The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  By this time Betty Ann had managed to turn away. She tried to move, to grab something to defend herself, to run, to do anything, but she could not make her mind work. There were too many questions, too many decisions, options—her mind overloading, she turned back to look at the creature. What she saw confused her even more. The thing had dragged Jeff back across his bed to the rear wall. As she watched, the hulk propped the stunned and bleeding Jeff upright, even using a pillow to cradle his head.

  “Why?” she asked the air in a tiny voice. “Why?”

  Spinning around, the creature hurled itself from the bed toward Betty Ann. Catching her by the throat, it whirled the woman around, throwing her down across the foot of Jeff’s bed. The bleeding man, already nearly unconscious, watched then as the beast tore his screaming girl friend’s clothing from her body. Grimly, the beast turned to make certain that Jeff could see what it was doing.

  “No…”

  Jeff actually managed to move his body forward nearly a half foot before he crashed back against the wall. With a grunt of satisfaction, the creature stared directly into the man’s eyes as it thrust itself into the helpless girl. Her screams and tears had no effect on the thing. Indeed, the beast barely seemed to notice her, so intent was it on watching Jeff’s face.

  The rape went on uninterrupted while Jeff continued to bleed to death. His hate for the brute overcame his confusion, even cancelled out his fear. But, it could not overcome his wounds, could not give him the strength to even keep his eyes open. Eventually, after only eight minutes, his bed awash in blood, tears and urine, Jeff Graham died.

  At the moment his spirit left his body, the horrible thing stopped its thrusting into the screaming girl. Shifting its iron grip from her waist to her neck, its slightest exertion crushed several of her vertebrae and collapsed her windpipe. Then, the beast’s bristly lips parted unnaturally into a smile, and the girl’s body slipped to the floor as the smell of sulfur filled the room.

  WAYCROSS, GA

  “It’s interesting,” observed Boles. “We were both initially against this pairing concocted by Mr. Kirowan, but frankly I must admit there hasn’t been an uninteresting moment since we started working together.”

  Blakley wondered how he was supposed to respond. The e-mail he had received from Melissa Canfield, his graduate student assistant back at Duke, had been interesting enough, but now he and Boles were on their way to the home of Jeff Graham where the sheriff had told him he would find not only Graham’s corpse, but that of his girl friend as well.

  What the Hell is this? he wondered. This isn’t anything I’ve ever seen before. Boles can talk all he wants, but he’s never seen anything like this, either. Goddamnit, things like this just don’t happen. They don’t. Do they?

  The pair noted the sign for their turn and pulled off the main thoroughfare onto a dirt road that twisted back through the trees and heavy underbrush in a speed-killing manner. Flashing red and blue lights guided them forward to the correct address. Parking where they were directed, the professors exited Blakley’s Explorer and headed up to the house. The deputy at the door waved them inside. The men found Sheriff Fargo, along with eight others, all wearing latex gloves, each inspecting a separate area of the crime scene. Fargo gave her chief deputy a series of quick instructions, then turned to the newcomers.

  “Neighbor heard a commotion and called us,” she said. “Must have been a hell of a ruckus, too, considering they live about a quarter mile off.” The sheriff wiped her sleeve across her brow, soaking up the sweat leaking from beneath her hat. She snorted a short breath in disgust.

  “After your speeches at dinner…seeing how it was Graham, I called in everything available. The first car had to be here within five minutes of the call. Apparently they were at least four minutes too late.”

  Fargo handed the pair of professors each a set of gloves. As they worked the clinging latex onto their hands, she cautioned them, “It’s not pretty in there.”

  “Didn’t expect it,” answered Blakley with an off-putting wave of gleeful anticipation. Crossing through the kitchen, he stood in the blood-spattered doorway of the bedroom marveling at the wealth of detail awaiting him. Graham’s body sat upright against the wall with a pillow cushioning its head. His arm was missing and, if the professor was seeing correctly, his left foot had been twisted around completely. What looked like gallons of blood were spread about the room, arcing splashes criss-crossing each other on the wall, thickening pools gathered on and soaking into the bed.

  Laying in one such pool at the foot of the bed was a woman’s nude body—Blakley presumed her to be the previously mentioned girl friend. The roughly torn, bloody skin of her thighs and vagina indicated a quite violent rape. The angle of her head left little doubt her neck had been broken. The professor took a step into the room, speaking to his contemporary as he did so.

  “Notice that coppery smell, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s your sulfur again—right, Boles. Boles?”

  When he received no answer, Blakley turned, spotting the Para-Psychologist standing in the kitchen, once more frozen in trance. Stepping toward him, he said, “I didn’t realize this was an hourly event with you. Looks like I’m going to be able to set my watch to your little fadeouts.”

  As Blakley touched Boles’ shoulder, the other man came to life, blinking and sputtering.

  “We’ve got to go!” he shouted, turning his head to the left and right, his eyes unfocused as if he were not certain where he was. “We’ve got to go!”

  “Go where?”

  “The hospital,” spat Boles, tugging at the other professor. “It’s McDermott—he’s in terrible danger!”

  Boles stumbled out of the kitchen, pulling Blakley as he went. As he dragged his partner forward with considerable effort, the latter called out to the sheriff, “It looks as if we’re going to the hospital. You might want to join us.”

  Rational thought flooding Boles’ mind once more, the smaller man wheeled around, shouting at the sheriff, “Yes, sheriff, yes—you and your men—we have to go to the hospital.” Pointing back toward the bedroom, he added, “The thing that did that is headed for McDermott at this very moment.”

  Fargo stood frozen. All around the room deputies’ heads rose up, looking toward their chief for instructions. Blakley pointed at Boles’ head, rolling his eyes as he said, “Kid Psychic here had another vision.”

  The agitated Boles reached the door to the outside at that point, yanking Blakley out onto the porch with a strength no one could have imagined the smaller man might possess. As he pushed at the Crypto-Zoologist, screeching for him to get out the keys to the Explorer, the sheriff took a handful of seconds to think. She had a major crime scene to investigate, one barely begun. She still had not received official confirmation from her County Board superiors over allowing Blakley and Boles to participate in her original investigation, and here they were presuming to give orders in a much larger matter. She had her prestige to think of, first female sheriff, all male deputies, fickle voters—

  “We have to go, Blakley—now!”

  As Boles’ pitifully reedy, but determined voice echoed through the night, Fargo pointed to two of her men, ordering them to take charge of the area. Indicating everyone else with a sweep of her hand, she sighed through gritted teeth, shaking her head as she directed them outside to their squad cars.

  WAYCROSS HOSPITAL

  The staff at Waycross General did not like what they saw. The county sheriff had just entered with nine of her deputies and two men in civilian dress. Crowding the hall containing the elevator bank, all of them were armed except for the smaller of the pair in plain clothes. None of the officers looked in any way happy. The two with them were another matter.

  “Spill it,” snarled the sheriff, tired of not being in control. “What do you two know? Now—all of it.”

 
“I had another vision at Graham’s house,” answered Boles. “The skunk-ape…I saw it, it was unbelievable—intelligent, oh, and vengeful—it only maimed Graham, then it forced him to watch as it raped his girl friend…oh, very disturbing. Wrong, just wrong…”

  “Wrong?” repeated the sheriff, not able to guess what Boles could mean. “What’d you mean, ‘wrong?’ And what it God’s name is a ‘skunk-ape?’”

  “My department,” offered Blakley. As the doors to one elevator slid open, he said, “The skunk-ape is your local bigfoot. Mainly a Floridian phenomenon, but known here as well. Large, red-haired, evil smelling…” The professor unfolded the printout he had made of the information his assistant had e-mailed him earlier.

  “In 1973 one of them even made the national news. A man claimed to hit one with his car—police found traces of blood and reddish hair. Even Walter Cronkite covered the story.”

  “But he said it was intelligent…”

  “All primates are intelligent, sheriff,” Countered Blakley as the elevator reached the desired floor. “Chimpanzees make war on neighboring tribes of their own species. They been observed using stones as projectiles and sticks as clubs—”

  “And this is no normal ape,” said Boles. He tried to continue, but Fargo cut him off, shouting at the first orderly she saw.

  “Where’s Marshall McDermott’s room?”

  The young woman eyed the heavily armed party nervously, pointing to her left as she tried to force herself to blink.

  “Room n-nine twelve.”

  The group ran down the hall in ragged formation. Finding the room in question, the sheriff spread her men out, designating two with a silent pointing to follow her in first. Holding up three fingers above her head so everyone could see, she could sense the others mentally counting “3.” Folding down one finger, she took a deep breath, then closed her fist and sprang into the room, her .38 aiming in a sweeping motion. The two designated deputies went left and right respectively. Neither man really understood what they were supposed to be doing, but they were well trained and loyal enough to allow the new sheriff a bit of latitude, even if it involved listening to psychic eggheads.

  McDermott was so startled by the sudden break-in that he nearly fell out of his bed. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Fargo put up her weapon. “It’s all right, Marsh—relax.” Then, turning, she waved Boles forward. “Okay, spill—everything’s normal here. You tryin’ to make me look foolish?”

  “Good—we’re in time.” The wiry Para-Psychologist made his way to the front of the group. Trying to catch his breath, he spoke in between gasps. “Whoever conjured the skunk-ape hasn’t actually arrived yet.”

  “‘Conjured?’” The sheriff’s voice strained, coming close to cracking. As several of her men hid grins, she snarled, “You mean like demons? What the Hell are you talking about Boles?”

  “Witches.”

  Fargo spun around to face Blakley. “You know what he’s talking about?”

  “That e-mail I mentioned earlier,” he explained. “There was more to it. As far as my discipline goes, skunk apes are thought of only as creatures existing in the bigfoot realm. But, the general file my assistant downloaded contained a great deal of speculative information as well. It seems there’s quite a bit of Southern folklore concerning these creatures in demonic terms, as creatures brought to this plane of existence by means of spells.”

  “Oh, yes,” added Boles. “Witchcraft often invokes such spells. Witches seeking revenge, hiring out to people seeking revenge. It would explain the sulfur smell nicely.”

  “There’re at least thirty women and more than a few men in this county who dress up their lives playing at being witches,” said the sheriff. “I wouldn’t doubt that every one of them has someone on their shit list they’d love to see squished up into meatballs. But it’s never happened. There are no real witches—not with magical powers and all.”

  “Certainly there’s a great deal of convention wisdom on the side of your position,” admitted Boles. “But then, there are always those cases no one can explain, as well. Yes, there’re your weekend witches using Wiccan ceremonies as excuses to dress up in costumes and participate in group sex, true enough. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t people who have learn to tap resources within themselves beyond anything the rest of us yet understand.”

  “Resources?” asked the sheriff, visions of a recall vote flashing through her head.

  “Anger, to boost a power already obtained, but to build power to begin with? Love, greed, compassion…but in this case…” Cleaning his glasses, Boles broke off his line of speculation and turned to Marshall. “Who’s doing this? Who is it that hates you enough to command such resources?”

  “Hate?” the man in the bed stared in confusion. “Hate me? Nobody hates me.”

  “Pufi, man,” Boles answered with a dismissive wave. “There is obviously someone out there who hates you a great deal. You and the late Mr. Graham both.”

  “Late?” questioned McDermott. “Sheriff, what’s he mean?”

  “Jeff was murdered tonight. He and Betty Ann both.”

  Blakley turned away from the proceedings and exited the room. Pacing at the far end of the hall, the professor shut out the sounds of conversation leaking out of room 912, trying to plan a next move, wondering why everyone had automatically followed Boles on such a wild goose chase. Every few seconds he would glance out the window, finding the clear Georgia night sky as pleasant a distraction as any other. Then something caught his eye—something moving against the dark clouds. Something that should not have been there.

  “Sheriff…” said Blakley with hesitation. Then, as what he thought he had seen grew larger—closer—

  “Sheriff!”

  Bodies poured out of 912. The first thing anyone saw was the Crypto-Zoologist pointing at the large window at the end of the hall. The next thing they saw was him ducking as the pane shattered into a whirlwind of glass shards. Razored slivers splashed throughout the corridor, tearing tile and plaster and flesh.

  “Well, look at this…an official reception. Just for me.”

  As those gathered composed themselves, a female form stepped out of the night sky and into the hallway through the now empty window frame. The woman, dressed entirely in black, had long brown hair and deep, swamp green eyes. As the deputies readied their weapons, the woman wagged her finger.

  “Now, now, my little boys,” she admonished in a condescending tone, “None of that.”

  The woman whispered a short phrase. Red bolts leapt from her hand in response, flashing from body to body, striking each lawman in turn, including the sheriff. The officers were thrown about like confetti in a breeze, bouncing off the walls, the floor and each other. Bones cracked. Blood leaked. Limbs went numb and many fell rapidly into the false safety of unconsciousness. As others began to rise, Blakley, mostly unharmed, chose to remain on the floor so as to avoid the unknown woman’s wrath. Floating above the tangle of bodies, the woman moved silently into room 912.

  “Sweet Marshall…it’s been so long.”

  Marshall McDermott stared, vainly trying to remember the name of the woman hovering near the end of his bed. That she was not making contact with the floor had not even occurred to his overloaded senses. He did not recognize her face, but her voice…there was something to it, some ancient chord struck which he recognized but could not name.

  “Don’t tell me it’s been that long,” said the woman. “So many years, too much for my poor love’s defective memory. Have there been so many others since me?”

  McDermott still could not place the woman. But, deep within his mind snatches of memory were stirring, and a shaking terror was building along with it. Sensing his growing anxiety, the woman moved to the side of the hospital bed, reaching out to touch the fear-paralyzed McDermott’s face.

 
Running her fingers across his cheek, she purred, “So many, many more? How many others have you and Jeff fed drinks, then taken out to an alley and thrown in a van—”

  “Oh, no…” croaked McDermott. “Serinna—Serinna Duncan?”

  “How many tied with the same ropes? How many others gagged with their own clothing?”

  “But you left town…that was years ago—twenty years ago! You can’t still care. We were just…horny kids. We didn’t mean no harm…”

  “Liar!” Another volley of red slashed forward from the woman’s hands. Scarlet energy slammed into McDermott’s body, frying him, forcing him to bite his tongue, empty his bowels—

  “You used me any way you wanted—stuffed every hole in my body with your dicks! How many times?” Snapping her fingers, the energy cut through McDermott again, and then again. “How many times?!”

  Stepping into the room, Sheriff Fargo leveled her .38 at the back of the woman’s head. “Step away from the bed,” ordered Fargo. Ignoring all she had seen, not trying to make sense of it, no longer worried about her men’s snickering or political concerns, the sheriff braced herself for recoil, saying as steadily as she could, “If you want to file a rape charge, I’ll see that you get a trial, but you…”

  “A trial?” responded the woman in a curious voice. Her finger circling McDermott’s left eye over and over, the woman in black turned to face Fargo. “You believe there’s justice to be found in Waycross? There isn’t. I told my daddy about little Jeff and Marsh, but he didn’t care. Was too embarrassed to go after the Mayor’s son for such a crime. Told me not to talk about it.”