Authors: Curtis Hox
It’s no wonder she only practices psychiatry during the afternoons. Her mornings are probably taken up working her craft, brokering her deals with the earth and sky to bend to her will.
Either way, there’s a reason she’s one of the coven’s most powerful members.
Christine’s glare withers her daughter-in-law. It’s as if an announcement has been made that heaven itself will crumble if any harm comes to Lennox. Josie feels her skin stipple at the thought, each rising hair proof that Christine is not to be trifled with. Stella appears to shiver from fright.
“You’ll be hearing from them,” Stella manages, “and from me.” She hurries from the kitchen without saying another word.
Lennox claps and even bows his head. “Bravo, Mom. Bravo.”
“Thank you, but there’s no need.” Christine sits.
“She’ll being filling everyone’s head with fear.”
“It’s to be expected.” Christine casts Josie a sideways glance to let her know all is well, before digging into her vegetables. “Alice does a splendid job. Doesn’t she?”
Everyone agrees and continues with dinner.
Outside, the wind howls once before dissipating like a fading cry in the night. Josie finds herself unable to let go of her wine glass. She stares into its depths and tries to foresee the future. Not her skill. Aunt Emma sits rigid, a benumbed look on her face that suggests she wouldn’t look into the glass for a million dollars. Lennox, though, is finally looking at Josie. His wry grin melts her fears away. Yes, with the two of us together, she thinks, we can do anything.
* * *
Josie awakes with a start. She hears a car stop in the gravel lot before the mansion. Her eyes open to her darkened room and a yellow night light of Bugs Bunny. You’d think she’d be scared sleeping in a garret space in a huge, empty house, but she feels at ease. Her grandmother blessed this room years ago, on a night like tonight, a night when enemies might come calling.
Josie peeks out the clear window and sees headlights darken on a parked sleek, black Mercedes. A driver exits. He’s a large man in a livery suit. He rushes to the other door and helps a woman exit. She’s middle aged, small, wrapped up in a light coat with a high collar.
Coming in the middle of the night. Ballsy. Has to be someone important. Definitely making a statement.
The man follows the woman up the wide steps. Josie loses them, then hears the bell ring downstairs.
She hears squeaking hinges from the front door open and close.
Josie tosses her covers aside and steps into an evening gown that would make her grandmother happy, but no one else. It is too comfortable to throw away, even though Geri once commented it would be a test of any man’s love to see Josie in it.
She steps into a pair of comfortable slippers.
She opens the door to see Lennox walking down the narrow corridor.
He puts a finger to his lips.
Josie stands on the threshold, wondering if she’s dreaming.
As if it’s natural to do so, he edges into her bedroom and shuts the door behind him.
“She arrived early,” he says. “Stella must have said we’re sacrificing babies or something.”
Josie tries not to act embarrassed, even though she wants to rush into the closet and burn her nightgown. She also wants to run her finger through her hair.
Oh my god, my hair. I fell asleep with it wet
.
The left side is plastered to her skull and the right is all fluffy. It’s dark enough in the room that, maybe, just maybe he won’t notice. She stands riveted in place, unable to say a thing, because he’s standing right next to her, and she can smell him, that clean, soapy smell and that special something else. She tries not to inhale a big whiff, but she does.
“Who’s here?” she whispers.
He turns to the window. She takes her chance to flatten out her hair.
“Grand Dame Lady Eleanor Dooley
…”
“The high priestess.” Josie follows him deeper into her room. “You’ve met her?”
“She’s Stella’s godmother.”
“God mother …?”
Josie knows who the woman is, of course; everyone associated with the craft knows the name. She is one of the most powerful witches on the eastern seaboard. Josie had no idea, though, that she and Stella had such a relationship. That explains Christine’s inability to influence Stella. All this time Christine had to watch while Stella manipulated her son, all the while knowing a simple world to Lady Dooley could be his end.
“Yes, and she doesn’t know about me.”
“What?”
Lennox moves to within inches of Josie. “Stella has kept my abilities a secret since the beginning. One of the reasons she sent me out west. Lady Dooley thinks I’m a big flake. I think she suspects, but … it’s never been an issue. My mother told me to do what she says until the time is right. It’s been so long, but because of you Mom says we might have a way for me to get out. Might.”
“Because of me?”
“It’s time the high priestess knows.” Josie sees a resolve in him you might see in someone about to Bungee jump … or dive off the Golden Gate Bridge to his death. “I’m tired of the secrecy … and the oppression.”
He gently grabs Josie by the shoulders. She thinks he might kiss her like in the old movies. She readies herself, hoping for a miracle.
Let it happen, let it happen, let it happen
.
“I’ll help you make Husband Rehab work. I’ll be an employee, an intern, an experiment. Whatever you want. Your gardener. Just hire me. It’ll be legitimate.” She hears desperation in his voice and finds herself cupping his elbows. He continues. “She’ll try to destroy me. She … she hates warlocks.”
“Okay, whatever you need—”
She finds herself hugging him. The desire to comb fingers through her hair forces her to bite her bottom lip hard enough to sting.
He pulls away. “Thank you.”
The moment lingers. Josie could swear on her life he wants her as bad as she wants him. She can’t tell if it’s honor that keeps him from kissing her, or something else, something more kinetic. Once we come together, she thinks, nothing can pull us apart. We need to come together …
“I should go,” he says and backs toward her door. “I owe you.”
He hurries away as quickly as he came.
Josie feels her heart beating in her chest like a living thing desperate for attention. She feels the sweat on her forehead and the back of her neck dampen her skin.
He came to my room and hugged me. We are so hooking up at some point
.
All the troubles of the world vanish. All the fear that she is stepping headlong into trouble with the coven vanish. The thought she might renovate Birchall and snag Lennox galvanizes her. Josie Bran is ready to challenge the world, if need be.
Josie grabs a bath robe and heads for the grand stair. She sneaks down, listening for voices. She hears faint talking in the drawing room. Christine and …
She enters the vestibule, which always remains lit through the night. The soft light from the drawing room reveals Christine in a full-length nightgown, whispering to the newcomer. The driver stands at attention. All three turn as Josie enters.
“Hey,” Josie says. “I thought I heard something.” She pretends to rub sleep out of her eyes. She gives the driver a once over, as if he’s the reason for the disturbance. “New member in need of help?”
Grand Dame, and High Priestess, Lady Eleanor Dooley pulls at the bottom her coat. Each button is in the shape of an oak in full bloom. The woman’s age is impossible to tell. Only the subtlest hint of crow’s feet at her eyes or wrinkles in the neck suggest she’s past her prime. Something elegant and seductive in the way she holds her head, almost at an angle, with her chin out, means she’s probably used to getting what she wants. Josie senses that everything about her is of the finest quality, down to the protective enamel covering her blood-red nails. She’s much as Josie remembers her, only older, and scarier.
The woman smiles as she notes the hem of Josie’s night gown, which she’s wrapped up with a bath robe. “Your grandmother gave that to you, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember me?”
“You visited my grandmother once. I was there, working on the garden.”
“Yes you were. She kept you to herself, didn’t she? Teaching you how to brew …”
Christine repositions herself, as if to shift attention away from Josie. “The high priestess is interested in our new venture.”
“Oh, I am,” Lady Dooley says and looks around with trepidation as if the ceiling come crashing down on their heads. “I’ve heard interesting things.” She edges closer to Josie, defying Christine. “So, secretive Lady Treadwell’s granddaughter is responsible. Not much to you, by the look of you.” Josie steps back, thinking the high priestess might flick her ear or maybe twist her nose. Lady Dooley continues. “I’m here at the request of my goddaughter, Stella Spivey. She says you’re using magic to create better husbands. Is that true?”
“It is,” Josie says.
“Well, then,” Lady Dooley says, “what can you do about a man who sits on his front porch all day yelling at anyone who passes?”
Christine’s eyes widen, the hint of a hopeful smile crossing her face.
“Excuse me?” Josie asks.
Lady Dooley lets her steely mask fall. “My husband is the most cantankerous old codger for miles around. Just this morning, he met the mail man at the curb to explain why the US Postal Service is doomed. As if it were the man’s fault. He’s an embarrassment.”
“I can think of some things.”
“Can you? You’re a dear. Don’t tell Stella just yet, though. She thinks you’re doing this to steal her husband away from her.”
“Me?”
Christine moves in. “Can I show you to your room?”
“Thank you. My husband will be here tomorrow. Then we can figure this out. Maybe we’ll trick him into staying. I’m sure there’s a way to make everyone happy, once I see how it works.”
Christine winks as she escorts the high priestess away.
Josie waits until they’re gone before raising both hands in the air and dancing a few steps of joy.
* * *
Josie carries a pewter candle holder with a foot-long taper made from actual sheep fat. She found them in a larder, having helped put them there one summer. The flame is long and flickering, sending up a wispy trail of heat.
No chance of sleeping, not now, she thinks as she creeps down a side passage, not after the most powerful witch for miles just walked into Birchall. Have I really changed the order of things, like she said? So much history echoes through their tradition that Josie wonders if fate is moving her into a position of influence. Her grandmother always said she will be a powerful witch one day and that people will come from far and wide to see her.
Josie glances over her shoulder to check that no one follows. She enters the library. It’s in near darkness, except for the pocket of light shining from her candle. Shadows flicker on the tall ceiling, creating life-like runners through the rib vaulting. The wall is comprised of compact bookshelves holding more volumes than she can count. This section, though, is dedicated to the craft. Here, she can find what she’s looking for.
She scans the titles until she sees the old book her grandmother used to read to her:
The Greater and Minor Witches of the Southeast
.
Josie pulls the large, bound manuscript. It is illuminated with colorful, hand-painted images depicting a woman standing in a glen. She runs her fingers over the rough exterior, like the skin of a thing that once lived in a desert. The manuscript was constructed here at Birchall when they had their own scriptorium dedicated to the documentation of the craft. That venture was already gone by the time Josie first started coming around, but her grandmother always mentioned it as a wonderful place to visit. The last time Josie checked, the scriptorium was a print shop out back that’s probably now nothing more than a storage space.
She carries the book to a table, sets it down, and begins to thumb through it. She finds a section dedicated to the ambitious, young Eleanor Dooley, one of the key figures in the final eradication of male witches. Josie reads about what happened decades ago, when powerful male witches were put down in the last battles of the final war.
Apparently, if you talk to anyone in the know, they’ll tell you how dangerous men are, when left to themselves. They misuse the craft, sometimes like children, sometimes like criminals. Josie has always thought such incriminations are exaggerated. Not
all
men are dangerous, just some. The manuscript tells how Eleanor Dooley led a campaign in the south to round up a few outlaw warlocks and imprison them, even killing one. Her methods were used around the country, issuing in a new golden age wherein harmless female witches were able to integrate into modern society.
Josie flips the page and sees a photograph of Lady Dooley walking behind a man in handcuffs.
Lord Birchall
. No way. I can’t believe that’s him, she thinks. She reads how he was captured and imprisoned. Josie was always told he just disappeared. She only knew him vaguely. Her grandmother talked about him as a funny, odd man who could sing any song he ever heard. He was an entertainer ... and a witch, who was condemned because he was a man.
She reads and learns how Lord Birchall challenged Lady Dooley over her fervor in hunting warlocks. Lady Birchall was just a priestess at that time and had little power. She couldn’t protect her husband.
Lady Dooley’s at fault for everything, Josie thinks. She has to be.
She shuts the book, as if she might unlearn what she just read. She replaces it, but lingers by the bookshelves, wondering what other mysteries from the past stand on these shelves.
“Doing some light reading?”
Lennox stands at the edge of her light. “Not really.”
He steps forward. “Find her in that book of yours?”
“The grand dame, herself.”