Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Book 1)

by E. M. Moore

  “There you are dear. Did you find it?”

  I turned. My aunt’s waiting hand was stretched out before me. I handed the journal over to her, my heart breaking to do it. But she’d loved and lost where I’d only lost. Sure, I loved the idea of my father, but I’d never known him.

  I couldn’t believe I’d been here a couple days already and no one had told me about the accident. Not even Drake.

  Rose started to turn away, but I stopped her. “I need to talk to him.”

  “I think that’s a great idea, Sarah.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me what happened?”

  Rose clasped the journal to her chest. “It’s possible he may not even know. Don’t be too harsh on him now.”

  I clenched my hands at my sides. “His grandfather killed someone. Why wouldn’t he know?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Isabella

  1639

  Isabella skirted the crop line that ran along the road with a handful of purple and yellow wild flowers she picked for her mother. The breeze of the evening air cooled her face. She took her bonnet off and held on to the tie as it trailed behind. Leaning her head back, she watched as the first stars sparkled in the dark blue measureless sky that would soon be turning black.

  When she woke earlier, her mother released her from her duties for the day and begged her to stay outside, to breathe in the fresh air, and to not think of evil doings. The fresh air revived her, but it was the thinking of evil she could not contain. It surrounded her, engulfed her into a never-ending nightmare. Every cry of the bird or chirping insect started her heart thumping as if the creatures of the night waited for her wherever she walked. She peeked behind every tree and bush, fearful of what lay ahead.

  The sun descended further, the stars bright now in the sky. Isabella’s steps quickened as she retreated to the house. She passed the edge of the barn and saw a figure walking up the dirt path. He was yet too far away to identify.

  As she turned to open the cottage door, the man waved, motioning for her to stop.

  Isabella’s heart sped. It was Thomas. She could tell by his wide-brimmed hat and breeches.

  She stared at the ground, twisting her black shoes into the soil while she waited. Her cheeks burned despite the cool breeze.

  “Good day, Isabella.”

  “Good day, Sir.”

  It was seeing him outside, and not in the sanctity of the barn that caused her formal greeting. She slipped into it as normal, like when they greeted one another on Sunday, or out on the town streets.

  She looked up when he did not speak. His face drawn and grave, almost disappointed. “I must talk with your father.”

  “What is it?”

  Thomas shoved his fingers into his breeches and sighed. “My father wants his help with the search parties.”

  Isabella gasped and shook her head. “The search parties? He will not like to, Thomas.”

  “I know—”

  “Cannot you ask your father to excuse him?”

  “I tried, but he is the magistrate and this is what he wishes.”

  Isabella stumbled through her words, grasping for a different solution. “Might he ask someone else?”

  “He is asking everyone. Those who do not help will be considered suspicious.”

  Isabella staggered backward, dropped the flowers from her hands, and almost fell when her foot caught the rock on the side of the door. Thomas reached out to steady her.

  “You do not understand what it has been like here. Mother Shipton…” Her words dissolved into a choked sob.

  “What of Mrs. Shipton?”

  Isabella’s words poured from her mouth like a gushing stream. “I think she is a witch. I dreamt of her. A nightmare. She bid me come to her in the woods. She stood by a fire, singing incantations. Then, she turned to me and said, 'I see you.’ Her eyes like fire.” Isabella finished breathless, but upon seeing the doubt in his eyes, she started again. “And you know she is a medicine woman. She mixes herbs and plants, and cures the ailments of others. Does not that ability recommend her?”

  “If that were true, every woman would be thought a witch. Has not your mother taught you something of medicine?”

  “But of course.” Isabella took a steadying breath. “Pray, listen, Thomas. Her knowledge is great. She has powers.”

  “My father does not think—”

  Isabella reached out and grabbed his wrist. “That is not the worst part! This morning, I woke up to find a piece of parchment on my desk that I did not write. The words are not mine. It was the song that came from her lips.”

  Thomas’ eyes burned into hers. His arms went rigid and she dropped him from her grasp. “What has become of the parchment?” he asked.

  “I do not know. I believe my father has got rid of it.”

  His shoulders sagged. “Good. That is exactly what I would have done.” He reached for her hand and then let it drop in the space between them. “Do not speak of this to anybody."

  Isabella shook her head. “I would not.”

  Thomas gazed out at the road and breathed in deep. “My father does not believe Mrs. Shipton to be a witch. Others share your fear though. Mrs. Crawford was caught stealing today.”

  Isabella’s mouth fell open. “Who caught her?”

  “No one. ‘Tis said that Mrs. Owens paid a visit to Mother Shipton and within the half-hour, Mrs. Crawford came running down the street, singing.”

  “Singing?” Isabella stared at Thomas, refusal darkening her eyes.

  “Yes, I was right there to see. She repeated this song over and over. ‘I stole my neighbors’ smock and petticoat, I am a thief and here I show it.'”

  “Might it be Mrs. Crawford is unwell?”

  “I am sure she is. However, that is of no matter. She is locked in the stocks as we speak.” Thomas dug his foot into the earth, his face long and drawn. “‘Tis not the worst of the news. All the townspeople believe Mrs. Shipton is the reason for our misfortunes. The crops failing. The stricken children. I agree that she has powers, Isabella. We all know that. All but my father, the magistrate. Who has not gone to her for medicines and such? And why else would Mrs. Crawford admit to stealing the petticoat, if she indeed did steal it?”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Crawford felt guilt. She wanted penance.”

  “You were not there to see. Mrs. Crawford wore a strange expression as if she was not trying to do what she did.” Thomas mimicked the townswoman, staring at his arms, his jaw slack and eyes full of wonder. “She kept looking at her legs and arms like she could not understand why they moved. And all the while, she was singing that song. Everyone from town is in an uproar because of it. They are all scared.”

  “What is the magistrate going to do?”

  Thomas’ hands clenched into fists. “Nothing! He believes it not.”

  “Shh,” Isabella silenced him. She held her hand aloft.

  The floorboards creaked inside.

  “Be careful of her,” Thomas whispered.

  The door opened and Mr. Lynne stepped out.

  Isabella bowed to Thomas. “Here is my father now, Mr. Ludington.”

  “Thank you, Miss Lynne.” Thomas bowed back and then straightened his jacket as Mr. Lynne approached them.

  Isabella excused herself. She entered the house, her head hung low over her shoulders. Her father would not be pleased when he came in.

  “Isabella,” her mother called. “I wish to speak with you.”

  She came into the hall, her hands still around the bonnet, twisting and untwisting the ties. “Of course, Mother.”

  Mrs. Lynne set aside her sewing. “Who is here?”

  She could feel her heartbeat as her mother’s eyes bore into her. “Thomas Ludington.”

  A flint of recognition crossed her face. “I need you to tell me what they are speaking of.”

  “I am sure I do not know.”

  Mrs. Lynne stood, her hands quivering as she gestured to her daughter. “Do not lie to me. You have been seeing him, w
ithout chaperone, and in these dark times.” Her mother stepped in front of her, face red and shaking. “You will bring suspicion down on your whole family!”

  Mrs. Lynne raised her hand and struck her daughter’s face with trembling fingers.

  Isabella’s own hands flew to her cheek as the pain swelled. Tears dripped from her mother’s eyes as she turned, chin up, and walked steady to her sewing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sarah

  “Tell me you didn’t know. Just tell me you didn’t know.”

  The drive over here had been one heck of a mental whiplash. First, I was sure Drake knew all along and was trying to make it up to me by liking me. As crazy as that sounds. Then, I was sure he didn’t know anything and that his grandfather was a lying, skuzzy old geezer.

  Drake swayed on the doorstep of his house, one hand still on the doorknob, the other wiping sleep from his eyes. His shirt was off and his chest was etched in the glow of the moon. “Sarah?”

  I held my lips in a tight line, pushing the pain deeper inside. My fingers still pinched the key to the Escalade so hard I was getting a cramp. “Please tell me you didn’t know.”

  His sandy hair stuck up in all directions. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  A bang sounded from upstairs and Drake looked worryingly back inside the house. “It’s okay, Grandpa,” he yelled.

  Then, he stepped out onto the porch and shut the door. His eyes flicked to the second story again as he let out a sigh before turning toward me.

  Anger ticked away inside. Heat in my veins spread through my entire body, waiting to ignite. “Your grandfather killed my father.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Your grandfather killed my father,” I repeated, trying to keep myself together.

  “I heard you. I just don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

  Despite the fact I willed myself to keep the tears in, they spilled over, running down my face. “It’s true. Rose told me.”

  “But, you said your dad had a heart attack.”

  I stepped away from Drake’s reaching hand. “Apparently, a heart attack brought on by the fact that your grandfather was about to run him over.”

  Drake’s mouth pursed. He shook his head from side to side and his eyes clouded over. “That’s ridiculous. I would’ve heard about it.”

  “Ridiculous? You think this is ridiculous? What happened—?”

  “There’s only one way to find out what happened.”

  “Exactly.” I pushed Drake out of the way and marched toward the stairs. “Where’s your—?”

  Drake grabbed my hand and held it. His grip tightened around my wrist when I tried to pull away. “No. Not happening. My grandpa’s sick. I’m not taking this to him if it's bullshit.”

  I hesitated, looking back at the porch stairs and then to Drake again. His eyes had the same apprehension in them when he floated above me at the Wiccan meeting. His bare chest expanded to capacity every time he took a breath.

  “But Rose told me.”

  My voice came out small, certainly not boiling over in rage anymore. He dropped my arm and sat on the step, head in his hands.

  “Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why wouldn’t my grandfather have told me?”

  “Nobody knew I existed,” I offered.

  The muscles in his back pulled taut at that explanation.

  “They probably thought everything was all over. Done with. Why upset you?”

  He looked up, eyebrows drawn together. The muscles in his shoulders and arms thick and rigid. “So why are you telling me?”

  “Because I have to know.”

  ***

  I pulled into a parking spot in front of the Adams Police Station, a dinky one-story concrete box with barely any windows. I looked at Drake sitting in the passenger seat. “This is the best you came up with?”

  “They’ll have records on everything. You want to know what really happened to your dad? This is where we start.”

  Drake hopped out of the Escalade and continued to the building door and through it before I even turned off the ignition. Someone wound him up tight, I thought.

  Oh yeah, that was me.

  I mimicked him, except I slammed the door much harder than he did.

  A voice rang through the station as I entered. “Hey, Rudy, get me the Perkins-Connors file from the back. ‘94, isn’t that right, Connors?"

  Drake turned to me and I nodded. “That’s right, Pauly,” he said.

  The tag stuck out of the shirt he hastily threw on after he got his bright idea to come down here in the middle of the night.

  The tall, wiry guy playfully punched Drake in the arm. “It’s Officer Pike now, Connors.”

  Drake smirked. “Yeah, yeah.”

  I strode up to them, searing my eyes into Drake’s.

  “Hey, hey, what do we have here?” Officer Pike asked.

  “Pauly, this is Sarah Perkins.”

  The police officer averted his eyes and searched the back for Rudy. An older, rounder cop came around the corner. Pauly took the manila folder from the officer, opened the folder up and looked through the contents. “Yeah, didn’t even know this happened, 'cept I happened to run across it one day and the name caught my eye.”

  He took a few papers out of the folder and placed them upside down on the counter.

  “What are—?” I started to ask.

  “Pictures,” Drake snapped.

  I took a step back, knocked out of whack by his anger.

  The next second, he turned to smile at Pauly. “Thanks for this man.” Drake bounced the folder off the edge of the counter and then walked toward the little sitting area, which boasted orange upholstered chairs with ripped seams and a fake fern plant. "Listen, before we open this—”

  “Just give me the damn folder, Drake.”

  I ripped it from his hands and plopped down in one of the faded chairs. This whole town needed to be freaking medicated.

  “Hey,” Drake said, placing his palm on top of the folder as I tried to open it. He waited until I lifted my gaze to his. “I just wanted to say, whatever is in here, I swear I didn’t know about it.” He took his hand away, his eyes searching for something in mine. “And whatever is in there, won’t bring him back either.”

  I rolled my eyes and opened the manila folder. It only took a minute to read through the report. The coroner was clear, patient had a heart attack and lost consciousness before the vehicle struck him. Could have happened seconds or hours after.

  I sighed, relieved, but still hurt as my heart tore at the seams. I flipped through the other reports, just grazing them, when a half sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.

  Drake took the folder. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but this—”

  “Oh my god.”

  My whole body convulsed as I stared down at the paper lying on the floor. A sketch on cloudy paper rested among the dirty, white-speckled linoleum tiles.

  The lightning symbol with the circle.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Isabella

  1639

  Mr. Lynne returned to the house with Thomas in tow. The younger man nodded at Isabella, as was polite, and then kept his eyes to the floor. Mr. Lynne glanced at his daughter too and then found his wife still sitting by the hearth with her sewing.

  Mr. Lynne looked as if he knew not what to do. Every time his eyes slid over Isabella, she cocked her head to the side, pretending to look at the far wall so she could hide her face. His eyes were sharp and cold as icicles as they bore into the room.

  Isabella caught a tiny movement from Thomas as she stared at the wall. The young man cleared his throat. “Sir, my father is waiting…” Mr. Lynne’s heavy sigh interrupted him and the loud knock of his work boots on the wood floors silenced the friendly command.

  “I am sor—” Thomas’ step forward halted and he fell back into his place, eyes on the floorboards as Mrs. Lynne stood from her perch.

  Thomas’ face reddened. He did not know she
was there.

  Mrs. Lynne’s face was completely calm now. No wetness gleamed from her cheeks or eyes. She fretted with her lip, trying, but failing to mask her worried face. “But what of us?” She walked up to Thomas, standing before him with her hands outstretched. “We have no others here. ‘Tis just Isabella and I.”

  Her quavering voice lifted Thomas’ eyes to hers. His features melted into limp clay.

  Head bowing below his shoulders, the slow footsteps of Mr. Lynne’s heavy boots once again sounded as he came up behind his wife and laid a comforting hand around her shoulders. Isabella could not tell if her father pulled her mother back or if she did so under his protecting hand. Soon all three of them stood together, facing Thomas.

  His head perked again, but his features still fell loose on his face. He looked more like a boy than ever. Isabella wanted to reach out, to hold him and tell him none of this was his fault.

  “Thomas assures me that the hunting parties do not last very long. The evil ones come out when the moon is high, neither before, nor after.” Mr. Lynne looked back at the boy; an unpardonable smile sneaked its way across his lips. "And if I have my chance to rid this town of true evil, I shall not hesitate.”

  Isabella’s mother wrapped her arms around him, sobbing a little into his shoulder. Isabella watched her father stroke her mother’s long hair. Thomas tried a few times to catch his lover’s eye. She ignored him. Instead, she retreated to the corner of the room and looked past all the pain she could be sharing, should be sharing. Her cheek still burned underneath her skin and she let the anger swarm her.

  Mr. Lynne whispered in his wife’s ear and then moved to Isabella. His reassuring smile faltered when he got near. He took her face in his hands and peered at her cheek. She flushed and tried to turn away, but his thumb stroked her swollen skin. Isabella could not help but wince.