by Anela Deen
I caught a glimpse of several hooded figures huddled closely together in the back of a van without seats. Then the door closed behind me. Like a switch, the room flooded with blinding light. With a less than manly shout of surprise, I wrapped an arm across my eyes to block out the glare. It did little good. It was like I’d crawled inside a light bulb—And not the energy saver kind. The van didn’t seem to be moving. Were we still parked at the curb? At least they weren’t kidnapping me.
“Is there a specific reason you’re scorching my retinas?” I growled.
Several voices replied, but not in answer to me.
“He seems affected. Moreau couldn’t fake discomfort like this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If it were him, the light would reveal his disguise.”
“Unless he has grown more powerful.”
“It must be a disguise. No saint would trade favors with him.”
It gave my skin a crawling sensation to be blinded while watched, spoken of but not spoken to.
“I’m not some trick of Moreau. My name is Sam.”
“We have to be sure,” one said, the same voice that told me to get in. “He’s lied to us before.”
“You want proof? Fine.”
I reached behind me and felt the cold metal of the door. I slid my hand along it and found the handle. As expected, it was locked. There were several gasps as I threw the door open. Someone shut it again just as quickly.
“Satisfied?” I said. “Now, dim the lights.”
The snap of fingers and the night returned. Shadow never felt so good. I blinked rapidly, blinded in the sudden darkness.
“I’ve never seen our protection spell severed so easily,” the same voice spoke and I noted a defensive edge. “You must really be the one Moreau promised us, though I find it difficult to believe a saint would offer him a favor.”
“It’s a long, annoying story.”
Shapes started to emerge in the black. I counted six figures clustered in a half moon about me.
“When it comes to Moreau, they always are,” she answered wryly.
I tried a tentative smile. “So, I’m learning.”
Dressed all in black, masked from their heads down, only their eyes were visible. Not a pointy hat in sight. Kind of disappointing. I met each of their gazes in turn, finding suspicion mixed with anxiety. No surprise there considering what I represented to them. When I reached the one farthest right, I nearly shifted backward, startled by the venomous wrath she leveled at me. It wasn’t the I-don’t-like-you expression. It was more I-want-to-rip-your-throat-out.
The smartest thing to do would be to drop my gaze and pretend I didn’t notice. Who could say why she glared at me like that? A personal issue maybe.
But I couldn’t. The obvious hatred in those hazel eyes might’ve concealed what lay beneath to another person, but not me. All I could see was profound sorrow. I stared too long. The daggers she glared at me turned razor sharp.
“You said you know what it is we want.” The same voice as before broke the impasse.
“Are you the one in charge?” I asked, shifting my gaze to the dark-brown eyes of the woman closest to me.
“I am. What do you know of our mission?”
“You’re after the shards of Joan of Arc’s sword, right?”
A loaded silence.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Who told you this?” the angry hazel eyes demanded.
“My…mentor,” I said, hoping that didn’t ask more. Nothing complicated a conversation faster than name-dropping Death. Thankfully, the answer seemed to appease, as if they’d already known saints had mentors. Did everybody understand how this worked better than me?
“Your mentor is correct,” the leader said. “It is the sword we want.”
“I meant what I said,” I told her. “I won’t steal.”
Indignation flashed in every gaze. Their replies struck like lightning in a storm.
“Steal? We are not the thieves.”
“It was your church who stole it from us.”
“And it was your church that defiled her and murdered her.”
“Then had the audacity to claim her as their own martyr.”
Their leader silenced them with a raised hand.
“Joan of Arc was more than the mother of our coven,” she said. “She was the savior and protector of countless girls in the war. She gave them strength and purpose. She is our heritage. The sword belongs to us.”
It was a good argument, the kind that could almost make one forget this was a literal heist. And she failed to mention that Joan of Arc was a saint as well, which bothered me for some reason.
“It’s been a while since my last World History class,” I said. “But she gave strength and purpose to a lot of people. Why is the sword more yours than theirs?”
They didn’t like that. Maybe I should’ve been more circumspect about it, but dancing around what I meant was never my strong suit.
Their leader started to reply, but the one of the wrathful eyes—Hazel, I decided to call her in my head—interrupted her in a blistering tone.
“He doesn’t care about what they stole from us or how they murdered us. His sort never does. Just tell him the real reason we need it.”
Real reason? That caught me by surprise. The others too, apparently, for they stared at her.
“What does she mean?” I prompted.
Again, their leader tried to speak, but Hazel beat her to it.
“One of our sisters is dying from the hex of an enemy coven,” she bit out. “We need to reforge the Mother’s sword to save her.”
Enemy coven. Who knew covens had beefs between each other? For that matter, who knew there were other covens?
“Aren’t swords more for killing than healing?” I asked.
Their leader managed to get a word in finally. “Certainly, the swords of men are,” she said. “The Mother’s sword is an extension of her purity. When it was given to her by the Christian God, she endowed it with her own benevolent power to ensure it would never spill blood. It is this power that will save our sister. This is our true motivation, Sam. Will you help us?”
I ran a hand over my face. This was like something out of a fairy tale and way beyond anything one small-town Iowa boy could sort through. Leaving aside all the history, I considered what they were asking. They could be lying about the sister. They could be lying about all of it.
Somehow, with the same inexplicable certainty that possessed me when I opened a door, I knew they weren’t. It still felt like theft, no matter the reasons or how it was packaged, but I they did have a genuine claim to it, and if it was to save a life…
When I didn’t reply right away, Hazel’s patience with me, if she’d had any, came to an end.
“He’s not going to help us.” Her voice dripped with derision. “A dead witch is just another dead heretic in his eyes. We should go back to the warlock.”
Their leader shook her head. “What he asks in return betrays our oath.”
“Will that comfort you when our sister dies? When her soul is bottled with the others on their shelves?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Why couldn’t side conversations with these paranormal entities ever be about the weather?
“I heard it’s going to rain tomorrow.”
“Yes, but it’ll be sunny in the afternoon.”
Was that too much to ask?
“Just hold your broomsticks, everyone,” I cut in. “My daily routine doesn’t usually involve cauldrons, and boils, and goblins, so excuse me if I need a second to think this over.”
Their eyes turned back to me, hostile and on edge. Alice’s warning to put a lid on the witty retorts felt infinitely wise all of the sudden.
“What is your choice then?” their leader asked.
“My choice,” I said with a sigh, “is to help you. For your sister’s sake.”
Chapter 14
One should never
try to predict where the day will lead. When I got up this morning, I definitely didn’t think I’d be walking through walls.
We’d gathered to the side of the museum facing away from the parking lot and its lights. One by one the other five witches murmured words in a language I’d never heard, then stepped through the wall as easily as going through a doorway.
I suppressed a shudder. “How is that possible?”
“Not magic, if that’s the stereotype you’re reaching for,” Hazel said, shoveling scorn at me. “Our way is elemental. Energy given and energy returned. We pass between the stone in the wall, not through it.”
I nodded as if I’d understood any of that.
“We’ll mist the security cameras,” their leader said before following the others. “I’ll come back for you when it’s clear to enter.”
That left me standing alone with Hazel. Interesting how even after watching a feat that made my scalp crawl, I still had room to feel awkward. I almost did strike up that conversation about weather. Nothing comforted someone from the Midwest more than discussing the forecast.
And nothing discomfited them more than staring. Hazel stood a pace apart from me, doing exactly that.
For a little while I pretended not to notice. Was she doing that energy thing with my skull? I could swear I felt the beams of her glare boring a hole in my temple.
I glanced at her sidelong. Yep, still staring. This was worse than a bus stop bench after the bars closed.
“Is there something on my face?” I finally asked.
“It’s ironic, that’s all.”
There’s an odd way to start a conversation.
“Okay. What is?”
“That it’s your kind the world reveres while mine is reviled.”
“Is this your normal method of chitchat? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Until tonight, I had no idea your kind even existed.”
She scoffed. “That’s your answer.”
“Did I miss the question?”
“There are dark happenings in this world, the kind my coven and others like it constantly battle, yet you people sit passively on the sidelines. God’s will, you tell the masses all the while the world tramples on them, as if prayer alone can save them.”
I didn’t know what to make of that, but I gathered she’d just clumped me in with the Catholic Church and all its failings. Baiting the hook? Likely, but after the conversation I’d had with Alice, I couldn’t resist.
I faced her fully. “Listen, I’ll take the blame for my mistakes, but only mine. I’ve never done anything to you, your coven, or the trampled masses.”
“You’re a cog in a mechanism of impossible rules and cruel judgement.”
“I’m a locksmith, okay? This extra quirk is nothing I asked for.”
“Poor little altar boy.” She sneered at me. “Do you practice that look of earnest sincerity in the mirror?”
“Oh, sure. An hour every day before breakfast.”
She made a disgusted sound and turned her head the other direction. “You saints. For all your supposed divinity, you’re a useless group—and dangerous too. Your existence is a false hope. You never show up for the ones who really need your intervention. For the ones standing on the edge.”
Her thinned toward the end. I felt it from her again, that terrible gut-twisting grief. My irritation disappeared. I’d been taking her sharp words personally when this obviously wasn’t about me at all.
And yet, it applied perfectly to me, didn’t it? A quirk, I’d called my ability. A strange talent. An oddity. Had I actually used it to help people? I thought of Mrs. Shu and her struggling family. Did I really think unjamming her inventory door and not charging her was the best I could do? I’d been so busy resenting the idea of heavenly expectation, I hadn’t thought of the people I could have been helping, and wasn’t.
“The ones standing on the edge,” I repeated quietly to myself, but Hazel’s gaze returned to me. “You’re right.”
She went still. “What?”
“They tell me I’m supposed to complete a task at some point. Maybe I have my reasons for being resistant, but,” I drew in a breath and let it go, “that doesn’t mean I should do nothing.”
She didn’t speak, watching me as though trying to parse out a trick. Maybe I wasn’t clear.
“What I’m trying to say,” I told her, “is when we’re done here, I want to know more about those dark happenings you mentioned. I want to help.”
The shock in Hazel’s stare filled the space between us. She drew an uncertain breath as if to reply but their leader returned at that moment to beckon us in.
“The cameras are blind now,” she said. “This will bring the guards but we’ll subdue them.”
“Subdue?” I said sharply. “What does that mean?”
“Only that we will make them sleep,” their leader assured, ushering us toward the wall. “Our power weakens toward dawn, however. You will need to unlock the sword before then or we’ll be discovered.”
They came to either side of me and each took hold of an arm.
“Hold your breath,” Hazel said, and pulled me forward into solid stone.
The sensation of passing through brick was a good metaphor for dating. I didn’t know what I was doing, it was painful, and I felt nauseous afterward.
When we arrived on the other side, I bent at the waist, trying to find my equilibrium again.
Hazel eyed me quizzically. “Don’t throw up.”
I pinched my lips together and nodded. Better not to open my mouth to speak until I could be sure nothing else would follow. Straightening slowly, I glanced about. Darkness pooled like fog across the room but for the up-lighting beneath the paintings and the glow within a pair of showcases. The other witches weren’t here.
We stood in one of the main showrooms. I hadn’t been able to sleep after Alice’s departure, so I’d taken the time to look over the museum layout online. The special exhibitions room should be a few rooms to the right.
Hazel tapped me on the shoulder. “This way,” she whispered and I followed her and their leader as they headed toward the open doorway to the right.
Stalking around a closed museum at night had a potent thrill. It was nice to see the place without throngs of tours flooding the area with paint-by-numbers art critics and malfunctioning deodorant, but it also made my skin tighten with anxiety. Give me mundane exhilaration any day, like ordering a medium fry and getting a large by mistake, or when the neighbor’s lawn service mixed up the addresses and did ours instead. The little perks that life threw my way were excitement enough.
This museum touted a few masterpieces from the 17th century—huge portraits of the aristocracy from the times. By day, they were impressive. At night like this, they were downright spooky. In the dim lighting and the surrounding shadows, the eyes came alive. Their stares followed me like unmoving specters as I crossed from room to room. Distracted by one with hollow cheeks and parted lips, my foot caught on something that lay across one of the open doorways. It sent me sprawling.
I got up in a hurry and looked back to see what I’d tripped over.
It was a body.
Chapter 15
He was a guard, judging by the uniform. I scrambled over where he lay face down and checked his pulse. A steady beat rose under my fingers. Only sleeping. I sat back with a relieved sigh.
Hazel appeared beside me, her posture one of clear impatience.
“Just making sure he’s all right,” I said, rising.
“He’ll be awake soon enough,” their leader said, approaching from within the room we’d entered. “We keep our word, Sam. Will you keep yours?”
We stood just inside the special exhibition gallery, I realized. Oil paintings of Joan of Arc hung around the room. In most, she appeared as an adolescent child in armor. In others she was a young woman, sometimes in the dress of a commoner. Whether they depicted her at prayer or on the battlefield, in all of them she held the sword.
It was
actually a pretty amazing display. I contemplated coming back during the day to look at it all. If I avoided a perp walk in handcuffs by the end of the night.
The other witches had gathered around a glass casement at the far end of the room. Banners stamped with fleur-de-lis, a portrait of Catherine de Fierbois, and an enormous French flag served as a mural of fanfare on the wall behind it.
They spoke in reverent whispers, fingertips brushing over the edge of the glass as gingerly as they might the flame of a candle. They parted as I neared the display.
Beneath the encasement, the hilt and shards of the sword rested on a bed of blue velvet. The pieces of the blade had been arranged to fit together like fragments of a puzzle. Five crosses marched down its dark metal.
It was beautiful.
And something more. Even under glass, its power was palpable. Not in a way that threatened, but more how the sun feels when it breaks through grey clouds on a cool day.
Bright and warm. Blessed.
The word perched itself in my thoughts, making me frown. I reached a hand toward the glass. Their leader intercepted it.
“Don’t touch it unless you’re ready,” she warned.
I withdrew my hand. “Right. You mentioned there’s some kind of night latch on this thing?”
“A powerful binding spell,” she said. “Made from the blood of one of our order, the feathers of our patron beast, and forged with waters of the Seine where the Mother’s ashes were thrown after she was burned.”
What, no eye of newt?
“It will try to repel you,” she added. “There may be some discomfort.”
“Its power is weakest just before dawn,” another said. “But ours is too.”
“The cloaking spell that hides us from the security cameras and the spell that keeps the guards asleep will wear off as dawn approaches,” their leader said. “You’ll need to work as quickly as you can.”
Nothing like the overhanging threat of incarceration, or worse, if I failed. No pressure.
Steeling myself, I lifted both palms and let them hover an inch above the glass. A light, static charge stung my fingertips, making my heart rate jump. I sensed everyone watching, the weight of their anticipatory stares sucking the oxygen out of the air.
