A Witch's Feast (17 page)

He scanned the shelves for two small bottles of dried flowers suspended in oils: wolfsbane and cinquefoil. These would get him to Charles City in no time. After pulling on a hat, he yanked open his door, stumbling down the stairs and into the chilly night. Salem’s streets were empty. It must be around three a.m. The air smelled of blooming dogwood trees—a filthy, human scent, like a teenage boy’s bedsheets.
 

He turned onto Federal Street, dragging himself past the dark and crooked timber-frame houses that lined the sidewalks.
 

What will George Percy think when I arrive, mud-spattered and trembling?
The old Earl had only a tenuous relationship with reality, anyway. Ruling Jamestown during the starving years had permanently muddled the man’s brain. Something must have snapped the first time the Earl had found himself feasting on a young girl’s corpse. Still, he was the best alchemist Jack had ever known, and a few bars of gold would secure his healing skills.

After what seemed an eternity, Jack found his way onto Witch Hill Road, and then tottered into a small, dark clearing that overlooked a shabby park. No one visited Gallows Hill. All that remained of this mound of misery was a little patch of grass off a bland suburban road—clumps of weeds feeding off the remains of accused witches.
 

He dropped his heavy bag, collapsing next to it on the grass.
Fiona must understand that the Salem Witch Trials weren’t his fault. He’d cast the spell on the little girls to protect himself from the Purgators, but it had made the girls insane. And the Purgators had seized their opportunity to exploit them. Jack had needed to play along with the whole charade to spare himself. How else could he complete his Great Work?
 

He rubbed his eyes, leaning back into the bag and staring up at the stars. The malicious little girls had even gone after Dorcas Good—or Dorothy, he could never remember her name. Only four, she’d been chained up in a rat-infested and windowless jail. She’d been compelled to testify against her own mother, whose bare, dirt-crusted feet had dangled over this very spot. Little Dorcas had made up a story about a talking snake—the familiar her mother had given her, she said. But she hadn’t been a philosopher any more than Jack was an angel.

Little Dorcas had been freed from the prison, but she’d never recovered, not mentally. Her testimony had sent her own mother to the gallows, and Dorcas’s fragile mind couldn’t handle the guilt. He’d catch her wandering around Salem years later, with wild clumps of hair that gave her the appearance of a wild woman. She still blathered about her talking snake. The talking snake was what she’d confessed as a girl, what had sent her mother to her death, and she’d never forgotten it.

He stared into the little pinpricks of light in the night sky.
What am I doing here? I’m supposed to be doing a spell of some sort…
He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. This was more than just hunger. His fingers dug into the hard earth, pulling out a clod of dirt and grass. Someone had cursed his body and his mind. His lungs rasped.
 

Was it Dorcas’s mother? She must have cursed me.
She’d been pregnant when convicted, and her little baby girl died in jail. Before the wretch was hanged, she’d raved to the judges that God would give them blood to drink. He could taste the blood in his mouth now. So sweet, like a fine Merlot. He rested his head on the ground, just below where the cursed woman’s naked feet had twitched. She had her revenge. She’d given him his blood to drink.

Through bleary eyes, he saw something white approaching in the dark.
An angel?
His lips were as dry as a desert wind.

“Jack. What’s happening to you?” It was Papillon. She fluttered before his eyes, her papery wings catching in the glow of a street light. “You look drained.”

“Cursed…” he croaked.

“Your skin is pale and dry. Like you’ve been…”

Maybe it isn’t a curse.
He tried to moisten his mouth enough to swallow. “…hagged,” he finished her thought.

“Who would send a hag for you?”

Any number of people.
 

Papillon flew toward the bag. “You must call on Druloch for strength.”

Of course.
He pushed himself up on his forearms, groaning as he sat up. He pulled his athame out of his bag with a shaking hand. He’d have to draw the symbol from this position. There was no way he could manage standing. His arms throbbing with fatigue, he listlessly traced an arc around himself, and then dragged it through the dirt to form a tree shape in the center. “Druloch,” he rasped. “Give me strength.”
 

When he finished tracing the symbol, tree roots sprouted from the soft earth around him. The air filled with the scent of elm leaves and decay. As it did, an electrifying power surged through his body. At the familiar feeling, a euphoric smile creased his face. But as he rose, his muscles still ached, and hunger still gnawed at his stomach. The usual ritual wasn’t enough.
 

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped a jittery hand across.
The damned succubus must have been draining me for weeks.
 

Papillon circled his head. “Better?”

“A bit. But I still need to see the Earl.”

Picking up his bag, he trudged across the clearing toward a stand of saplings, inhaling deeply. He should have just enough strength to make it to Virginia. He gripped a small sapling, and, using his newfound strength, cut its trunk with his athame. Laying it on the earth, he pulled out the jars of wolfsbane and cinquefoil. After unscrewing the tops, he rubbed the salve onto the sapling and then returned the jars to his bag.
 

He gripped the tree between his legs and soared into the air. High above Salem, the breeze whipped against his skin, cooling his fever. He would fly over the ocean, inhaling the salty coastal air. He was heading back to the nation’s origins.
Let people think of Plymouth as the birth of our country. No one wants to think of Jamestown’s ravening, blaspheming skeletons, feasting on human flesh.
Even the Earl hadn’t come to terms with it after four hundred years.
 

Tobias stretched his arms over his head as he walked the path to the river. A thrilling breeze rushed over the riverbank, cooling his skin. To his right, the setting sun dazzled on the water, and bathed the sky in honeysuckle pinks and oranges.
 

The colors reminded him of the lurid dresses the Swan Ladies wore in Maremount. There’d been one named Thistle who used to grab his hand when he walked past. Her cheeks were always flushed. Once Eden had caught him with her…
 

He shook his head. It didn’t matter now. Most of the Swan Ladies were probably dead, beaten or burned by Jack’s men. He gritted his teeth.
When I find Jack, he’ll get a quick death. Though he doesn’t deserve one.
He pushed the thoughts away. He wanted a reprieve from morbid thoughts, at least for a moment.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the mossy spring air. The breeze brought with it the succubus’s dusty scent, luring him to the bank. He’d summoned her here late last night, but she took her time showing up. By the shore, she shifted from her hiding spot behind a tree and crept toward him. Sweat droplets glistened on her pale skin. She wore her hair piled high on her head. A few wisps escaped, floating in the humid air. She beckoned him toward her with a ruby red fingernail that matched her lips. “Tobias.” She smiled in a flash of dazzling white teeth.
 

“You look well fed.”

“You weren’t lying.” She cocked her hip. “Jack was delicious. It’s a shame he has to die. I could have dragged that one out for a while.”

He stepped closer to her, his eyes roving over her skintight black shirt and leather pants. He forced himself to look into her emerald eyes. “Everyone has to die. Even Jack.”

“Not the gods, or the angels.” The wind ruffled auburn wisps. There was another smell besides ash. Pomegranates?

“So he’s weakened now.”

“Yes.” She paused, staring at her blood red nails. “But he’s not in Salem anymore. He’s on his way here.”

He stiffened. “Here?”

“He’s visiting some old sorcerer just a mile from here. And he wants to see Fiona. So I suggest you kill him in Virginia.”

The mark on Tobias’s chest burned. His attempts to keep his friends out of this weren’t working out as planned. “Who’s the philosopher?”
 

She twirled a strand of her auburn hair. “George Percy. He calls himself an Earl, but I don’t think he is one. He’s owned a plantation down the road for four hundred years.” She glanced up. “That’s all I know.”

Tobias rubbed a hand over his forehead. There was a familiar ring to that name. Was he the famous Wizard Earl? “When is he coming here?”

“He’s with the Earl now, I think.” She lowered her chin, staring into his eyes. “Are we done now? Are you going to summon me every few weeks when you need errands run?”

“I’ll save it for emergencies.” Before she could immobilize him with her gaze again, he turned and strode along the path back toward the house. He’d have to stay alert. It would be a lot easier if his crow were here. He’d send Ottomie to stand guard.
 

The sun dipped lower, and the trees cast long shadows as he crossed the grass toward the gardens. If Jack was coming to look for Fiona, he wanted to stay close to her. He wasn’t going to let another one of his friends die at Rawhed’s hands.
 

He ran his fingers through his hair. If he told Fiona what was going on, she’d only want to get involved, and she had no idea how to fight someone like Jack. She wouldn’t understand Tobias’s new strength, the power that surged through his veins now. He could take on Rawhed singlehandedly without risking his friends’ lives again.
 

Cicadas in the trees began to whirr. As he neared the statue, he glanced to his left. Fiona sat on a bench in the center of one of the gardens, a book open on her lap. Gardenias surrounded her. She looked golden in the sunlight, her curls radiating from her head like a corona.
 

She looked up. “What’s that look on your face?”

“You look…”
Stunning.

She glanced down at her tight T-shirt with a picture of a bear in a top hat. “I know. I hate these clothes.”
 

He smiled, crossing over the grass and taking a seat next to her. “It’s not that. It’s just the sunset is lovely.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“What are you reading?”
 

“
Anna Karenina.
It’s assigned. I think we’re being forced to read it because the main character is of
dubious moral virtue
, and then—spoiler alert—she has to kill herself.”

He leaned back into the corner of the bench, spreading out his arm along the backrest. “Right. I haven’t really been reading it.”

“What
have
you been doing?” She flashed him a fake smile. “Drinking blood with Munroe?”

He stiffened.
This again.
“I’ve already told you. I’m not doing anything with the Purgators.” He stared at her. “Do you think maybe you’ve become a little paranoid because your ex-boyfriend is a psychopath?”

She snapped her book shut, leaning toward him. “Jack isn’t the only psychopath. That could be a human being they’ve got locked up in the crypt. Thomas said the Purgators have been hunting witches since the Roman Republic. King Charles I and King James I were both Purgator kings, and they tortured thousands of people. They created the
Malleus Maleficarum
—the witch-finding guide. They burned and hanged thousands of innocents. And they might still be doing it. They’re worse than Jack.
”

He tensed. No one was worse than Jack. “I’m not in league with them. Munroe has taken some kind of interest in me, that’s all.”

“Some kind,” she repeated with emphasis. She opened her book again, pretending to read. Clearly, the conversation was over.
 

Maybe she was furious with him right now, but he planned to stay as close to her as possible until the muddy riverbank covered Jack’s corpse.
 

Dark clouds hid the moon outside. Fiona stood up from her bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting pink sweatshirt with puffy hearts.
 

 
Mariana sat on the edge of her bed. “Are you sure hunting around in the attic is necessary?”
   

“They told us not to go there. So, obviously we should.”

“Either you’re paranoid, and we should just stay here. Or you’re not paranoid, and the Ranulfs kill people. In which case, we should definitely stay here. Ideally, I’d like to finish my junior year alive.”

“We’ll be invisible,” said Fiona. “They won’t know we’re there.”
 

“Don’t you think you might be imagining things? You’ve been extremely suspicious of Tobias. Maybe he’s hiding something. Or
maybe
Jack made you a little nuts. And are you sure this isn’t about all the stuff that happened with your dad when you were a kid?”

Heat warmed Fiona’s cheeks and ears. “How is that even related?”