Scent of a Witch (2 page)

Before her, l
ow
-
lying
evergreens
refused
to turn the
autumnal shades of
red,
gold
, and brown
displayed
by
the
deciduous
tree
s
towering
above
her.
The scent
of summer days fanned out in front of her like a mystical wood hidden in a city. The
promise of cold
,
crisp water beckoned
her to enter. That was enough to prompt action
and
,
seeing the blanket of soft grass
,
she slipped her torturous shoes off and heade
d
in search
of
the
water
she knew was there
.

A short hike and
a
tangle in some briars
later
,
Maeve found a cross between a creek and a small river. Her Patty would have
called it a crick from his southern influence
,
or a loch from his Scottish ancestry
. The familiar
lonely
ache found her once
again
but
,
before it
could
consume her, she pushed it down. Muddy brown and not exactly
clean,
the water wasn’t a chlorinated fountain
like
she had hoped
,
but it
promised
to be cold and the lack of an offensive
stench proved it was probably
just dirt coloring the water.

A dry grassy spot
near
the edge looked promising.
S
he hiked her long white skirt up to her thighs and sat
down,
stretching her legs and feet out into the murky water. An inaudible sigh of relief formed on her lips. The tension of the day released from her shoulders and she put her arms back
,
then winced
as the prick of razor
-sharp blades
assaulted her skin
. She
bit her lips
to
suppress
the urge to groan
,
unwilling to disturb the tranquility of the small parad
ise.

The tangle in the briar patch left small scratches goi
ng up her forearms
. After
releasing the burgundy cotton
shawl
tied around her waist, she bit the material
,
forcing
a tear
,
and
then ripped it the rest of the w
ay.
As she dipped
it in the water
,
she spoke an enchantment
and then patted her
cuts with the dampened cloth.
Ev
en though she was a trained healer and a witch, she couldn’t take away the pain. As the water ran over each scratch, it felt like the sting of
sharp
blade
s
across her skin. That was the way of it though
.
Sometimes
the healing
hur
t
more than the
injury
itself
.

There was no chance of infection or scarring
,
but the exposed blood of a Scent Witch was
like a neon sign for trackers…and with the death of her
granny,
Maeve
was the last one. Those in the world of craft and sorcery valued a Scent Witch highly. Every creature of supernatural or magical origin held a special smell
,
enabling the witch to discern what their powers were and to even track them if needed.
After checking to make sure each cut was sealed and she could no longer smell her
own
blood
,
she wiggled her toes and exhaled
with
relief. The sun
moved
closer
to its western destination
,
but Maeve still had time before the
errands
of the night called her.

With those thoughts came the buried feelings of l
oneliness and despair
that had engulfed her very soul. Just
the week before, she had been
studying in London
,
deep in
the catacombs beneath old buildings
,
where
she
carried out the duties of
a magical archaeologist
.
Then
the message
had arrived
.
Granny
was dead
.
T
he last member of the da Pa
er line of Scent Witches
had died. At least a
s far as the world of Witchery and Craft
knew
.

T
he non Gaelic
pronunciation
of
Cordelia’s
name was Power, and it was by that name
she
had gone for as long as Maeve could remember.
Maeve Power was
Cordelia Power’s
only heir
, the
child her only
daughter
had borne
.
But h
er daughter
having died
in childbirth
,
the care of the nonmagical child
had been left
to
Cordelia
.

Only it was all a lie…
a precaution, a protection, o
ne her grandfather Patty
had
created
, himself
a
powe
rful warlock of the Sweeney clan, the last of his line as well
.
Because of his magic, n
o one
in the world of magic
would know that it was truly Maeve who was the last of both lines
, t
wo of the most powerful and oldest lines in the world of sorcery.
That was
something she
intended to
correct tonight
. . .
on All Hallows Eve.

Fionn Hughes leaned against the
brick
building
,
shaking his head in frustration. Upon his father’s insistence, he
’d
traveled to this cursed century
seeking a prize that
had been
lost
. With the death of the warlock
,
Patric
k Sweeney, the powers of time sorcery
had gone
with him
,
leaving only the Hughes clan.
Fionn’s
father would be furious and terribly saddened to kn
ow that
Sweeney’s
wife
,
Cordelia da
Pae
r
,
was dead as well. While Fionn didn’t know the details, the marriage
had caused the clan’s centuries
-
long allegiance to
sever
. Fionn’s father,
Laird
Rordan Hughes,
was
soul
-
weary
,
and
Fionn
feared this might send his father
over
the edge to seek the afterlife.

Before fear could grip
him,
he decid
ed to continue after the
mortal grandchild of the deceased couple.
He had followed her from the Sweeney estate
to the
downtown
Halloween
festivities. If the mortals
knew
the truth of All Hallows Eve
,
they’d put an
end to the
commercialized debauchery
that occurred
every year.

Fionn looked up and cursed. The tangled mass of brown curls with auburn highlights he had been tracking disappeared. Panic bubbl
ed up in his innards
, but his
warrior instinct
dismissed
it as quickly as it appeared. A strict warning
from his father
to use his magic
sparingly
sounded in
his memory,
but he longed
to call
up a tracking spell. He offered another colorful Gaelic curse
,
causing an elderly woman walking by to jump.
After a mumbled apology and bow, he
jaywalked to the side of the
street near the food vendor
. The last time he
had
seen
her
,
the granddaughter
had been
near
the mobile
cart offering
saturated fat and processed food. Fionn preferred the simpler fa
re
of stews, homemade
cheese,
and ciders.

Unable to use magic
,
he took a breath and used s
kills acquired as a boy under his father’s guidance.
Offe
ring his most dazzling smile, he
set his charms on
a group of older ladies with low cut athletic shoes and fanny packs
.

“Good afternoon ladies.” He bowed and the three wome
n turned and giggled in unison.

“Where are you from shoog?”
a
sked the tallest one, a brunette
who was
obviously the leader. “You have an accent the likes I’ve never heard.”

“Why
,
I’m from Scotland.” He
offered her a smile but then quickly
continued. These women were ferocious when it came to gossip. “I’ve lost
track of the lass I
was with.”
Three sets of
intensely
plucked then re
-
penciled
eyebrows went up an
d
the tracker
knew he had them.

“What does she look like?”

“Where did you last see
her
?”

“Don’t worry dear, we’ll help you.” All sounded in unison in their
ages-
tarted accents
,
signature for the region. He couldn’t help but smile and
felt
a tad guilty for lying to the three
helpful
grannies.

“She’s about your height, long curly brown hair that
has
a touch of auburn highlights when the sun hit
s
it.” They sighed in unison. “She had a
scarlet
shawl tied around a long white skirt…” He would have continued
,
only the brunette started bouncing up and down.

“That way
,
she went that way
,
”
s
he declared
,
pointing down a dark alley in between two very close buildings.

The earlier panic reappeared
. Was the woman a
twit?
It was a night of d
anger for not only those of
Witchery
,
but mortals too
,
and walking dow
n a dark alley was most unwise.

Nodding to the
glassy
-
eyed
women,
he ran to th
e end
of the alley,
then stopped and kneeled
. The gravel was distur
bed
,
creating a slight pile
. Then
,
goi
ng in
a
western direction
,
every few
feet there was another
mound,
before finally it stopped at the edge of a wooded area. Fionn sensed a presence of power in the air. But that could be a combination
of the
coming night
and being so close to
the haunted Carton Plantation.