I DON’T THINK I’M GOING TO LIKE THIS TIME PERIOD…
Not after that brief conversation I heard about witches and trials. Being a rather handsome black cat with the name Familiar, no less, I definitely don’t want to be in Salem Village, home of the infamous witch trials.
What’s the deal here? I get a little bump on the noggin and I wake up in “The Twilight Zone” in the company of this ravishing creature named Abigail West. But what’s she doing all dressed up like a pilgrim and flirting with Samuel Truesdale, the driver of the car that hit me? He’s dressed like Halloween’s right around the corner, too. And I think he’s smitten with Abigail.
Trouble is, we’re in danger—and neither of these two lovebirds seems to notice that we’re in some kind of time warp….
Dear Reader,
When the idea for a black cat detective first came to me, I named him Familiar and knew I was tapping into a character from my favorite holiday—Halloween.
Along with spooky stories, I’ve always been fascinated by time travel, and after I took a trip to Salem, Massachusetts, and researched the Salem witch trials, I knew I had to write a book. In reading the stories of the women and men tried for witchcraft, I discovered the trials were more about property and greed than about worshiping the devil. Since I was already writing about Familiar, I realized he was the perfect character to take me back in time to explore this fascinating subject.
I hope you enjoy this story about a time-traveling, matchmaking cat and the twentieth-century couple who finds love in 1692. I know I certainly enjoyed writing it.
Best,
CAROLINE BURNES
Bewitching Familiar
This book is dedicated to
Ron and Ashley Emrich and Chad.
I could travel backward or forward in time three
hundred years and never find
better neighbors.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Ah, the first full day of summer, the solstice, as it were, when the buds have reached full, lush bloom, and a handsome cat’s thoughts turn to…check out the gams on the walking piece of artwork.
Tall, elegant, and with a definite air of mystery, aided by that sexy little black shawl that’s draped so dramatically around her head.
Must be a movie star. Let’s see, maybe Michelle Pfeiffer in disguise. Or Ingrid Bergman’s interesting daughter, Isabella Something or other.
I can’t say much for the choice of a black dress on such a summer day, but those witchy, little black leather boots are the perfect selection for those long, shapely stems. And, brother, can she walk. She’s going across Pennsylvania Avenue like she’s got a hitch in her get-along.
Hey, hey, it’s my lucky day. That shawl has slipped off her head and she’s got a mane of hair that catches every highlight in the sun and shoots it back. And that style, all long and curly, with those sexy, dark tendrils hiding her face. An air of real mystery. Reminds me of one of those old movies—mysterious woman walking along a street with great purpose. You just know she’s on some errand with a sinister twist, maybe to pay the ransom. This gal looks like she’s got a secret. Or maybe a secret assignation. Yes, a meeting with a man.
Check it out. She just looked over her shoulder—and her eyes! One’s gray and one’s green. Only a Trained Observer like yours truly would notice such a thing at a distance, but it is startling. But there goes the headgear, and she’s crossing the street away from me, a woman of mystery continuing toward her destiny.
It’s one of the pleasures of Washington, to look up from the bustle of a busy day for a little glimpse of intrigue. A cat’s thoughts turn to flights of fancy, and let me say that this little episode is pure, visual dessert.
Hmm, speaking of dessert, I could go for a little taste of Sarah’s cheesecake. Her shop is just around the corner. Traffic’s a bit thick now…. Hey, Madame Mysterious, that car’s not going to slow down!
Hey! Take a look to your right, woman! That bumper’s got your name on it! Hey! Somebody, get her attention!
Holy moley, no time for human intervention—their reactions are too slow. I’ve got to do something and fast.
The best I can do is try to knock her out of the way!
ABIGAIL FELT the sharp pain in her back, right between her shoulder blades just as she heard the squeal of tires. The momentum of the punch threw her forward, hands breaking her fall into the gritty Washington street. Chaos erupted around her as tires squalled and horns honked. Several people on the street screamed, and Abigail concentrated on not rolling under the tires of oncoming traffic.
From somewhere behind her she heard several screams and the sound of a woman’s sharp cry of horror. “He hit the cat!”
Abigail West forgot the confusion around her as her body began to register the sharp, painful sensations that come with a tumble into unforgiving asphalt. It was only a matter of seconds later that she struggled to her knees and saw the still form of the black cat lying just inches away from the car tire.
The commotion around her was disorienting. People were talking, pointing at her and the cat and the now-motionless car. The driver’s door was open, but there was no sign of the driver.
In an instant Abigail knew what had happened. Caught in the tangle of her own thoughts, she’d walked directly into the path of a car. The cat had launched himself at her and pushed her to safety, but he hadn’t been as lucky. The bumper of the car had caught him as he’d fallen back.
Crawling over to the prone body, she looked into the crowd for someone who might be able to help her. There were only dozens of strangers, all staring back at her. She saw the range of emotions from mild interest to genuine concern. “Someone, please call a veterinarian!” She made eye contact with a woman who ran immediately toward one of the shops.
Abigail bent over the motionless cat. He was still breathing, his lungs moving too fast and too shallow. There was a tiny trickle of blood by his mouth, and Abigail lightly stroked his body, feeling for broken bones. “You saved my life,” she whispered. “You came out of nowhere and saved my life.” She slipped the silk shawl from where it had fallen around her shoulders and eased it under the cat’s head.
“I tried to stop.” A tall, slender man in a dark gray suit knelt beside her. “I went over to the drugstore and called the Pet Unit. They’re sending a vet right away. They said not to move him.”
“He saved my life.” Abigail repeated the phrase again and again, chanting it like a prayer. “We’ve got to do something.” She didn’t look up, but her long, slender fingers continued to move gently over the cat’s body. “What could have possessed him to risk his own life to save mine?” She leaned over farther and a crystal pendant slipped free of her black silk blouse. The elongated crystal swung on the end of a silver chain, catching the light in a rainbow of shimmering patterns that danced over the cat’s sleek black coat.
For the first time, Abigail West looked up at the man who hovered beside her. His eyes were a solemn gray, a gray as troubled as the dark Atlantic waters, and as stormy. His hand reached out and caught the pendant of the necklace. In that split second their eyes h
eld and Abigail caught the scent of something burning and found herself falling, falling into a dark, black hole where the last pinpoint of light disappeared.
Chapter One
The ground was rocky, harsh, a physical symbol of the life of the people around her, and Abigail hurried down the narrow cow path that sloped toward the summery rush of the small creek. She moved as swiftly as possible in the thick, ungainly folds of the dress she wore, a dress she had put on as if it were her own.
Only it wasn’t.
She couldn’t say how she knew that it was not her dress—it fit her perfectly—but it was not hers.
Just as the house she lived in was not hers. Yet she knew where every pan, every crude wooden spoon, every sewing needle and spool was supposed to be. Just as her hands knew to mix the coarsely ground flour and salt with lard for biscuits. It was her house, and yet not her house. Her clothes, and yet she could not shake the feeling that she’d never worn them before this very week.
The situation was maddening, and frightening, and she sought the solitude of the thick woods, for Abigail West feared she was losing her mind.
Only seated beside the swiftly running stream could she find any comfort at all. In the desperate community of Salem Village, she was a relatively wealthy woman. Her twenty acres of farmland were rich, the grass, green and plentiful for her sheep and cattle. Her house was secure and warm, the planks fitted and the fireplace large and useful with a good draft. Her clothes were neatly tailored and showed signs of much work and skill. All of this was in contrast to those who still suffered from the harsh winter of 1691-92 and the effects of lingering Indian unrest brought on by a smallpox epidemic. For all appearances, God had turned his back on the majority of the villagers. All except Abigail and one or two others.
And yet…
Yet there were her dreams.
And in those dreams there were many frightening things. Machines that fairly flew down the streets of hard rock. Women who laughed and worked, wearing strange clothes. A sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, and a place where light sparkled into a million facets from tiny drops of liquid color. A strange place of silver and gold with jewels as red as blood.
Her fingers went to the pendant hanging around her neck. She felt it beneath the layers of her shift, her dress and collar, and the light cloak. She did not dare bring the ornament out into the sunlight, no matter that it was the only proof that perhaps her dreams had some weight in reality.
Sitting on the banks of the stream she hugged her knees to herself and fought against the memory of the dreams, against the reality of the beautiful crystal pendant that shattered light into all of the colors in the world.
Surely she was possessed. Where had she ever heard of such riches and magical goings-on? There were wondrous things in her dreams—machines that went faster than the fastest horse—with men and women sitting inside them and laughing, their eyes concealed by dark glasses.
It was surely a warning from God. Or a temptation from Satan.
She hugged her knees tighter.
If any single person in Salem Village had the faintest hint of what was going through her mind, she’d find herself hanging from the closest tree.
Hanged as a witch.
Abigail leaned her head on her knees and tried to calm the beating of her heart. How had she come to be in such a predicament? Nothing in her life made sense. Nothing at all.
The sound of the rippling water soothed her and she took several calming breaths. The people of Salem Village accepted her. They knew her name and, strangely enough, she knew theirs. She could call to them in passing, and know the names of their children and the number of sheep or cattle they herded.
She could also read a certain calculation on their faces as she passed. She was a woman living alone. A prosperous woman. In the three short days that she’d “awakened” to find herself in Salem Village, she’d learned how extraordinarily dangerous it was for a woman to do anything out of the ordinary, especially prosper.
“How did I get here?” She asked the question of a small gray squirrel that had come up to watch her from the safety of a tall beech tree. For answer the squirrel twitched his tail and scampered away. “Where are my parents? My family?”
There was no answer save the murmur of the stream.
With a sigh she forced herself to her feet. Another trial was scheduled for the next day. Already one woman had been hanged. A woman that Abigail believed was innocent of any wrongdoing.
She straightened the white collar that covered her shoulders and made sure that her long, dark auburn hair was bound beneath the white cap that was the ordained clothing of women in the year 1692. For a split second the numerals of the year jumbled in her head. It was 1962. Wasn’t it?
Looking around her at the dark forest, she could only shake her head and rush back to her house. That was all she’d done for three days—rush to the woods and back, trying to return some sanity to a life that was completely foreign to her.
With a firm resolve to try to figure out her feelings of disorientation—and the strange crystal pendant that hung around her neck—Abigail left the woods behind her. At the edge of her pasture she stopped beside the road to examine a place where the stones had been loosened in her fence. She’d heard that several solitary women were experiencing troubles such as knocked-down fences and the loss of their stock. Some of the villagers blamed it on witchcraft, but Abigail clearly saw the footprints in the soft, damp soil beside the fence. It was no devil or imp at work, but rather a large man with cobbled shoes. As she bent to pick up some of the smaller stones to restack them, she saw the unmoving black form stretched beside the fence.
“Oh, my.” She hesitated. The animal looked dead, and if it was a black cat, as she thought it might be, she knew she had to somehow dispose of the body. She didn’t own any cats, especially not a black one, but if the animal was found dead on her property… Her heart fairly hammered with sudden fear. It would be enough to bring her to trial as a witch. Enough to convict her.
Stepping over the stones, she went to the animal and knelt beside it, using the thick folds of her cumbersome dress to shield her knees from the rocks.
Her touch was gentle as she stroked the sleek black fur. At one time this cat had been treasured and well cared for. Beneath her fingers she felt the beating of a heart, and the small body twitched.
“Kitty, kitty.” She stroked the cat, willing him to remain still and unafraid. There was no telling what atrocities the animal had suffered.
Great golden eyes opened and looked at her. The cat glanced around, then returned to stare at her with a look of bewilderment that brought a tiny smile to her full, generous lips.
“So, you’ve awakened in a strange land, have you?” She scratched his ears and earned a purr. “I know the feeling.” Instantly Abigail felt a kinship with the cat. “Let’s see what’s afflicted you.”
Her fingers pressed and felt, moving over his body and finding nothing except tenderness on his left shoulder. “It would seem you’ve taken a nasty bump.”
She lifted the cat to his feet and allowed him to stand. He staggered briefly, then seemed to regain his balance. “Meow.” He looked up at her as if he waited for some action.
Glancing around, Abigail found the footpath empty of all traffic, but soon several of the village men would be walking past on their way to supper. If the cat remained near the road, they would kill him without hesitation. The stupid fools would think he was a familiar.
“You’re far too well fed to be a familiar.”
At the last word the cat put both front paws on her dress and meowed.
She tilted her head and looked at him. “Fed.”
The cat made no response.
“Well fed.”
He watched with a golden gaze.
“Familiar.”
“Meow.” He put his paws on her.
For a moment the insanity of the past few weeks of accusations and witchcraft hearings made Abigail want t
o bolt. But as she stared at the handsome black cat she lost her fear. “Familiar.”
“Meow.”
A deep chuckle slipped from her. “So, you’re a fine black fellow with a moniker that would drive these bumpkins into a lather.” She shut her mouth. Where had that language come from? She’d never heard such words. Was she possessed?
“Meow.” The cat brushed against her gown, rubbing with a sudden affection.
“If you’re Satan, you’ve come to a poor place to do your dirty work. I’m already half-mad.” She bent and scooped the cat into her arms. “But Satan or not, I won’t leave you here for the men to stone you to death. Or worse. In case you haven’t heard, my fine fellow, black cats aren’t faring well in Salem Village these days. White cats are not having a pleasant time of it, either, but you black ones are special targets. Now, you can stay in my cottage for a few days, until I think of something to do with you. But you have to stay inside, and you have to stay quiet. I’m risking my neck for you.”
The cat’s gaze never wavered. Very carefully he put a paw on her chin. “Meow.” It was a solemn vow.
“Mistress West?”
The shock in the man’s voice made Abigail whirl around to face the path, the black cat still clutched in her arms. Standing in front of her was Samuel Truesdale, all six feet, four inches of him. His salt-and-pepper hair was free of any hat, and his gray eyes were furrowed. “What is that animal doing in your arms?”
Abigail’s hold on the cat tightened a fraction. “I’m taking him home. I found him injured, here, by my fence.” She’d seen Samuel Truesdale on his way to the trial, but this sudden face-to-face confrontation left her shaken. There was something about the man, something that called up a sense of disaster.
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