by Cindy Stark
****
Three long, hot hours later, she watched the guys carry in the last of her boxes. Her phone rang, and she pulled it from her pocket.
Peter.
She strode to a shady spot on the lawn and answered.
“Hey, Hazel. How’s it going?”
“Good.” Something odd in his voice alarmed her. “Is there something wrong?”
He chuckled. “You’re pretty perceptive. Just a couple of stings, but I’m all right. I was going to have John drop me off at your place so I could get my truck.”
“It’s here at my new house.” He might say he was okay, but her heart told her otherwise. “Have him bring you here, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Did Charlie find someone to help him?”
Blast it. He was not okay. “He did. All is well. Just get here safely.”
“Will do.” He hissed. “Ah, that smarts.”
She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her, to John, or himself. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. See you soon.”
She hung up the phone and drew her brows together. She’d feel a whole lot better when she could see Peter’s face and judge for herself.
Inside the house, she found Charlie and Victor standing in the kitchen, finishing off the last of her iced tea.
“I hate to push you out the door so soon after all your wonderful help today. But an emergency has come up. Thank you for everything. I’ll transfer the money to you, Charlie, if that’s okay.”
He shrugged. “Sure. I appreciate it.”
Victor studied her with a discerning gaze. “What’s wrong, Hazel?”
Ugh. She just needed them gone, and she wasn’t about to tell Victor what had happened to Peter.
“Nothing you need to worry about. Someone needs my help, so I don’t have time to chat. Thanks again.”
She herded them to the door and practically shoved them out.
A few minutes later John Bartles’ new police SUV pulled into her driveway. Peter stumbled out of the passenger side, and his subordinate walked with him to the door.
Hazel hurried outside. The sight of many angry welts on Peter’s pale face increased her concern.
“He said he was okay,” she said to John and strode toward them. “He said it was only a couple of stings.”
“I am okay,” Peter said.
She ignored his statement and focused on John. “I think he needs to see a doctor.”
John nodded. “He—”
“I’ve already been to the clinic,” Peter said, cutting him off.
“They gave him a shot of adrenaline. Told him to go home and rest, and that it was a good idea for someone to stay with him for twenty-four hours.”
Peter lifted tired but hopeful brows. “That fine with you?”
She snorted. “Of course, it is. Do you need help getting inside?”
He held up a hand. “I’m not dying, Hazel. I’m just wiped out.”
“Thanks, John, for driving him over. I appreciate it.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgement. “No problem. Get feeling better, chief.”
Despite Peter’s insistence that he was fine, Hazel wrapped an arm about his waist and walked with him to the door. He probably didn’t need her help, but she needed to have her hands on him, to feel his energy, and know he was okay.
After they entered the house, she closed the door behind them. “Do you want to lie on my bed?”
He pointed toward the sofa that still sat in the middle of the room. “Couch is good. Just tired. Need a nap.”
A whirlwind energy circled around, and for the first time all day, Hazel sensed Clarabelle’s presence. She hoped Peter hadn’t noticed, and that Clarabelle would behave and stay quiet for the time being.
She didn’t need her grandmother’s ghost interfering and possibly freaking him out while he was in that state. Peter had said he’d encountered her spirit before and seemed fine with her existence. But now was not the time to see if he’d told the truth.
“Go ahead and lie down. I’ll grab you a pillow. I have a couple of fans boxed up, too, to give us a little circulation.”
She dug a down pillow out of a box in her bedroom and gave it to him before she searched out the fans. She’d tried to label everything well, but she had at least twenty boxes with the tag “storage” on them.
When she returned with the fans in hand, he had his eyes closed. She quietly plugged them in and turned them on, and then dragged one of her chairs close to him.
He didn’t open his eyes, but he held out a hand to her. She took it and gave him a light squeeze.
“Anything I can do?” she asked quietly. “I have some salve that helped when I got stung the other day. Can I put some on you?”
He sighed. “Yeah. That would be great. I’m trying not to be a baby about it, but this really sucks.”
“Of course, it sucks. Bee stings shouldn’t be taken lightly.”
Instead of searching for the larger jar of salve that would be with her bathroom stuff, she went straight for the container in her purse. Each sting wouldn’t take much, and then, if she needed more, she’d find the other.
Right now, she ached to give him some relief as soon as possible.
As she rubbed the salve onto his face, arms and hands, she counted the welts. “Sixteen,” she whispered. “That’s awful.”
“I’m a tough guy.” He shivered. “Salve is helping. I’ll be fine.”
Her gut told her otherwise. “Then why are you shivering?”
“Adrenaline.”
He released a deep breath. “Don’t worry about me. Just do whatever you were doing before I got here, and I’ll hang out on the couch. Check on me in an hour or so.”
An hour or so? That was way too long.
But, she was bugging him when he just wanted to rest. Even though it might kill her, she needed to give him space.
She stood. “I’ll unpack my pantry stuff and see what I can fix us for dinner. You rest.”
He mumbled his agreement, and his breaths grew deep and even.
She bit her bottom lip and slowly made her way into the kitchen. She supposed sitting and staring at him wouldn’t help anything anyway.
After unpacking bread, pasta and many other things, she crept back into the living room. He didn’t stir, but his breaths were even.
That was good.
Not knowing what else to do, she decided to go upstairs and find the bigger jar of salve so that she’d have it on hand.
She lifted a box from the bathroom floor and set it on the closed toilet seat. One by one, she emptied it, putting things in her new bathroom cabinet, hoping she’d remember where she’d put them later.
Clarabelle’s presence grew near, but Hazel kept working.
Worried.
The soft word came from out of the ether, and she glanced about the room.
“Yes,” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m worried. I hope you know those stings all over him are from the curse you inflicted upon us.”
Her anger at Clarabelle increased tenfold. “It’s not right.”
A whisper of a caress brushed her cheek. Help him.
She glanced about angrily, wishing she could see the ghost face to face. “How? I’ve done everything I can.”
A spell.
Her gaze darted about the room. “Are you saying there’s a spell that will fix him?”
You can take the pain.
That was all the encouragement she needed. She abandoned her task and headed for the bedroom. Clarabelle’s spell book was stowed in the corner in a box that she’d personally moved to the house.
She opened it and frantically turned the pages, trying to read Clarabelle’s old-fashioned writing, searching for something that would take Peter’s pain.
Here.
Hazel glanced up, not realizing Clarabelle had followed her. Pages of the book flipped and stole her attention. She did her best to keep her fingers out of the way.
When they st
opped, she squinted and read the title of the spell.
Ailments.
She glanced over the ingredients. A candle. An amethyst. Rosemary, salt and lavender. Charred wood and white sage. Three drops of her blood.
Her stomach twisted.
She lifted her gaze and spoke quietly. “This is a blood spell.”
Yes.
She swallowed, and her pulse pounded thickly in her head.
Do not be afraid.
She widened her eyes and glanced about, looking for someone to chastise. “I am afraid. Blood spells are dangerous, and I don’t want to mess with them.”
Help him.
She groaned her frustration. With a simple act, she could relieve Peter of his pain, and she was considering refusing him that. How could she say she loved him and let him suffer?
If she asked him, she knew he’d do it for her.
“If I do this, will it have any lasting effects for us or anyone else?” she whispered.
No.
Son of a crunchy biscuit. It appeared the fates had made it too hard to say no this time.
She consoled herself by remembering the tiny blood spell she’d done for money. No harm had come from that, and she’d made five bucks.
Clarabelle had assured her this one would be okay, too.
She pulled her suitcase from behind a stack of boxes and opened the secret compartment inside. She lifted a blue healing candle and a jar of small pieces of charred wood. Then she removed an amethyst from her box of crystals.
Lastly, she unsheathed the ruby encrusted altar knife she’d discovered in a shop in Boston when she was sixteen and had hidden from her mother.
The rest of the ingredients would be in her kitchen.
The first spell in her new house.
What a way to christen it.
Fifteen
Hazel arranged the items on a tray and carried it into the living room. As quietly as she could so she wouldn’t wake Peter, she lit the candle. She opened the jars of dried lavender and rosemary and sprinkled a pinch of each on Peter’s head. Tiny pieces of dark green and purple decorated his dark hair. She followed with a pinch of salt.
She set that aside and opened another jar where she kept small chunks of burnt wood. Her insides shook with the ferocity of an aspen leaf in gale force winds, and she prayed to the Blessed Mother to bless and protect both Peter and her.
She selected one of the charred pieces and dragged it across her palm where she would make the cut. Gently, she set the amethyst on the center of his chest, ensuring it didn’t slide when he inhaled.
Then she set another match to the bound bunch of white sage until it caught fire. After a moment, she blew out the flame and watched as tendrils of smoke rose from the smoldering bundle.
The scent of burning sage rose to greet her, both calming her, because it reminded her of her mother when she’d cleaned the house, and terrified her, because of what she was about to attempt.
This was no novice spell, and she couldn’t afford to mess it up.
Clarabelle was also in the room, of that she was sure. She glanced upward, hoping her grandmother watched over her and would step in before she did damage.
Hazel waved the sage above Peter’s body to cleanse the atmosphere of any negativity, and then she turned in a circle, creating a cloud of smoke around her.
Peter coughed, drawing Hazel’s panicked attention. If he caught her, he would not approve.
But he remained sleeping and the amethyst remained in place.
Poor guy really did work too hard, and to have a severe allergic reaction on top of it. No wonder he was exhausted.
When she finished smudging, she laid the smoldering bundle of sage on a ceramic plate.
With a shaking hand, she picked up the ruby-encrusted altar knife. She inhaled a breath to steel her nerves and pressed the blade into her palm until it sliced a quarter inch cut into the skin. She winced as her nerve endings screamed in protest, and her bright red life force rose to the surface.
She exhaled and worked to steady her nerves.
Now for the words. “Search for the poison. Take from this man in need. Heal his body, so mote it be.”
A shiver raced over her, and she dipped a forefinger in her blood and softly touched him between the eyes.
A jolt of energy surged through her and tensed his body.
She placed a smudge of red on both cheeks and one at the base of his throat. For the final one, she slid her hand beneath his shirt and touched the skin over his heart.
He inhaled a sharp gasp, and his eyes flew open.
Happy, ethereal laughter echoed around them.
Intense heat infused Hazel’s skin and left her shaky. Her energy faded like air from a popped balloon, and she sank into the chair next to him.
He rolled to his side and sat up. The amethyst dropped to the floor. Concern rolled from him in waves. She wanted to reassure him that everything was fine, but she needed a minute to find the strength to speak.
“Hazel? What have you done?”
She held up a hand to keep him in place and struggled to take a full breath. “I’m fine,” she managed.
Peter’s gaze jumped from her to the tray holding the tools of her trade, to the curls of sage smoke still rising into the air. “What…did…you…do?”
Her breath came easier now, though she still felt drained of energy. “A small spell. How do you feel?”
He glanced at his hands and arms, and paused for a moment as though taking an internal assessment. “Better. Much better.”
A satisfied smile curved her lips. “Good.”
He left the couch and knelt before her, pushing her hair back from her face. A trickle of energy flowed from his fingertips into her, and she absorbed it like a parched man drinking water in the desert.
His gaze bored into hers. “You took my sickness, didn’t you?”
“Maybe?” she whispered. She cleared her throat and worked to make her voice stronger. “I was trying to dispel yours. I should have known that energy would need to go somewhere.”
He cursed beneath his breath. “Why would you do that? I was doing okay. I would have gotten over it.”
She needed him to understand. “Because I wanted to help you. Because I…”
Love you.
She wanted to say the words, but fear held her back. They appeared to be on the right track, but she worried about the many things that had the potential to derail them.
“So, you’ve basically taken poison from one person and put it into another. How does that make any kind of sense?”
She shrugged. “Because I’m not allergic to bees like you are. My body can handle it better.”
She struggled to straighten in her chair. “I’m feeling stronger already. I don’t think it made me sick like you. I’m sure a lot of how I’m feeling is because of the energy required for such a spell.”
He frowned and shook his head.
She inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. “Really. I’m quite fine.”
He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her with a possessive embrace. “Don’t ever do that again, okay?” he whispered against her ear.
She hugged him tighter and knew that was something she couldn’t promise. “I’m sorry.”
He leaned back and checked her expression. “I guess it’s my turn to tell you to rest. How about you lay down, and I’ll pick up some burgers from Cora’s for us?”
That did sound amazing. “Okay. But you should wash off the blood.” She touched her forehead and cheeks. “And there’s stuff in your hair.”
He brushed the herbs from his head and walked toward the bathroom. “What were you thinking?” he muttered.
A few minutes later, he left her alone lying on the couch with the fan cooling her heated body. Even though she’d accepted his sickness, she was doing a whole lot better than he’d been, and she couldn’t regret what she’d done.
A skitter of excitement raced through her when she paused long enough to rea
lize she really had pulled off that spell. For her, the results weren’t what she’d expected. But for Peter…
An hour ago, he’d been flat on his back, passed out on the couch. Now, he was better.
A smile blossomed on her face. “I did it,” she whispered.
Yes…
The sudden acceptance of that knowledge left her too tired to sleep. Instead, she lifted Clarabelle’s spell book from the coffee table and took another look at the spell she’d just performed.
She’d completed it exactly as outlined. And it had worked.
Crazy, but exhilarating.
She flipped back through a couple of pages, grateful that she didn’t need a spell to make a candle last longer or one to clear muddy water for drinking.
When she came across a stinging curse, she halted and widened her eyes. She’d noticed the title before, but there had been nothing about it to encourage her to read further.
Now, however, was a completely different story.
This was it. The spell Clarabelle and apparently her friends had used to create the stinging curse.
Hazel slowly whispered the first paragraph. “Whosoever shall kill a witch, will bring damnation upon this town. Whether it be the bitter sting of a harsh winter, or the sting of burning sun upon their skins, they shall pay. This curse shall commence on the first day of the next full moon and shall continue henceforth until the next.”
Wow.
Like she couldn’t exactly blame them, and in modern times, those curses were dang uncomfortable, but not often deadly. But back three hundred years ago? The townspeople would have lost many of the old and the young.
If they didn’t freeze to death, they would likely run out of food because it would be hard to leave the house. In the summer, their crops would likely shrivel. Either way, animals would have perished, making it that much more difficult.
The curse was full of wickedness. What must her poor grandmother have suffered to be filled with such vengeance?
It hurt her heart to think of it.
A heavy sigh floated down on her, and she sensed Clarabelle was near. “I’m sorry for what happened to you and your friends,” she said quietly.
Smothering sadness surrounded her, and she had to mentally block it before it dragged her under.
