Someone called his name in the hall. “Should I send a nurse to check you out?”
“No.” Willow sat up. She wasn’t as pale. Her hands didn’t shake. “I’m embarrassed more than anything. I—uh—didn’t eat breakfast.”
“Mary thought you might have had a vision.”
“No,” Willow repeated, scowling at Mary, who scowled right back.
Did that mean she hadn’t had one now or that she never had?
Sebastian’s name was called again—louder, closer. Not the time to press the issue. Really not his issue but her doctor’s. He made a mental note to find out who that was and have a chat.
“It’s nearly lunchtime,” he said. “You should eat.”
“I will.”
As he had no more reason to stay beyond a strange desire to keep staring at her, Sebastian left. He headed back the way he’d come, just as the nurse who’d been calling for him barreled around a corner and bounced off his chest.
Chapter 2
The man I’d been dreaming of my entire life, the one who would save me from … Lord alone knew; the one who was the one was a psychiatrist.
My psychiatrist most likely. He was replacing my former doctor, who’d told me the “new guy” would be my “new guy.”
There was no way that the visions I’d had of him, of me—the lingering looks, the touches, the kisses, the … anything—would come to pass. What psychiatrist falls in love with his patient? Especially a patient like me?
“What was it about him that made you swoon?” Mary asked.
“Wasn’t him,” I lied.
She scooted closer on the bed. “What then?”
I didn’t have the usual urge to get away, even though she had me trapped. There was something about Mary I trusted. As I hadn’t met her before today—in reality or in dreams—I had no idea why. However, I’d had feelings like this before about people—both good feelings and bad—and I’d learned they were too accurate to ignore.
“Tell me about your vision.”
I considered denying that I had visions, but I figured if I did, Mary would just keep tossing water around until I stopped.
“We need to keep it between us. Telling the shiny new paper pusher that I have visions is a good way to get me locked someplace I can’t have any.”
Another lie. I could have them anywhere, but all I needed was for Mary to tell anyone—everyone—that I could see the future. From what I’d observed of Mary so far, she talked a lot. Usually to the corner, but still. She’d been lucid enough today.
“Okay,” she agreed. “What did you see?”
“Our library.”
“What’s so scary about that?”
“Who said it was scary?”
“You fainted. Or do you always faint after a vision?”
“One had nothing to do with the other. I really didn’t have breakfast.”
“You never do,” she said, making me wonder how long she’d been watching me before she approached. “Let’s go to the library.”
In my vision it had been night. There’d been a full moon shining through the skylight, and I’d been alone. Did that mean I was supposed to wait for the full moon and go alone or didn’t it?
Couldn’t hurt to check the place out in the light with a buddy. Why Mary was suddenly my friend I had no idea, any more than I did about a lot of things.
I let her help me up. In truth, I needed her to. When she continued to hold my hand as we walked down the hall I realized I needed that too. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done so. Which might be all the explanation necessary for my new—my only—pal.
Mary appeared as starved for affection, as in need of a friend, as I was. If she thought I was a witch, if she thought she was too, so what? There were people in here who thought they were famous historical figures.
Why was it whenever folks went off the deep end they imagined themselves as Napoleon or Cleopatra? Same goes for reincarnation. Farmhands from the sixteenth century were never reincarnated. But Anne Boleyn got recycled a lot.
The library wasn’t far away, unusual in this facility, which had so many wings I don’t think I’d yet seen them all. A lot of them had been closed off from lack of use. Northern Wisconsin might be vast, but the number of lunatics wasn’t. Or maybe lunatics hid in the woods and didn’t come out. I should have.
Not that it was bad here. It was just … here. And I didn’t want to be.
What I would do once I was released was a mystery. I’d finished high school—wasn’t easy, but I’d done it. I’d gotten a job at a nursing home. I was good at taking care of people. I had been considering applying for aid so I could go to nursing school, and then it had happened.
I’d seen the vision of my own death—the man who would do it and what he would do. The stabbing, the branding, the burning. I’d felt the knife go in, smelled my own flesh sizzling, seen the mark he’d imprinted on my skin with his ring—the head of a snarling wolf. Then the scent of gasoline, the snick of a match, the blaze as my body caught fire.
When the man from my vision appeared in real time I didn’t wait for him to pull the blade that would end my life. I’d pulled my own and tried to end his.
I’d explained to my court-appointed lawyer that just because the guy had no ring or knife that night didn’t mean he wouldn’t come on another night and kill me as I’d envisioned.
He’d lit on that word—envisioned—used it to get me placed in this facility and not prison. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been labeled crazy before. There was a reason I craved companionship, affection, a friend, some hint of family. None of the foster families I’d been assigned to had ever wanted to keep me.
Even as a baby I’d been a problem. You’d think someone would want to adopt a pretty little white girl like me. They had, until I woke up shrieking in the dark. Baths freaked me out. So did streams, lakes, rivers, and water in cups, glasses, bottles, and puddles. When I started talking and told them why, things really got strange.
“Now what?” Mary asked when we reached the library.
“You wanted to come here.”
“What else did you see?”
“The Book of Shadows,” I blurted.
“All right.”
She hurried off in the direction of the B’s.
The first time I’d told one of my foster moms that I’d dreamed her oldest would break his arm falling down the stairs, and then it had happened, she’d thought I pushed him. I ended up back at the group home. Counseling soon followed. It helped. I’d learned how to zip my lip.
Still, shit happened around me. Most of it bad. And when I tried to warn people that the bad was coming, I only got sent back even faster.
“It’s not here.” Mary’s words were louder than they should have been. Her eyes darted this way and that. The guard—a solid older woman—glanced our way.
I smiled. “I’ll help her find it.”
The guard didn’t appear convinced. I led Mary into the stacks.
She shoved her fingers into her hair and yanked. I tried to pull her hands down. She tried to put her elbow through my throat. I managed to deflect it.
“I saw the moon,” I said.
Mary stilled. Her hands lowered.
“In my vision. It was the full moon.” I pointed at the skylight. “Streaming in.”
“Ah.” Mary nodded. “The book probably won’t be here until the moon is full. No point in searching.”
“All right then,” I said.
“Is there a problem?”
Peggy Dalberg, my caseworker, stood at the end of the row. As her office was right across the hall she’d probably heard Mary’s shout. If not, someone had told her about it.
“No,” Mary answered. “The book won’t be here until the full moon.”
Peggy didn’t appear surprised. I’m sure she’d heard worse—and probably not just from Mary.
I wasn’t certain how old Peggy was, though she spoke of grandchildren, and her hair was more silver than g
old. Short. No-nonsense. Like Peggy.
If she’d ever had a waist, she didn’t anymore. She wore soft colors, soft fabrics, loose and flowing tops and skirts paired with boots in the winter, Birkenstocks in the summer. I bet her grandchildren loved to sit in her lap. I would have. Her blue eyes were kind, and I liked them. I liked her.
“What book?” she asked.
“Book of Shadows,” Mary answered.
Peggy glanced at me, then back at Mary. “You’re interested in Wicca?”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Mary had talked about witches, not Wicca. They were similar, but not the same, though I wasn’t sure of the difference. Still, I’d seen a Book of Shadows in my vision, so it would probably be a good idea to discover just what it was.
“We are. Yes. Definitely.”
Peggy urged us to take seats along with her at a nearby table. “Wicca is a pagan religion where the main tenet is to harm none.”
“That’s nice,” Mary said, but her fingers twisted together with increasing agitation. I offered my hand, and she took it, calming visibly when our palms met.
Peggy lifted her gaze from our joined hands to my face. I shrugged. For some reason Mary and I had a connection. I couldn’t explain it. But one of my main tenets had always been: If it works, keep doing it.
“I practice Wicca,” Peggy said. “I could teach you more about it if you’d like.”
“You’re a witch?” I asked. She certainly didn’t seem the type, but what did I know?
Peggy laughed, and Mary’s fingers tightened around mine—once, very hard. I stifled a wince.
“Yes and no. Many followers of Wicca consider themselves witches. Though Wicca is a religion, and witchcraft is a skill set.”
Peggy must have seen my confusion because she continued. “The Wiccan group I belong to meets in the woods and strives for peace and goodness. We try to become one with the earth, we are soothed by nature.”
“Soothed how?”
“Healing herbs.”
I lifted my eyebrows, and she shrugged. “They work.”
I decided not to question too closely which “herbs” she was talking about.
“A day in the sun, a few hours beneath the moon, time spent on or near peaceful water pacifies the soul.”
Water wasn’t peaceful to me, and the time I’d spent in nature hadn’t been all that soothing. Of course sleeping on cement and peeing behind a bush probably wasn’t the kind of “nature” she was referring to.
“If Wicca is a religion, then what’s witchcraft?” I asked.
“Spells and magic.”
Mary squeezed my hand again, but she didn’t speak. I had to. “You believe in magic?”
Peggy glanced over her shoulder toward the guard, but since Peggy had taken charge of us the other woman had lost interest and stepped into the hall. The door was open but she was too far away to hear anything that we said.
“Everyone should believe in magic. Otherwise what’s the point?”
“Believing in magic is what landed a lot of us in here.”
“What landed the two of you in here wasn’t magic.”
Technically, she was right.
“What’s a Book of Shadows?”
“Every Wiccan group—sometimes called a coven—has its own Book of Shadows where they record their recipes for healing, the rituals they’ve performed. Some individuals keep a personal one as well.”
“A witch’s diary?”
“If you like.”
“Why would there be one in the library?”
“I’m not following,” Peggy said.
“Mary was searching for a Book of Shadows.”
To be fair, she’d been searching because I’d told her to. But I’d seen one here in my vision. Something I couldn’t tell Peggy, even if she did practice Wicca and believe in magic.
Mary was getting agitated again—chewing on her lip; her free hand twisted a lock of her hair. I should probably stop asking questions, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Why would one of those be here?”
“It wouldn’t. Or at least it shouldn’t.” Peggy gently took Mary’s hand, the one that was twisting hair, and lowered it to the table. “Mary, why were you looking for a Book of Shadows?”
Mary glanced at me. Certainly Peggy knew that I had visions—or thought I did—but I was supposed to be getting “better.” Admitting I’d seen the book in one of those visions was not going to help my case.
I shook my head—barely—but people like me and Mary got very good at reading the smallest of hints.
“I’m a witch,” Mary blurted.
Oh boy.
“I know.” Peggy patted Mary’s hand. She didn’t sound condescending at all, which, considering that she was one too, was impressive.
I waited for Mary to mention that I was a witch as well, but she didn’t.
“I wanted to start my own Book of Shadows,” Mary said. “But I thought I should read one first.”
Mary might be crazy, but she was far from stupid.
“Good idea.” Peggy released Mary’s hand, which went right back to her hair and recommenced twisting. Peggy pretended not to notice. “I’ll bring mine for you, all right?”
Mary’s raised hand stopped twisting and lowered to the table. “Thank you.”
Did the Book of Shadows I’d seen in the vision belong to Peggy? Was Peggy the individual I’d been searching for beneath the full moon that night?
That was the problem with a lot of my visions. I didn’t know what they meant until the situations they illustrated actually happened. Even the ones I thought I understood often wound up being confusing when they became a reality. Those about Sebastian Frasier for instance.
Peggy glanced at her watch. “You have therapy, Mary.”
“No. We have Wicca lessons.”
“Come back afterward and we’ll start then.”
Mary’s lips tightened.
“I promise,” Peggy said. “But if you don’t go, you know what’ll happen.”
Mary left without another word.
“What’ll happen if she doesn’t go?” I asked. It had never occurred to me not to go to therapy.
“Therapy is a requirement of her being here rather than in prison. If she doesn’t go, she could lose that privilege.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea for you to teach her about Wicca when she thinks she’s a witch?” I asked.
“I think I’m a witch.”
I thought we were talking about two different kinds of witches, but Peggy didn’t seem to get that. And why would she? In her mind witchcraft was a skill set not a delusion. Of course a woman who envisioned the future shouldn’t throw the delusion stone around so freely.
“Wicca is about balance, communing with nature and finding peace. Mary could use all of that. Or any of it. Couldn’t you?”
Probably wouldn’t hurt, but I was still twitchy about Peggy’s magic comment.
“You aren’t going to teach us how to conjure a spirit or turn water into wine or anything, are you?”
“That’s Second Book of John not Book of Shadows.”
My mouth fell open, and Peggy laughed. “You think because I practice Wicca that I don’t know the Bible? They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Aren’t you more about the goddess than God?”
“Why does divinity have to be exclusive rather than inclusive?”
“Got me.” Though I had a feeling statements like that had led to more witchhunts than witchery.
“The earth is a gift that we worship.”
That one had idolatry issues, but whatever.
“If you aren’t interested in learning, that’s fine.”
“No, I am interested. Very.”
The more I knew before the full moon arrived the better.
“Mary thinks she’s a witch,” I said. “And I doubt she’s talking the Wicca kind.”
“Mary thinks everyone’s a witch. It’s one of the reasons she’s here. Maybe
if she learns what witchcraft is, what Wicca means, she might stop seeing broomsticks in every corner.”
“Not if you teach her a spell that makes one fly,” I muttered.
Peggy’s gaze sharpened. “Do you believe that I could?”
“Do you?”
We held each other’s gaze for several beats, then Peggy shook her head. “When I say spells, I mean rituals.”
“That word just shouts serial killer.”
“How did we go from a peaceful Wiccan chant beneath the moon to a serial killer?”
“It’s a lot shorter trip than you seem to think.”
“A ritual is merely a pattern for doing things.”
“Said every serial killer ever.”
Peggy’s lips twitched. She found me amusing. So few did, it made me like her even more.
“Religion is based on rituals. The Rosary for instance, the seder. Rituals help people to feel included, safe, protected. A ritual is always the same. The way to keep it the same is to write it down, to practice it over and over, to share it with others of like mind. Wiccan spells, rituals, written in a Book of Shadows, is how we do that.”
“Which would make each Book of Shadows similar to a book of the Bible.”
“An interesting but fairly accurate analogy.”
“You should probably keep that to yourself, unless you enjoy having your feet slow roasted over an open fire.”
Something flickered across Peggy’s face so fast I wasn’t sure I’d seen anything at all. Probably just a bird’s shadow as it flew across the skylight above.
Probably.
*
The nurse, who was also Sebastian’s assistant, Zoe, had been looking for him because he had his first therapy session in less than a half hour.
Zoe was short, round, bespectacled, and far too young for the job. Not that Sebastian was ancient at thirty-two. He just felt like it.
He’d thought he would have more time to get acclimated. Of course if he hadn’t been drawn to the two women in the hall he would have had it. Instead he’d had to hurry into his office, shed his boots and leather jacket, glance at his schedule, his messages. Before he was even able to find his patient files, let alone read them, Mary McAllister walked in.
Smoke on the Water Page 2
