The fire continued to burn in the fireplace despite the extra ash.
Chapter 4
“One of our operatives has been killed,” Charlotte Whinson told the four witches and two warlocks sitting at the large table.
From the lack of her presence, Abbie knew who it must be. A lump formed in her throat.
“Elizabeth Green had been working near the air coven, trying to keep track of their activities. Her apartment burned down and she was trapped inside.”
“That’s impossible,” Jackson Evans said. “There’s no way a water witch of her ability would be trapped in a fire. She could have pulled water from the air and put it out, or at least blown the side of the building off and escaped with a water shield around her.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, “you are correct, Jackson. It appears that the fires have attacked again, but why? Why make it so plain that they are the ones who did it? They have always tried to make it look like someone else was responsible. What has changed that they are now accepting blame for it, or at least allowing the evidence to point toward them?
“You have been pulled from your assignments until we can figure out what is going on. We will let you know when missions will resume. For now, rest up. I will be in touch.”
Charlotte dismissed them. As Abbie was getting up to leave, the High Water Caster spoke again. “Abbie, please stay for a moment.” Abbie sat back down.
“Abbie, we need your help,” the older woman said. She was in her fifties, but looked much younger. Abbie had never seen gray in Charlotte’s hair but thought it would be hard to see, anyway, in the mass of blonde that she usually wore pulled back into a bun. Her dark eyes, somewhere between brown and black—strange looking with such a pale face and light-colored hair—met Abbie’s blue. Charlotte’s eyes reflected that she was saying something of the utmost seriousness.
“What can I do for you, High Water Caster?”
“We need you to somehow get into the Huntsman Estate to gather information, maybe even take action. Margaret Huntsman is stretching her power and something needs to be done. We haven’t confirmed it yet, but we think she had something to do with Liz’s death.”
“Of course,” Abbie said. She had known for years that Margaret killed her mother, having seen the woman in her mother’s vision. Convincing the others beyond any doubt was the difficult part. “I’ll do whatever I can. How will I get into place?”
“We’re not sure yet, but as soon as we can figure it out, we’ll let you know. Stand by and be ready to move when we give the word. Things may happen quickly.”
And they did. As it turned out, Margaret Huntsman didn’t believe in second chances. She overheard one of her maids referring to her as “Maggie” and fired the woman on the spot. The Housekeeper had interviewed dozens of women in the two days following. She picked Abigail.
She interviewed on a Friday afternoon, was contacted that evening, and told to report to work Monday morning. They only had two days until she would start. Isabella Lee, a witch so skilled at research it was almost like magic, got to work immediately. Isabella’s preparation and data gathering had taken much of the weekend.
Abbie was a little nervous. Not because she was starting a new job. She was too experienced for that. The anxiety came from starting a new mission, one that could be dangerous if everything she had been briefed on was true. Well, she would get through it. Or not. Stressing over it would do nothing to help.
As always at the start of another assignment, Abigail thought back to something that happened when she was eight years old. She had been at the Wyoming State Fair, and the sights and sounds mesmerized her. She goggled at all the people, so many different types. She was used to groups of people at her home, family and members of the coven, but this was different. These were all strangers.
After staring at the Ferris wheel for a long while, she realized she’d lost track of her parents and her sister, who was only four years old at the time. Swinging her head from side to side and darting about between grown-ups’ legs, looking for familiar faces, she started to panic. She had never been alone with so many strangers before. Her heart felt as if it would beat out of her chest and tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to overflow and spill down her face.
In her mad search for her family, she ended up in an alley of sorts between two large tents. It ended at the wall of a third tent. When she turned to go back into the main thoroughfare, a man was standing in her way.
To be fair, the man wasn’t mean-looking, nor did he look rough or bad in any way. Yet, she instantly feared him. It was some feeling in her bones, a vibe that he was not someone she wanted to be alone with. His long, sharp face looked like a fox’s face to her. When he smiled, she expected to see pointed fangs, but he had normal teeth. From his appearance, he was normal in every way.
“Are you lost, little girl?” Though his tone was not unfriendly, it sent chills up Abigail’s back. She was too afraid to answer.
As the man shifted to step closer, Abbie heard her mother’s voice.
“Abbie? Abbie, where are you? Abbie!”
The little girl somehow was able to unlock her jaw and yell, “I’m here, Mama. Mama, I’m here!” A look of disappointment crossed the man’s vulpine face, but the foot he had lifted settled back down where it had been and he waited calmly for what came next.
Olivia Henderson came into view. She was beautiful. At least, Abigail thought so. Her hair was a deeper red than her daughter’s, and it was straighter. It swished in front of her oval face, eyes alight with worry and full lips pursed as if on the verge of speaking, either to scold or to console. She edged by the man with a “pardon me.” She swept her daughter up into a hug, holding her tight.
The man dipped his head, said, “Ma’am,” and then walked off to join the crowds surging past the alley. Abigail’s father, Landon, nodded to the man as he passed him, but looked after him, watching, until the stranger was out of sight.
It was near the end of the day, so the family decided they’d had enough excitement and went home. After they had returned, Olivia sat her daughter down to talk to her. “Abbie, did that man do anything to you, say anything to you?”
“No, Mama,” she said. “He asked if I was lost and that’s all. He scared me, though. I had a bad feeling in my tummy when he looked at me.”
Olivia hugged Abigail’s head to her chest. “I know, honey. There is something I have been waiting to tell you, and now seems as good a time as any. Sit down, let’s talk.”
Abigail sat on the comfortable couch in the recreation room and looked up at her mother sitting on the love seat across from her. For a wonder, there was no one else in the room. Her mother must have told them she wanted to talk with Abbie alone. There were always people in the recreation room.
“Abbie, you know that we are a family of elemental witches and warlocks. You know with our magic, we manipulate the power of water, and with that power we do things to help others.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Olivia smiled at her daughter. “You are old enough now for me to tell you of the other elements, of other elemental magic users.”
“There are other types?” Abigail asked. “But everyone uses the power of water. Our family, all of our friends in the coven, everyone.”
“Yes, sweet one,” Olivia said, “because we have not had you associate with the other types. There are a few other covens in the area, but we don’t interact much with them. We only do it when necessary because we all have…ah, different views on things.”
“What do you mean, Mama?”
“For starters, let me describe those who are in our coven and use the elemental power of water. Our family, our friends, me, you.” She touched Abigail’s nose with her fingertip, causing the girl to giggle.
“Water is unique in that it can take more than one form. Like liquid water, we can easily adapt to situations, but we can also be hard, sharp, and dangerous like ice. We sometimes share traits with air elemental witches, too, because
water can become gas, like air. The point is that the qualities of the element of water dictate part of who we are. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” the little girl said, nodding.
“Good,” Olivia said. “Now, the other elements also affect how the witches and warlocks who use them behave. Air witches are often evasive, ethereal, and insubstantial. Do you understand those words?” She looked at Abbie. “No? It means it is hard to catch them, like trying to grab a handful of air.” She demonstrated by swiping at the air and then opening her hand, revealing nothing. Her confused look made Abbie laugh. “It is difficult to pin an air witch to an opinion. Ask a yes or no question and you will get a ‘maybe.’ This can be frustrating and so dealings with those who use the elemental power of air are often more trouble than it is worth. They are not bad witches, just different than us.
“Earth witches act like the stone of the mountain. They are slow to be convinced of anything, holding to their traditions and to things ‘that have always been this way.’ It takes time and a great amount of effort to change the mind of an earth witch. They will listen politely, having the patience of dirt and stone itself, but then they will not budge from their viewpoint.”
Olivia looked to her daughter to make sure she was still paying attention. Abigail, eyes wide as if she was being told a bedtime story, had her attention fixed on her mother.
“So, you can see that because of our differences, working together with the other elements can be difficult and frustrating.
“But there is one other group that we have not discussed. The fire witches. Whereas earth witches are passively resistant, those who commune with fire are actively aggressive, always trying to impose their will on others. Whereas air witches evade and move out of the way of those who attack them, fire witches begin conflicts and press the attack. Whereas we water witches preserve and nurture, the users of the elemental magic of fire want to consume, to destroy. That man you saw, he was a fire warlock.
“Of the other three elements, fire is most directly opposed to water. They do not like us because they feel weak against us. With our quicksilver evasions and rapid counterattacks, like an ocean wave pulling back and then coming in again and crashing on top of a foe, they are wary of us, but hate us simply for being what we are. There is no negotiation with a fire witch or warlock, not for us.”
“Are fire users evil?” Abigail asked. She was thinking of the man who confronted her earlier.
“No, sweetie,” Olivia said. “Not all of them are evil, though some definitely are. They are just different, driven by a nature unlike ours. Still, you must be wary of them, them above all.”
“I will, Mama. I’ll watch out for them.”
Olivia smiled down at her daughter and kissed the top of her head. “That’s good. It is always good to know what dangers lie out there in the world so you can be prepared for them if they come for you.”
The memory dissolved. Her mother had been killed eleven years after that discussion, just over six years ago. She still missed her every day.
None of this would bring Olivia back, of course, but helping to bring the murdering fire witches to justice would help. If she could prevent someone else from losing their mother, all her effort would be worth it. It was why she was going to the Huntsman Estate, working undercover to help bring down Margaret. She would do her best to eliminate dangerous witches, and Margaret Huntsman was as dangerous as they came.
Chapter 5
The fire washed over her and incinerated everything, including her own body. She felt her flesh crinkling and bubbling; the sickly smell of it assaulted her nose. Just before her eyes boiled and popped, she saw the face of the dark-haired woman through the red and yellow flames. She was laughing.
Abigail woke with a start. She wiped at her forehead, feeling a thin layer of perspiration there. Her heart galloped as if it was going to bounce out of her chest. She swallowed hard and tried to take a full breath. It took two more tries to fill her tight lungs. Reliving the moment of her mother’s death always made her feel like she was having a panic attack.
Of her siblings, she was the only one who had received the entire vision her mother had sent that day. Whether it was because of her power in the elemental magic, an unusual sensitivity, or because she was closest with her mother, she wasn’t sure. She had explained it in great detail to the others. She did so repeatedly to her father, searching for any bit of information that could be helpful. Her brother and sister had only received pieces of the sending.
It was unheard of for witches to attack other witches, especially during a festival. There had not been open warfare between different covens for hundreds of years. It was more than unsettling to all who knew about it. And there had been several other attacks since then.
Abigail sat up in her bed. Why had she relived her mother’s death yet again? No doubt it had something to do with the mission. She wasn’t due to wake up for another hour yet, but she threw the covers off her and swung her legs over the bed, putting her feet on the floor. She couldn’t get to sleep again after that vision. She turned her alarm off and got up to start her day.
A hot shower later and Abigail was brushing her red hair, trying to tame it so it didn’t go frizzy on her. Where her mother’s hair was fire red, Abigail’s was more subtle, almost a strawberry blonde color, but not quite. Some called it “dirty red.” As she looked at it in the mirror, she couldn’t help but to think of the arguments she had in the past about exactly what color it was. Those discussions always ended the same way, with her saying, “It’s the color of my hair. Leave it at that.”
She smiled at that, laugh lines framing her cheeks. Her large blue eyes—she thought they were too large—blinked as she met her own gaze.
Abigail shook her head. What was she doing studying her own face? She had things to do today to prepare for starting her new job. Her new mission. She busied herself with putting on makeup and getting dressed.
Abbie picked up the little angel figurine from her nightstand. It was barely an inch and a half tall, small enough for her to carry everywhere in her pocket or purse. She looked at it while running her thumb over the cool, smooth stone. The feel of the smooth sweep of the wings on the back of the figurine always calmed her when she needed it. When she had gotten it after her mother’s death, dirty with soot and ash, she had cleaned it, partly with her tears, and had rarely let it out of her sight since then.
“Mother, what am I going to do without you?” Abigail asked the angel. “Even after all these years, there is a hole where you should be, like I am not a complete person. I want so much to talk to you again. I’m going to a place full of normal humans, and maybe a fire witch or two. Do you remember our conversations about those ‘only humans’?”
Abigail thought back to the first conversation she could remember on the subject.
“Abbie,” Olivia said, “you have to realize that all people, all life, is deserving of consideration and respect. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“Yes, mother,” the fifteen-year-old Abbie had said.
“Do you truly? Do you agree with it?”
“Of course,” Abbie said, brow crinkling at her mother’s doubt. “I respect life and would never willingly kill anything unless it was the last resort.”
“I know that,” her mother laughed. “But I’m not talking about killing. I’m talking about everyday life, about treating people as they should be treated, as we would want to be treated.”
“I try to treat everyone with respect and politeness,” Abbie said. A twinkle appeared in her eye. “You have made it perfectly clear that you would tolerate no less.”
Olivia’s smile made Abbie’s heart soar. “Yes, that’s true. Still, I think you’re missing the point. Many of the gifted—most, in fact—have this notion that people who are only human—onlies—are lesser creatures because they cannot use magic. We must not think like that.
“Onlies—and I hesitate to use that term because to some people, it
is derogatory—have other skills. Some are gifted physically with athleticism or prowess in battle. Some have keen minds that can develop solutions that even magic cannot equal. Some have other talents. Just because their gifts are not magical in nature as ours are does not mean they are less than us.”
“But Mama,” Abbie said, “isn’t it a bit like humans and apes? Humans have a key thing that apes lack—extreme intelligence—and that sets them apart as surely as it sets apes apart from squirrels. All of them deserve life and deserve to be treated with respect, but apes are not humans any more than squirrels are apes. They are simply lesser forms of life. As are onlies when compared to those who can use magic.”
Abigail’s mother eyed her, her own blue eyes holding Abbie’s, searching. “I would hope that you don’t truly believe that you are better than other humans just because you are gifted with the ability to use magic. That is much like saying that people who play sports professionally are a higher species than normal people because they have a gift for playing their particular type of game.”
Abbie thought about it for a moment. “Oh. I never really thought of it that way. It makes sense, though.”
Her mother’s smile returned. “Think on it, Abigail,”—she always called her by her formal name when driving home the point of a lesson—“and see if you come to the same conclusion. We will talk about it again later.”
She did think about it, and the more she did so, the more Abigail saw her mother’s point of view. Was she so arrogant that she believed other people were lesser creatures simply because they could not do what she did? She had never thought so, but felt less sure.
After all, the gift of magic use was not constant in successive generations. Where the talent ran strong in families, most of the children inherited the ability to use elemental magic, but not all. Those unable to work the magic were nicknamed “skips.” It wasn’t exactly derogatory, but neither was it complimentary. Skips were treated in magical families as disabled family members were in typical “only human” families. They were not as capable in some respects, but it was out of their control and no fault of their own. Why didn’t she see onlies at least as kindly as that? Yes, she had to think more on it.
Water & Flame (Witches of the Elements Series Book 1) Page 3
