Rowan's Responsibility : The Willoughby Witches (Book One)

by Terri Reid

  Hazel shrugged. “I can agree to that,” she said.

  “Rowan?” Agnes asked.

  Rowan nodded. “I think you’ll be surprised how astute Henry is without asking questions,” she said. “But I’ll agree to letting Cat take lead.”

  “Catalpa?” Agnes asked.

  “Thank you,” she said with a sigh. “You are probably all correct, but I appreciate you letting me slowly work my way into this.”

  “Do you want me to break the ice?” Hazel asked.

  “No!” all three of the other women exclaimed together.

  Hazel chuckled. “Just checking.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Henry stared at himself in the bedroom mirror, shook his head and loosened his tie. His tweed jacket, charcoal grey slacks and white shirt seemed to do the trick. The only tricky element in the whole outfit was his tie. He stared at the navy blue and burgundy tie around his neck and shook his head. He unknotted it and tossed it on his bed along with three other similarly discarded ties. “This is crazy,” he told himself. “It’s just a dinner. I’m not meeting the queen. Pick a damn tie, Henry.”

  He walked back to his closet and looked at the tie hanger. “And who in their right mind brings six ties along with him to go to a cabin in the woods?” he asked himself. “That’s right. A man who has never learned how to relax. I should just skip the whole tie thing and go with an open shirt collar. That’s what I should do!”

  He turned and walked away from the closet, got to the door and then turned and walked back. “You can’t do it,” he said to himself in the mirror, with a little tinge of disgust. “Well then, pick a tie and be quick about it.”

  Finally, settling on a gold and green paisley tie, he hurried from the room, straightening the tie as he walked down the steps, and walked down to the kitchen. He glanced at the clock. He still had fifteen minutes before he was due to dinner. He could easily put away whatever Hazel had brought over in the other shopping bag.

  The container of salt was the first thing he saw. “Now how do I use this again?” he wondered. In jest, he picked up the container to read the information in small print on the back. “I’m sure how to protect your home from evil entities is printed back here.”

  His eyes widened in shock when the tiny, white print explained, “How to protect your home from evil entities: Sprinkle salt and protective herbs on the tops of doorways, or at the thresholds of your home. Salt also may be used on windowsills or any other entrance to your home.”

  Henry shook his head, blinked his eyes and looked again. This time the back read, “Table salt is a staple in kitchens all across America. That’s because it is the perfect choice to unlock the delicious, natural flavors in food.”

  He placed the container back on the counter and stepped away, eyeing it suspiciously. Did the words really change on the back of the container, or did he just read what he wanted to see? He ran his hand through his hair, checking for a bump he might have overlooked and could have caused a slight concussion, but found nothing.

  “Of course there’s nothing,” Henry muttered. “The healer witch took away all my injuries, as well as my scar.” He shook his head. “What the hell kind of world have I just fallen into?”

  He pushed the salt to the side and looked into the other shopping bag. Inside were a loaf of homemade bread, some packages of cheese and several jars of what looked like homemade canned goods. Henry pulled out the first one. “Strawberry rhubarb jam.”

  “Now that sounds delicious,” he said. Suddenly the words on the hand-written label seemed to blur and change before his eyes.

  “Eye of newt salve.”

  He nearly dropped the jar but managed to put it down on the counter. Then the water bottle that had mysteriously appeared in his refrigerator came into view, and a smile appeared on his lips.

  “Hazel,” he muttered, and then his lips turned up into a grin. He shook his head and released a sigh a relief. “Of course, Hazel.”

  He picked up the next jar. It read, “Zesty Salsa.” He held it in his hands for a moment and waited. Just as he had suspected, the words started to blur and move around the label. “Dragon-tongue jelly” was now the new name for the product. “Very clever,” he muttered. “Now, let’s see if we can pick up any readings from this jar.”

  He carried the jar over to his desk, flipped the switch on his electro-magnetic meter and scanned the label. The gauge registered more than average energy, but not as much as Henry had expected. Then he paused and put the jar on the desk. “What if the energy lessens once the spell has been used?” he muttered.

  He picked up the meter and hurried back over to the bag. With the meter in one hand, he reached in for the final jar. The label read, “Piccalilli” and sure enough inside the clear glass container was the spicy vegetable relish his mother used to make. He was suddenly so distracted by nostalgia that he almost didn’t hear the EMF meter frantically beeping as the energy readings went through the charts. He smiled as the label changed to, “Ghastly Pickled Veggies to Remind Henry of Home.”

  “Thanks, Hazel,” he said softly. “That was a nice touch.”

  As he put the jar down, he happened to glance at the clock on the wall— 5:59.

  “Oh, crap,” he exclaimed, dashing toward the door. “I’m going to be late.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Henry flew down the stairs and dashed through the barn. He slowed down enough not to trip over the threshold of the barn door and then jogged through the barnyard toward the backdoor of the house.

  “Hey, slow down, professor,” Hazel called from the back porch. “We won’t dock you dinner rolls if you’re a minute late.”

  He smiled at her and nodded. “Sorry, I got caught up in research.”

  Shaking her head, she leaned against the post next to the stairs. “I bet you use that line a lot,” she mused.

  He nodded and shrugged. “Actually, I do,” he confessed. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her. “Thank you for the supplies, especially the piccalilli. How did you know that my mother used to make that?”

  She rolled her eyes and straightened up. “Really? She made that?” she asked. “I just Googled ‘weird things English people eat,’ and that was the coolest sounding of the group.”

  He chuckled. “And here I thought there was some magic to you knowing,” he said.

  She stared at him in disbelief. “Wait. The fact that the label changed before your eyes wasn’t magic enough?” she asked.

  “Well, the piccalilli was the last jar I took out of the bag,” he replied, walking up the stairs to join her. “And by that time, the trick was pretty old hat.”

  She grinned, pleased with his response. “Well, you’re a hard man to impress,” she said.

  He caught the scent of the dinner wafting out the back door and inhaled deeply. “Okay, that,” he said with a look of utter appreciation on his face. “That is impressive.”

  “Would you believe I made it all?” she asked, walking alongside him to the door.

  “Not for a second,” he replied.

  Laughing with delight, she opened the door and ushered him in. “Henry’s here,” she called, and he brought flowers.

  “But I didn’t…” he began to say and then looked down to discover a large bouquet of wildflowers in his hands.

  Hazel leaned closer. “They’re from Rowan’s garden,” she whispered. “You are in so much trouble.”

  He started to hide them behind his back and saw the look of pure mischief in Hazel’s eyes. “I might survive the Willoughby Witches,” he said. “But why do I have the feeling that I’m not going to survive you?”

  She grinned. “Because I’m unique,” she boasted.

  “She’s a brat,” Rowan said, coming forward and taking the flowers from Henry. “Thank you for these. They’re lovely.”

  He shook his head. “Actually, I had nothing to do with them,” he confessed. “They just suddenly appeared in my hands.”

&nbs
p; Rowan turned to her sister. “I thought we were going to be subtle.”

  Hazel shrugged. “This is me, being subtle,” she said. She slipped her arm through Henry’s, leaving Rowan standing with the flowers in her hands. “Come on, Henry. I’ll introduce you to Cat.”

  Henry glanced over his shoulder at Rowan and sent her a look of apology. “I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she replied with a smile. “Hazel is like a force of nature.”

  “I don’t think she meant that as a compliment,” Hazel confided in Henry.

  “Why do I get the feeling that you appreciate it even more because she doesn’t?” he asked.

  She stopped and looked up at him. “You really are a lot smarter than you look.”

  He laughed delightedly, and the sound echoed off the walls of the great room.

  Agnes hurried forward to greet Henry. “What has she done this time?” she asked, glancing over at Hazel.

  Henry looked down fondly at the petite brunette at his side. “She has made me feel welcome and helped me forget how nervous I was to come,” he said.

  She grinned. “That was my plan all along,” she replied. “Come on. You need to meet Cat, and she really needs to meet you.”

  Chapter Thirty

  They gathered around a large, round, oak dining room table. Henry was seated with Agnes on one side of him and Rowan on the other. Seated across from him, Cat leaned forward and smiled.

  “Tell us a little about yourself, Henry,” she requested.

  Henry quickly swallowed his bite of food and wiped his lips with his napkin. “Well, I’m a Professor of Anthropology and Archeology at Cambridge,” he said. “I’ve written several books about ancient legends.”

  Cat nodded. “I looked at the reviews on the one you wrote on the Tuatha de Danann,” she said. “They were very impressive.”

  Henry’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you,” he said politely. “That was one of my first books.”

  “But not the one that brings you happiness. Why does this book make you sad?” Cat asked.

  “Cat, that’s really none of our concern,” Rowan inserted.

  Henry turned and smiled at Rowan, then shook his head. “No, it’s fine, really,” he said. “I started that project hoping to validate an experience my mother had when she was a child. She saw a faery in her garden in England. Of course, no one would believe her when she talked about it, because they hadn’t seen it for themselves. I did the research, found dozens of people who had experienced similar sightings, and was even able to link historical data about the faeries.”

  “She must have been thrilled,” Agnes said.

  Henry paused for a long moment. “She died before it was published,” he said softly. “As a matter of fact, she died when I was away from home researching faery hills in Ireland.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cat said. “I didn’t realize…”

  Henry shrugged. “Of course you didn’t,” he replied with a smile. “It’s not like you can read my mind.”

  An awkward silence fell over the rest of the table. Agnes sent Cat a knowing look, and Cat nodded in response.

  “Actually, Henry,” Cat said, “I can read your mind.”

  He put his fork down and stared across the table at her. “Like telepathy?” he asked.

  “Well, not really,” she replied. “Telepathy is the transmission of thoughts, ideas, or pictures from one mind to another.” She paused to find the right analogy. “Telepathy is like a walkie-talkie. I say it and you receive it.”

  “Okay, so what is it you do?” he asked.

  “I’m a mindwalker,” she replied. “I link with you. Our spirits intermingle, and I experience your memories in the same way you did.”

  “Virtual reality of the mind?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Something like that,” she said. “It’s not just your thoughts, but also your emotions and other sensory memories that are linked to the thoughts that I experience.”

  Picking up his fork and knife, Henry cut another small bite of chicken. “Well, how interesting,” he said, lifting the fork towards his mouth.

  “Henry, I walked in your mind,” Cat confessed.

  The fork stopped halfway between the plate and his mouth, and he stared at her. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  She inhaled slowly. “When we found you, we didn’t know who you were,” she replied. “So, I mindwalked.”

  He sat up in his chair and studied her. “Was this because you couldn’t find my identification?” he asked, using the tone he would have used on one of his students caught cheating.

  “No, Rowan found your wallet,” she replied honestly. “I didn’t want to know your name. I wanted to know who you were.”

  He placed his fork down on the plate. “I’ve heard about the ability to mindwalk,” he said. “And in most cultures, there is a protocol practiced where one is granted permission to walk.”

  Cat didn’t blink but looked him squarely in the eye. “You’re right. There is a protocol to ask before you enter another’s thoughts,” she said. “And I disregarded that protocol and took advantage of your unconscious state.”

  “You seem like someone who normally would abide by the rules,” he replied. “Why now and why me?”

  Agnes looked from Henry to Cat and nodded. “That’s a very good question, Henry,” she said. “Catalpa, how would you like to respond?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Henry,” Cat asked, “what do you know about the Willoughby Witches?”

  Henry sat back in his chair, took a drink of water and collected his thoughts. “There were three sisters who traveled from New England, Salem to be precise, to escape what they feared would be a new resurgence of witch trials.”

  Cat nodded but didn’t interrupt him.

  “They initially came to Whitewater, Wisconsin, which seemed to be a Midwestern Mecca for many coming from New England,” he continued. “They seemed to have settled well, contributed to the community and were well respected. About the same time, Morris Pratt, a gentleman interested in spiritualism, which was thriving in the United States, also arrived in Whitewater. He was looking for a place to build a school to teach spiritualism and do academic research. He built a large institute in Whitewater.”

  “You do know quite a bit,” Rowan said.

  He turned to her. “I’ve been doing research for several years,” he said. “It’s a story that I’ve always been drawn to.”

  “Well, finish up with the happy ending,” Hazel teased.

  He smiled at her. “As you well know, there was no happy ending,” he said. “According to the legend, the people at the institute were playing with fire, and they unleashed something—a demon, an ancient evil entity, or a spirit bent on mayhem. The only way to defeat it was for the sisters to work together and cast a spell on the creature that would bind it for one hundred years. In the process they were killed, but their family moved up here, to the Kettle Moraine area, to escape the fallout from the sisters’ spell.”

  Cat nodded. “Actually, that is a fairly accurate representation of our history,” she said. “But you are missing a few facts that might be relevant. First, there were two covens in Whitewater. One of the covens, the one the Willoughbys belonged to, knew that they had to bind the evil entity or people would die. The other coven fought against them because they believed they could control its power and use it to protect a population that has lived in constant fear.”

  “Witches?” Henry asked.

  “Exactly,” Cat replied.

  “Second,” Rowan said, “the sisters knew there would have to be a blood sacrifice for a spell that strong. They knew, as they created the incantation, that they would have to seal it with their own blood. They sent their families out of Whitewater before they performed the spell, so in case anything went wrong, there would be descendants to right the wrong.”

  “Third,” Hazel said, “the spell was cast for one hundred and twenty years, forty ye
ars for each sister’s sacrifice. At the end of that time, three more sisters would have to battle the same creature for the good of mankind.”

  “Fourth,” Agnes said, “it is not a legend. My daughters are the ones who are destined to fight. And the war has already begun.”

  Henry stared at the solemn faces around him, shaking his head in disbelief. He felt like his world had been turned upside down. This was the stuff of faery tales and movies—this was not real life. There were no evil entities or warring covens. This was not the early 1900s. These things didn’t happen. He finally turned to Rowan. “Tell me this isn’t true,” he begged her.

  The sad smile on her face was enough to convince him that they were telling the truth.

  She shrugged. “I really wish I could tell you that,” she said. “But I’ve lived my whole life knowing that I was destined for this.”

  He turned to Agnes. “But you can’t let them do this,” he said. “You can’t let them sacrifice their lives…”

  She reached over and placed her hand on his. “Henry, this time there is no call for blood sacrifice,” she said. “But there has to be some kind of sacrifice because magic has a price. We just don’t know what that price is yet.”

  He turned to Cat. “You looked because you thought that I…”

  “I looked because things are already happening, and I had to know who you really were,” she said. “Again, I apologize.”

  He studied each of the women at the table. There was no dissembling here. These women were sharing the truth as they knew and believed it to be. He finally sighed and nodded. “So, am I supposed to play a part in this?” he asked.

  Agnes smiled at him. A smile of pride that warmed him to his heart. “Yes, Henry,” she said. “We believe that you are. But we have no idea what that part is supposed to be.”

  “We know that you’re the key to something,” Hazel added.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.