The Witchfinder Wars (23 page)

I didn't feel like much of anything, and
certainly not remarkable.

Then I realized exactly what Grand had said
and I tried to form words, but the only thing that came out was
sputters.

Grand smiled at me. "Tommy, tell me; what
did you find out in your research on the first Matthew
Hopkins?"

No. Not this. Not another history lesson.
"Grand, please. I don't think I can stand this right now..."

She raised a hand to stop me, and I could
tell she was pleading for me to listen. "Tommy, everything you
found out in your research and everything Clay told you about
Matthew Hopkins and the business is true. But he failed to tell you
something important. That's because he doesn't know it. No one
knows it but Matthew Hopkins. Oh, not the original. Or, actually,
yes, the original, and every one since then."

"Grand, you've lost me," I said. "Too many
Matthew Hopkins." Then it came to me.
I
was Matthew Hopkins,
and we Matthews stretched back to the original in an unbroken line,
oldest son to oldest son.

Grand leaned forward, twisting her hands
together in her lap like she wanted to take mine but didn't dare.
"I know you've done the research, honey. You've found the accepted
story of the beginnings of WFG Ltd., and Clay has told you what
the, well, the
underground
section of WFG does too. But
there's more, much more; things your father would have told you as
soon as you turned eighteen. But he's gone, and so it's left up to
me."

"How do you know about this, Grand? You're
not a Matthew Hopkins."

"No, sweetheart." Her voice was so sad. "No,
I'm not. But I was married to one, remember, and mother to another
and now, grandmother to a third. Let me tell you what I've found
out, and then we'll discuss what happened last night. Whatever the
details, Tommy, remember this: whatever happened to your girlfriend
was not, is not, your fault. You had no choice in the matter; it
was destined, ordained. It was the curse."

"Grand, please, not you too!" I groaned, and
it was not entirely because of the pain in my head. "No more
witches! No more curses! No vampires, no werewolves, no demons, no
angels. Nothing supernatural, please! They're all fake. There's
nothing true about any of it!"

"Tommy," Grand said softly, "listen, please.
Pay close attention; this information will affect your entire life.
And it's true; believe me, I know. Two years before the original
Matthew Hopkins, the first Witchfinder General, died, he found a
real witch. A Chosen One; that's what they call themselves. Hopkins
and his minions found a mark on her unlike anything they had ever
seen. A scar, round, shaped like a full moon, with two connecting
half moons on either side. The Witchfinder Generals were ecstatic
about discovering this new mark of the devil. To them, it was proof
they were doing the Lord's work. He was leading them to victory in
His name."

Grand's eyes shifted down to her hands and
she took a moment before she continued.

"Her name, this first Chosen One, was
Bridget Sinclair. Oh, there is not much written about her in the
history books, only that she was one of the victims of the first
Matthew Hopkins. She was tortured, confessed to being a witch, and
sentenced to die. But she, her history, has made an enormous impact
on the Hopkins family in all the years since her death."

"What do you mean?"

"When Hopkins and his men had her trussed to
the stake, Bridget requested to speak one last time. Amused,
smiling, sure of himself, Matthew allowed it. Her words were never
forgotten, honey. Bridget Sinclair cursed Matthew Hopkins, a
horrible curse. Matthew Hopkins and every first son that followed
would come to love one of her own—a Chosen One—love her to
distraction, love her and her alone...only to lose her. It is said
the only way the curse can be broken is when the love shared
overcomes all boundaries. Even death. And so many of your
forefathers have tried to shatter the horrible curse, Tommy, and
none have succeeded."

"But Grand," I said, not wanting to hear
more, not wanting to believe, "you're not a witch. You see? That
proves this whole curse thing isn't real, can't be real."

She smiled a soft, sad smile as she looked
at me.

"Tommy, I'm not your grandfather's first
love. I met him in college, and fell in love with him then. That's
true. But there was another girl. One he loved more than life
itself. He tried to protect her, tried to get her away, but the
company destroyed her. When he lost her, he...changed. He became
more like Clay. I was at school with him; I was pretty and
respectable, from a good family. That's why he married me. Not
because of love, but out of necessity." She shook her head and I
could see the tears in her eyes. "Remember, there's always a
Matthew Hopkins in charge of WFG Ltd. The line goes on, at whatever
cost. To any of us, I'm afraid."

My mind struggled to wrap itself around this
new information, but I couldn't; it made not the least bit of
sense. Then I had another thought.

"Grand, my mother wasn't a witch. And you
know how much Dad loved Mom. They were together for almost ten
years; that doesn't sound like a curse working, now does it?"

That smile again. Those knowing eyes causing
me to wonder just what they had been keeping from me all this
time.

"Yes, honey. I'm sorry to tell you this, but
yes, she was. Your mother was a Chosen One, but she refused to
practice magic for fear of the curse. When...when she died giving
birth to your sisters, your father threw himself into the only
thing he knew. WFG. But he wanted to purify it, take away the
monstrous side, find a way to do away with this horrible curse. His
brother Clay has been fighting him on this and other things for
years. And now, after last night's...event, it has happened again.
Your love; torn from you. A witch. A Chosen One. Oh, Tommy, honey,
I'm so sorry..."

***

The rest of the day passed in a blur, a blur
of pain and grief and, somehow, fear, though I wasn't exactly sure
what was left I could be afraid of. I wandered around the house,
reassuring the twins I was okay, visiting with Grand, being glad
Clay and Kinsey were gone. It felt nice to be alone, until I
remembered I was going to be alone for the rest of my life.

Anya was gone.

That night I first had the dream. Or was it
that night? Maybe it had started the night I found out Dad died,
for it seemed, in so many ways, I'd dreamed it a hundred, a
thousand times.

I didn't know anymore.

In the dream, I was running through muddy
cobbled streets unknown to me yet strangely familiar. Houses lined
the streets, half-timbered affairs whose upper stories overhung the
streets below, making them dim even in the middle of the day.

I ran, and knew I wasn't running away, but
toward something, something vital. It wasn't until I came upon the
crowd that the desperation took hold.

I had to get through them.

If I had to fight each and every one of
them, with teeth and fingers, I would make my way to the front.

For there, beyond them, was whatever was of
vital importance, the thing I had to get to.

Their focus was the center of the square,
for the streets I'd been running down had opened onto a wide square
surrounded by those overhanging buildings. As I shoved my way past
the jeering faces of the crowd, I began to understand just what it
was pulling me through them.

A thin silver wire. One that looked as
deadly as the guns Kinsey had been playing with.

A thin silver wire, just like the one I had
dreamed of, when I'd wandered into that small clearing and seen the
doll with the pointed hat—the same silver wire that had turned into
a glittering cobra and struck at my heart.

My eyes turned irresistibly upward as I
pushed through the final line of bodies blocking me from my
goal.

The pain ripping through my heart slowed; I
flung my arm across my chest and gasped as it tore at me.

Then, even as I was consumed in agony, I
took in the scene before me.

Annie.

Tied to a stake.

I watched in horror as a figure leaned in to
set a torch into dry straw. It ignited.

"Anya!"

The name was ripped from my throat as I
started running again.

She started screaming then. Screaming for me
to stay back.

To save myself.

But didn't she understand, couldn't she
understand—that was exactly what I was doing?

Without Anya, I was empty. Lost. Made of
nothing more than shadow.

The fires parted as I climbed up the straw;
branches and logs slid under my feet, slick with something trying
to keep me back.

My growl of frustration melded in with her
screams for me, but I made it to the top as my hands reached for
her.

For those green eyes begging me to let her
go.

I ignored them; I thrust myself against her
to grab her waist, then scrambled for her hands to find the
restraints, the cruel chains binding her to the stake.

A voice I recognized from some earlier dream
whispered in my ear.

This is your choice, Tommy. Do you hold on
or do you live a life of nothingness?

The feel of her lips crushing against mine
answered the question.

Anya was mine.

I was hers.

And I would do anything to keep her.

Anything.

I awoke with a groan still echoing in the
room, not entirely sure if it was from the kiss or the pounding
that had returned to my head. I swung my legs off the bed and I
made my way over to the window. I leaned against it, trying to
clear away the images in my head.

The smell of flesh burning.

Just a dream, Tommy. That's all it was. All
this stuff with Clay. Kinsey. WFG.

And according to Grand, a curse.

I wanted to lash out. To hurt them as much
as they had hurt me.

As much as they had hurt her.

Instead, I leaned against the chilled glass
as a cold numbness washed over my heart, filling me with
nothing.

***

The next day, I was exhausted.

Grand wanted me to rest.

The doctor said I had to rest.

The twins ordered me to rest.

As if I could. I had to go back, go back to
her house and see...what was left.

It took me a while. Clay had said he was
going to be away for a few days; that worked to my benefit. But he
didn't go right away; there was something about two missing
employees.

I wondered, hoped the missing were Bert and
Ernie. I wasn't lucky enough for one to be Kinsey; he was still
around. I suspected I had him to thank for the knot on my head, but
I had no proof.

One day, though, I would.

And payback is hell.

Even though the thoughts of revenge kept me
going, the whole time I felt like a dead man. Dead man walking,
dead man talking, dead man eating and trying to look alive.

But everything that made me want to be alive
was gone.

It took me until late the next day before I
could get out to my car and get away. I knew the way to Route Nine.
The old Blanchett place.

Anya's grave.

I drove up and got out. The nice old
farmhouse I'd liked so much was a tumbled pile of charred ruins,
still smoking. I could see deep ruts in Evie's garden, where the
fire trucks had parked to spray useless water on the burning house.
Behind the house, the old barn still stood, and I walked toward it,
aimless, wishing only one thing, knowing my wish would never, could
never, come true.

Then it did.

Anya ran out from the side of barn.

Anya, unharmed.

Unburned.

Alive.

Running right toward me.

The next moment, I watched in disbelief as
she launched herself against me. She threw her arms around my neck,
buried her face into my shoulder. Somewhere, somehow, in my shock,
I could hear her murmuring the words I could not; words that stuck
against the back of my throat.

"You came back...by the gods...you came
back..."

I held her to me as if I was drowning and
she was my only hold on life.

My only hold on sanity.

Time that felt too short passed before we
released each other. She backed up, and I wanted to grab her before
she could go too far. Her hand rose upward to brush against my
head, running across the short bristles of the new haircut.

"Tommy...you cut your hair."

Then her face darkened as she saw the knot,
the purple bruise all too visible through my pale hair.

"What happened to you?" she demanded. She
was so small, yet she was all the world to me.

"It...It's nothing. I had an accident. It's
nothing. But Annie...Anya..."

I reached for her shoulders as she looked up
at me.

"What happened to you?" I asked in return,
"I saw...There were reports of a fire. They said no one was found
alive..."

She shuddered beneath me as the rest of my
words came tumbling out. They sounded a lot harsher aloud than they
had in my head. "You didn't call me. You should have called me. Why
didn't you let me know you were okay? I thought you were gone— I
was so sure I'd lost you. Forever."

Anya's eyes flashed with something like
anger as she jerked herself away from me.

"Called you? How?" A thin arm gestured
toward the rubble that had been the farmhouse as her voice turned
bitter. "You are right about the fire, Tommy. But it destroyed
everything. Even the phones."

I could feel my anger rising in response to
hers. Or maybe it was all the emotions I had held in for the past
few days.

"You got a note to me before," I snapped.
"You managed then, didn't you? You could have done that again."

A sharp laugh escaped as she crossed her
arms over her chest, as if for protection. "A note? Oh, sure.
You're right. I should have just walked right over to Clarke Street
and given you a note. Just like you did for me, right? When you
didn't show up at the pond?"