09 - Return Of The Witch

by Dana E. Donovan

  “Ah-huh? Well?” I said, after the video finished playing. “Your witness, counselor?”

  “That’s you,” said Dominic.

  I nodded. “Yup.”

  Carlos said, “I don’t believe it. Did you know all along?”

  “Not exactly, but you remember I told you about those dreams I was having?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is what I dreamed.”

  Detective Pierce said, “May we see that?”

  Dominic grabbed the phone from me and held it to his chest. “Sorry, detective. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Fine then. Are we ready to go?”

  I offered my wrists.

  McIntyre readied the cuffs. “Turn around please, Ms. Adams.”

  I did as he asked.

  “Consider yourself under arrest in connection with the disappearance of Miss April Raines. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”

  “During questioning, yeah I know. Yadda-yadda. Look. My husband was a cop. I’ve heard that spiel a thousand times during role-play sex. And for the record, I keep a handcuff key in my back pocket and the safe word is jalapeño.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jalapeño. It’s a pepper.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good, then we should have no misunderstandings.”

  “Lilith?”

  I looked back at Dominic. He had replayed the video. Only this time he froze the shot showing my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Yes?”

  “When did you find your witch’s key? I thought you lost it back at the research center when it blew up.”

  “That’s right. I’ve been back there a dozen times. I never found it.”

  He turned the cell phone toward me. “Looks like you’re wearing it in this video.”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that the witch’s key around your neck?”

  “Let me see that.” I squinted keenly at the image. As small as it was, there could be no mistake about it. Dominic was right. “That is a witch’s key!”

  “I don’t get it. How could you not know you were wearing it?”

  “It’s simple. I wasn’t. That’s not me in the video.”

  “Lilith, it’s you. I can see that. You even said so yourself.”

  “Sure, when I thought it was me, but I know now it’s not.”

  “Well then who is it?” asked Carlos. “Don’t tell me it’s Ursula.”

  “Seriously?” I looked at Carlos, then again at Dominic and Ursula. None of them had a clue. “Carlos, don’t you see? The key changes everything. Surely you recognize her now.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “Gypsy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “So did I. Apparently she ain’t.”

  Ursula said, “Lo the darkness what returns, for evil bides within the silent shade of night.”

  I nodded. “What do you know? Looks like that part of the Prophecy was right, after all. Here we have the return of the witch, and evil be thy name.”

  Chapter 19

  I asked Carlos and Dominic to fill Ursula in on what happened the night we thought Gypsy died. It followed an epic battle between her and me and ended, we thought, with her getting flattened by a freight train. The problem was we never found her body.

  In the meantime, my ride out to Ipswich with Detectives Pierce and McIntyre came not without its own moments. As partners go, the two seemed an unlikely duo. They barely spoke four words to one another from the moment we left New Castle. You might think that was a result of two people who worked together for so long, one always knew exactly what the other was thinking, which may have been the case.

  I can tell you with certainty, however, that was not so with Tony and Carlos. After more than thirty years together, those two never ran out of things to talk about. Thinking back now, and knowing Carlos the way I do, I suppose I can guess why.

  Still, the boring nature of the Ipswich detectives’ relationship gave me ample time to ponder in peace the newest revelation in what had been a very unsettling couple of weeks for me. At last, things were beginning to make sense.

  In the witch underground, (the real underground where network news does not travel through fiber optics to internet sites like the Witch’s Cauldron) there is a real-time system of news sharing, conducted via the witch’s light, that telepathic connection between two or more witches exclusive to the community of genuine witches.

  Ursula and I share that light, and for good or bad, Gypsy and I share it, too. I now believe that very connection allowed my spirit to travel to Terri Cotta’s house the night Gypsy killed her. Likewise with Amber and April.

  The unfortunate thing of it all was that the essence Gypsy stole from the four guardians had its limitations. Even through vapor resonance, she could only harvest a small portion from each, hardly enough to make a difference to a witch already as powerful as she.

  Yet, Gypsy had counted on extracting the fifth and most important element, the quintessential, from me. She knew it possessed a most interesting quality. Combined with the essence of wind, water, fire and earth, the quintessential completes the five points in the pentacle of magick. With it—and please forgive the cliché, for it cannot be overstated—she could rule the world.

  The problem was, I did not possess the quintessential, and without a way of reestablishing a connection through the witch’s light, I had no way of letting her know it.

  “You comfortable back there?” Detective McIntyre asked from the front passenger seat.

  “Cuffs are a bit tight,” I answered.

  “Suck it up. We’re almost there.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  I heard Pierce snicker at that.

  The sun was nearly down, the car windows were all open and the twilight air felt cool against my skin. It reminded me of the last time I had seen Gypsy. I remember thinking then what a shame it was that she had turned out so rotten. A witch with her talents could have really made a great impression on the world. But as often is the case with powerful people, they’re never satisfied with what they have. They always want more. Usually, it’s that thirst for power that ultimately brings them down. I only hoped this time was no exception.

  “You know,” said McIntyre, apparently the chatty one of the two. “You’re a pretty girl. You don’t look like a killer.”

  I scoffed, “Maybe not, but I’ve done some things I ain’t proud of.”

  “Did you kill April Raines?”

  “No.” I shook my head faintly. “That definitely was not me.”

  “So who was it? Do you know?”

  “I have an idea. I’m just hoping—”

  “Uh-oh,” said Pierce, braking hard and nearly locking up the wheels. “Cow.”

  I finished my thought. “Hoping you wouldn’t have to find out for yourself who that is.”

  We had just passed the Ipswich city limits sign when Pierce managed to stop the car within six feet of broadsiding a spotted cow standing in the middle of the road. He tried beeping his horn at it, but the damn thing just stood there looking at us, chewing cud and dropping turds. I leaned forward and rested my chin on the front seat. “Go around it.”

  “Can’t,” said McIntyre. He unlatched his seatbelt and opened the door. “The cow’s a road hazard. I gotta get her back in her pasture.”

  “Don’t! That’s my mother.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. That’s my mother. She wants to kill me. It’s best we just slip around her and get the hell out of here.”

  “You think your mother’s a cow?”

  I leaned my head out the side window for a better look. “Yup, that’s her. I can tell by the eyes.”

  “The eyes, huh?”

  “Yeah, that and the witch’s key around her neck. You don’t see too
many cows these days with witch’s keys around their necks.”

  He looked at Pierce. “Great. We got ourselves a bona fide 5150 on our hands.”

  Pierce shrugged. “At least now she has a defense.”

  “Hey, guys. I know what a 5150 is. I’m not crazy. I’m telling you that cow is a dangerous woman. She’ll show you no mercy.”

  McIntyre got out, shut the car door and poked his head in through the open window. “Don’t worry, darlin`. I’m just going to ask her to moooove off the road.”

  He laughed dully at that, and then Pierce laughed, too. I flopped back in my seat and waited for the show to begin.

  McIntyre approached the cow as if wading waist deep through water and making splashing motions with his arms and hands. “Git along li`le doggie, git along now!” He followed that up with the kind of sharp whistle that all cowboys can inherently do.

  “Li`le doggie?” I said. “Who does he think he is, John Wayne?”

  When the cow still wouldn’t move, McIntyre leaned his body into her hip, wrapped his hand around her rump and tried pushing her off the road.

  Then the fun began. In a blur of misshapen cowhide and skin, Gypsy shape-shifted back into a woman—naked, of course. McIntyre found himself with one hand on her breast and another on her ass. He staggered back, startled and confused. I saw him reach under his jacket and finger his holster, but he didn’t draw his weapon. Still, that didn’t surprise me. Naked women seldom instill a sense of fear in men, unless they’re Spinelli.

  Pierce, perhaps thinking he had blinked and missed something, grabbed hold of the steering wheel and pulled himself up over the dash to look out the windshield. “What just happened?”

  “It’s my mother,” I said. “Tell him to shoot!”

  Gypsy splayed her hands for McIntyre, presenting her open palms as if to surrender. I saw his posture relax. She gestured a pushing motion, releasing a shockwave that picked him up off his feet and drove him back into a ditch.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “You’re next, Barney. Shoot her while you’re able.”

  Pierce hopped out of the car and drew his weapon down on Gypsy. “Halt right there, lady. This is the police!”

  “Yeah, that’ll do it,” I said. “She respects authority.”

  What happened next is difficult to explain. For one thing, it involves shape shifting, something I don’t do often because even though it’s a cool trick, it drains an incredible amount of energy from both body and soul.

  The drain on the body I don’t mind so much. It’s easy enough to assess and repair. The soul, however, is another story. The soul is the inner reservoir of spirit and essence, the very chemistry that enables one to perform magick. A drain on the soul is a hardship to the entire system, often difficult to assess and sometimes, though very rarely, impossible to replenish. In other words, the shape one assumes can sometimes be the last shape one ever knows.

  The other thing that makes it difficult to explain what happened is the fact that when one shape-shifts, one’s brain is limited in physical size to that allowed by the scull within the animal shape one assumes. Therefore, one must allow for certain tradeoffs in non-essential brain function, such as memory and abstract reasoning. It’s sometimes the case that the finer details of a matter get lost in general recollection.

  In my case, I shape-shifted into a chimpanzee, a creature small enough to shake out of handcuffs and clothes, while remaining agile enough to execute an escape plan.

  As I mentioned, Pierce had taken cover behind a flimsy car door with an open window. He had drawn his weapon on Gypsy, and I’m sure he imagined he had everything under control.

  He didn’t, of course.

  Gypsy pointed two fingers at him and released a jagged bolt of electric blue energy resembling the arc of a stun gun. I heard the thud as his body hit the ground and listened for the clatter of his Glock 9 to do the same. At that moment, I put my monkey ass in gear. I scooted out the window, picked up the gun and ran as fast as I could toward a group of boulders off to the side of the road.

  A series of dull explosions echoed in my footsteps. I felt the ground shake. Dirt rained down on my back as bits of rock and twigs whistled past my head. I didn’t know what she was firing at me, but I knew it was like nothing I could return through witchcraft.

  Just as I found shelter behind the rocks, the biggest of the explosions occurred, uprooting a tree and toppling it onto the boulders. If I wasn’t all of thirty inches tall, I’m sure it would have killed me.

  I set the gun down, dropped to my knees and shape-shifted back into a human.

  “What the hell, mother!” I shouted. “Is that any way to greet your own daughter?”

  Her answer came on the wings of a zip ball that tore a chunk of tree bark off a heavy branch just over my head.

  “Fine.” I picked up the Glock and dropped the safety. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

  I popped up from behind the rocks and fired off six rounds in quick secession before ducking down again. I didn’t expect I’d hit her. The stupid chimp in me hadn’t paid attention to her location once I reached the rocks. But a three-second glimpse gave me a good idea where to look for her the next time.

  I took a deep breath and blew it across the smoking muzzle before popping up for a second salvo. I kept squeezing off rounds until the gun slide jammed open and the sound of brass casings pinging off rocks had stopped.

  I turned my back and dropped behind the rocks once more. I thought I hit her. Wasn’t sure. I knew I hit something, but the sound of rushing wind had me confused and disoriented. I poked my head up for another look. What I saw amazed me.

  I had hit something. It was small at first, the size of a cow, which made me think it was her. Yet in the few moments it took me to turn away and look again, it had grown considerably.

  Gypsy, it seemed, had managed to spin up a little tornado. It stood about eight feet tall, a few inches wide at the base and a meter or so at the top. It spun in a fierce counterclockwise direction, meandering through the pasture and occasionally bumping into cows and tipping them over.

  I knew it was her doing, but I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, a pesky dust devil like that could hardly do much more than muss my hair.

  “Nice!” I yelled, certain that she was still within earshot somewhere. “Picking on poor cows. That seems about your speed. What did you do, open a knot on a witch’s ladder? Ha, real original.”

  I started to say something about how rusty she was, when something really strange happened. The tornado sputtered a bit and then collapsed in on itself. That wasn’t the strange part, though. What happened afterward was. The collapsed ball of wind continued to churn in a most peculiar way. It seemed to bubble more than spin, and then morphed into an aggravated cloud resembling a human form. It had arms, legs, head and even eyes, although they were also made entirely of wind.

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s different. I’ll give you that. Now how about you tell me—Whoa!”

  My words froze in mid-spit. My jaw dropped. I thought I had seen everything, but up until then, I hadn’t seen a thing. As I stared at that freakish wind bound anomaly, I realized it was beginning to take on distinct facial features. They were subtle at first, smooth like polished marble. The outline held its form while the inside continued to churn violently.

  “Gypsy,” I uttered, stunned yet beguiled. “Is that you?”

  She raised a finger and pointed out into the pasture. There another mini tornado formed from a bed of cool mist collecting along the ground. She coaxed the tempest to her, embraced it, and the two became one super cyclone.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes, or even imagine what magick she employed to make herself one with the wind. If I were back on the Eighth Sphere, I wouldn’t have questioned it, but I wasn’t. I was on Earth where even in witchcraft, things like that just didn’t happen.

  Then it occurred to me. The elements of nature and witchcraft went hand-in-hand in any world. All Gypsy did was take it t
o the extreme. It had nothing to do with a witch’s ladder, and everything to do with Wendy Skye.

  Gypsy had acquired enough of Wendy’s essence to manipulate atmospheric matter and shape-shift herself into a conscious element of nature. As unbelievable as it seemed, she had become a walking cyclone. Worse, she was coming after me.

  I’ll admit I was a bit concerned at first. All right, maybe even frightened. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I was scared shitless. I started looking at it logically. I figured that with everything in nature, at least in our universe, there’s an order and a balance to all things, a common denominator if you will, and it all boils down to one thing.

  Physics.

  Even with regard to the paranormal, physics trumps all. In other words, a mini tornado is just a mini tornado, and I knew how to handle those.

  I stepped out from behind the rocks and spun up a zip ball the size of a goose egg. It took shape immediately, snapping and crackling with electric spark enhanced by the abundance of static energy already in the air.

  I held it out in the palm of my hand, giving her one final warning. “I don’t want to do this, Gypsy, but you’re leaving me no alternative.”

  She kept coming. I took aim and let it rip.

  You know, in case I haven’t said it enough, I love zip balls. I think they’re the neatest things, perhaps the neatest thing one can do with energy manipulation. I mean where else in nature or witchcraft can you gather electrically conductive plasma in the palm of your hand and control its disposition wantonly?

  They’re small and powerful, yet easy to handle, and the best thing is that almost anyone can control them because you don’t so much throw them as launch them. They seem to know when it’s time to fly. You give them a nudge and they rocket out of your hand, leaving a light trail nearly the distance to their targets.

  That’s what happened with the one I launched at Gypsy. It shot out across the field and struck her dead on. The explosion was simply beautiful. It vaporized her on impact and snuffed her out like a candle on a birthday cake.