by David Wood
“Love or money. Everything seems to come back to those two things every time, huh?” Rose leaned her head against Crowley’s shoulder. “I wonder which one it really was for Price.”
“I’ve already told you it was love.”
They startled, spun around to see where the voice behind them had come from. Matthew Price stood there, holding a pistol low and close to his stomach. He moved it a little left and right, to cover them both. Crowley was in no doubt that he would fire if given any provocation. Crowley ground his teeth. Stupid! He should have known it had gone too smoothly, that Price had accepted his fate too readily.
“You didn’t really expect me to give up just like that, did you?” Price kept a safe distance between them. Close enough that he would certainly not miss if he fired, but far enough away that Crowley couldn’t jump him. Crowley felt Rose tense beside him, knew she was making the same mental calculations. He hoped she would be smart enough not to make a move. Not yet, at least.
“I want the journal,” Price said. “You’re absolutely right that my own formula is one of multiplication. It holds only when constantly renewed and, as the years pass, it has to be renewed ever more frequently. So no doubt Poe is right that now, counteracted, my demise will be swift. I’ll never be able to renew my own temporary longevity. But that doesn’t matter anymore. You have the journal, which means you have Poe’s half of the formula, which means I can finally have the genuine elixir of immortality I’ve always sought.”
Crowley shook his head, frowning. “It doesn’t work like that. To make the elixir that Poe took will take at least thirty days. Because it’s thirty days for his half, then more time for the combination with yours. You don’t have that long. You’ll be dead long before it’s ready.” Crowley couldn’t help grinning cruelly. “Isn’t that ironic, Matt?”
Rose sucked in a gasp, shocked at his effrontery. What was to stop Price from just shooting them now?
Crowley’s heart raced. He hoped he hadn’t pushed too hard. But he needed the man angry, rash even if there was to be an opening to save themselves.
Price’s face twisted in anger. “You petty, tiny, children! Give me the journal! If I have the recipe for what you tricked me into taking last night, I can reverse-engineer an antidote and buy myself time to make the proper elixir!”
Crowley frowned. “Do you really think that’s possible? Because I get the feeling you aren’t as smart as your partner, Edgar. You’ve always fallen just a bit short of him, haven’t you? Been a bit more unstable. I can see it in your eyes. You’re not so certain you can do this, are you?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Price yelled, spit flying from his lips. “I will try. You think after all these years I’m just going to quit? To lay down and die at your hands? Give me the journal!”
“Why don’t you use your witchcraft?” Rose said, understanding what Crowley was up to. Sarcasm dripped from her tone.
A crooked smile spread from one side of Price’s mouth. “Witchcraft. Such a misunderstood word. Such a misunderstood craft. I’ve watched the corruption of that perception over the years, and it’s made me laugh and sad by turns.” His anger appeared to dissipate slightly as he spoke.
“But you are a witch, aren’t you?” Rose pressed.
Price’s eyes narrowed a moment, and Crowley thought the man was deciding whether to talk or not. He was angry, all he wanted was the journal, but he was plainly narcissistic too. How could he not be, given his killing hundreds of people to extend his own existence?
“I was once a Witchfinder, in Massachusetts,” Price said. Crowley smiled softly, pleased the man had given in to his selfishness. The longer he went without shooting, the less likely he was to fire. “I was the most zealous,” Price went on. “Then I saw something that changed my life. I had rooted out and exposed numerous covens, dozens of solo witches practicing their black arts, but most were simple midwives and herbalists. Some were mediums of varying skills, I suppose, but all were harmless. Of course, back then I didn’t see it like that. They were women of Satan, and they had to be hanged. We burned fewer than popular culture, or even the history books, would have you believe. Most were drowned or hanged.
“But then one night, in the course of my work, I tracked down a coven to a small house, deep in the woods. Far removed from the public eye, it took me a long time to find. But once I knew its location, I waited until I was sure they were planning a ritual. Catch them red-handed, yes? No possibility that they could get off the hook of my accusations. And I had one of my underlings with me, an apprentice who was shaping up to be a fine witch hunter. When we reached the small cottage, we spied on the coven as they were in the midst of a ceremony, and I knew I would have concrete evidence against them. Some horrific blood sacrifice, I expected. These were the real black deal, not some cunning woman with a knowledge of plants and folklore. But instead, I witnessed something incredible.”
Price’s eyes had glazed slightly with the recollection. The gun still pointed right at them, but Crowley noticed the man’s white-knuckled grip on it had eased somewhat. He didn’t want to pounce too soon, and honestly, the story was fascinating. But he only listened with one ear, watching for an opening all the while.
“They healed that boy,” Price said, his voice softened with wonder. “That child’s withered and useless arm was made whole and functional again. It was true magic, not some dark art. It was the holiest magic, the power of healing, like Christ with the blind man or the lame man. On the one hand, these witches wielding Christ-like power was both terrifying and blasphemous. But it was wondrous too. As I watched this miracle, my wife lay at home, dying from an illness no doctor could cure. I told you before that when I love, I love completely, deeply. I would have given anything to save my wife. The healing properties of the real magic of those witches sang to me.”
Price shook his head slightly at the memory, looking past Crowley now, staring into the past. “But I had my apprentice with me, yes? A promising young man. He didn’t see everything that had happened, but he understood enough. He was true to the cause and wanted to arrest everyone there. I was forced to make a hasty decision, one that would change the course of my life. I killed him there and then, and hid his body in the woods. It was the first time I killed.”
“How many so-called witches had you put to death before that?” Rose said, aghast. “It was far from the first time you’d killed.”
Price favored her with a condescending smile. “It was the first time I had taken a life with my own hands, rather than my accusations and evidence. Regardless, I turned then. The witchfinder secretly became a witch.”
“I should have realized sooner that you were a witch,” Rose said. “Even your company, SaleMed, has Salem right there in the name.”
“Yes, a bit of whimsy on my part. I first tried to learn their healing arts, but my skills were not the same as theirs. Something that worked for them would often not work for me. That coven would give me no secrets. No one would trust a Witchfinder of my reputation.” Price’s face darkened. “My wife died anyway.” His eyes narrowed, his face tightened. The pain of his loss was still evident, hundreds of years later. His love for his wife seemed undiminished by time. “So I devoted my life to fighting a battle against mortality, against death.”
Crowley couldn’t help the laugh that burst from him. “That’s ironic, considering how many lives you’ve taken in order to save your own.”
Price shrugged it off, his attention back on them, the light in his eyes sharp again. Crowley thought maybe they’d missed a chance to jump him, if there had ever been one. “Insignificant, unremarkable people who aren’t missed,” Price said.
“Jazz wasn’t unremarkable!” Rose said fiercely, anger making her cheeks livid.
Price smiled. “I don’t care. The knowledge in my head makes me more valuable than all my victims combined. And that includes the two of you. I only need one of you to tell me where the journal is, so let’s make sure we know I’m serious, shall we?”
He raised his pistol and fired.
Chapter 40
Crowley moved instinctively, shoving Rose to one side and using the momentum to launch himself the other way. Price’s pistol boomed, flashing in the night, and Crowley felt and heard the bullet whizz by his ear. Too close! Rose was smart enough to keep moving, tucking and rolling in behind a section of wall. Crowley matched her in the opposite direction, hoping Price would keep tracking him and leave Rose to get away.
To ensure Price did keep his eye away from Rose, Crowley launched himself up and away at an angle. He knew it was futile, there was no way he could cover the space between himself and Price, but if he simply kept moving, and kept Price’s attention away from Rose, that would be enough in the immediate moment. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rose running low, moving around the low wall trying to flank Price. Then the witch fired again and Crowley barked in pain as the bullet zinged his shoulder, tearing through his jacket and sending a line of fire across his deltoid muscle. He ignored it, hoping it as only a flesh wound. He’d been shot before and, while he felt the pain and the heat of the shot, he hadn’t felt an impact. Dampness soaked his jacket as the blood flowed, but that could wait until later.
Crowley ducked and rolled, and prepared to launch himself at Price in a suicidal last ditch attempt, when a figure flew out of the dark and crashed into their attacker. At first, Crowley thought Rose had impossibly covered ground right around behind Price, but her low run had been short-lived and she now crouched behind the cover of another wall a mere ten feet from where she’d started, hemmed in.
Price and the surprise assailant grappled, fighting for control of the gun. Crowley took the opportunity to run back across the rampart. He hauled Rose to her feet, intending to get them both out of there while they had the distraction, offering a silent thanks to whoever had interrupted Price’s attack. Was it a simple good Samaritan or someone else?
As the thought went through Crowley’s mind, the pistol went off again. Crowley couldn’t leave whoever it was to the fight on their own, and he turned only to see their rescuer slowly release his grip on Price and slide to the ground.
Growling in anger, Crowley was on Price in an instant. He grabbed the man’s wrist as he tried to turn and bring his weapon to bear once more. Despite the burn in his own shoulder, Crowley forced Price’s gun hand wide, grabbed the man’s neck with his other hand, and drove him back against the ramparts.
Price cursed, spitting fury. “I’ll kill you, Crowley. And when I get the journal from Rose, I’ll kill her too!” They wrestled, Price surprisingly strong for his age and rapidly deteriorating condition. Crowley ignored his ranting, tried to maneuver the man into a position where he could drive in a knee, or even a head-butt. “Then once I’ve reversed the effects of the poison you dosed me with,” Price went on, spittle flying, “I’m going to marry your aunt. She’ll need someone to comfort her after the death of her favorite nephew!”
“Will you shut up!” Rose shouted, her fist flying in from the side to crack into Price’s jaw. The man grunted in pain, his strength momentarily sagging away. With a roar, Crowley flipped Price up and over the rampart.
Price spun in the air like a rag doll, his high-pitched scream piercing the night. He bounced once off the castle wall, the screaming cutting short with a grunt, then smacked into the rough gray rocks far below and slid to a stop. His limbs were crooked, a dark pool of blood quickly spreading from his shattered skull.
Crowley nodded to Rose. “About bloody time he was finished.”
She returned his nod, and they ran to the fallen man and crouched on either side of him. He seemed barely alive, but Crowley was thankful he wasn’t dead yet. There was a chance. His face was very familiar. Under a mop of curly black hair, the man’s eyes flickered.
“Is he alive?” he asked in a weak voice.
“Price?”
The man nodded.
“No,” Crowley said. “He’s dead. And good riddance.”
The man drew in a shaky breath. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Are you Edgar?” Rose asked.
The man nodded subtly. “Edgar Allen Poe. A pleasure to meet you at last, Rose Black. And you, Jake Crowley.”
“Done your homework, eh?” Crowley asked.
“I’ve been watching you, trying to catch up with events. Only just in time, it seems, but perhaps you didn’t need me at all.”
Crowley let out a laugh. “Are you kidding? He had us like fish in a barrel. We’d be done for now if you hadn’t come along when you did.”
“I’ll call 911,” Rose said, scrabbling for her phone.
“There’s no need,” Poe said.
“What do you mean, no need?”
“I’m so sorry for all the damage I’ve done. All the people who died.”
“Price had been conducting his rituals long before he met you,” Crowley said. “And he would have continued to do so even if you two had never met.”
“Of course. But so many times I could have stopped him, were I only brave enough. But I always thought, what if I fail? And then he has power over me, and tortures the formula out of me. I didn’t know if I could truly resist him. He uses barbaric methods you wouldn’t believe.”
“Why didn’t you destroy the journal right away too?” Rose asked.
Poe smiled ruefully, shook his head. “All those years ago, when I realized what Price really was, the evil he conducted, I suffered a bout of madness. I was appalled, vexed, and I lost my mind. I sank into a blackness that lasted days. When I came to, I couldn’t find the journal, I had no idea what I’d done with it. I made a cursory search, but feared that if I didn’t flee immediately, Price would find me, capture me, and extract the information. If not by torture, then perhaps witchcraft. I had to hope I’d destroyed the journal already, even in my madness, but I could never be sure. Regardless, I destroyed my lab and supplies and fled. I’ve periodically returned, to search for the journal, to check for any news of its discovery.”
“Which is why people think they see your ghost sometimes,” Rose said. “They actually see you.”
Poe nodded. “So where is the journal now?”
Crowley and Rose shared a quick glance. “We have it,” Crowley said. “It’s safe. No one else knows we have it but you and Price. So only you now.”
“Promise me you’ll destroy it? It’s too dangerous. Don’t be tempted by it.”
Crowley nodded, looked up to Rose and she smiled, gave a single nod back.
“We swear,” Crowley said.
“Good. Thank you. Now quickly, get out of here in case anyone else comes along. You don’t want to be entangled with Price’s death.”
“No!” Rose said, digging in her pocket again. “We have to call you an ambulance. We’ll deal with the Price thing.”
“It’s already in hand,” Poe said with a smile. He held up a smartphone, then grinned at the expressions on their faces. “I may have been around for 200 years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a modern man. I called for help while you fought Price, my man will be along any time now.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Rose asked.
“I think so. I’ve survived this long, after all. I’ll report Price’s death, say the man mugged me here, and that he fell over the ramparts as we struggled, but not before he got a shot off into me. My man will act as a witness. Now please, go.”
Crowley looked down at Poe, his face ashen, but his smile in place. “Edgar Allan Poe,” Crowley said. “I can’t believe it.”
Poe’s smile widened. “Isn’t life a funny thing? But no autographs. Go!”
“Thank you again,” Crowley said, squeezing the man’s shoulder once before he stood. “For everything.”
Rose leaned down and kissed Poe on the cheek, then joined Crowley.
“So,” Crowley said as they started walking. “How have you enjoyed our vacation in the Big Apple.”
“Different to how I expected, if I’m honest. Maybe we should
try again.”
Crowley kissed her. “Let’s start over in the morning.”
They hurried away into the night.
Epilogue
On a quiet street in Salem, Massachusetts, not far from Remond Park, a man approached an old three-story house. The home was like others in the neighborhood, rectangular with an A-frame roof, siding painted a pale cream. Flowerbeds surrounded it on three sides. In the driveway stood a battered blue pick-up truck. The back window of the pick-up had a sticker that read, May Your Actions Be Returned Threefold. No one else was abroad in the darkness of the night as the man passed under the pool of yellow light from a streetlamp and walked between the pick-up and the house, heading for the door along one side.
He was a big man, well over six feet tall, broad and round-shouldered. His movement belied a kind of contained strength, but there was subtle grace there too. But as he raised his hand to knock, the action was stilted, nervous. The knock seemed strangely loud in the quiet street.
After a few seconds, the door was answered by a woman of indeterminate middle age, her long iron-gray hair tied back in a loose ponytail. “Derek?”
The big man nodded. “Am I late?”
“Not at all. But everyone is here. We’re so glad you found us, Derek. Please come in.”
Derek went inside, the aroma of sandalwood incense and coffee instantly apparent. The woman offered to take his coat, and he shrugged it off, stood awkwardly.
“I’m Glenda,” the woman said. “Come in.”
She led Derek into a large lounge room filled with floral-patterned furniture and polished wood cabinets. Six other people sat in the room, a variety of men and women, widely ranging in age. Derek saw one young woman with alabaster skin and long red hair who looked no more than twenty. The oldest-looking was a man with skin like wrinkled teak and a bald head who appeared to be at least eighty years old.
“Tea or coffee?” Glenda asked, gesturing for Derek to take an unoccupied armchair.
