Witch Hunt (33 page)

Thunder Eagle had always known strong protection. He lent it to Sylvan in the form of his shield. He also offered her advice.

“If Anita’s power over Denver is illusion, then you must strip her of it.”

Sylvan winced in pain as she stooped to turn the spit where the venison roasted. Thunder Eagle had been taking care of her for five days, and she was trying to repay his kindness by preparing dinner. “How do I do that?”

“Create a true image of her and show him.”

Sylvan eased herself back down onto the sleeping robes. “Like a photograph?”

Thunder Eagle shook his head. “Even photographs can capture illusion.”

“I’ve never seen Anita.”

“But you know her. Translate her spirit into an image. Then show it to Denver. It will be enough.”

“Rose said she wasn’t really ugly, yet I felt her to be totally repulsive.”

“Rose is not seeing her truly. Trust what you feel.”

“Why can’t Denver see? He’s not stupid. I guess he really is just weak.”

“He’s a man of vision. His world isn’t ordinary. That doesn’t mean he’s weak.”

“How do you know so much about Denver?”

Thunder Eagle packed the bowl of his red stone pipe with tobacco. “Because I am his father.”

Shock, then understanding, showed in Sylvan’s expression. “I think Rose still loves you.”

Thunder Eagle felt a moment of pleasure. “I never thought she loved me much at all.”

“Come back with me?”

He shook his head. “I have tried the white world.”

“You could help Denver.”

“I am helping Denver.”

Sylvan sighed with exasperation. “You’re stubborn.”

“Denver got that from me.”

He lit the pipe and said a silent prayer to the Grandfathers for his son, his son’s mother, and his son’s wife-to-be. Then he passed it to Sylvan. “Let’s make pipe for the Hawthorne family, as they are today and as they will be in the future.”

Sylvan smoked the prayer with him.

Finally, Thunder Eagle produced a hunk of gnarled wood, a piece of the root of a tree that had died of disease. “You say you can carve art. Make an Anita out of this.”

Sylvan took it and grimaced. “It’s ugly enough to work.”

“It is your power that will make it work.”

A week later, under the cover of night, Thunder Eagle rode Sylvan back to Montvue and dropped her off near Hawthorne Manor.

She was reluctant to let go of his hand. “Stay.”

“Go. And tell Red Fire Woman that I will always carry her in my heart. Until I die, and beyond.”

“My father is dead. I’d like my children to know you.”

“Your children will know your father through you, and me through Denver.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“I take no credit. I had no choice. There are powers that decide these things.”

Sylvan thought of her voices. She understood.

Thunder Eagle rode off and left Sylvan holding his shield and the ugly, misshapen wooden figurine that was Anita’s true image.

Quickly, she made her way to the manor. She let herself in and found Rose dozing on the sofa. She shook her awake.

Rose’s face came to life at the sight of Sylvan, and she reached to embrace her. “I was sure you were dead. Oh, thank the gods you’re not.” She looked around nervously, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Be careful. Things have changed.”

“What things?”

Voices, strange to Sylvan’s ears, came from the depths of the house.

“What’s going on, Rose?”

Rose’s attention was captured by the shield that Sylvan held. “What’s this? This is Magic Man’s. How …”

The voices were coming closer.

“What’s happened, Rose?”

“Your father passed over, and I can’t walk anymore — it’s all numb from the waist down, you see. And, well … how did you get Magic Man’s shield?” She pried it out of Sylvan’s hand to examine it more closely.

“So, the little
strega
is tougher than she looks, huh?” The woman’s harsh voice caused both Sylvan and Rose to jump.

Sylvan looked up to see the living image of that which she held in her hand.

“You didn’t knock, little
strega
. If you had, I would’ve told you that you aren’t welcome in my home.”

“Your home?”

Denver and two Mexican men followed Anita into the room.

“I thought you were dead, Sylvan.” Denver’s voice was a monotone.

Sylvan’s mind raced. She had to be cautious. “Have you decided to marry Anita after all?”

Denver nodded. His glazed eyes veiled the life within.

Sylvan forced a smile. “Well, then I made you an appropriate gift while I was gone.” She held up a leather bag and offered it to Denver. “It’s a figurine of your fiancée.”

“What kind of trick is this?” Anita gestured toward her sons. “Get the bag.”

In one swift movement, Sylvan opened the bag and pulled out the figurine, then held it in front of Denver’s face. “This is Anita. Don’t you think it’s a wonderful likeness?”

Anita screamed. Her sons froze. Denver blinked.

“What?” Denver asked.

“This is what Anita really looks like. She’s had you under a spell of illusion.” Sylvan shook it under Denver’s nose. “Look closely. This is what you plan to take as your bride.”

“Grotesque. Hideous.” Denver’s eyes began to return to life as his expression changed to one of disgust.

Sylvan pushed at him. “Turn around. Look at her. See for yourself.”

Silence seized the room as Denver slowly turned to face Anita. When his eyes fell on her, he gagged and lunged for the marble spittoon, where he retched. “Gods,” he mumbled then retched again.

Relief flooded Sylvan.

“So, the little
strega
has won, has she?” Anita’s voice shook the house. “We’ll see who wins in the end.” She took a few purposeful steps forward, and pointed her fingers at Sylvan’s belly in the sign of a hex.

Sylvan thought too late of the shield; Rose still held it.

“I curse your womb, woman. You’ll only have one child, and he will be a bane to those who love him. And all his children will die horrible deaths, as shall their children, too. Mark my words and live with the terror they invoke.”

Although Anita walked out of the room, and the house, and their lives, Sylvan knew she would always remain with them. For Sylvan’s womb told her that the curse had taken.

Chapter Nine

Summer

Montvue, Colorado

Melanie ordered her third Cherry Coke float, only momentarily giving thought to the awesome amount of calories she was consuming. It didn’t matter anyway, she quickly decided. There was no way to stop the expansion of her belly, so why try?

Melanie and her best friend, Amber, were sitting in a small booth at Happy Daze, Montvue’s only teenage hangout. It had an old-fashioned soda fountain, a drive-in hamburger stand, and an overall decor that was classic fifties.

“God, I can’t believe you’re preggers,” Amber said as she picked at her banana split. “That’s simply gruesome.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, are you and Frankie going to, like, get married or anything?”

“Don’t mention the emword. I’ve sworn off men.”

Amber reached across the table to give Melanie a consoling pat, and her long hair — streaked with a rainbow of colors — fell into the high mound of whipped cream that topped her breakfast. She stuck the wayward lock in her mouth to lick away the cream. “I’ve heard that before.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Well, I guess they are a lot of work. Since my sister got married she’s
aged
. It’s been less than a year, and she’s already had to start dying her hair to hide the gray. And my mother … well, look how shitty she looks after putting up with one of
them
for almost twenty years.”

“Shitty,” Melanie agreed.

“Then, no matter how hard my sister tries to keep the place fixed up, you go to visit her and there’s all this grody manslime — you know, stinky socks on the floor, greasy motorcycle parts in the kitchen sink, dirty car repair manuals on the
TV
. It’s truly a pukey state of affairs.”

“Pukey,” Melanie agreed, wishing that particular word hadn’t been brought up so early in the morning.

“So, like, are you going to have the baby Kirbyed or something?”

“Mine’s a fertility religion. We don’t just go and vacuum away babies. It’s not a wonderful way to honor the Goddess, you know? Besides, when we do decide not to follow through with a pregnancy for some reason, there are herbs and things we use.”

“Mmmm.” Amber smashed her banana, and then stirred it together with the ice cream and toppings into an unsightly mess.

Melanie sensed a shift in Amber’s mood. “What’s wrong?”

Amber didn’t look up from her project. “My dad’s being an ass about us.”

“Us?”

“Me and you, the rainbow kid and the witch. I never told him what you are, but with the preacher going on, he doesn’t want us to hang out anymore. Even made me go to Mass last Sunday — with my hair in a hat, of course.”

Melanie’s stomach turned over, and the nausea returned. “Please don’t let them take away my best friend, too.”

Amber looked up and grinned. “Dad says the alternative is Mass twice a week, and I gotta start going to confession.”

“With your hair in a hat, of course.”

Amber nodded, then shrugged. “I guess you’re worth it.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s it like at home these days?”

Melanie tensed. “The bitch-in-law is now a witch.”

“What?”

“Leigh went away and came back one of us. Someone — I can’t talk about who — changed her.”

“You sound angry about it.”

“My whole family is. She had no right.”

“I think it’s kinda courageous of her. She chose to stand with you guys. I mean, face it, it’s not the best time to be joining the ranks, you know?”

Melanie picked her glass up off the table and slammed it back down. “Let’s change the subject, okay?”

“As you wish,” Amber said in her formal tone of disapproval.

“You said you had something for me to check out?”

The ice melted, and Amber grinned again. “That new guy in town, Ryan. I got his key ring.” She fumbled in her purse to retrieve it, and dropped it in Melanie’s hands.

“You’re quite the rip-off artist these days.”

“Oh, I’ll give it back when we’re done. Actually, returning lost stuff to these guys is a great gimmick. Makes them feel beholden.”

“I’m sure.” Melanie examined Amber’s find, wondering how she had managed to get it. One of the keys on the ring was for a Jaguar. “Well, at first glance I’d say he’s not poor.”

“His family’s loaded.”

“Even rich guys produce grody manslime.”

Amber shrugged. “No big deal. I already dye my hair.”

Melanie closed her eyes and felt the images from the key ring pass to her mind; psychometry was her magical gift. She received the impressions both mentally, in a visual fashion, and emotionally. She saw the Jag — it was red — and she saw a home. It was modern, like those in the well-to-do Blue Fox subdivision up on the hill. “He lives in Blue Fox.”

“Yeah, I know.” Amber sounded greedy.

A kaleidoscope of colors and unique designs raced through Melanie’s mind, and she had to will them to slow down so she could better focus. It took a few moments for her to realize she was looking at art. In the bottom left corner of one of the canvases, she saw the initials
RT
. “What’s his last name?”

“Turner.”

“Your Ryan’s an artist. Pretty good from what I can see.”

“Ohhh.” Amber sounded orgasmic.

A feminine silver-gray tabby cat came to mind, and Melanie felt waves of tender affection and selfless devotion. “He’s got a cat named … Precious, I think. She’ll be powerful competition for control of his heartstrings.”

“That’s okay. I’d never — well, hardly ever — go for a guy who doesn’t like cats. I have a theory that if they don’t like cats, they deep down don’t like women, either.”

Women
. The Ryan in Melanie’s mind had an emotionally charged issue about women. Melanie tried to pursue it. She saw a girl in the night shadows, leaning back in the leather car seat, unbuttoning her blouse. She saw the plump breasts straining at the seams of the bra; the well-manicured hand reaching up to undo the hooks in the middle of the cleavage; the white lace falling away to reveal the tight nipples, straining for attention; and the utterly cold reaction Ryan felt. Melanie frowned.

“What is it?”

Melanie ignored her; she didn’t want to lose her concentration. She saw Ryan leave the car in distress and make his way to the grimy men’s room the retro drive-in theater offered its patrons. Ryan splashed cold water on his face and turned to see a young man.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” he said to Ryan. “When are you going to face facts?” He opened a toilet stall and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. Melanie felt Ryan’s sexual quickening as he followed his lover and slid the latch shut behind them.

She opened her eyes and shook her head to rid her mind of the images. She didn’t want to see, or feel, what happened next.

“Forget him, he’s gay.”

“Oh, no.” Amber’s fist struck the table. “No!”

Melanie tossed the keys for her to catch. “Better you should know right off the bat.”

“It might be worth a sex change.”

“I leave that decision to you.”

Amber sighed. “Well, when I went to church Sunday, we sat next to the McKays. Brett’s face has cleared up. I’ll try and grab his rosary or something next Sunday. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll discover him to be only a little kinky.”

“You’re such a fickle broad.”

Amber grinned and licked her lips. “Healthy. And incredibly horny.”

“Yeah, well, watch yourself. Look where that kind of mentality got me.”

They flagged down the soda jerk and ordered another round.

“Speaking of sex, look at what just came in.”

Melanie’s eyes followed Amber’s gaze, and she saw him. They called him Essex — just Essex — and he had moved to Montvue that past spring. Unsavory rumors abounded about who and what he was, and the town had not extended a hand of welcome to the unusual newcomer. It had been said that he was a white slaver, a drug dealer, an undercover spy — although what he might find to spy on in Montvue was never discussed — a criminal on the lam, and an international playboy in hiding from an irate husband. Melanie had learned to ignore the small-town mentality and its rumor mill. All she knew for sure was what she could see for herself. He was in his early twenties, he seemed to be independently wealthy from all appearances, and he looked — and dressed — like a British rock star. He even had the smooth English accent. She heard it for the first time when he ordered a Coke at the counter.

“I heard he just bought the old Snyder farm,” Amber whispered. “That’s like a hundred and fifty acres. What do you think he does?”

“Well, if I have to take my pick of the available choices, I’d bet he’s a dope dealer.”

“No, the worst drugs I associate with are my stogies and mother’s ruin,” he said from his seat at the counter. He flashed them a winning smile.

Melanie was flustered. “My, what big ears you have.”

“My, what gossipy natures you two have.”

His accent was nice to listen to; he didn’t have the same snooty tone as Vivian. It was more raw, more sexy, Melanie decided.

“Join us?” Amber asked, and when Melanie kicked her, she covered admirably with a mere grunt and a forced smile.

“Thought you’d never ask, love.” He moved to take a seat at their table.

“So, should we be nervous about your use of stogies and … mother’s what?”

“Ruin.” He pulled a half-pint of Beefeater’s gin out of the inside pocket of his light leather jacket, opened the bottle, and splashed some of it into his Coke. He offered the bottle to the girls.

“Not with a float. Thanks anyway.”

“Bananas and gin before noon? Putrid.”

He stowed away the bottle and removed a slender brown cigar from the same pocket. “Stogie.”

“You can’t smoke in here,” Melanie said.

He sighed and put it away. “You Yanks are a yawn cocktail.”

“I’m Amber Whittaker, and this is Melanie Hawthorne.”

“Essex.”

“Essex what?” Amber asked.

He ignored her. “So, Miss Melanie, I’ve been reading about you in the rags. Understand you’re a witch.”

There was no escape. “What of it?”

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, love. I’m from England. Over there the witches have a bloody union. I’ve no problem with it.”

“Essex what?” Amber repeated.

“Just Essex.”

“If you’re not a pusher, what are you?” Melanie asked.

“My family’s veddy upper-crust. Didn’t like my style and banished me to the colonies. Pay me to stay here where I can’t embarrass them.”

Melanie didn’t believe him. She knew enough from Vivian’s branch of the family to know that his accent didn’t jibe with the story.

Amber, however, seemed impressed. She issued her second orgasmic noise of the morning.

“Me and my mates are having a party Friday night under the full moon. Out on my farm. A couple of pretty birds would lend the landscape some beauty. Want to come?”

“Ah, would we be the only birds to be caged?” Melanie asked.

“No, just the rarest specimens.”

Amber grew pensive again and initiated another search and destroy mission inside her banana split.

“I know the town has some strange ideas concerning what I’m about,” Essex said. “I won’t tell anyone you’re coming if you don’t tell. No need to stir up a hornet’s nest.”

Amber looked up and grinned. “Now, that’s an idea.”

“Besides,” Essex said, “who knows what kind of trouble that bloody bloke Cody might make for me if he found out I was entertainin’ a witch on the full moon.”

Leigh had been a witch for less than a week, and already the nature of her power was beginning to make itself evident. She watched Adrian, who stood across the room from her with hands buried deep in his pockets. He looked out the ivy-covered window, and she could feel his longing. He was longing for his father with quiet desperation. His stance, along with the tiny golfing cap he had begun to wear angled over one eye, was a blatant mimicry of Craig. Maybe it was some strange form of sympathetic magic.
Act as if
…