Bound In Blood (The Adams' Witch Series Book 1) (7 page)

“What’s wrong?” Drake asked.

I sighed, unsure of how much to tell him. “We got in a little bit of a fight earlier. I guess.”

Drake laughed. “A fight? About what?”

“She found me in the library and told me I couldn’t go in there.”

His face was open, caring, with soft lines highlighting his features. But his chin was rigid, firmly set. “Well, it is
her
house.”

“I get that,” I said. “It’s just that I found a journal in the library that looks just like my dad’s. I tried to ask her about it but she shooed me out and told me there wasn’t anything of my dad’s in there."

“Sarah,” Drake sighed my name like I was being stupid. “I know why she wants you to stay out of there.” He reached up and moved my hair off my shoulders, even played with one of the curls. “A lot of the old books are kept in her library. She has old journals and things from the first settlers. You probably freaked her out when you went in there and it shocked her. Did you give her a chance to explain? She’s not used to living with someone, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Drake’s attention flicked toward Rose and his voice faded to a whisper. “My dad even told me once that she has a lot of books about Wicca in there.”

My mouth dropped and my hand reflexively tightened around his. “Wicca? Like the witch religion? Is she, you know, a witch?”

His eyes flashed. “No. She was doing research to tie the old journals from the first settlers into modern and ancient practices. She wanted to find out if some of the villagers back in the day were actually witches. That’s probably where the rumors got started."

Rumors? Maybe that’s what Marlene was about to say at the diner…
“Did she find anything? Any proof, I mean."

Drake’s eyes shifted and he stared off at nothing. “I don’t know. My parents died before I could ask about it again. I haven't actually thought about that since the accident.”

I put my arms around him before I even realized I moved. It was reflexive, like catching a falling baby or breathing in the perfumed smell of flowers.

He smiled down at me, eyes creasing at the corners. There was a different hesitation to him. Not like he was uncomfortable, but like he thought any sudden movement might scare me away.

His lips parted. They looked smooth, like unworn silk. “Sooo…,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject.

A light touch trailed down my spine. My heart thumped in response. I wanted to kiss him in the worst way. To feel the soft touch of him on my lips, his muscled body embracing mine.

He cleared his throat. “Do you want to do anything else? Psychic readings, crystal balls, tea leaves, anything?”

I shook my head and stepped away. When Drake was around, I had to constantly remind myself that this wasn’t a vacation and he wasn’t going to be some sort of summer fling. “I don’t know.” I hesitated. “The rest of these people seem kinda out there.”

Drake’s eyes scanned the crowd and I followed his gaze, looking for a normal psychic. Realizing that was in and of itself ironic, I gave up.

Instead, I stood watching townies wait in long lines and shell out five dollars here and ten dollars there to learn things they already should know about themselves. Both the men and the women observed their psychics with bated breath as they performed their little rituals and made lavish predictions.

I even saw a man leave one psychic just to wait in line for another, clutching a picture between his fingers. I stepped away from Drake’s grasp and watched as the man stared down at the photo. My heart hurt for him. Was it his wife? His kid? Mom or dad?

Dad
.

What was I doing hanging out with a cute guy when I needed to be learning about my dad? I wanted to do things my dad would’ve done, and I doubt he would’ve enjoyed the touch of Drake’s hands on his back.

What was wrong with me?

Drake turned. “Hey. Do you mind if I go and say hi to Pete over there? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

I followed his gaze. Pete was a guy about Drake’s age with dark brown hair. He stood at a booth motioning for him to come over, drinking from a water bottle and flirting with a young psychic.

“‘Course not.”

Drake smiled and squeezed my fingers before jogging over. I heard him call “Hey” to his friend before I turned and walked amongst the Crazies all by myself.

I surveyed the crowd. People hadn’t dressed up like they had yesterday. Adams almost seemed normal. Well, as normal as could be for a psychic fair.

A cold hand gripped my wrist. I jumped and whirled, expecting Drake. Instead, I stared into Jennie’s face, dark and intense.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

The veins in Jennie’s forehead bulged as she tried to drag me behind a booth. “You’ve got to come with me.”

I tugged back, wrist burning where she was twisting my skin. “What is your problem? You need to let me go.”

“And you need to listen to me.”

I leered at the palm reader’s hold in disbelief and stopped trying to dislodge my wrist from her grasp. “Then you need to talk faster.”

I didn’t really have any other option. Jennie was a freak, yes. Weak? No.

“You’re in danger. I didn’t want to say anything in front of your boyfriend, but he…he’s no good,” she blurted, her whispered voice rising.

My first thought was to yell,
He’s not my boyfriend. God.
Instead, I rolled my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw it. He’s filled with anger…and evil...”

I laughed. Maybe not the best thing to do when a weirdo had a death grip on you, but I couldn’t contain it. “Do you even know him?”

“No.”

“Well, if that’s all you’ve got to go on, I’m glad I don't believe in all this voodoo stuff.”

Her gaze hardened. “I know what I saw.”

“Sure,” I said.

Jennie’s grasp loosened so I tugged my hand free.

“He’ll hurt you.”

I gave one last glance at the palm reader, remembering how just a short time ago I thought she was normal and turned to walk away.

A soft voice chimed from behind. “You’ll end up like your dad.”

I stopped and slowly turned. She must have heard Drake and I talking. Were we even talking about him? How did she know my dad was dead?

“I didn’t give you the full reading before because you didn’t want to listen. But I know things. Your dad died here, right?"

Her haunted eyes sent pings of dread through me. “Y-yes. He had a heart attack.”

Jennie laughed. “He didn’t have a heart attack. He was killed.”

The earth rolled underneath me, shaking everything solid and concrete and turning it to tatters. “What?”

Jennie’s eyes darted around the park, voice coming out in a hoarse whisper, “You’ll see, Sarah. You’ll see.”

Someone called out, “Hey…Sarah…”

I peeked back and spotted Drake walking toward us. My body relaxed.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

I turned back toward Jennie. She’d left. Gone. “Yeah,” I huffed. “Tell me. Are you the only sane one in this town?”

“Okay, spill. I saw you two talking. It didn’t look cheery.”

He stood next to me and looked around, eyes scanning the crowd, as if he were my own personal secret service. “What did she want? More money for the reading?”

“No. She was giving me one I didn’t ask for.”

CHAPTER SIX

Isabella

1639

Threads of fog weaved their way in and out of the dense trees. The cold, brittle branches snapped as Isabella walked through the forest. The rays of the moon barely reached the earthen floor, the high canopy of trees forbidding the light.

She shivered, but still she marched on. Her feet stepping one after another, searching for what her mind knew not of. She drew her nightshirt closer to her, swathing herself in its warmth.

From deep within the shadows, a light grew, reaching out to Isabella, beckoning her. Her pace quickened, body racking with cold tremors. Light meant heat and heat she needed.

A singsong voice floated along the fog to her, enveloping her in its melody. She was not alone. Another traveler sought out the heat in this damp night. She trudged on, not moving the chaos of branches that scratched her face, wanting nothing more than to search out the light.

The forest broke into a clearing. A small fire sent shadows jumping into the thicket of trees, reaching farther out into the dark. Breathless and shaking, Isabella stepped into the light. The heat of the flames warmed her in an instant.

A woman stood across the clearing, her back to Isabella and the fire. Her hands stretched high above her head as she sang a beautiful melody.

Isabella stepped forward, needing to thank the woman for the use of the fire.

The woman’s head cocked to the side, a small smile played against cracked lips. “I see you,” the woman said.

Isabella stumbled backward as the woman turned, the blaze flickering on her face.

Mrs. Shipton.

Isabella awoke with a jolt. She sat straight up in bed, her chest heaving fast and her aching, tightly stretched muscles begged for release. Her blonde hair so damp it clung to her neck and face. Her gaze darted around the cold, black room. Searching. Fog clouded her vision, disturbing her, but she finally locked on her target. The desk.

It glowed crimson in the early morning light that reflected off the window.

The door to her bedroom burst open. Her mother stood in the entryway, gasping for air, her hair wild and eyes wide like before.

Isabella clenched her bed sheets, tangling them in her fists and bringing them tight around her neck. It was time.

Tears streamed down her face. She knew she needed to be silent, yet they kept coming as sobs broke her chest.

“Dear Isabella, are you well?”

“They have come.”

“Who has come? I heard your screams.”

“They have come to take me.”

Mrs. Lynne flew to the bedside and gathered Isabella in a hug. “Oh no, Child. I came because you were screaming. Are you well?”
Isabella lifted her head to the desk. It did not glow. Mrs. Shipton was not before her. Her cries quieted. "I must have had a nightmare,” she breathed.

“The screams were terrible. I thought you were inflicted.” Her mother hugged her tighter to her, sinking that word through her skin and into her insides so fast that Isabella wanted to choke on it.

Inflicted.
On Sundays, the fearful word was hammered into her by the Reverend Samuel Ludington at the meetinghouse. It meant horrible, tortured, unfathomable things.

“But of course you are having nightmares,” her mother continued. “We are living in the devil’s hell. One cannot tell whether we are awake or if sleep has taken us.”

Her mother looked deep into her eyes. “Of what were you dreaming?”

Isabella tried to smile. She did not know what she saw or the reality of it.
One cannot tell whether we are awake of if sleep has taken us.
But she knew of infliction and of the images that conjured. “I do not remember, but I assure you I am well."

Mrs. Lynne’s eyes grew lighter and she sighed, smoothing Isabella’s hair from her face. “Oh, my dear, you scratched yourself."

Isabella’s heart thundered inside. She barely felt anything as her mother took the blanket from the bed and wiped at her face. Smears of red came away on the fabric. Again, Isabella was in her nightmare, running through thickets of trees, running through needle-like branches.

“Dream sweet dreams,” Mrs. Lynne chastised. Then her mother was gone with the wooden door shut behind her.

Isabella lay back down in bed. Her eyes wide open, whipping back and forth about the room again. Too scared to shut them. Too scared to be thought of as inflicted. Too scared to see again what she already saw. Mrs. Shipton in the woods outside her house.

There is a clearing to the north, for surely Isabella had passed it many times. Though never before had she seen Mrs. Shipton with eyes that glowed like fire.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sarah

Blaming parents for things was easy. Blaming parents for everything was easy, actually.

Being blessed with excellent memory, I could remember things back to when I was four. I could recall the only and exact time my mom and I ever discussed Dad being dead.

I sat at a desk in my pre-K class at Elm Street Elementary, head propped up, fingers tracing lines my pencil had made all day. The eraser-left-behinds were all piled up neatly in the pencil catch at the top of the tan desk.

I pushed some off the edge of the desk and peered over, watching them collect on the floor. Nothing. I bore a hole into my mother’s back. Still talking to Miss Marty. Not even a glance my way.