Bitch Witch (16 page)

Paul groaned. “What about from a priest’s house?”

“A rectory? That’s a matter of debate in my opinion,” said Henry. “I’m not sure a man who gives up women fits the bill of having his priorities in place.”

“I’m sure that it would work,” Sarah said, and nodded to Paul. “I could make this.”

H
enry flat out refused to get out of the Jeep to steal a shingle from the rectory of a church.

“Sorry, kitten. I’ll get you all the shingles you want at The Home Depot, but I can’t steal for you, especially not here. If we got caught I don’t think I could do a credible job explaining why to my stockholders.”

Cautious in real life. Ruthless in business. Protective of family.

Paul crawled over his brother from the backseat, a hammer in the rear pocket of his jeans. “You know I can’t remember for sure, but I have a vague memory of him using that exact excuse when we were six and sneaking chewing tobacco out of Gramp’s toolbox.”

“Seems to me we both got a whomping just the same,” said Henry.

“Well, you were the older more responsible one.” Paul grinned. He gestured with the chisel in his hand toward the old man sitting on the front porch of the rectory. “You’re up, Sarah. This part was your idea. Remember? You’ll pay a little visit while I do the dirty work. Maybe you and Henry do have something in common. Anyway, get a move on. Operation Get-A-Clue commencing in three, two, one!” Laughing, Paul jogged across the lawn to the back of the old house.

Sarah’s heart slammed against her ribcage as she marched up the sidewalk toward the priest.
Why do I listen to Paul? Why do I need another spell? If I have to be stuck in a love spell, Henry is the perfect man to be stuck there with. Really, where’s the harm?

Kathleen.
The name echoed in her head.
And spells aren’t real.
Sarah shoved the thought of Henry’s old girlfriend out of her head. If Henry could do it, she sure could. As far as real went, Henry was the most attractive man she’d ever met. He’d dropped everything to come find his little brother. Despite being wrapped into a love spell, he’d even had the fortitude to call his parents in the car, and make Paul apologize to their mom for worrying her.

Just because there’s a love spell doesn’t mean he’s not perfect.

Right. Perfect OCD businessman with toenail fungus.

I don’t care about that stuff!

Since when?

The logic spell was definitely a good idea.

Plus, since we are perfect for each other, it’ll make Paul see that!

“Hello, Father,” said Sarah, extending a paper bag toward the priest sitting on the porch swing. “I brought some ice cream for the priests.” It was all she had. A pile of treats from the ice cream truck that she’d spent a fortune on.

“Oh!” The priest leaned forward, his wrinkled smile displaying a mouthful of worn teeth. He looked ancient, with wisps of silvery hair stuck to his smooth, freckled head. “What flavor you got?”

Sarah forced herself up the first porch step. “Um, well, all different kinds. Fudgesicles, Creamsicles, and root beer Popsicles.” She’d kept the banana for herself.

The priest clapped his hands together. “That sounds wonderful! I haven’t had a Creamsicle in years! Do you have orange?”

Sarah studied him, planted and tucked into the swing with a robe on his lap and a Bible beside him. Determination settled through her, mostly to be finished and get back to the car where Henry waited. She stalked up the steps and handed the bag to the old priest. “They’re all orange.”

“Sit with me right here.” He patted the wide swing. “Share one too.” He lifted the Bible and extended it toward Sarah. “Put this on that little table over there for me.”

Sarah froze. The cover of the book had been worn smooth in places, the edges frayed from use, and bits of colored silk markers jutted from between the pages. If it weren’t a thing of power to begin with, it had become one from years of devotion and prayer.

Once on a dare, Aunt Lily had touched an old copy of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. It had taken her a month to figure out how to repair her blackened hand. Sarah suspected if she took that Bible from the priest her entire hand would catch fire.

“Oh, I don’t have time to stay,” she said, holding the bag out. “You enjoy them with the other priests.”

“Do I know you?” He peered over the top of wire-framed reading glasses, blinking rheumy pale eyes. “What’s your name?”

He was still holding the Bible out. “Sarah,” she said.

He raised his brows. “Sarah?”

She cleared her throat and said quickly, “Archer.”

“Sarah Archer, I’m Father McCloud. You look familiar. Does your family go to Our Lady of the Light?”

“They don’t. I do, but I’m new.”

“Will you take this Bible for me, Sarah Archer?” Something knowing glowed in his eyes and Sarah took a deep breath.

It would be good penance.
She glanced around. A bird bath full of rainwater sat against the porch railing; it might work. She reached for the book and the priest’s left hand snaked out and grabbed her right one with surprising strength.

“I see what you are, Sarah Archer. Why are you here?”

She closed her eyes and battled tears; his fingers scalded her wrist. She wondered if her skin burned his too. “I’m trying not to be that anymore,” she said.

Father McCloud let go and set the Bible beside him, resting his hand on it. Sarah wondered if it soothed his blisters. His eyes briefly took in the red welts on her wrist.

“You have to give up your dark ways, if you mean what you say.”

“I’m trying,” she said. “I keep backsliding.”

The priest nabbed the bag of treats from her other hand. “Who doesn’t?” He peered inside the bag and smiled. “These look good.” He looked up at her, taking his glasses off and folding them. “Have you tried
asking
for what you need instead of taking it?”

“You’ll say no.”

Father McCloud dug a Creamsicle out of the bag and tugged it out of the wrapping. “That’s how the world is meant to work. Free will and all. Ask anyway.”

“I need a shingle from the roof of your house. I’ll bring it back.”

“What on earth do you need a shingle for?”

“I’m trying to break a spell, I guess.”

“You guess?” He took a bite of his ice cream.

“Well, it’s a love spell, and I think—no, I know—or I’m pretty sure I want to break it. I think I would love him anyway, so maybe it doesn’t even matter. But if I do this spell, I’ll know for sure if it’s real.”

“The church doesn’t hold with witchcraft and spells.”

“I didn’t do it. It was an accidental cast.”

“Accidental?”

Under his sharp gaze, Sarah shifted from foot to foot. “No one did it on purpose. It was kind of a mix up because of another spell.”

“Huh.” The priest gnawed on the ice cream bar. “The trimmings and trappings, spells and casting, are to get your head in the right place you know. It’s dark matter toying with you, moving your soul into position for acquisition. You’re being foolish.”

Sarah knew the priest was right, but she also needed to understand what to do. She needed clarity. “It’s a small thing. I mean, it’s not a dark cast, but I still need the shingle.”

Father McCloud rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. “You don’t, and the spell won’t work because they never do. I’m not giving you permission to use my shingle for witchery, but I am asking you to remember to bring it back when you take it anyway. I don’t want a leaky roof. Someday, when you ask for something you want, and it is denied you and you don’t take it anyway—that is a day you’ve walked away from dark matter. That is the day you’ve stopped
trying
to change and have changed. You may go, Sarah Archer.”

“THERE ARE STOCKS in the basement, and an abacus,” Sarah told Henry as facts about the hair care products he used buzzed through her brain.

“I think I might like a peek into your basement myself. It sounds like a museum buff’s dream.”

Nightmare maybe.
Standing upstairs in the open doorway, Sarah listened to Paul rooting around in the bowels of the deep, dark cellar. Far below her, the beam from his flashlight shone through the darkness as he searched. Puffs of dark matter billowed from the open door and shivers raced up her spine. Henry’s hand running up and down her back did nothing to soothe it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his breath warm against her cool skin. “It’s just a basement. Paul can handle basements. I’m protective of him, but this is nothing compared to what he’s been through.”

No it’s not!
“Paul, are you all right?” she called down the rickety stairs.

“I’m seriously creeped out, Sarah,” he said from the darkness. “Is that a guillotine in the back?”

“Please let me go too!” begged Henry.

Bi-monthly facials. Weekly massage. Uses organic moisturizer.

She shook her head at him and yelled, “Yes, Paul. Try not to look around. You’re searching, not exploring. Does your pendant feel warm on your neck?”

“It’s my cross, remember?” said Henry. “I loaned it to him, and I can promise it’s not supernatural.” He chuckled against her ear.

“No, well, a little, but it’s cold down here,” came Paul’s answer. “This is one deep skanky basement. I think there’s water dripping. This isn’t just dirt is it? I mean the floor is, but the walls are stone, right? I feel like I’m inside a mine that might collapse.”

“Hurry up, please. The abacus is right by the first post near the stairs, inside a pile of old laundry baskets. It’s red and white, see it? The stocks are about three posts back. They’re just the board where the head and hands went through and they’re leaning against another post. Just use your knife to dig a piece of wood out, and get back here.”

“Oh! Well, I see the abacus. Seriously, why isn’t there electricity down here? Of course, why would there be electricity? This was designed for creep factor, right? I think there’s a cardboard box of bones down here.” His voice sounded shaky.

“They aren’t human. Don’t freak. Just get the splinter. It looks like old weathered wood with three holes in it.”

“Yeah, really? That’s no help. A lot of stuff looks like that down here. And you gave me one crap flashlight. Give me a second.”

“Have you ever thought about growing your hair long?” whispered Henry against her ear.

Never again.
Sarah had cut it after they died
.

Running his fingers over the thickness, Henry smoothed the ends against her shoulders.

Wears silk boxers. Has chest hair waxed, and swears at the aesthetician every time.
“Henry, please focus. Paul is in danger.”

“In an old basement?”

“It’s not just any old basement. Dark matter is a real thing. Haven’t you ever been anywhere where you could just feel the wrongness? The potential for something bad to go down? That basement is so full of it I can hardly see down there.”

Henry pulled a face that suggested he didn’t believe her, but he hollered down the stairs, “Paul, are you all right, man?”