“Don’t even,” I said as Laura cowered behind me, groaned, and covered her eyes. “This is me being subtle, so don’t even say it. Hey! Asshats!” I stomped down the aisle, ready to kick some uptight bigoted Pilgrim ass. “You guys. All you old white guys. And also your uptight wives. And why are there kids in here? You want your children to watch you lie and get hysterical and trump up charges and scare and hang innocent people? Let me guess: there’s gonna be a potluck supper afterward.”
The woman on trial—it had to be her, she was standing in front—looked at me with eyes gone huge. And the first thing I noticed was how gorgeous she was.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I surround myself with the deformed. If anything, I usually found myself hanging out with men and women who were obscenely good-looking (I had yet to meet the fugly vampire). Hell, Tina alone could have won Miss America blindfolded with two black eyes and a runny nose. And pimples! Okay, maybe not with pimples.
The would-be witch was quite small—the top of her head was way, way below my chin. But then, I was tall for an undead heathen.
Her hair, a gorgeous rippling brownish red, was piled on top of her teeny head. She had so much of it, it seemed as though the weight of all those tresses would yank her head back if she let them down.
Her skin was pale, except for two hectic flares of color on her cheeks—not blush. (I was pretty sure Revlon hadn’t been incorporated yet.) It was the hectic color of anger or fright or excitement ... or all three. And her eyes seemed almost to take up half of her face, enormous and so deep a brown they were nearly black, with dark slashing eyebrows and long lashes.
Her outfit was right out of a museum exhibit: a big fat dress—fat because of the hoopskirt thing. Big-time modest, too; she wasn’t exposing so much as an elbow dimple. The gown, too, seemed to emphasize her tiny frame and delicate features; she looked like a kid playing dress-up.
Her dress was pale blue; her neckerchief thing was transparent white lace. Long sleeves, long skirt—I could barely make out the toes of her shoes when I glanced down.
She smelled terrific, like clean cotton and sunshine. If I could have bottled that scent and brought it back to the twenty-first century, Sinclair and Jessica could have thrown their zillions away.
She had only one piece of jewelry I could see: there was a black ribbon tied around her wrist, and from it hung a little painting of an older woman. It was so small I could only make out the woman’s graying brown hair and teeny-weeny face.
Taking in the would-be witch’s museum-exhibit clothing had only cost me a couple of seconds, which was good because it meant people were still astonished, and no one was sneaking up behind me to brain me with a hymnal.
I pointed to the gorgeously wronged Massachusetts resident who stared at the tip of my finger and backed up a step. “You think this is a witch? This is not a witch, jerk-offs.”
“Be gone from here, wretch, and cover yourself!”
“Okay, um, no. And is that any way to introduce yourself?”
“To be fair,” Laura called from the back of the church, “by their standards you’re wearing the Puritan equivalent of a garter belt and peekaboo bra.”
“Oh yeah?” I looked at the other person standing, the guy, I figured, who was after the lady’s farm. He, too, looked like he’d stepped right out of a colonial America clothing exhibit (“Gift shop on your left, and yes, we validate parking”), with a white linen shirt, black culottes (or whatever men’s suit pants that only came to the knee were called), and a matching black coat with dazzling gold buttons.
He was clutching a cane so hard his knuckles were white. So was his face, but from fear or rage I hadn’t yet figured. I was smelling lots of fear, sure, but it was coming from the pretty brunette, not to mention the thirty people sitting in pews behind us.
“Tell me, do my awesome leggings and Eddie Bauer shirt make you bitches nervous? Hmmm?” I wriggled my shoulders back and forth, shaking my tits at the head asshat, whose face went redder. Cool. If I flashed him, I could probably give him a stroke. Ah, good times. “Or is it just female sexuality in general that freaks you out?”
The congregation was too startled to so much as murmur, and they were shaking their wriggling fingers at me. At first I thought I was observing the invention of American Sign Language. Then I realized they were all forking the sign of the evil eye at me. Ha! If that didn’t work for my old babysitter, it sure wasn’t going to help them.
“This is what you do? Because TV and the Internet haven’t been invented? You make up lies and then hang your neighbors? Or rack them? Or crush them to death under big rocks? Pathetic, with a capital P.”
Dead silence. Nobody was even shifting their weight.
“Wow, really? Nothing to say? Because I heard plenty from outside. Cat got your tongue? Or maybe the devil?
“You want a witch? You think torturing people will save your moldy black souls? Do you really think when you show up at the Pearly Gates, God’s not gonna have serious questions for you? And especially you, fuck-nuts.”
The man in the black suit was, I just now noticed, clutching a Bible, which made me laugh.
“You think lugging that around means God’s not gonna want to give you the old one-two punch and send your ass to hell? How will you ever justify telling him that you lied and sentenced an innocent to death ... so you. Could get. A farm. A farm! When there are, like, a hundred people in the whole country right now and zillions of acres up for grabs! When you’re living in a time when there is more than enough land and resources for every single person on the planet, you piece of shit!
I was seriously considering placing a private bet on when he’d pass out. He stood straighter and straighter, and got whiter and whiter. “You will not speak so, witch!”
“Oooh, that hurt my feelings.” I yawned.
He brandished the Bible. In fact, he’d been clutching it so tightly, his fingers had left marks in the leather. I was willing to bet Mr. Big Shot hadn’t been talked to like this by anyone, never mind a saucy wench dressed in what he assumed was her whorish underwear.
(I had whorish underwear, of course. But he was never going to see it. That was strictly Sinclair’s domain. Mmm. Better not think about him, or I’d start worrying about that weird stupid fight.)
“—to the bowels of hell!”
“What? Sorry, I zoned out for a few seconds. I assume you predicted I’d go to hell? You think that scares me, the day I’ve had?”
I turned to the woman. “And you. Are you okay? They didn’t start with the torture before I got here, right?”
“That—that is correct, ma’am.”
“Actually, you can call me B—” Laura made frantic hand slashing motions ... hmm, good point. “Beverly,” I finished. “Beverly Feldman, yeah, that’s me.” If only.
I turned back to the congregation, who were frozen in shock or fear or anger or maybe all three. “That wasn’t rhetorical, by the way,” I said, addressing them as well as the head jerk-off. “I really do want to know how you can reconcile deep, honest religious faith with this.” I pointed at the tiny brunette. “What’s she supposed to have done, anyway? Do you even know?”
Nobody said a word, and then I got another surprise. She spoke up. “They claim I ...” Her voice shook, and she made a visible effort to steady it. I could see her throat working as she swallowed and tried again. “They say I witched their cheese and their milk.”
“Witched it?”
“It spoiled. It went bad. They—they say I did it a’purpose.”
I gaped, then whirled. “You decided she’s a witch because no one’s invented refrigeration? Dairy products go bad because you’re storing them in warm cupboards but that’s witchcraft?”
“It seems flimsy to me,” Laura called from the back.
I was so furious I was actually dizzy with it. There were so many bitchy, sarcastic observations to make, I was having a sarcasm stroke. “My God! You people! You’re—you’re so stupid you’re maki
ng my eyeballs throb. They’re throbbing, dammit!”
Their duly elected witch started to laugh, which she then choked off by clapping both hands over her mouth.
“No, no,” I said. “Don’t be nervous. Laughing? Just now? Is totally the correct response. If you can’t get to a gun, I mean. What else?”
“I would not marry.”
“Uh-huh. Let me guess. Jackass McGee here, right?” I jerked a thumb toward Black Suit.
“He is called Will—”
“Silence yourself, witch!” he roared, and finally his face was getting some color.
“William. Putnam,” she said, and her voice wasn’t shaking at all now, nope. From the look she leveled at him, I half expected Putnam to burst into flames. That would have been a cool way to end our trip. “He funded the building of this church. He thinks it is his church and his town and that we are all his, and he does not like that I am not.”
“Mmm, wow, there’s nothing more attractive than a sore loser who’s also a bully. The ladies must love you, Putnam.”
“It’s true,” Laura called. “That’s just terrible, Mr. Putnam. Little kids know better.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not in this time and place. That explains why you’re up here, cutie.”
I was walking back and forth, almost pacing, while I voiced my thoughts. “But how about the other ones? The ones you guys killed? The ones you arrested and will kill? You got them stashed somewhere? Jail, I’m guessing? And for what? So you can get your name in the paper as the big bad witch hunters? Well, why?”
I took another look at Black Suit. Yes, he looked quite tidy and prosperous. In fact, he was the nicest dressed guy in the room. Built the church. Liked getting his way. “Let me guess. Political aspirations?”
The congregation seemed to sigh all at once.
“Aw. That’s just charming.” I glanced at Laura, who was making time-to-go motions. And she was right, we’d certainly pushed our luck more than long enough. But I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t want to leave just now. This will sound weird, but I was hoping the jerk-off would try something really stupid so I could—
He took three quick steps (more like stomps, actually) forward and brandished his cane. “Witch! Filth! Devil’s whore!”
“Well, which one is it?” I asked.
“Be gone from this place! Cover your nakedness, cover your lewd flesh, lest you tempt honest men from God’s path!”
“Oh, thank you,” I cried, jerking back so he couldn’t brain me—the brass tip of his stick was easily two inches across, and he swung it like it had some heft. I heard the soft whshhh as it passed about three centimeters from my nose. “You’ve made me so happy.”
Chapter 37
l caught the stick. Yanked it from his grasp and heard a teeny crack, like a skinny breadstick being snapped in half. Putnam yelped like a pup, and I realize I’d snatched it so hard and so quickly I’d broken one of his fingers.
Awww.
I snapped the stick in half with my hands alone (no breaking over the knee for this vampire chick). Tossed the pieces over my left shoulder, where they hit the floorboards with a clatter that probably sounded louder than it actually was.
Then I seized Putnam by his lapels and yanked him forward.
There it was. I could smell it now. The thing I had been looking for. The thing I needed from Putnam before I could walk away.
Fear.
“Here’s the thing, Billy-boy.” We were eyeball to eyeball and again, I have to hand it to the Neanderthals ... I could smell more of cotton and linen and wood than anything else. I’d assumed everything prior to, say, 1930 or so would smell like mud and shit. “None of the people you killed were witches. And none of the ones you had arrested are witches. And the young lady here—”
“Caroline Hutchinson,” the would-be witch offered.
“Yeah, her. Also not a witch. See, Putnam, you couldn’t tell a witch if she offered to strip and sit on your face.”
“Gross!” Laura said.
“Hard times call for hard talk,” I said, which was total bullshit; I just wanted to rattle Putnam’s cage. He was like a big fat worm I wanted to poke and poke. And then set on fire.
“You know how I know these things, Buttmunch?” I’d started shaking him like a maraca. “Because I’m a vampire. And the pretty blonde in the back? She’s the daughter of the devil.”
“You have a lovely church,” the Antichrist called.
“And the thing is? Even though I’m a vampire? Check it.” I let go of him with one hand to snatch away his Bible and held it up over my head. “Please note that I’m standing in a church and the only reason I feel sick is because you’re stupid. Please note how the Bible isn’t giving me a sunburn. That’s because I believe in God and I love him. Although sometimes we go awhile without speaking because the good Lord will insist on always getting his way. My sister back there? She believes, too. And she wouldn’t burn an innocent woman to death if you stuck a gun in her ear.”
“That’s so nice, Beverly!” The Antichrist was beaming.
“So what does that tell you, Putnam? Huh? For those of us not keeping up, I’ll lay it out: it tells you that you’re gonna have lots and lots to answer for when you die. Which will hopefully be in the next half hour.”
“Do your worst, pit spawn!”
“Don’t be stupid. I promised the Antichrist I wouldn’t kill you. Heck, who knows how long you could stick around?” Wikipedia, maybe, if he’d been a big shot. There were probably entire lists of all the parties involved in the whole let’s-pretend-our-neighbors-are-witches campaign.
“I’m glad you remembered your promise,” Laura said.
“You could hang on for a couple of decades. But sooner or later, there’s gonna be a reckoning. You, and these sheep—” I jerked him toward the pews, then yanked him back until we were face-to-face again. “See, I’m not threatening, I’m warning. Nobody lives forever. So you guys might all want to get your stories straight.”
Then I dropped him. He hit the floor ass first and stared up at me like a man who’d gotten the shock of his life. Which I guess he had.
I handed him his Bible, and he held it up as if to ward me off. Or hide behind.
“Cut the shit,” I suggested. “Let the others go. Stop lying to increase your land ownings. Trust me: you don’t want us to come back. Ever.”
“It’s true,” the Antichrist said. “Beverly Feldman will probably be even less polite next time.” She added in a mutter, “If that’s possible.”
“I heard that,” I snapped. “So, to sum up, everyone, behave or, you know, face our wrath and stuff.” I grabbed Caroline’s arm. “Come outside with us for a second.”
I took a last look around at the good people of Salem, shook my head in disgust, and followed Laura out the door and down the steps, hauling Caroline along for the ride.
Chapter 38
Okay, listen.” The three of us were back on the quiet, deserted street. I could hear excited and urgent murmurings inside, but nobody had gotten up to follow us. “We have to go now, Cathy—”
“Caroline.”
“Yeah. But the thing is, I can’t let this ruin your life.”
Caroline blinked big, pretty eyes at me. “You have saved my life. I do believe you are witches. Though my thought is that there can be good witches in a world as strange as ours.”
Honey, you don’t know from strange. Still, I admired her guts. I could only assume most people in her shoes would be drooling like drunk chimps by now.
“Right, strange world, yep, good witches, okay. I just wanted to tell you that the deck won’t always be stacked like this.”
“Deck? As on a ship?”
I glanced at Laura, who shrugged. I took an unnecessary breath. “Okay, this is going to take a really long time and it can’t. All I’m saying is, women aren’t always going to be on the bottom of the dung heap of life. So you can’t let a day like this make you think there’s no point in following the rules if al
l it’s going to get you is burned alive.
“There’ll be a time when you can vote. You can be doctors, you can be mayors and governors and you can run for president. I mean, you won’t see it, and your kids won’t, but trust me when I say, better times are on the way.
“You don’t have to get married and have kids if you don’t want. You can decide for yourself if you want to join the army or stay home and make babies or run off and join the circus. You just—you just kinda gotta hang in there, you know?”
Caroline nodded once, cautiously. “Is it your wish to tell me there is no call to despair?”
“Yeah! Exactly. No call for it. At all. So just—you know. Keep being brave and gorgeous and things will work out.”
“You are kind to lie, but a lie told in friendship is still untrue: I am not brave.”
I laughed, but nicely. And Laura smiled at her. “Uh, sure, hon. You were so not brave, in fact, you called the richest guy in town a thief to his face and dared him to kill you. If that’s not brave in your book, I can’t wait to see what is.”
“That was my woman’s vanity, my pride,” Caroline practically mumbled, clearly embarrassed or ashamed. “I did not speak for being fearless; I was angry.”
“I know. Most people in your shoes would have been pissing themselves. Caroline Henderson, you’re one in a million.”
“Hutchinson,” she said. “And I thank you, good lady, for your efforts on my behalf and your great kindness.”
“Well, if we ever meet up again, you can buy me a Frappuccino and we’ll call it even.”
I took her tentatively proffered hand and shook it gently, and let go. The teeny portrait around her wrist banged against my hand, so she put both her hands behind her back, as if afraid I’d been offended.
“Maybe you should leave town, Caroline,” Laura suggested. “We aren’t saying you were wrong, but they might take it in their heads to punish you for what we did.”
We, that was classy. Since it wasn’t we at all; it was me.
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