“This isn’t a matter of protection, Abby. It’s a matter of being—”
“Cautious? You say that, Duncan, but it isn’t true. This isn’t about being cautious.”
“Then what else could it possibly be about?”
“’Tis about you trying to turn me away from the dark path I have chosen, just as you always have.”
“Abby, that’s not true.”
“Yes it is, Duncan. Don’t you see? Ever since I arrived here, you’ve been searching for ways to keep me having anything to do with witchcraft.” Abigail could feel her heart racing now, her blood throbbing in her temples. Now that she had started down this path, she found she couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Why should she? It would all come out eventually anyway. A dam had broken somewhere inside her and, all at once, eight years of resentment came rushing out like a flood.
“You have always wondered why I wouldn’t marry you, Duncan. Why I went so far as to leave Salem after you proposed. Ever since that night long ago when you discovered the dark secrets of my family history, you have been trying to convince me to renounce my calling. You can’t stand what I’ve become and you would like nothing better than for me to give it up so that we might be together. You believe you’re protecting me from myself, but it is you who needs protecting, Duncan! As long as you are by my side, you are in danger for your life because of what I do—because of what I am. ‘Tis why I had to leave Salem! I had to leave you behind so that you might marry Emily as you should have all along! With me gone, you had a chance at a normal life, a life of children and safety and comfort. You’ve taken that chance and you’ve done well for it. You’ve a wife who loves you in ways that I never could and you’ve two beautiful boys such as I could never give you. You should cherish the life you have chosen... and you should leave me to live my own.”
Duncan’s gaze dropped to the map on the table. He said nothing.
In the long silence that followed, Abigail became aware of the steady ticking of a clock on a shelf. She wanted nothing more than to smash it. She knew Duncan had been wounded—deeply.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally looked up. “Abigail, I—”
A scream erupted from somewhere outside.
Chapter 17
Hannah Gill lay motionless in the muddy street. A stream of women and children were already rushing to the girl as Abigail and Duncan hurried from the company office.
“Make way!” Duncan cried. “Stand back!”
The knot of bystanders loosened enough for Abigail to get through and kneel by Hannah’s side. The five-year-old was unconscious, pale, barely breathing.
“Duncan! Bring hot water!” Abigail shouted. Duncan spun and dashed back to the company office as Abigail whirled to the nearest onlookers. “You! Find this girl’s mother! You two! Go to my cabin! Fetch the black trunk you find there!”
The women exchanged looks.
“Go now!” Abigail thundered before returning her attention to Hannah. The flesh around the unconscious girl’s eyes was swelling rapidly, as were her lips and throat. Her skin was as white as porcelain. And yet, even as Abigail watched, a web of pale, red bumps was spreading up from Hannah’s chest and across her throat. The girl’s breaths came in wheezing fits as if she were somehow suffocating. Abigail would have to work quickly before the girl’s throat constricted completely and cut off her air. Where the hell was Duncan?
“She’s dying!” a voice cried from the crowd.
Abigail ignored the cry; she wouldn’t let this little girl die. She knew she could save her—she knew it. Gathering a handful of stones from the ground, she began to lay them along Hannah’s body.
“What are you doing?” another woman cried.
Abigail paid her no attention as she laid more stones, not stopping until she had formed a straight line from Hannah’s forehead to her waist. A hand grabbed for Abigail’s shoulder but she shrugged it off harshly. Years of hard-won instinct had taken control of her actions. Laying her hands on Hannah’s body, she closed her eyes and began to chant.
At that moment, Duncan broke through the crowd, breathing hard, a tin kettle in his hand. His expression fell at the sight of Abigail. “Abby, no!”
It was too late.
Abigail felt an intoxicating power tingling in her flesh, coursing through her veins, heightening her senses. She was helpless to stop it. Instead, she opened herself to it, giving herself over, submitting to its energy and feeling it wrap around her. In it, she found love and invincibility.
A shocked gasp escaped the crowd.
The stones on Hannah’s body were glowing an otherworldly green.
Abigail continued her chant, oblivious to the horrified stares of the women around her. The words she spoke were soft and sibilant, like a melody sung in some unearthly language. As if possessed of a life of their own, the stones aligned on Hannah’s body began to move, sliding away, slipping back to the ground at the girl’s side. More stones flew aside as if whisked away by an invisible hand. Within moments, only a single glowing stone remained perched above Hannah’s left hip.
Abigail ceased her chant and opened her eyes. Heedless of the stunned hush that had settled over the crowd, she tore open the buttons of Hannah’s tunic to expose her bare skin. There, a small red welt lay directly beneath where the last stone had been.
Abigail felt a momentary relief as her eyes fell upon the mark and recognized it for what it was. She could cure this; she could save the girl.
But there wasn’t much time left. Even now, Hannah’s breathing was going from hoarse to faint. Soon, it would stop altogether. There was a shout and the gathering around Abigail parted. Her head snapped up to find the two women returning with her trunk.
“Quickly! Bring it to me!” she demanded.
The women hurried to obey, laboring and fumbling with the weight of the coffer in their haste. Imported from the Orient over a century ago, the trunk was black as night, its exotic wood carved to depict a timeless battle among pagan deities. Although two intricate wrought-iron straps bound it at each end, the chest presented no visible lock. Instead, inlaid into its flat lid was a square iron plate comprised of over a dozen smaller, overlapping square panels—a Chinese puzzle lock.
Abigail went to work at the puzzle with her fingers, sliding each panel up and down and side to side in a carefully memorized sequence. Seconds later, the problem was solved and the final panel slid aside to reveal a five-dial combination lock. Instead of numbers, each tiny dial was engraved with strange characters that very few would be able to identify as symbols from ancient Chinese cosmology. Aligning the characters into the proper order, Abigail sprung the lock and swung open the lid.
Inside the trunk was an eclectic assortment of arcane objects, vials, and books. Abigail quickly combed through them until she uncovered what she was looking for. She snatched the small vial, spun, and found Duncan in her way.
“Don’t, Abby,” he whispered. “It’s not too late. We can still explain this.”
“Would you have me let this girl die?” Abigail hissed. “Will you explain that to her mother?” Grabbing the kettle from Duncan’s grip, Abigail emptied a mixture of foul-smelling herbs from the vial and knelt at Hannah’s side. She then lifted the girl’s head and dribbled the pungent liquid into Hannah’s slack mouth.
“Stop her!” A woman cried. There was a rustling of movement and Abigail braced herself, ready to fight them off if necessary. Her potion would work—she knew it would. All she needed was a few more seconds...
But her time had run out.
Hannah had stopped breathing.
There was a moment of stasis—of clear, silent shock. Abigail’s stomach went hollow with disbelief. Her heart hammered against her ribcage and her chest constricted breathlessly. What had she done wrong?
“She’s killed her!” a voice shrieked.
Pandemonium erupted.
Abigail felt their rough hands upon her, seizing her, dragging her to her feet. There was a rio
t of angry cries and miserable wails and fingernails tearing at her. Somewhere in the tumult, Abigail could hear Duncan shouting to be heard. She had a vague sense that she should defend herself but she was too stunned. How could her potion have failed?
Then—very suddenly—Hannah’s eyes flew wide.
Another gasp rippled across the crowd as the girl rolled onto her hands and knees and opened her mouth. A rush of bile spewed out like a broken spigot, pooling in the dirt beneath her face and spreading out to her planted hands. When it came to an end, Hannah collapsed to her side and blinked in confusion at the people gathered around her.
“We... we were just playing...” she said in a voice that was soft and meek.
The women closed around her like a swarm.
“Hannah!” The girl’s mother broke through the crowd, panting frantically as she raced to her daughter. She was middle-aged with strawberry-blond hair and tears streaming from her eyes as she swept Hannah into her arms.
The hands clamped on Abigail’s shoulders released and she exhaled with relief until her gaze found the severe man standing over her open trunk. He was clad in a black cassock, his beard cut straight across the bottom, his eyes the palest shade of green.
Father Carnes.
Every one of Abigail’s arcane books, objects, and talismans lay exposed in the black trunk at the priest’s feet. She felt a terrible sinking in her gut as he lowered his cold green eyes and gazed at her. No matter what Duncan might think, there would be no explaining her way out of this.
Chapter 18
The only times Abigail visited churches was to steal holy water. She now felt like an animal trapped in a cage as she marched down the aisle that divided the nave of Tahawus’s small chapel, her boot-heels echoing loudly off the walls.
Father Carnes shut the chapel door and followed close behind. Tucked beneath his arm was an ancient, crimson-bound book he had seized from Abigail’s trunk. “A bee sting?” he demanded with barely veiled skepticism.
Abigail drew to a halt before the altar at the head of the aisle. “Indeed. I suspect Hannah was playing in the woods when she was stung.”
“The watchtower,” Carnes muttered knowingly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The children were likely playing in the old watchtower. It’s a derelict hut on a bluff overlooking the lake. The camp settlers put it there to guard against Indians but it hasn’t been manned in years. Ever since the children discovered it, we can’t keep them away from it.” Carnes leveled his pale green eyes on Abigail. “You would have me believe a common bee precipitated such dire effects on the girl?”
“The insect’s venom provoked an adverse reaction that threatened her life,” Abigail explained. “Such reactions are uncommon to say the least, but they can be quite fatal. Fortunately for her, I am familiar with a treatment.”
Carnes’ brow furrowed. “Witchcraft.”
“No, science. That...” Abigail pointed to the crimson book in Carnes’ hands. “That is witchcraft.”
Abigail took a momentary pleasure in the stunned look Carnes gave her. Of all the strange and terrible items in her collection, the book the priest held was her most treasured possession. The crimson leather of its binding glistened like blood even in the cold light of day. Exquisite filigree graced its surface and a five-pointed pentacle stood embossed at its center. Two iron latches affixed to the book covers kept the brittle pages locked away from prying eyes.
Carnes turned the book over in his hands to examine the black pentacle emblazoned on its cover. “What exactly is this volume, Ms. Jacobs?” he demanded.
“’Tis my Book of Shadows.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“’Tis my grimoire, my spellbook. Contained within its pages is an extensive compendium on the occult, witchcraft, and the paranatural—an enduring chronicle of magic and horrors passed on through the ages from witch to witch. It is old—very old. I can only imagine how many hands it passed through before it found its way to me.”
Carnes arched an eyebrow as he studied the book. “So you freely admit to being a witch?”
“A necromancer, actually. But witch rolls off the tongue so much more easily.”
“I see.” Carnes raised his eyes from the book and motioned to the nearest pew. “Please be seated, Ms. Jacobs.”
Abigail didn’t move. Her instincts told her to be wary, to be ready to resort to violence to defend herself if necessary. Carnes might be young for a priest, but his words commanded the following of practically the entire village. If he condemned her publicly, there was no telling what his congregation would do to her.
And yet, Carnes’ calm demeanor gave Abigail nothing by which to glean his motivations. Until he gave her a reason to think otherwise, the wisest course of action seemed to be cooperation. Gathering her skirt, Abigail lowered herself onto the bench and glanced around, trying to piece together a plan of escape. She found very few options. The church felt oppressive around her, the only illumination being the cheerless gray of the sunlight through the large windows.
“Might I ask how were you able to cure the child?” Carnes’ tone was relaxed as he stood before her and examined the latches that sealed her Book of Shadows. Abigail kept a watchful eye on him. Her muscles vibrated in anticipation of the thrashing she would give him if he dared to try to pry the latches open.
“Once I had properly diagnosed her ailment, I was able to apply my knowledge of herblore to prepare a suitable remedy,” she replied tersely.
Carnes glanced up. “Herblore?”
Abigail gave an impertinent smirk. “Science.”
“Witchcraft... Science... Men of my faith often fail to see the difference.”
“Science manipulates the natural world; witchcraft manipulates the paranatural world. I have no intention of denying I am a witch, Mr. Carnes. A simple divination spell allowed me to locate the nature and location of Hannah’s injury. What you witnessed was the invisible hand of a familiar working at my command.”
“A familiar?”
“A spirit from beyond the Veil that I have bound to my service.”
“Ah, I see...” Carnes said in a mocking tone. “And if I remember my fairy tales correctly, witches were believed to bear marks from where they suckled such creatures. Am I correct?”
Abigail returned Carnes’ steady gaze as she leaned forward on the bench and extended her wrists and palms, revealing the crisscrossing scars that marred the milky white of her skin.
“Blood offerings,” she explained. Her blue eyes twinkled with amusement at the apprehension that bloomed on the priest’s bearded face. “Make no mistake, Mr. Carnes. Witchcraft did play a part in saving that little girl’s life. I am here, far from my home, to save all of your lives. You are free to judge me as you see fit, but I will no longer hide what I am.”
Carnes stared at her for a moment, the ancient book still clutched in his hands. “You say you are here to save us. From what, exactly?”
“From whatever it is that is driving your people to kill themselves.”
At this, Carnes’ eyes narrowed and remained on her for a long time. “This paranatural world you speak of. Can you explain it to me?”
Abigail’s instincts immediately went on the defensive, even as she began to wonder if she had misjudged the priest. There was something disarming about him, a genuine earnestness that seemed to belie his reserved demeanor. Could Carnes be open-minded enough to believe her? Even so, could he be trusted?
“Mr. Carnes, what if I were to tell you there exist colors we cannot perceive because of the limitations of the human eye?” Abigail ventured hesitantly. “Sounds we cannot hear because of the failings of the mortal ear? Would you say such things do not exist simply because we cannot experience them?”
Carnes remained silent, his face neutral as he waited for more.
“The same can be said about the world that surrounds us,” Abigail went on. “All around us, there exists another realm, an invisible world of spirits
and monsters. It exists simultaneously to ours, separated by an unseen Veil but occupying the same time and space. Its inhabitants move unseen around us, and yet, we cannot experience this world because of the failings of human perception. Witchcraft allows us to pierce through the Veil, to make the invisible visible and interact with the paranatural for good or for evil.”
Carnes looked at her dubiously. “Spirits? Monsters? I don’t believe in such things.”
“Unfortunately, their existence does not require your belief, Mr. Carnes.”
Carnes pursed his lips beneath his beard, the creases of his forehead coming together in contemplation above his dark eyebrows. There was a soft pattering at the windows as the rain started again. “Let us assume you are being truthful,” he granted. “How is it these entities are able to enter our world?”
“The Veil is a window between the two realms. Sometimes creatures are able to slip through... and sometimes they are invited.”
“You mean conjured.”
Abigail nodded once.
Carnes drew a deep breath and exhaled as he turned to the altar. “I don’t know how I am to trust the truth of any of this. The Book of John tells us the only wisdom that witchcraft can offer is earthly, unspiritual, demonic. Only the wisdom of God can be believed, not that of deceiving spirits.”
“I’m truly sorry you feel that way, Mr. Carnes.” Abigail’s patience finally reached its limit. There was a razor’s edge to her voice as she stood from the bench. “I find this conversation is growing tiresome. If you intend to exile me, then kindly stop wasting my time and do it now. I should warn you, however, that if you intend to inflict some harsher degree of judgment, I will do everything in my considerable power to defend myself.”
Carnes held up a hand. “Calm yourself, Ms. Jacobs. You’re no less welcome here now than on the day you arrived.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2) Page 10
