“That’s easy enough.” Kicking a leg over Regen’s hind quarters, Ireland slid to the ground.
“Miss Crane, I really must protest.” The heels of Wells’ polished shoes clicked together as he drew himself up to full height. “There are matters we should discuss before such displays—”
Ireland cut him off by slapping a hand to Regen’s rump. The stallion bounced on his front hooves before launching skyward in an impressive rear that would never be seen. No onyx hooves pawed at the night sky. No silken mane rippled in the breeze. Regen did his nifty little trick of disappearing into thin air, leaving nothing but his fading hoofbeats behind as he galloped off until his rider needed him again.
Malachi stared without blinking, seemingly unaffected. Peyton folded her hands in prayer and turned to Wells with her eyebrows raised in expectation of answers to questions she had yet to ask.
Removing his brown derby cap, Wells finger-combed his short hair into place, stalling for time to find the proper explanation. “I had hoped to avoid such theatrics until after I had time to prepare you for such things. Unfortunately, that plan was slain the moment the stallion arrived.” The sideways glance he shot to Ireland was slathered in disapproval.
Pinching the hilt of her sword between her thumb and middle finger, she drew it out of its sheath just enough to make the polished blade gleam in the moonlight. “You thought the theatrics started with Reg? Tsk, my entrance to the club was a show stopper—pun intended.”
“Clever. While we’re on that topic, that wasn’t exactly what I meant when I suggested you go in the back way,” Wells clarified with a scowl that gave him a startling likeness to a bulldog.
“I took creative liberties.” Ireland shrugged and dropped her sword back into place.
Wells pushed on as if he hadn’t heard her speak. Turning his back to Ireland, he gathered the nun’s delicate hands in his. “As I was saying, I have something incredibly important to tell you that I’m afraid you must brace yourself for. It will seem fantastical, bordering on the insane, yet I promise you we can prove every word if you keep calm and come with us.”
Sister Peyton leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Is this about you being HG Wells and her the Headless Horseman, or should I prepare for something more extreme?”
Wells dropped her hands as if they scalded him and rocked back on his heels in perplexed consideration. “Uh … no,” he stuttered, his mouth opening and shutting like a screen door that wouldn’t latch.
“Phew!” Ireland pantomimed wiping a hand across her brow. “It’s a good thing you eased her into that. Look at what a mess she is. She may never recover.”
If Wells heard her, he didn’t let on. Tripping over his tongue, he stammered out the word he could manage, “H-how?”
Tentatively, Peyton glanced to Malachi who dipped his head in a brief nod of encouragement.
Filling her lungs, she steeled her spine and began, “I was told to come here and find you … by a coven of phantom witches.”
Rubbing her fingers over the point of her chin, Ireland let her head loll in Wells’ direction and peered up at him from under her lashes. “Yeah, I think she’s going to fit in just fine.”
Chapter 5
Preen
“After that horrid vision you suffered, why in the Goddess’ name would you return to Salem?” Freeya whispered out of the corner of her mouth, her arm linked with Preen’s.
Locked in the stockades before them stood a girl no older than Preen. They knew not her name, only the crime she stood committed of—witchcraft. Her back was exposed, the modest shirt she once wore hanging in shreds from her shoulders to reveal welted lash marks that marred her flesh in a crisscross pattern. The bottoms of her feet had been beaten bloody, making it mandatory for her to rise on tiptoe to support her weight. Her head and hands hung limp through the pillory. Tears streamed down her face, cutting zigzag paths through the blood and grime that coated her flesh.
“I dreaded stepping foot in this town for good reason,” Preen admitted, her heart aching for the girl whose aura possessed no magic whatsoever. She was a pawn being used and beaten in hopes she would crack and name another that town officials could bend to their will. “Even so, that being—whatever it was—mentioned a succubus. For the sake of all of us, I must find out if the threat is real. Margot has had no visions to guide us. I couldn’t, in good conscience, ignore such a warning.”
“Witch!”
“Abomination!”
“Whore of Satan!”
Obscenities flew at the bound girl, along with rocks, sticks, and any other palm-able objects the townspeople could find.
Cutting through the crowded square, Tituba joined them carrying the basket of herbs she fetched from the marketplace.
“Come.” Catching both her earth sisters’ elbows, Preen ushered them forward. Her need for escape from the spectacle was audible in her tight tone. “If I am forced to watch her suffering a moment longer, I fear I will intervene by no choice of my own.”
Dirt kicked up across the hems of their skirts as they rounded the corner from the town square to the row of houses that lined the path leading to John Hathorne’s estate. The congested crowd thinned to that of the occasional passerby. John’s two-story blank-board home swelled in the horizon, its innocent exterior taunting her with the potential horrors that may await within its walls.
“Mine already did.” Tituba glanced back over her shoulder, smiling victoriously as the young girl eased her feet flat to the ground. “She shall have a brief reprieve from the pain that her body may rest.”
“Tituba!” Freeya hissed through her teeth, her free hand raising as if to grab and shake her High Priestess. “These are dangerous times in Salem! How could you do such a thing?”
Tituba paused her stride. Folding her hands in front of her, she looked to Freeya, her lovely mocha face radiant with compassion. “Dear child, how could I not? Her markings are still there. She merely will not feel their sting for a bit. To an outsider, it will look as though exhaustion has won out over pain.”
Freeya offered no further argument, but allowed the trio to lapse into silence until they found themselves outside of John Hathorne’s door.
Pivoting in Preen’s direction, Tituba seized her by her upper arms and held her gaze firm. “You are here to witness. Nothing more. Do not attempt anything that would make us endure the agony of seeing you beside that sweet soul in the stockades.”
“You have my word,” Preen agreed, bowing her head in respect of her High Priestess’ wishes.
Freeya brushed a kiss across Preen’s cheek. “We will be at my father’s home. The very moment you are finished, come to us. We will all seek refuge at the cabin. I cannot rest easy for even a moment with this many members of the coven in the snake pit of Salem.”
Preen nodded, any quarrels she may have had with this new plan hushed by her own rising trepidation. She watched her sisters leave, offering them one final wave of reassurance, before turning to the scarlet door of the Hathorne manner. In her pivot, she caught a flutter of movement from the home two doors down. Goody Cromwell stood on her front stoop, the steely gray fabric of her gown billowing in the breeze. Loose locks of ebony hair lashed against her porcelain skin. A triumphant smile vined across her ruby lips. With a subtle nod, she urged Preen toward the door, leaving no mystery to the fact that Preen had found herself exactly where Goody wanted her.
The foreboding nature of the house instantly becoming the lesser of two possible evils, and Preen turned her back on Goody to rap on John’s door.
T’was John himself, and not his house boy, that answered the door. His soft smile greeted her, as warm and welcoming as a cozy seat before a crackling hearth.
“Miss Hester, it’s a pleasure. Thank you for once again taking the time to come.” Stepping back from the door, he motioned her in with a formal wave of his arm. The other he kept properly behind his back as he shut the door behind her.
“Anything I
can do to help, I am happy to.” Preen timidly cast her gaze to the floor, swallowing down the knot of nerves that constricted her throat every time she gazed into John’s hypnotic jade eyes.
“Precisely why I fetched you these.” Pulling a lovely bouquet of flowers from behind his back, a light blush of happiness bloomed at the tops of John’s cheeks. “To others, these would merely be a kind gesture of thankful appreciation. For you, however, I suppose they are ingredients for your assorted tonics.”
Preen stepped forward, fighting off the smile that tugged at her lips as she inspected his offering. “Begonias are wonderful for headaches. Chrysanthemums can bring down a stubborn fever. Jasmine can calm the stomach. And … oh, my. Bloodroot … well, that will make you howl at the moon if you ingest it on particular days of the lunar cycle.”
John’s face fell aghast, his eyes bulging. “Is this true?”
“About everything except the Bloodroot.” Preen hid her giggle behind her hand. “That part was completely false. Although it is quite effective on rashes when ground up.”
John’s chin fell to his chest, his shoulders rising and falling in a light chuckle. “I must confess, I’m a tad disappointed. That sounded like a most fascinating way to spend an evening.”
Happiness, as addictive as the most potent blend of opium, warmed Preen’s chest and coursed through her extremities. The cause? Bringing such a smile to the face of John Hathorne. “The art of the apothecary is constantly evolving. If I happen upon such an elixir, I will immediately pass it along to you.”
“Does your kindness know no bounds?” he asked with a tilt of his head. Side-stepping around her, he guided her toward the hallway that would lead to Rose’s room.
Preen did her best to keep her expression neutral, not letting her disappointment that their time for casual conversation was moments from ending become visible. “There are bounds to everything, I assure you,” she muttered, almost to herself. “How does Rose fare? Has her condition improved?’
“The flowers were quite well earned.” John filled his lungs, his thick, barrel chest expanding in a way that seemed to beg for the female touch. “Her color has vastly improved. While she has yet to wake, the affliction has not physically manifested in any way since your last visit.”
“Very good.” Preen offered a nod of greeting to the faithful house boy sitting steadfast outside of Rose’s door. “Good day, Isaiah.”
Out of respect he dropped his stare to the floor. “G’day, ma’am. I just put a fresh pot of tea in there for you. Honey and cream await on the tray along with it. I remembered that was how you took it.”
Sadness and uncertainty wafted from the boy, his very soul hungry for acceptance. Preen had learned from her earth sisters that his mother had died giving birth to him and his father had been lost to the fevers only a year ago. John had taken the boy in to give him a place in the world, a position Isaiah seemed driven to earn daily.
“Thank you, that is very kind,” Preen said with a maternal smile that he turned his face to as would a flower starved for the rays of the sun.
John clapped a hand on the boy’s back. “Isaiah, come and eat with me. We will leave the care of Rose in Preen’s capable hands for a bit.”
“Yes, sir,” Isaiah replied with a slight bow.
“Let us know if we can get you anything at all.” With those as his parting words, John led his ward in the direction of the kitchen.
Facing the door, Preen took a deep breath, as if she were plunging to the depths, and turned the knob.
Rose laid on top of her covers in a fresh nightgown, the white lace collar and cuffs adding to her delicate appearance. Blonde waves spilled across her pillow, still damp and smelling of lavender from a fresh washing. There was no denying her beauty. Rose Hathorne was an angel held to earth by the thick, leather straps that bound her wrists. A cursory inspection assured Preen that most of her self-inflicted wounds had faded. The pentagram on her chest had healed to a pink, puffy scar.
“You look well, Rose,” Preen stated. Closing the door behind her, she set her flowers on the table beside the waiting tray of tea. “I’m glad to see our method from last time, of allowing you to terrify me to my very soul, worked in our favor. I’m afraid to say today’s approach will be a bit … jarring. I apologize for that ahead of time.”
Returning to the bedside, Preen let her mind wander for a beat, fixating on what color Rose’s eyes might be when she was awake and alert. When she gazed upon her husband with the love and security of forever, was it set against a beautiful azure background? Or perhaps a deep brown like a steadfast oak?
Shaking herself from her reverie, Preen deposited her satchel on the edge of the bed. “This being an unpleasant task, what say you we get it over with quick?”
Her hand delved into her bag to close around a small vial of Gardenia oil that Tituba had held prayer vigil over for a full day and night. Through the High Priestess’ steadfast prayers she had earned the Goddess’ blessing over the tonic, making it a formidable weapon.
Uncorking it, Preen wet the tip of her finger with a liberal coat of the dense oil then traced it over the pentagram scar on Rose’s chest. A low, guttural hiss seeped from the sleeping woman’s chest. Preen gave the angry spirit a moment to subside before she applied a second application to Rose’s carnation pink lips. One final tip of the bottle, and the remaining oil was painted onto her forehead in the shape of a cross. Setting the spent vial aside, Preen knelt beside the bed and bowed her head.
“Sleeping entity within this frame,
Give me a sign, tell me your name.
All ye devilish rants be unheard,
’cept for that of a helpful word.
Salem’s lot requires your aid,
For which your redemption shall be paid.”
Incantation complete, Preen took the suggestion Tituba had armed her with and distanced herself with a few quick steps back. It began with a slight twitch of Rose’s shoulder. An involuntary jerk. A brief shudder. Then, the slumbering blonde’s shoulders lifted off the mattress, her head wrenching back at an angle that threatened to snap vertebrates.
Fighting against her trembling hands, Preen attempted to distract herself from the spectacle by pouring herself a cup of tea. While steaming amber liquid streamed into the dainty porcelain cup, Rose’s body thrashed and lurched against her restraints. Cradling the cup in both hands to steady its spastic shimming, Preen brought it to her lips. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Rose flail like a wild animal, her mouth hanging open in a shriek silenced by Tituba’s spell. Sweaty strands of hair lashed against her face and clung there, her head frantically whipping from side to side.
The pentagram carved onto Rose’s chest began to glow red hot, the pungent stench of burning flesh filling the room. As quick as her fit began, it halted with her petite frame snapping out ramrod straight. Pale rose petal lips murmured an inaudible supplication. Chest first, she drew off the mattress with an unearthly elegance, her head falling back. Delicate arms dangled at her sides, tethered only by those straps of leather. Her feet pointed and flexed, as if paddling through water instead of inexplicably floating on air.
Slow and deliberate, whatever resided in Rose turned her face to Preen. Shadowy veins slithered and coiled beneath her milky white skin, her lips curling back in a twisted smile. A demonic tremor, menacing enough to sprout goose-flesh up and down Preen’s arms, rumbled from her chest.
“When the Devil’s victory accompanies bloody tears,
Tis you who shall embody your coven’s fears.
Time shall pass, sins forgotten.
The bodies of your victims long since rotten.
Yet, heed my warning, as the raven flies,
The Hessian shall come … and you will die.”
A haunting chuckle echoed through the room as Rose’s body settled back against the mattress. The rushing waters of a winter’s stream pulsed through Preen’s veins, icing over any rational thought. The weight of the threat mule-k
icked the air from her lungs. Knees buckling, Preen folded to the floor.
Chapter 6
Ireland
Three blocks up, nestled between rundown apartments and slum-lord housing, Ireland and her group found a greasy-spoon diner with faded linoleum flooring, circa nineteen-seventy, and cracked red vinyl bench seats at each table.
“It began with insanely vivid dreams,” Peyton explained. Removing her habit, she shook out her curtain of golden blonde hair that swung to her shoulders blades. Wrapping the fabric around her emptied coffee cup, her gaze quickly scanned the room to ensure the one frazzled waitress running tables wasn’t nearby before she banged the mug against the table, shattering it. “Every night the same four women came to me. They led me into a meadow full of wild flowers, calling me sister and treating me like family. It was beautiful really. Then, over time, the dreams turned … dark. I saw flashes of hangings, torture, and blood. So much blood. ”
Opening the habit, she waved her hand over the ceramic shards in small circles. One by one they rose in graceful sways, dancing beneath her palm like happy little sprites. Malachi stared straight ahead, as if refusing to acknowledge the paranormal spectacle right beside him. Even so, he pivoted his upper body to shield her performance with his muscular frame.
“The images haunted me, even when I was awake. I couldn’t eat and feared sleep. One morning, after a particularly restless night, I was lighting the prayer candles when I bumped the table. The rows of candles should have clattered to the ground, possibly igniting the table skirting. But they didn’t. They stopped … because I wanted them to.” Each shard rose and delicately bonded with its counterparts, reforming the cup piece by piece. “Soon after that I realized I could manipulate more objects, simply by thinking about it.”
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