Witches (40 page)

Rebecca knew better than to question him. “Driver,” she rapped her fingers hard against the seat before her, “go left here. Not right.”

“Ma’am, that’s the wrong way to the address you gave me.” The cab had stopped at the intersection, the man twisted in his seat to look back at her. His eyes did a double take when he spotted Tibby as he scampered back into Rebecca’s pocket.

“Go left here. I’m sure there must be another way to where we have to go, isn’t there?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “We’ll have to go
way out of our way, but I know another route. It’ll cost you more, but, hey, it’s your money.”

“Then take it.”

“As you say, ma’am. You’re paying.” As he pulled the wheel to the left and the cab followed, he commented in his Cockney accent, “Ma’am, do you know you got a mouse in your pocket?”

“Yes. He’s my pet. Goes everywhere with me.”

“Oh.” The man shut up.

What was that all about?
Rebecca asked Tibby.

Demons again. Waiting for us that way. This way is safe. I think.

Thanks, Tibby, you’re a lifesaver.

Tibby chuckled from her pocket.
Both our lives.

Soon the cab braked in front of a tiny bookstore. The faded sign with the word ‘Fletcher’s’ on it in red flowing script swung in the breeze above the narrow wooden door.

Rebecca got out with her bag, paid the driver, and entered the store.

It was dimly lit. So much so she didn’t even see the proprietor until he stepped out behind her from a tall rack of dusty books.

“May I help you?” He had a soft rustling voice. British as they get.

She turned to face the man. At first glance in the murkiness of the shop, he seemed harmless enough. Not much taller than she was, with silverish, long wispy hair, going bald on top, a compact face, and the brightest gray eyes she’d even seen. So bright, they seemed to send off sparks. A bulky, sky-blue sweater topped a pair of dark slacks. An average-looking fellow. Until he smiled at her, and animated, he was transformed, almost cute, even though Rebecca recognized the depth of shrewd intelligence in his intent appraisal of her a moment later.

“You’re Rebecca Givens, I bet,” he stated without preamble and gently took her hand in his when she offered it.

Something like an electric jolt coursed from his fingers to hers.

Rebecca’s face broke into a surprised smile. So this was the warlock—and if Winifred was to be believed, the Guardian—who was to help her. Not bad.

“How did you know?”

He let go of her hand. “Winifred described you to a T. Even down to the all-black clothes. Rather fetching on you. I also saw a picture of you on the back of your latest book,
Of Witches and Warlocks.”
The man crossed his arms and propped himself against the bookrack next to him in a casual pose. “Didn’t care too much for the book. There’s more to being a witch or a warlock these days than doing parlor tricks and divining the future.”

That stung, but Rebecca hid it.

“On the other hand, you’re much better looking in person, if I can be so bold as to say so, and I have a theory after Winifred updated me on your quest, that underneath it all there’s a big heart.” Charm practically oozed out of him.

“Thanks for the compliments,” Rebecca told him mockingly. The way he was smiling at her softened the insult on her book. She also understood that Winifred had told him everything, that he knew all about her and Amanda’s difficulties, Rachel, and the demons who were now chasing her.

Unexpectedly the warlock said in a low voice, “Don’t worry, the demons can’t touch you here.” He spread his arms around the bookstore gracefully. “You’re protected. I made sure of that.” He offered the protection so easily, but Rebecca knew the strength of magic it must have taken to accomplish such a feat. The man had to be, without a doubt, a warlock of the highest magnitude. Level three, at least, or four. She’d never met one before, and she experienced a sense
of humbleness before him.

As Rebecca and the man talked, someone else was observing them from a dark cubbyhole wedged between two tall books. A diminutive bat like creature with crimson eyes and tiny wings was behind her. It attended her closely and made little clicking noise with its claws. It grinned, and razor-sharp teeth gleamed like pearls. When Tibby waved at it from his mistress’s pocket, it waved back. Old friends.

The warlock’s name is Simon,
Tibby secretly informed her.
Don’t let on I told you, though. And yes, he’s a level four. I’m impressed myself.

Simon laughed aloud, and Rebecca realized that he could hear her familiar. He knew. She told Tibby to hush.

“Familiars can sometimes have minds of their own,” the English sorcerer said to Rebecca, still amused. “I know, I have one just like him. Never know where he is half the time. Always getting into mischief somewhere. Sometimes I wonder who is the boss and who is the familiar. You can call me Simon, Rebecca, I don’t mind.” His slender hand disturbed the air between them in a delicate gesture as his face grew serious. “I know you’re one of us, a friend. Can I see the book?” His eyes were suddenly mesmerizing as he waited with outstretched palm.

Rebecca took it from her bag, where she’d hidden it and handed it to him. She trailed behind as he took it to the rear of the store, sat down on a battered old chair, and studied it under a strong lamp. His head bent, he started reading, and taking notes.

“Rebecca, behind you is a pot of tea and some cups. Help yourself. Then make yourself comfy in that chair behind you. This could take a while.”

Rebecca did as he advised her and waited. In her usual way, when she found herself with time on her hands to kill, she yanked out a thick notebook and began jotting down ideas and notes for her next novel. The one she was working on now was going to be about werewolves, she thought. If she could find one to interview, that is.

After what seemed like hours, Simon shut the book, and looked up at her as if he were coming from the dark into the light. She was startled by the age reflected in his eyes, his countenance. She had the strange idea that he was a lot older than even she would believe. As ancient as the book he held in his hands. She shivered. Silly notion.

“Rebecca, just listen to what I tell you. Write it down if you have to but follow my instructions
exactly
or your sister will never make it back alive—and Satan and his demons will have not only her, but you.”

“I have a good memory. Tell me,” she said gravely. Her jaw set. “I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

He spent a long time explaining and, as Winifred had counseled, she listened well.

When he was finished, he murmured, “You’re right. You don’t have much time. Amanda will soon be facing death where she now is. That’s why I’m going to do something I shouldn’t do.

“You don’t have to worry about the snowstorm that’s raging in Canaan and the airline situation or demons harming you. You’ll be protected, for a while, until you get to Witch’s Pond.

“When the book’s been destroyed,” he warned. “That’s when you’ll be most vulnerable. In the darkest danger. Remember.”

The warlock handed her her traveling bag.

“Let me ask you something that’s been bothering me?”

“Go ahead.”

“When I first explained to Winifred on the phone about finding this book at Black—Witch’s—Pond, I had the premonition that she knew of the place
.”

He groaned. “Most of us do. There’s an old legend
about it,” he stopped, his eyes looking down as he seemed to decide something; he hesitated, then plunged on, “that concerns a promise once granted to a wickedly evil witch by the Devil himself. She’d disobeyed him and he reclaimed her powers as punishment
.
But she’d been a favorite of his and on her brutal death he promised her she could live again...if she could find a pure good witch of the highest level to take her place. Then she’d be allowed to walk the earth once again in her new guise and have more black power than any witch in the history of the world.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “The possibility for destruction unleashed on our times would be almost immeasurable.”

“If that’s true, why don’t you stop her?” Rebecca was
suddenly afraid.

His eyes met and held hers. “Because, there’s the final part of the legend.”

“Final part?”

“Yes.” Softer. “Only another white witch bound to the lost one by deepest love will be able to save her. Only she, if she’s true enough of heart. Maybe.”

Rebecca’s thoughts were cynical.
Oh, great
.
Why did this have to happen to me? Of all witches. I’m nothing but a fake. A nobody.
Yet she couldn’t say such a thing out loud. Too much was depending on her now, and she knew there was no way out but to take the path she’d already begun. She had to try to save Amanda, her heart would accept nothing less. They were sisters. She loved her.

Rebecca came out of her uneasy reverie. She could feel the warmth of Simon’s body, who’d moved closer, next to her and, for no reason, she had an unexplainable urge to put her arms around him. Wanted to have him wrap his arms about her. She didn’t move though. It was only her fear.

He smiled intimately at her as if he could read her mind. “It’s time to go now, Rebecca. If you close your eyes for a minute, when you open them you’ll be at Jane’s door.”

Rebecca asked no questions, showed no surprise, only obeyed and closed her eyes.

“You’re a brave witch, Rebecca. Good luck. Remember what I’ve told you,” His words were a haunting whisper in her ears as she felt the world spin around her. Dissolve away.

Suddenly she was freezing. A bitter wind tearing at her and her clothing. She opened her eyes. She was back in Canaan on Jane’s doorstep in the middle of a full-blown ice storm, bag in hand, and Tibby in her pocket, teeth chattering from the abrupt cold.

“Damn, it’s cold,” she breathed, and started pounding at the door. There was a mysterious smile playing on her blue lips. That Simon was a heck of a sorcerer. A heck of a man.

She was elated when Ernie opened the door and let her in.

Chapter Fourteen

Joshua had taken his tobacco harvest to Rivers Grove to sell at the market.

“I’ll be away at least three or four days, my love,”
he’d told her the night before under the moonlight after they’d made love. “I will not be any longer than I have to be.”

For some reason he’d been apprehensive about the trip from the beginning and hadn’t wanted to go. He’d been nervous about Sebastien and the roundup of witches in the last weeks, the coming so-called trials, which Joshua had learned would be no trials at all. He’d talked to his friend the chief magistrate about her and he’d promised to try to help. To intervene for her with Sebastien, based on the good things Joshua had recounted to him about her. Her healing. Her kindnesses to everyone. The way she cared so lovingly for her own two children.

Yet Joshua had still been worried; if selling his crops hadn’t been so essential to the family’s depleted coffers, he would have sent his overseer to sell the tobacco. Times were hard for all the farmers, competition stiff, and Joshua knew he alone could hope to achieve a fair price in the marketplace. He had friends and connections whereas the overseer didn’t.

She’d seen him off the next morning and bid him good luck.

“Do not fret. I am sure I will be safe until thy return.”

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

That afternoon Sebastien’s men pounded upon her door and demanded she accompany them for questioning before Sebastien. She’d had no choice but to go with them as she was, leaving the girls alone and terrified. They didn’t allow her to take anything, they were so afraid of her magic. Her reputation.

Sebastien’s men took her to the town jail and herded her into a holding cell full of other people. All accused of witchcraft, apparently, or other crimes.

Some of them were peculiar old women whose only sin was to be not fair of face or figure, not sound of limb, or of possessing little wit or sense. In her future time, Amanda thought, people would simply label them handicapped, mentally incompetent, or simpleminded. Most of the prisoners were merely unfortunates who people held grudges against, for whatever reason, like herself, and had no true idea why they were under arrest. Sebastien’s men had taken all of them from their homes in the last week. All proclaimed themselves not to be witches. They were wretchedly fearful, hungry, and filthy.

The food and drink, when it came at all, were moldy bread and dirty water. Yet it would have been hard to eat anything, with the foul stench of the place and the dirt. Slop buckets weren’t cleared out very often, but left to stink, attract flies in the sweltering cell, and breed germs.

It was so hot Amanda was soon drenched in sweat, only adding to her misery. She hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast, so soon enough the hunger pains were gnawing at her like little beasts.

Most of the prisoners huddled in the dark, straw-strewn corners and either stared into space or wept as if they were lost souls. They all were afraid of the questioning to come, for others had gone before them.