took two steps towards her and tossed the knife through the narrow doorway into the kitchen. It hit the edge of the sink and tumbled into the plastic bowl with a muffled clatter.

  Étoile didn’t move so I stepped around her, unzipped my bag and pulled my few clothes off the rails, shoving them in haphazardly, and tossing the wire hangers on the sofa bed. I pushed in my little box of jewellery so that it nestled down the side of the clothes, too wedged in for the lid to fall open. My spare shoes went on top. My whole life packed into one small, single bag. Pathetic.