The Witchfinder Wars (11 page)

Because I knew it wasn't my dad at all.

Esmund Clayborne Hopkins was tall, and he
had blonde hair and dark blue eyes like my dad. In the shadowy
doorway, he had looked exactly like my dad for a single, horrible
heartbeat, then, awful hope was gone and he became himself.

Uncle Clay strode into the middle of the
room like he owned the house, the town and the state, had a down
payment on the rest of the country and was negotiating for the
world. Behind him came a lean dark guy, almost as tall as he was,
who looked about my age.

"Mother," Uncle Clay said with a brief nod.
"And this must be Thomas. How do you do."

He held out a hand and I looked at it for a
moment like I'd never seen one. I'd certainly never seen one like
Uncle Clay's. He had the longest fingers I'd ever seen, and the
forefinger was just as long as the middle finger. He wore gaudy
silver rings on both of them.

I stood up and shook his hand. It was
cold—odd for this time of year—and a little damp.

"And this is Kinsey. Kin, speak to your
grandmother and cousins."

I almost expected Kin to bark, but he gave a
general "Hello" to all of us. He didn't offer to shake hands or
anything.

Uncle Clay sat down in the biggest chair in
the room and stuck his long legs out in front of him. He was
dressed in a suit, expensive looking; Italian, I was pretty sure.
Kinsey, on the other hand, was in leather pants and a pale grey
shirt.

"How was your trip, Clay?" Grand asked in
her polite tone of voice I knew meant
I don't really give a
damn, I'm just being polite
.

I looked at her in mounting surprise. I was
sure, now, not only didn't she like her second-born son, she
actively disliked him.

"Fine," Clay barked.

"You're looking well, Kinsey. How's school?"
Grand continued.

Kin said "Fine" in a voice almost as deep as
his dad's but didn't even look at Grand. He was examining Jos and
Jax like he'd never seen little girls before and was wondering what
they were doing there.

"I don't believe you two have met the twins,
have you?" Grand said. "Girls, this is your Uncle Clay and Cousin
Kinsey. Joselyn Clarista is on the right and Jacqueline Cordelia on
the left, Clay."

"Girls," Uncle Clay said, then said, "I
think the children should be sent from the room, Mother, don't
you?"

"We're not children; we're almost twelve,"
Jax said in that huffy tone foretelling trouble.

"And you have horrible manners," Jos said.
"And you smell," she added thoughtfully.

He did smell, like expensive cigars and old
port. I suspected Uncle Clay was a drinker, now that I could see
him in the light. His cheeks were flushed and there were thready
red veins all over his nose and pouches under his eyes. He didn't
look at all like my dad now.

I was glad of it.

"Bad manners, Mother. I thought more of you
than that. But after all, they're just girls. Hopefully Thomas has
been better brought up."

I jumped up and stood in front of him.

"I don't like your tone, Uncle Clay. This is
our—this is my house, and I expect you to treat my sisters and my
grandmother with consideration and respect."

Kin, who was standing behind Clay's chair,
gave me a look like I'd just shrunk to three feet in as many
seconds.

Clay's long-fingered hands bunched up into
fists for a second, then I could see him carefully relax them.

"I apologize, Thomas. I'm...I'm grieving
too, and I'm afraid I forgot myself for a moment. Forgive me, will
you, son?" He held out a hand in a lazy kind of way, like he was
offering a dog a bone.

"I'm not your son," I said and turned to
leave the room. I was almost at the door when...

"Tommy."

Grand sounded sad. I couldn't help but
turn.

I hadn't heard her get up, but she was
standing in front of Clay, glaring down at him. She glanced up and
beckoned me to her side. Of course, I had to go.

She took my arm and held it tight; I could
feel her hand trembling in anger.

"Clayborne Hopkins, you will mind your
manners in this house, do you hear me?"

Clay rose lazily to his feet. "Yes, Mother.
I will." He grinned.

I did not like him.

***

Lunch was the most uncomfortable meal I
think I've ever had to suffer through. Uncle Clay tried to take the
head of the table, but Grand glared at him and pushed me toward it
instead. Clay just grinned a lazy grin and took another seat. The
twins had their usual chairs, with Grand opposite Jos and Kin
opposite Jax.

Kin gobbled his food like he hadn't eaten
all day, while Clay was—as I'd suspected—mostly on a liquid diet.
Both of them treated the maids and Brent like servants, which I
suppose they technically were, but we'd all been together so long
they were all like family to us.

I was not looking forward to the rest of
this visit. I excused myself as soon as I'd finished dessert and
told Grand, "I've got something to do in my room."

"Thomas," Clay began, but I interrupted
him.

"My name is Tommy."

"Tommy, then. I have a lot of very important
things to discuss with you. When," his tone got sarcastic, "may I
have the pleasure of your company?"

I looked at him, lolling in the chair like
he owned it.

"How about five o'clock? That'll give us a
couple of hours before dinner to discuss what we need to
discuss."

"I'm afraid that won't be long enough,
Thom—Tommy, not long enough at all."

Clay poured himself something brown from a
squat bottle he'd ordered—not asked—Sally to bring from his room.
He chugged it down like it was water.

"I can see you've not been told much about
the business. Spenser was sorely lacking in a lot of ways,
but—"

"I'll ask you to not discuss my father in
that way, please." I could hardly say the words; red anger almost
choked me.

"Sorry," he chuckled. Then he got kind of
somber and continued, "Really, I am sorry, Tommy. Remember, I lost
my older brother. It's not easy."

I didn't believe him. I was starting to get
the feeling Clay wasn't just not sorry, but actually glad my dad
was dead, and maybe even delighted.

I wasn't looking forward to talking to him
later, but if it got him out of the house sooner, then it would be
worth it.

"All right," I said. "Grand, I'll be in my
room if you need me."

I left the dining room before she could say
anything. I stalked across the hallway toward the stairs. The long
table against the wall beside the front door was almost covered
with letters and notes of condolence. I'd leafed through the pile
earlier then raked them into a bin and taken it up to Grand's room.
Now a new pile was there, bigger than the first one.

The ones I'd read all said something along
the lines of 'Sorry for your loss'.

They had no idea.

***

My room was starting to feel like a refuge.
I didn't know where Grand had put Clay and Kinsey, and didn't
really want to. Then I wondered if she'd put them in Dad's room and
I started to go find out.

But I knew Grand better than that. Dad's
private, personal stuff was safe from the other Hopkins.

I hadn't been in my room long when there was
a soft knock at the door. I ignored it, then a soft voice I knew
said:

"Mr. Tommy?"

Ray Lecroy, our chauffeur. I went to the
door and opened it a crack.

I didn't know Ray as well as the rest of our
servants. He'd only been with us a couple of months. He was a
stocky, compact guy with big hands, black shiny hair and a short
beard. He had on his uniform and I wondered why, then remembered
he'd gone to pick up Clay and Kinsey at the airport.

"Mr. Tommy," he said again, real slow, and
he had a strange look in his eyes, almost like he was
sleepwalking.

"What's up, Ray?" I asked as I opened the
door wider. "Want to come in?"

"No, sir." He shook his head slowly back and
forth. "No, sir. I just needed to give you this."

He looked around like he was worried someone
was listening, then held out a pale yellow envelope to me between
two fingers like he was afraid it was going to bite him. Or me.

I took it and—the weirdest thing—as soon as
it left his fingers, he blinked and shook his head and all at once,
he was the old Ray again, his eyes bright and a little
confused-looking.

"Hey there, Tommy," he said. "Good to see
you." Then he turned and went toward the stairs to the upper floor
where the servants' bedrooms were.

I looked down at the yellow envelope. My
name was on it—Tommy Hopkins—in a handwriting I didn't recognize. I
shut the door and carried it over to the window seat, sat down,
then opened it.

Tommy —

I don't know what I'm doing, or why I am
doing this. I'm sure you've got more things on your mind than what
happened yesterday when we met. But I can't forgive my rude
behavior to you after you stepped in. I'm used to being the damsel
in distress, but more like the one who is tied to the train tracks
and never rescued.

So with these words you have my thanks. You
will never know how much.

Sincerely,

Anya

P.S.- Please accept my condolences for your
terrible loss.

Anya.

I'd been waiting on something all day,
without even knowing it, and this was what I'd been waiting for. I
read it again, and then again.

A sense of peace fell on me for the first
time since that horrible phone call. I tucked the little yellow
sheet of paper back into the envelope and started to put it on my
bedside table.

But something made me stop.

I looked around the room for a place to hide
it. I didn't know why I didn't want anyone else to see it, but I
didn't.

Finally I loosed the inside cover of my trig
book and slid it inside, then taped the cover back down and put the
book on the bottom of my pile of school books.

I still didn't know why I was being all
Jason Bourne
about this letter. But I knew I had to be
careful.

Just in case.

Chapter Seven

Anya

The sun was brilliant, blinding me as I
pulled the stems free from the pile to my right. I grouped the
bouquet of freesia together and secured it with twine. The work was
a fair exchange for Evie's promise not to tell Ivy I was playing
hooky, so I did my chore without complaint.

There was no way I was going to school so
soon after what happened yesterday. Principal Fisher was going to
have to find somebody else to clean up that mess if he wanted it
done so badly.

Maybe the work itself was the reason for my
splendid mood as I hummed along to a song I didn't know the words
to. Or perhaps it was the fact I was basking in the sun. Whatever
the reason, the clouds which had often marred my happiness were
gone. I felt better than I had in ages.

I knotted the twine tight against the stems
and wrapped the bundle in waxed paper for storage during the
winter. This was a task Evie hated more than anything, since it
represented the end of her precious flowers for a season. These
were on their way to being dried, chopped, and put in marked Mason
jars when I got finished separating them. But I was enjoying the
sun too much, moving too slowly. I was sure I would be doing this
same thing tomorrow.

It had to be done. Stores for witch supplies
existed only online to us Southerners, so we grew our own herbs.
Everything else was bought from the few stores Ivy and Evie trusted
on the Internet, ones run by 'true' witches instead of the dabblers
who had sprung up in recent years. These were the same stores Evie
sold her excess herbs to if Ivy's paycheck didn't cover our
expenses. More often than not, Evie was selling more than
saving.

I labeled the bundle and tossed it on top of
the others in the awaiting basket. Then I heard that voice sing in
my ear.

He's coming.

A light fluttering played in the base of my
stomach as I gathered up another bundle. Lavender this time.

Thanks for the warning. But he's not
coming.

I chuckled as I tied the flowers up. I
hadn't heard from Tommy since Monday. Now, it was Friday and his
lack of response to my letter had brought me down to earth.

Wednesday had been agony. I was sure the
uniformed man I had charmed would come to his senses and tell
everyone he knew I had put a spell on him. Silence followed on
Thursday, and when I awoke this morning, I knew I was safe.

I came to the only conclusion that made any
sense. Magic just wasn't in my system like it was in Ivy and Evie.
Maybe it decided to skip the more tech-ridden member of the family
for someone with something special to offer. Someone more willing
to believe.

No, my imagination had simply taken hold of
my common sense and thrown it out the window. Completely
understandable after my encounter with Jordan. I must have gone
into some kinda victim regression or something.

But by recognizing my own insanity, I felt I
could stop it. I had stopped it.

The purr of an engine broke through the
tranquil morning. My shock was instantaneous as I looked up to see
the green sports car pulling to a stop in the drive.

Told you so.

The voice was smug as I recovered my senses,
dropping the bundle on the small table set up for my work to brush
my hands off on my jeans. The light flannel shirt I wore was
straight, so I turned my focus on pulling out the stray leaves and
petals had worked their way up into my ponytail. The last thought I
had time for was a brief worry my time out in the sun had started
to toast my skin with sunburn, but I couldn't feel anything.

Not that I had time to worry about it now
anyway.

Tommy's lean frame unfolded from the car and
he stood there for a moment to watch me. I walked up the small gate
granting entry to the gardens to let him in. I felt the smile on my
face unmistakably brighten as he began his approach. The pull
toward him was automatic, stronger than ever, and I was silent in
my thanks to the Goddess for granting my wish.