Witch Hunt (21 page)

Irene gave her a cold stare. “No. No, I don’t think so.” She took the baby from Arabel’s hands and left the room.

Arabel looked startled. “Tyler? Do you want me — ”

“Go with Mother,” Tyler said.

“Nae!”

Tyler followed Arabel from the room and closed the door behind them.

“Nae!”

Terror flooded Cassie. She felt cold and clammy. She tried to yell again but was too weak. She closed her eyes. She was so tired.

“Morrigan?” she whispered. “Sure, and you’ll come and take me to Mag Mell?”

‘
Tisn’t the goddess. You’re daft, child
.

“‘Tis the goddess, Da.”

It wasn’t long before the wings began to beat above the bed. Cassie knew She would come for her. She smiled and opened her eyes to greet the Lady.

A large raven hovered over the bed, only it didn’t have the fierce, proud warrior presence that was Morrigan’s, as described by legend.

Horror filled Cassie as the hideous monster swooped down to devour her.

Chapter Five

Summer

Montvue, Colorado

Leigh sat on a sandstone bench and stared at the charred, wooden skeleton of the cottage. The burned remains of Craig and Dorian had been removed hours before, but she still couldn’t bring herself to leave. The ghost of smoke remained, and she wondered if it contained a trace of Craig. She closed her eyes, filled her lungs, and held her breath.

Leigh, who for most of her life had lived on the verge of tears, couldn’t cry. Disbelief eclipsed her grief, and guilt overshadowed everything else. She had been angry with Craig about the fact that he had kept such an important secret from her. She hadn’t been warm or loving, and now he was dead; now it was too late.

The emotions that had filled the night echoed in the stillness of the creeping dawn. The children’s tears, the teenagers’ anger, Glynis’s hysterics, and Vivian’s catatonia all melded together in the throbbing gloom of the new day. Someone — Leigh thought it was Melanie — had eventually led Kamelia and Adrian away and put them to bed. Leigh felt a detached regret that she hadn’t been more attentive to the children’s grief, but she had never before known such pain, and it held her captive.

Someone put a coat around her shoulders, and she looked up to see Marek standing behind her.

“We came as soon as we heard,” he said. “Helena’s gone up to the house to see to the family.”

Leigh nodded.

“This is the beginning of bad times.”

Leigh thought of Craig’s intentions. “Maybe we can stop it from going any further.”

Marek shook his head. “Look at the holy wars in the Middle East. India and Pakistan. Northern Ireland. Bosnia. Religious persecution knows no bounds.”

“Maybe we can stop it from going any further,” Leigh repeated. She had to believe there was hope.

He sighed. “Maybe.”

“What about you? Do people know you’re witches?”

“They might now.”

“So, are you going to leave us?”

“No.” He sat down on the bench next to Leigh and lit a cigarette. “Helena and I left Poland to give our sons a better life. Through the underground of families who practice the old ways, we found the Hawthornes and a place for ourselves here. This is our home now; these are our people.”

“And your wife and children?”

“Helena chose to be a witch. She knew the risks. My sons, well, they’re old enough that if they want to run, they may.”

Leigh was confused. “What do you mean, Helena
chose
to be a witch?”

“I made her a witch, after we fell in love. I initiated her into the old ways.”

“That’s possible? I thought a witch was born.”

“Not necessarily. There’s a magical way to awaken power in another.”

Leigh still had so much to learn.

“You said maybe we can stop it. Does that mean you’re not going to run?”

Leigh took a moment to think about it. Of course she wanted to take her children and run. But Craig had lost his life in an effort to alter the course of events. Could she respond to his sacrifice by making no further attempt? On the other hand, what could she do to change things? She was a pitiful example of a warrior; she was timid and weak and fragile. However, what kind of world would her children grow up in — if they lived to grow up at all — if no one tried?

What else could she do?

“If it comes to it and there’s no other way to survive, I’ll run. But for now, I’ll stay and fight.”

Sergeant Cosworth’s coffee was bitter. He sipped it as he read the morning report that detailed the tragedy at the Hawthorne estate. He knew he shouldn’t feel a sense of guilt; there truly was nothing he could have legally done to prevent what happened. But nevertheless, he did. What made him feel even worse was that there wasn’t much he could do now, either. Dr. Hawthorne had opened the gate to the preacher and his followers, they hadn’t stormed it. And all accounts agreed that the fire had started accidentally, so there was no one who was criminally culpable for the deaths. But it sure as hell wasn’t right.

Cosworth had what he called “old cop gut.” And his gut told him that the dying wasn’t over yet.

He downed the dregs of his coffee, picked up the phone, and dialed the Hawthornes’ number. Maybe he could help them bury these two dead men in peace. If last week’s funeral was any indication, this next one would be a circus.

A heavily accented woman’s voice answered the phone. “Hawthorne residence.”

“Hello, this is Sergeant Cosworth of the Montvue PD. I’d like to offer the services of my men to help ensure the privacy of the burial service for Dr. Hawthorne and Mr. Wildes.”

There was a moment’s hesitation on the line. “Why?”

“Because, ma’am, it’s the best I can do.”

The sun was high overhead when Leigh finally returned to the mansion. The house was quiet, and Leigh wandered about aimlessly for a time on the main floor. She was exhausted, but didn’t want to surrender to sleep just yet.

“Mrs. Hawthorne?” It was Helena.

“Leigh. I’m Leigh.”

“Leigh. May I fix you something to eat or drink?”

She thought about it. “Coffee?”

“I just made a fresh pot.”

Leigh followed the other woman into the kitchen and sat down at the table. The room was bright and cheerful, and the air was rich with the robust smell of coffee. When Helena set the steaming cup down in front of her, Leigh heaped it full of cream and sugar. She needed to pamper herself, rather than fret about the million calories the brew now contained.

“Where is everyone?” Leigh asked.

“In bed. I had to give Mrs. Wildes some valerian root to calm her down. Then Mrs. Hawthorne, well, she’s awake, but she’s not there. I mean, her mind seems to have shut off. Can’t really blame her for wanting to escape, with all she’s been through in such a short time. And Miss Melanie was throwing up all morning, but I fixed her some alfalfa and red raspberry tea, and she was finally able to fall asleep.”

“You’re very kind.”

Helena sat down at the table and brushed a streak of ash off Leigh’s cheek. Her warmth and natural radiance made Leigh feel a little less desolate. She studied the other woman for a time, taking note of her luminescent brown eyes, her long mahogany-colored hair, and her strong face.

“You’re beautiful,” Leigh said.

Helena smiled her easy smile and put her hand over Leigh’s. “So are you.”

Leigh wasn’t self-conscious about their exchange, as she might normally have been. On the contrary, it seemed comfortable and natural. Leigh wondered if this was how it felt to have a sister.

“You going to be okay?” Helena asked.

“I think so.”

“A police sergeant called and offered to keep people away from the funeral. He wants me to let him know when it’s going to be.”

“Funeral?” Leigh’s mind was fuzzy.
Didn’t we just do that?

“I think you should try to get some sleep. If Mrs. Hawthorne doesn’t snap out of it soon, you’re going to have to get some of these things taken care of.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m sorry for you.”

“I’m sorry for me, too.”

The doorbell interrupted them. Helena went to answer it and returned to summon Leigh.

“It’s a Miss Diane Fox, a reporter with the
Post-Dispatch
.”

Diane Fox,
the killer dyke
. “No, I don’t want to talk with any reporters right now.”

“She said she didn’t come as a reporter.”

The coffee had revived Leigh somewhat, and she was curious. Besides, she was also angry with this Diane Fox. Would Craig be dead if it weren’t for the story she wrote? She steeled herself and went to meet her.

Leigh was surprised by Diane’s appearance. She wasn’t in the least like Melanie had described her. She was chic, with short, smartly styled platinum-blond hair, dramatic makeup, and a slight figure made to look imposing by an expensive tailored suit. She looked like a model.

“What do you want?” Leigh was startled by the harshness in her own voice.

Diane’s pale blue eyes didn’t flinch. “I came to offer my condolences. I feel badly about what occurred here last night.”

“Well, you should. You set the whole thing up quite nicely.”

Diane shook her head. “That wasn’t my intention. He said he’d get another reporter to write the story if I didn’t. I thought I’d keep it and try to write it responsibly.”

Melanie had said she had done that, too. Leigh softened. “So, what kind of follow up are you planning?”

“It’ll be a condemnation of Preacher Cody and his followers, an examination of prejudice and mob violence.”

Leigh laugh was bitter. “In that case, if I were you, I’d stock up on fire extinguishers.”

“Pardon me?”

“You defend us and you become one of us. That’s the way the game’s always been played, Miss Fox.”

As Cody crossed the bridge from sleep to wakefulness, he was greeted by dread. Vainly, he tried to recapture the blessed comfort of his dreams. He didn’t want to return to the world and face what had happened — what he, inadvertent as it was, had caused to happen.

The bright sun streamed in through the bedroom window and stung his eyes. He glanced at the clock by his bed; it was one o’clock — he hadn’t been able to fall asleep until dawn. He sat up, stretched, and rang the bell to summon his wife. Within minutes, she arrived, making her normally graceful entry, and set the tray down on his lap. She gave him a gentle kiss and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning.” Her little-girl voice was sweet.

Cody took a sip of his orange juice. “Afternoon, actually.”

“You okay?”

He shook his head. “Oh, Rachel. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I was just trying to …”

“I know.” She took his free hand and held it. “Maybe it was God’s will?”

He thought about it. God’s will
was
often harsh. He reflected on the deaths of Alan and Curtis Hawthorne in the plane crash, and those of Craig Hawthorne and Dorian Wildes last night. Then the words of Exodus 22:18 popped into his head. He felt as if a lamp were suddenly lit in the midst of his guilt, dispelling the shadows.
Of course
. It hadn’t been his fault at all. It was divine law that caused the deaths. As he considered further, a moment’s anger touched him. It wasn’t fair of God to make him the instrument for the fulfillment of His laws. But then, he had chosen the ministry. If the punishments were severe, that wasn’t his responsibility. A sense of oppression filled him. “Lord, thy will is hard.”