by Dean Covin
The sweet, strong smells of wood burning and dry-leaf smoke filled her senses as she moved to the front door of the blackened stone domicile.
Vicki tried not to let stereotypes prejudice her assumptions, but the notion of a witch did seed a few archetypal preconceptions in her mind. The woman who opened the door was not that preconception. And though the woman was breathtaking, before introductions could be made, Vicki had to insist, “Would you mind putting on some clothes?”
Thirty
Vicki repeated, “Would you mind putting on some clothes?”
The woman slowly appraised each of them in turn. “It’s my house.”
“Please.” Vicki couldn’t believe the naked woman before her—an impossibly flawless, perfectly feminine body that could grace the pages of any magazine, without retouching. For the first time since Vicki had blossomed in high school, she felt a small pang of body-image envy.
“Are you the sole occupant of this residence?” Vicki asked.
“I am.” She smiled, amused.
Doc Collins was mistaken. There was no way this nude woman was Tanya Kilroy; this female was no older than her early thirties at most.
The woman studied Hank’s gaze, watching, waiting to see if it would waiver from her own to take another peek. She wasn’t disappointed. She smiled and turned, gesturing for them to follow her into her home. “Please, agents, come in.”
“You know who we are?” Vicki asked.
“I do, Agent Starr.” She leisurely pulled on a wispy, yet mercifully opaque, robe that did little to hide her body.
The structure was the perfect setting for a witch: holding itself strong over her, protecting its charge with its mighty weight. Constructed of hard-hewn stone and heavy beams, the expansive dwelling was the rough-cut and well-wrought architecture of a tenacious settler’s home nestled in these once-flourishing woods. Subsequent generations had obviously kept the original character of the construction intact, opting only to keep the fire lit, stones clean and beams well oiled.
The wide space was extraordinarily tidy and uncluttered for a witch’s hovel, though it did sport a wide-ranging, eclectic collection of mysterious paintings, carvings, bobbles and wares. A slanted cherrywood display held a single piece of every stone imaginable, each in its own small cove carved into the aging timber, with its respective name burned underneath in a perfect scrawl.
As expected, there were books, old and new, bound in paper, leather and God-only-knew-what-else. There were symbols, statues and mystical-looking artifacts throughout. Lush, well-tended plants, herbs and vines grew around each window, filled every corner and coiled around the heavy beams above. Placed at strategic locations around the home were glyphs and runes imbued into rare stones and copper plates.
Vicki had glanced at her partner wondering if Hank at all resented that robe; but she immediately saw discomfort in his face release when she tugged her robe’s silk rope tight.
If Vicki stood awestruck by the woman, then Hank would have been veritably upended. Alluring as it might be, her striking nudity would be professionally maddening for him. He would know that he couldn’t do his job effectively if her glorious distraction remained uncovered.
Vicki was drawn in by the living art, even when concealed, before her. The woman’s short robe was a sharp black silk with intersecting lines in a complex orchestration of patterns as delicate as a spider’s thread. Wearing the robe did nothing to diminish her sexual allure. She was mesmerizing, and Vicki was envious.
The woman’s other features were equally distracting. Her raven hair was impossibly black and flawless against her creamy complexion—a healthy shine danced along the long ebony flow. There was not a single fray, twist or split end on the hair that easily reached the small of her back.
Her eyes were a piercing icy gray with a dazzling explosion of rich thin blue flecks. Vicki jealously assumed that they must be caused by contact lenses. But the woman’s eyes were wide and close to Vicki, and she could see no betraying edges around her pupils. Vicki was so drawn into them that she didn’t perceive that the woman watched Vicki as well, observing her as if she, too, were a creature to be marveled at.
Hank did notice, and so he spoke first, grasping for what initially came to mind—that wouldn’t come off as a juvenile sexual segue.
“So you’re a…” He hesitated.
“Witch? Yes, I am. I’ve been practicing a special blend of Wiccan arts for many years.”
Hank held his laugh. “So you do magic and stuff.”
“Yes, I do magick … and stuff.”
Her smile was magnetic. How the hell is this woman a witch and not a supermodel?
“So it doesn’t scare you”—he nodded toward the door to the outside—“taking that walk?”
“Why should it?”
His expression dropped. Because it’s fucking terrifying.
“It’s quite beautiful by day,” she insisted to them both. “But I find it equally breathtaking at night. The Grand Darkness in all its haunting splendor.” She focused on Hank, answering the question on his face. “Skyclad,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“You’re wondering why I was naked.” She took a deep step toward him, showing interest in his face. “You’re quite fixated on it actually—distracted by it.”
He blushed as he chuckled. “No, I’m not.”
Vicki shot him a sardonic look.
“I was skyclad, naked beneath the heavens, as She meant it to be.”
She? They both looked at each other.
The woman was stunning. Vicki could tell by Hank’s nonverbals that he was taken with her beauty as well.
This time he pointed out the door they came through. “So you walk around … out there … naked—and you’re fine with that?”
“Of course, I am—I love it. But I can see why it might seem frightening to you. That’s the nature of its intent.”
“Its what?” Vicki asked.
“I made my ground’s intent to amplify a trespasser’s emotion. Fear begets magnitudes of fear. Hate begets rage, but turned inward on those who carry it.” She turned to Hank. “You only feel what you bring, Agent Dashel—and you’re certain to feel it. I guarantee it.”
Hank wanted to suspend his disbelief for a moment because what she was saying resonated with how he had felt out there, but he refused to give in.
“Come in joy,” she continued, “or with wonder, and you’ll receive that gift tenfold. Come for lust…” She grinned. “Come with the intent to torment? Then prepare to meet a terrible end.”
He absently fingered an invitation that rested on top of her overflowing pile of unopened mail. Twisting it with his finger it read:
Calling all witches. Please join us Wednesday at the Coven’s Cave for a night of delightful cooking and craft secrets. Remember to Like Us on Facebook.
Of course, witches had Facebook.
“You can’t actually do that,” Hank said, finding no reason to humor an insane person—no matter how gorgeous. “It’s impossible.”
“So you say,” she replied.
Her resolute confidence in her madness was infuriating. Worse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the witch was right. That pissed him off. What he had felt in the woods was absolutely a reflection of his own misgivings about the place but far stronger than he would have expected.
Had Hank not been in the Dead Forrest with the logic-slaying company of a beautiful woman like Vicki—something most men are apt to fall foolish to—he admitted to himself that he would have tucked tail and ran. He suddenly resented both women—the witch for seeing through him and his partner for exposing such a weakness.
In fairness the landscape didn’t afford the default of good feelings. Unless he actively pulled forward those positive intentions from within him, he was likely
to be stayed by his own contrived reservations.
“There’s nothing to this,” he insisted with rising, undirected frustration. “You’re playing on the emotions planted by stories that you’ve probably perpetuated around town yourself.”
The growing acrimony Hank felt toward the witch, he realized, was in part directed within; but he failed to shed this outward presentation of hostility.
Reading his face, the woman appeared unmoved by his shift in manner, and the uncontrollable, unintended disdain directed at her beaded off her as the water off a duck’s back.
As Hank glanced at the bountiful crystals and objects on the table, sudden shapes came into view. He tried to wash them away as his own perversions, but it was clear—there were various provocative glass sex toys among the sacred objects. He stifled a smirk. The witch leaned in from out of nowhere, stopping his heart.
“They’re exactly what you think.” Her voice was a slippery silk. Its maddening effect seized him, leaving him low hung and momentarily helpless as she turned her attention back to Vicki, abandoning him—leaving him cold.
“It’s Sky Veil, right?” Vicki asked.
She nodded. “It is now. I took the name Sky in honor of all that She is beneath the heavens. The earth, the air, water and fire, the energy and space that is without and within all—the spirit. Veil honors the mystery of the Universe, allowing us glimpses but never fully revealing our glorious tale as we are beings here to live the unfolding mystery rather than to solve it.”
Even as she caught Hank’s eye roll, Vicki knew her line of questioning should be leading closer to Ivy’s case, but Vicki’s curiosity about the woman and her proclaimed craft was stronger than Vicki had expected.
“So you actually do magic.”
“I do.”
“Like what exactly?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“What do you see, Miss Starr?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you see?”
“In this place? The cauldron, the bed, the shelf full of herbs? Lots of vines … You? I don’t know what you’re asking.”
“No. Wherever you go, what do you see?”
The prickle of frustration grew in Vicki’s chest and arms. “I don’t know. Wherever I am, I’m obviously seeing everything that’s there.”
“And what do you see when you’re there, exactly?”
“I can’t possibly tell you that. It depends on where I am. It’s too much to describe.”
“Exactly—and I agree.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, I can’t possibly tell what magick I do—it’s too vast. And it’s relevant only to the time, space and circumstance.”
Vicki’s retort was cut short by a strong sense of foreboding. She was being watched. She turned in a sudden circle to find nothing, and then her paranoia raised her eyes to the heavy beams above. “Fuck!” she jumped, her reaction triggering a reflected reflex from her partner.
The seven pairs of glistening onyx eyes peered into her—eyes scouring for an opening to enter her and scavenge pieces from her soul.
Hank’s hard swallow erased his attempt to fake a recovered calm. “You have an interesting infestation,” he said, resenting the tight crack in his voice.
“They’re family.”
Vicki ripped away her cautious stare, turning back to the woman. “You keep crows?” Vicki’s voice was quivering, locked in the lingering haunt of the dead forest outside.
“Among others.”
Hank forced a chuckle. “Shitty clean up.”
“They know better,” she warned.
Vicki couldn’t stop the still shaky words from coming from her mouth. “What the hell else do you keep?”
Not wanting to know, Hank interjected, “Where’s your wand?”
She grinned at his goading. “I prefer a crystal talisman, but a wand will work. I just haven’t the need to make one yet.” She reached for her kettle. “Speaking of which, can I offer you tea?”
“What’s in it?’ he asked.
She searched the heavens for help. “Tea.”
“No frog livers?”
“No frog livers.”
“How disappointing. I’m fine then.”
Vicki took a seat at the table, surprising Hank. “I’ll have a cup.” Anything to cull the chill from her bones. She forced an upward glance. The birds were gone without a sound.
Sky filled a small earthen chalice and placed it before Vicki. A savory waft of earthy herbs and spices soothed her trembling senses. As she reached for the cup, Sky placed a hand over the top. “Not yet.” She pulled at the clear quartz shard dangling between her breasts, and it detached from her chain. She drew the crystal toward Vicki’s cup and murmured a whispered incantation.
“What—”
She interrupted Vicki with a long, low shhhhhhhhh and then continued. After a moment she seated the shard back onto her chain.
“What, no lightning bolts or sparks?” Hank asked, feigning great disappointment.
“You assume magickal energy is light energy—it’s not. Though light can be a product of some magick.”
Hank flashed a wry, unconvinced smile. “Of course.” An answer for everything.
The witch pondered his face for a moment, as if contemplating how to explain a complex question to a small child. “I suppose it’s closer to thought energy than light energy. Your thoughts have power, and they can create—create without bounds—but you do not see thoughts as an element, do you, Agent Dashel?”
He suddenly felt trapped—cornered with no ability to retort. She was right. Thoughts didn’t have material properties, yet, obviously, exist.
He didn’t appreciate the smug your move, buddy glance from his partner.
He changed his question. “Seriously, what’s with that bridge?” Hank didn’t want to let on how it had actually impacted him, but its decor alone warranted the obvious question—and he wanted to know.
“I created the Bridge of Death to signify the crossing into my new life. I revisit the old world, your world, only when I must to sustain my life and activities here.” A sly grin formed. “Or when I feel the need to fuck with the townsfolk.”
Vicki tried not to smile at the woman’s cocky self-awareness. Something in the tea was washing through her—pushing away her shivers.
“I cross it every day, without fail, regardless if I go into town or not. When I return, I pause before each first step onto my threshold of death to remind myself of the blessings of life, death and transformation—the passage between life and death. A reminder of our physical mortality and how I can so easily step from the greater world and into heaven—my Eden, every day.” She warmed up Vicki’s tea. “Besides,” she added with a wicked smile, “it scares away the nosy little fuckers.”
“Eden?”
“I love nature, the bustling life force of the world—to grow things.”
“Then why live in Deadwood?” Hank asked. “If you’re so intent on growing things and surrounding yourself with life, why would you choose a perpetually dead forest?”
“First of all, Death is not bad or good. Death is just death—but it’s the next closest thing to transformation. It represents the passing of energy from this world to the all beyond. Death can be a great lover—a destroyer to be true—but a lover nonetheless.”
Hank had always struggled against these unconstrained philosophical conversations. “Well, if you’re so high on death, why bother living?”
“Because Death is not time for me yet. She hasn’t called me beyond, as She will, when I am ready. Only then will Death come to claim me.”
Hank smirked.
“You enjoy life’s journey while you have a place upon it
s path.” She looked directly into Hank, penetrating his soul. “You never give up on that … no matter what. We both know this, Hank Dashel.”
Her words plunged into a seeping wound. The directness of her wild guess unsettled him, as did the way Vicki was looking at him now. He wanted to speak in defiance but no words came. Again, trapped.
Without warning, the woman slipped in from behind and glanced her hand across Vicki’s chest without making contact—but leaving the lingering sensation of a touch. Vicki turned up in surprise as the witch drew a quizzical finger to her lips, nibbling the tip of her nail in thought as she processed. “You have a man in your life,” she said.
Vicki fought her smirk. Sky had almost convinced Vicki that the woman possessed some special potential, a mysterious ether of something beyond real about her, but this colossal failure in love clairvoyance shot that to hell—until Sky continued.
“Not a lover. Not a friend. But a darkness. You need to tread very carefully, my dear. I cannot overstate this threat.”
Vicki sat dumbstruck. Hank wanted to press but felt winded still by Sky’s uncanny speculation for him.
Sky released Vicki from her gaze. “I’m going to get dressed since this may take a while.” She stood from the table, slipping off her robe, forcing their breath to catch, and stretched tall on her toes to lay the robe atop her armoire. She strode naked out the rear door and both agents exhaled as if some massive, invisible wrestler had stepped off their respective chests. They watched her through the window as she approached the steaming cauldron and the nearby drying poles. Neither spoke as she pulled down a pair of jeans from one. Slices of sunbeams danced across her taut, creamy skin.
The worn, faded blue jeans slid like paint up her smooth thighs and hugged tight over her perfectly formed bare behind. She reached for a small T-shirt, as gray as the cooled, spent ashes her naked toes sifted through. She pulled it over her long hair, which she then flipped free. Beneath the thin cotton T-shirt she needed no bra to carry the high-held form of her perfectly rounded breasts—her nipples marking the apex of each.
