T*Witches: The Witch Hunters (7 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SCENT OF EVIL

“Alex!” Cam burst into their room.

“Yo, take it down a thousand. I can hear you,” Dylan shouted from under Cam’s headphones. “When did you get here? Where’d you go?”

“Never mind that. Take off those headphones. They’re mine. And where’s Alex?”

“Whew. Not too stingy, are you?” Dylan said sourly, slipping off the phones. “She’s out looking for you.”

“When did she leave?” Cam asked, alarmed.

Her brother fingered the headphones casually and craned his neck, looking up, as if he were concentrating deeply, trying to find the answer on the ceiling. “Hmmm, when? When?”

“Okay, take the headphones. You’ve got ’em. Take them to your room. Listen to rap until your ears blow off, okay? Now when did Alex leave?”

Dylan scrambled happily to his feet. “Ten, fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “Can I borrow a couple of CDs?”

“Why? Got more news for me?” Cam grumbled.

“About two vintage Pearl Jams’ worth,” Dylan confessed. “Jason was here, too. He left with Alex.”

She had to lose him.

It was their third time around Half Moon Cove. Jason’s headlights swept the fog-shrouded beach looking for her sister.

“My bad,” Alex said again. “It was just a guess, Jase. Obviously a wrong one. Cam’s not here. She’s probably at home by now.”

Getting rid of Jason was proving stickier than bubble gum on a shoe sole. Alex’s mistake had been to tell him, one, that she was on her way out; and two — just to get him out of the way — that Cam might be at Half Moon Cove. And what had the lanky dude done? Offered her a lift if she drove out with him.

Okay. So she had. And now she had to shake him and get on with the night’s nefarious activities. She had to get him safely away from her. She needed to find Cam. And the obvious place to look — without the Earl of B-ball
at her side — was Golem’s subterranean sanctuary. Cam was so convinced it was him.

“Guess you’re right.” Jason gave in at last. He whirled the steering wheel and pointed his car up one of the winding cobblestone streets that led away from the water. “Okay, we’ll head back.”

“You,” Alex corrected him. “I’ve got to stop at the school —”

“Now? Time check, Alex. The place will be locked up tight.”

“Telling time never was my strong point.” Alex crossed her arms and sat in the front seat, steaming at her own stupidity.

They were headed away from the cove, driving slowly through narrow lanes thick with summer fog, when something thudded against the front of the car. “What the —?” Jason murmured.

I second that emotion, Alex thought.
What the?
is right.

Jason had lurched forward. He was shaken, but okay.

Alex opened her door and jumped out to investigate. Lit by the headlights, something fuzzy and black, a big bag or rag or blanket, was heaped on the ground in front of the car. It reminded her of the Witch Hunter’s costume.

She knelt to see it better, to touch it.

It was velvet. Dark, but not black.

The cloth was purple. It wasn’t the sweet, soft purple of violets, Sara’s favorite flower, but a deeper shade like the sleep-inducing valerian in Ileana’s herb garden, or the vivid-colored berries on deadly nightshade.

Purple. The color of Sersee’s eyes, Alex remembered.

With foreboding, she lifted the cloth — and knew before it was completely unfurled that it was a cape.

Velvet. Violet. Like Sersee’s cape.

The feel of cold fingers dancing down her spine paralyzed Alex for a moment. Then she heard a tinkling noise, like icy laughter.

She spun around. But the evil young witch was not there. Only fog and pealing echoes filled the dark road.

No one was laughing, Alex tried to tell herself. More likely she had heard wind chimes. Lots of the “quaint” houses near the waterfront sported wind chimes and cherubs in their gardens.

Shuddering, Alex balled up the cape and flung it away into the darkness. Caught by a sudden breeze, the sleek fabric twisted and skittered across the road like a feral creature. It rolled through bushes, rattling trash cans in its path.

“What was that? What did we hit?” Jason wanted to know when Alex got back into the car.

“Nothing. A … a garbage can lid. It… it must’ve rolled into the road. Jase, go home, now. Drop me at Allen Street and please, please, go home.”

“But what about Cam?” he asked.

It was startling how good she was getting at lying. “I just talked to her,” she blithely replied; never mind that she didn’t have a cell phone or beeper with her. “She’s at your place. I mean, she’s on her way. She’ll meet you over there.”

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?” Jase asked a few minutes later, as Alex scooted out of his car.

Another smooth lie. “Totally,” she said.

She was prepared to throw a rock through one of the high windows of the gym, or to smash the front door glass. It wasn’t necessary. The back door, the one leading into the sports center, was wide open.

And there were cars in the staff lot. Nearly a dozen of them.

Was there a teachers’ conference going on?

Whatever, Alex thought. Her good luck. She and Cam were due for some.

She slipped into the gym, then dashed out into the corridor, mindlessly following the trace scent of Cam’s ginger-tea shampoo. As she’d guessed, it led her toward the fire door to the basement, to Golem World.

Should she hurry down the stairs to find Cam, or check out the classroom that her delicate new tracking instinct told her might be the Witch Hunter’s true lair?

As if to settle the dilemma, another smell, familiar and frightening, singed her nostrils. A repulsive and grating brew of odors: iodine, garlic, sulfuric acid, rubbing alcohol — all swirling in a burnt milk stench.

Alex turned away from the basement door and followed her nose. And her intuition. They led her, as she had thought they might, down the deserted corridor, past the senior lockers, to the door of Mr. Spenser’s classroom.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A COVEN OF HUNTERS

Through the frosted-glass pane, Alex could make out dark shapes: a group of people milling near the blackboard. She pushed the door gently. And might as well have kicked it in. The un-lubed hinges squealed. Everyone in the room turned toward the sound. The door was abruptly yanked open. And Alex faced the Witch Hunter.

Times ten.

Pandemonium broke out as an army of black-robed figures caught sight of her. Some pulled up their hoods, panicked. Others stared at her with terrifying malice.

At the blackboard, Mr. Spenser shook off his hood and glared at Alex. “I would say, what a surprise,” he crooned, “except that nothing you and your kind do surprises
me anymore. Come in, Ms. Fielding.” He beckoned her with a hand still clasping chalk.

On the blackboard behind him, Alex saw her name. Hers and Cam’s and … Sukari’s. Each was enclosed in a chalked circle. Lines, like balloon strings, led from their names to a single oversized word: witches!

“Sukari? Wake up and smell the mocha java,” Alex blurted. “I know Sukari Woodward. And she’s no witch.”

“Grab her,” Spenser ordered.

Two of the mob seized her arms and dragged her toward him. A third costumed creep prodded her forward. Spenser snapped on a pair of sterile gloves before he touched her. His large, skinny hand was cold on the back of her neck. His fingers reached around to clamp her jugular.

“This is what we’re about,” he announced. “This innocent-looking child —”

Alex had never heard herself described that way. She felt like giggling. Except that his claws were pinching her neck. And that was no laughing matter. She shook her head but he only squeezed harder. Which angered more than scared her.

“This mere fourteen-year-old —”

“Fifteen,” Alex shot back. “Sixteen in October. Halloween, actually. You guys want to come to my party? I mean, you’re dressed for it.”

One of the men who had Alex’s arm shook her. “Witchling, be silent!”

“Witchling?” Alex couldn’t help it. “Where are you guys from, the SciFi channel?”

“Silence,” Spenser railed predictably. “The bewitched girls of Salem were mere children, too. As was my own adopted daughter!”

His daughter? This was news. She hadn’t thought about Spenser having kids. Why would she? She hadn’t thought of him at all until Sukari started getting all flustered around him.

No wonder Suke had flipped out. The weirdo thought she was a witch.

Alex tried to turn to look over her shoulder at Mr. Spenser, but he kept her facing out, displaying her to his pals like a freak-show exhibit. She’d wanted to check his expression, to see whether he’d heard her think of him as a weirdo.

Interesting, she thought now. He can’t read minds. He has no real power. Just that dumb robe and funky hood to hide behind.

There was still no reaction from him. Which comforted her. Still, she wished he’d let go of her neck. “Can I ask you something?” she said, as if they were in class together and she didn’t understand a formula he’d just drawn on the board. “What’s your issue with witches? I
mean, how come you hate them so much? Why are you coming after us
now
?”

There was a hue and cry in the room. “Witches are the devil’s spawn!” someone shouted. “They recruit the innocent!” This from another Halloweenie. “They eat children!”

“Well, the school cafeteria does serve some obscure meats, but I wouldn’t go that far.” Alex tried not to laugh.

“This is not a joke,” Spenser announced. Alex finally wriggled around to look at him. His eyes narrowed. He was staring at her as if she were a frog waiting to be dissected. Which did not comfort her.

While his cohorts shouted out their grievances against witches and warlocks, Alex tried to make sense of what she’d heard. Okay. Mr. Spenser had a daughter. The adopted girl was — or had been — a witch? Like us, Alex thought, like Cam and me. But weren’t fledglings supposed to be adopted by Sensitives?

So that was it, she concluded. Mr. Spenser was a Sensitive. That’s how he’d picked up their vibes in the first place. He didn’t actually know they were witches. He was guessing.

And what about this daughter of his? Had he harmed her? Killed her? Did the man hate witches so much that he’d destroyed the one he was supposed to take care of?

Sorry, Artemis,
a recognizable voice said.
It was
I
who destroyed
him.

Alex shuddered. “Sersee?” she asked cautiously.

A chill went through the room. It was as if something cold and invisible had circled the lab in a rush. Capes flared. Hair fluttered. Alex felt her bare arms erupt in goose bumps. But no one and nothing was visible. Not to her. And definitely not to the coven of witch hunters. Looking stupefied, stumped, they were watching Spenser.

He whirled Alex around and stared intently at her. “How do you know that name?” he demanded.

Where was that quick creative tongue when she needed it, Alex thought desperately. Okay, the guy couldn’t read her mind. Couldn’t frizzle her hair with his eyeballs. Probably didn’t know a charm from an incantation. But that didn’t mean that he and his after-school mates weren’t dangerously deranged.

“Sersee. You said ‘Sersee,’ didn’t you?” the science teacher shouted.

“She did. I heard her.” One of the bug-eyed witch busters pointed at Alex.

Sersee, the despicable little demon who’d held them captive on Coventry, was Mr. Spenser’s daughter? Alex was floored.

“Answer, witch!” he railed at her.

“Answer or die!” One of the men in the crowd,
short, round, bald, with a wispy mustache, threw back his cloak and drew a hunting knife from a tooled leather holder on his belt.

The holster had probably netted Tweedle-dee an A in shop. “Are you serious?” Alex blurted at the belligerent boob.

“If he’s not, I am,” another knife-wielding, robed fiend offered.

No. Don’t.
The order came directly from the boss. Only Spenser hadn’t bothered to say it aloud. He’d thought it. And after that, Alex picked up on another thought of his.
This is going too far.

Our job is to expose, not to execute. Don’t they understand, we must not become like them.

Yo, Harpo!
Alex sent a desperate message to the science teacher.
Say it aloud, okay?

No dice. Spenser hadn’t heard her thought memo. He couldn’t. He wasn’t a witch. But Sersee was. And she, apparently, had intercepted Alex’s anxious request. And was now cackling with cruel delight.

“How do you know my daughter?!” Spenser was shaking her again.

“Ask her yourself,” Alex shouted back. “She’s here.”

Spenser was losing it — if someone who was already certifiably crazy had anything left to lose, Alex thought. Fact was, his precious daughter
was
there.
Somewhere. She was making her taunting presence felt every way but visibly.

There was that nasty cackle and the cape Alex had found in front of Jason’s car. The scary rush of wind through the lab. And most of all, Alex knew she had not hallucinated it. She had heard the despicable girl speak a minute ago.
It was
I
who destroyed
him, Sersee had bragged.

“Answer me, witch! How do you know my lost daughter?!” Spenser shook her so hard she could feel her brain rattling in its pan. But jolted as she was, Alex’s eyes could still focus on the metallic glint of knives pointed at her.

Where was her weapon-melting sister when she needed her?

The question brought another malicious cackle from the out-of-sight skank.

Skank?
Sersee silently roared.

Skank, scuzz, loser, miserable misfit, rebellious little reject, daughter of a wack-job witch hunter,
Alex thought deliberately, trying to smoke the violet-eyed troublemaker out into the open.

One of the jars on Spenser’s shelves exploded. It was the one that had held some nameless organism that looked like a giant, peeled garlic bobbing in phlegm. Out of that noxious ooze, appropriately enough it seemed to
Alex, Sersee appeared — a monstrous lab experiment gone wrong.

“Kill her!” the furious witch ordered. “Call yourselves witch hunters? Ha!”

Spenser leaped between his crew and Alex. “No!” he shouted at last. “That is not our purpose or our right.”

“Right, shmight,” Sersee taunted him. “That was always your thing. What’s right and wrong. What’s good and bad. Well, you found out, didn’t you? Me, that’s what was wrong and bad. And you, poor papa of mine, you were always right and good.”

The cloaked witch hunters had backed away from Spenser and Alex and were cringing before Sersee, who was violently pacing, her robes flaring, her thick black hair swirling with each abrupt move.

“Illusion. It was all illusion,” Sersee screeched, turning on Spenser. “You were not good and certainly not right. You actually believed that I had murdered my parents. You never said it aloud. You never admitted it to me. Gutless dolt, I could read your thoughts when I was two! And before that I saw the way you looked at me. As though I were a dangerous animal and not an abandoned, orphaned child.”

Spenser’s hands were shaking violently. From where she stood, Alex could see the color rise in his neck … and drain from his face as he turned suddenly to
look at her. His mouth moved as if to speak, but nothing came out. It frightened Alex badly, more than the knives, more than Sersee.

She wondered if his wayward daughter had cast a spell on him. Or whether Mr. Spenser might be having a stroke. He looked very ill.

The other witch hunters noticed it, too. They began to point and mumble and chatter like treed chimpanzees.

“You were supposed to protect me,” Sersee shrilled at her father. “But you feared me instead. And that fear, your panic and dread, taught me more about myself than all the false words of praise you offered.”

Mr. Spenser lost his footing, but found his voice. He sank to his knees before Sersee. “Is that why you left me?” he asked shakily.

“What better reason?” the young witch demanded coldly.

“If you could read my mind,” Spenser said very softly, “could you not see, know, understand that, despite my fears, I loved you? Can you ever forgive me?”

“In a word of one syllable,” the enraged witch declared, “no. But I can’t waste my time with you. Leave here. Now. This minute.” She stamped her foot. “And never again toy with witches or warlocks. Never look upon their faces. Never dare call us by name!”

Spenser stood slowly. His back was hunched with
sorrow, his head down. As he walked out the classroom door, his supporters shouted to him, cursed him, cried out that he was deserting them.

Sersee spun suddenly, her hands extended like claws. “Shut up,” she commanded the jabbering witch hunters, “before I turn you all into rodents! You wouldn’t last long in a laboratory, would you?”

They shrank back as one.

“Weaklings. Bullies. You hide inside your robes while I exalt in mine. What should I do with you?” she demanded of the trembling rabble. “Rats are too daring, snakes too clever, cats too independent… while you are meek, stupid followers. Individually, you are nothing; only in a mob do you dare to act.”

One of Spenser’s men keeled over in fear. A second reached to help him but checked Sersee’s face for permission and thought better of it. “Tell us,” another begged, “what we can do for you? It’s not witches we hate. It’s just… certain kinds of … witches.”

“Oh?” Sersee paraded before the terrified man. “What kind is that?”

“Only the evil ones,” another man called out in a quavering voice.

“Evil ones? Idiots! What do you know of evil?!” Her eyes scanned the room as if she was seeking an example. They landed on Alex and narrowed, judging, appraising.

Alex shrank back against the blackboard, desperately trying to scramble her thoughts, her fear, from the menacing witch.

“I’ve got it,” Sersee declared. Glee lit her large violet eyes. “You want to taunt ‘a certain kind’ of witch or warlock? An evil one?” she challenged the petrified pack. “Well, I know just the brute — ”