Witch Risen: A Paranormal Adventure (Bad Tom Series Book 2)

by Jill Nojack

  Natalie pulls her own camera-phone out of her bag. "For crying out loud, Tom. Stop being such an old fuddy and join the 21st century." She has the pictures sorted out quickly, photographing it from all sides. When she's done, she taps at it for a few more minutes and announces, "There. Off to everyone's email."

  We don't open the box. The last thing we need is to set off a curse we aren't prepared for.

  We follow Dash back up the stairwell. We're unusually silent as we tramp upwards. Nat and Gillian aren't quibbling, and despite being right behind me, Nat isn't even commenting on the fit of my jeans. No reason for celebration yet, I guess. We have the box, but we have no idea exactly what we have.

  With its fitted hatch and attached oriental carpet back in place, Dash makes the entry to the hidden vault disappear as tidily as any witch's spell could have done.

  Outside, I finally show Gillian my burns and ask her if she can do something for them. She gasps, then asks, "What happened?"

  "Later. I need to shift to stop the pain. I can't bear it much longer. I'll head through the woods to give Cat a little reward for good behavior during his part in this caper. Look for me at your place in an hour or so."

  I leave my clothes on the ground in the narrow yard beside the gallery and she bags them before she carries them to her car. I'd exchanged the smaller pain of Cat's sore foot for the pain of the burns, but Cat's not even favoring his other legs anymore. Compared to what I'm escaping, it's nothing.

  As I dart down the street and off to the woods, I know the box is safer than anything else in this town. Dash is the last guy Eunice would suspect of hiding anything, and Robert is expert with wards. Yes, that box is much safer than any one of us if that body-stealing demon figures out what we've done.

  I watch Gillian soaking strips of gauze in a brown mixture from my perch outside the kitchen window. I know it's wrong to observe her this way, but I like to see her like this—content, active, exactly as I pictured she would be when we were old together. Except I screwed that up big time. I didn't get old, and I didn't stay loyal to Gillian.

  Soon enough, I give a hearty yowl to get her attention and she walks through the mud room and opens the back door for me. Cat struts in, stretching as he goes, and rubs against her leg through the Indian fabric of her long skirt. He's in a good mood after a quick but successful hunt.

  "Knock it off! You'll cover me with cat hair. Your clothes are in the guest room. Come back down to the kitchen when you're dressed."

  Cat makes one more long, insistent sweep of his head against her leg. "Go on now, scat!" Have I said Cat often has a mind of his own?

  When I return, holding my hand out in front of me so that it doesn't brush against anything that might send the pain shooting up my arm again, she sits me down at the kitchen table and inspects my wounds. "These burns are deep. How did it happen?"

  "There was a second box that reacted when I tried to grab it. That's why I left it behind."

  "And you kept it to yourself because you've suddenly grown fond of pain?"

  "Because I didn't want to distract you. This is about Cassie, not about me."

  She winds wide strips of gauze around each of my burned fingers in turn, being careful not to hurt me more than she has to. Healing is one of the first things most witches want to learn when they find out about magic. Not me. I never did. I was too busy figuring out how to use magic for pleasure. Gillian always thought of others first.

  For my part, I suck it up. I've already experienced Cat's painful death six times. Blistered burns? They're nothin'. But I'm kind of glad she isn't trying to have a conversation while she works, because I'm pretty sure my voice would waver and break if I tried to use it. Because, oh man, blistered burns? Intense.

  When she's done, she bends down and kisses the back of my hand gently, in a motherly way, on one of the few spots that isn't bandaged. "There, that's the bit that actually makes it all better. The herbal soak is just for show." She looks up at me, smiling. "Tom, I really am glad you and Cassie found each other. You could have run. Hell, if it was me forty years ago, you would have run."

  I cut her off. "You can't believe that. Do you really believe I didn't love you enough to fight for you?"

  "No. I know you loved me. But back then that would never have stopped you from running away, just like you ran to Eunice when you got scared about settling down and starting a family."

  And I know she's right. I ran, I cheated, I lied. I kept my feelings bottled up so tight that I might as well not have had any. I was a perfect servant for Eunice: I'm a much better cat than I am a man. I pretend to inspect her handiwork, directing my attention to my bandages.

  "What I mean to say, Tom, is…you've changed. It's too bad you didn't get to where you are half a lifetime earlier, but I've told you before—I got my Marty out of that deal, and I wouldn't have given him up for anything. Looks like we both earned our second chances. So…let's get over to Robert's and see what he's found out about that box, so we can see about getting Cassie her second chance, too."

  ***

  Robert moves faster than usual as he leads us toward the study, appearing not to notice the arthritis that slows him down most days. Natalie is already there waiting. Gillian's eyes narrow, but Nat just gives her a happy smile. There's something odd going on between those two, but I don't need to get myself in the middle of some senior spat.

  Robert's face is more animated than it's been since Kevin was killed.

  "You're not going to believe this. The writing on the box basically says 'this is the place of Anat.' Yes, the goddess Anat. Believed to be the consort of the god Ba'al. Loved the battlefield. Dangerous."

  "So we're dealing with a goddess, just like Cassie said?" Gillian's head bobs rhythmically for a few beats as she takes in the information. "That makes sense. We call on the Goddess for our magic and healing. And now we've got one on our doorstep. Just not the one we were expecting."

  My hands clench as I listen to her talk. Great. Not just some horny old witch come back to life, but a goddess of unknown power. I can't deal with this. I unclench my fists when I realize I'm in pain, and the angry red marks where my fingernails cut into my palms slowly ease.

  Robert blats on about goddesses this and demon that, but the stuff floating around in the sunbeam behind him is lots more interesting than most of what he's saying. It must be fascinating stuff for a guy who's spent so much of his life with his nose in dusty books researching magical history, and the ladies are hanging on his every word. But me? I need something to do.

  Still…I don't want to stop him when he's acting like himself again. I sit tight while he continues, working to keep my eyes on his face.

  "Perhaps that's why Ba'al had two consorts: their sister Ashtarte was the gentler of the two."

  I say, "I'd rather she'd turned out to be a garden-variety demon. At least there are passages in your books that deal with demonic possession."

  "Maybe it's not such a problem," Robert says.

  He really needs to speed it up. I've got my eye on that sunbeam again, and there's a couple specks of dust in there that need to be knocked senseless. I prod, "And why isn't it a problem?"

  "Doug also said that the entire god and goddess scene, angels and demons, they're the same thing. He believes that those beings were an ancient race. Maybe even aliens."

  Okay, that's it. Done listening. "Really, man? That old chestnut? Let's just cover our heads with tinfoil hats to get rid of her."

  Gillian gives me a schoolmarmy look. "Let him talk, Tom. I want to hear this."

  Robert nods a thanks, but there's no reprimand in it for me. "Doug makes a compelling argument. Personally, I've never believed in a goddess, preferring to think of her as an embodiment of the power of nature." His eyes travel to Natalie, and Gillian watches his face closely as they do. "Nat and I have always agreed on this point, although we've seldom agreed on much else. But I have no problem with those who think of the goddess anthropomorphically. It's just a way of visual
izing where a witch or warlock finds power."

  He shifts in his chair and crosses his leg, then puts it back on the floor with a wince. Looks like the adrenalin has worn off and his arthritis is making itself known again.

  "If you think about it, it makes sense. Many of those ancient gods were real bastards. Ba'al was presented as just one of many competing gods to the god of the Hebrews. Even the old testament never denied he was a god. Later theologians did, calling him Ba'al Zeebub to demonize him, which became Beelzebub in Christian mythology. Gods, goddesses, angels, and demons. They're all the same thing. Just a long-lived, ancient race that has a closer connection to magic than we do.

  Gillian stirs her tea absently. Then she says, "So, she may be a goddess, but we can approach her like she's a demon."

  I smile. "I have zero problem with that. Let's get going and exorcise the wench. Robert, did your historian friend have any ideas around what the box is for?"

  "The symbols are for life, death, and rebirth, as you've told us. And, of course, there are hieroglyphs which represent Anat herself. Nothing unusual there. They're typical symbols that could be found on sarcophagi, apparently. He didn't have much else to add, although he did send some links to other potential research sources."

  Gillian had been tapping away on her laptop while I talked to Robert. Now, she turns the laptop so that the small TV screen faces him. "Take a look at this and tell me what it looks like to you. This is one of the sources he sent."

  I lean in for a look. "This box has the same symbols." He points to them in turn. "Life, death, and rebirth." He looks up at Gillian. "I wonder if these boxes are more common than we thought and we're chasing a dead end?"

  Gillian shakes her head. "No, I don't think so. This one is in a museum in Egypt. It was discovered in the 1890s. When the archeologist opened it, it contained a human heart. The expedition leader who was with him destroyed the heart because he insisted it was beating. Obviously, everyone thought he was a bit mad after that."

  "Interesting. Anything on the other symbols?"

  "No, not much here. I can email the museum to see if they've ever interpreted all of the symbols on the box."

  I cut in. "Do it. Anything we can add to our store of knowledge is important. How do you work one of those computer things, anyway? Could I figure it out and help?"

  Gillian looks at me the way she'd look at an overeager child. "Truthfully, Tom? Nobody has time to teach you right now. I don't need a student with the attention span of a cat."

  I start working up a head of steam but get off the anger train before I blow it out my smokestack. This isn't the time to get into a fight over something stupid like my pride.

  Gillian adds, "I didn't mean that as an insult. It came out wrong." She gives me the I'm-sorry face with the big eyes and exaggerated frown. "I just meant that you don't really seem to like technology, and since you act like it takes a techno-mage to operate a phone, you'll really be done in by the internet."

  I concede. "Sure, whatever that is. You probably have a point. I got shocked hard when I got anywhere near Eunice's computer because she didn't want me using it. At least I have an excuse."

  I think for a moment about what I do have to contribute, and I realize we're going to have to break our promise to Simmons and get a look inside that box.

  It's easier to refuse a caller than it is to refuse someone who's standing right in front of you.

  There are still lights on downstairs when we cruise up to Dash's house in Robert's big SUV. We discuss our strategy as we walk up the long sidewalk to the porch.

  "I'll field this one," Robert offers. "It's just like a politician to break a promise, isn't it? He isn't going to be happy that we want to do our prohibited tramping in and out in the late evening hours."

  I lift my chin to acknowledge his offer and say, "Thanks, but this is my fight. And it's my promise we're breaking. It's enough that you came along."

  When Dash opens the door, peering out above the inside chain lock with a hint of an embroidered red silk robe showing through the slit, I say, "I'm sorry, Dash. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. We need to take another look at the item the ladies and I left at the shop."

  "I knew it. I knew you'd continue to have demands. That's how it works with you people." He glares at Robert. "You said you'd let me run the shop like I always had after you took it over, but Kevin was constantly having me hide things for you. Plus having to put the prices up so you could take a cut off the top, and threatening it would go badly for me if I didn't."

  I exchange another quick glance with Robert. He looks as surprised as if he'd just been slapped. I can tell he had no idea what Kevin had been doing.

  Dash unchains the door and opens it wide, apparently resigned to our request. "Step in, then. I'll get dressed."

  A white-haired man in a matching red robe walks into the foyer behind him with a questioning look on his face. Dash looks back at him and says, "I have to go out for a while, Jon. You might as well watch the rest of the movie. I doubt I'll be in the mood for it when I get home."

  Jon shrugs and goes back to where he came from. We wait while Dash goes upstairs to change.

  Still looking down the hall, I say, "I think I'm beginning to understand how you got such a bad reputation in town despite turning out to be such a solid guy."

  We don't turn to each other. Guys of our generation don't. There won't be hugs all around, but I can see his head bob slightly in acknowledgment in my peripheral vision.

  The last of the guard I'd put up against the man dissolves as I realize Kevin blamed his own strong-arm stuff on his father. And I'm betting Robert had an inkling of that. My dad would have taken the hit for me while he tried to straighten me out. As far as I can tell, the only thing Robert is guilty of is being a caring father.

  I really hope I'm right to trust him. If he doesn't deserve it, it could endanger Cassie. But if he does deserve it, and I don't give my trust, it could turn out just as badly.

  ***

  It doesn't take long for the three of us to travel to the gallery and get into the vault. Dash stays upstairs at Robert's request. If all hell breaks loose, we don't want him getting caught in the demonic crossfire.

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the possibility that opening the box will touch off a firestorm of consequences.

  I use a pocket knife to pry around each side of the lid, making sure I don't hold it with the sorest parts of my wrapped fingers as I work. It's a little awkward that way, but the waxy substance that seals it cracks, and the box opens.

  Nothing happens. I hear Robert's whooshing exhale behind me. He's remained so calm I didn't realize that, like me, he'd been holding his breath.

  I set the lid aside so that we can see the contents. It's just like the article said: the box contains a dark, dried out lump that could definitely be a heart.

  "It's not beating. I'll take that as some good luck," I say, glancing over at him.

  "Yes. That may mean something. It may not." He starts taking pictures. There are symbols written on the inside as well, so he walks around the box to capture those, too.

  "Could you flip the lid over, Tom? I want to see if there's anything written on the inner surface."

  I do as he asks, but the lid of the box doesn't reveal more writing. It might have at one time, but the inside of it looks sooty or scorched, as though it's been subjected to fire at some point during its existence. I think about trying to brush the soot away, but I can't bring myself to touch it. There's some terrible magic involved with this, and it makes me uncomfortable being near it. I want it sealed back up as soon as possible.

  It's pretty clear Robert agrees with me when he says, "Get the lid back on that thing. It gives me the willies."

  ***

  "Can you send those to Robert's friend?" I ask Gillian in the morning after she transfers the pictures on his camera to her laptop.

  Robert dials his cell as she gets to work. "Doug, got a couple more question
s for you. And some pictures I think you're really going to want to see…yes, related to the Egyptian artifact."

  Gillian taps away at her keyboard, then tells Robert, "Done."

  "Doug, they're sent. If you could take a look and give your first impression that would be great." Robert listens then, nodding his head and interjecting a "hmmm" and a "huh" every so often as the man on the other end of the line speaks. "No, that's exactly what we need. As for a viewing—I'll ask. I don't know if the owner wants to let anyone see the find right now. Thanks, Doug. Yes, send it along when you get it. Sure, just do a reply. I'll get the info."

  Robert puts his phone back into his blazer pocket and leans in onto his hands on the back of the couch, looking over Gillian's shoulder as she brings the pictures up on her laptop screen.

  As he looks at the pictures, he says, "So, according to Doug, the only organ the Egyptians left in place inside the mummy was the heart. The rest of them got pickled separately and placed in jars near the sarcophagus."

  "Gross. But, they used canopic jars like the ones Eunice sold for pet funerals, right?" I ask.

  "Yes. Now we know why Eunice had a weakness for them."

  "But why did they leave the heart in?"

  "Vessel of the soul, Doug says. They believed removing the heart would cause the body to arrive in the afterlife soulless."

  "What we locked up under the gallery was made to hold Anat's soul?"

  Robert nods. "It's looking like that."

  "So all we have to do is destroy the heart, and we destroy Anat!" I gesture a little too enthusiastically and spill my tea. Great timing. I leap up and head for the kitchen for paper towels, calling over my shoulder, "Then that's it. Because I would be happy to rip that nasty lump of gristle apart with my own two hands. We'll go after I clean up this mess."