Mystic Jive: Hand of Fate - Book Four (7 page)

Both of us were on our lunch hour, so there wasn’t a lot of time for chit-chat. I got directly to the point. “What is the FBI’s position on witchcraft?”

Roper shrugged and took a sip of his soda. “In the ‘80s, the Supreme Court ruled that Witchcraft is a legitimate religion. People who practice witchcraft as a religion are entitled to the same rights and constitutional protections as followers of any other recognized belief system. I’m guessing that’s not what you wanted to know, is it?”

“Rats. No, not really.” I tried again. “What is the FBI’s supernatural taskforce stance on witchcraft? I know you guys hunt down, um, unlicensed demon masters, but what about Sorcerers? Black magic, that kind of thing.” Being an unlicensed demon master myself, I could end up in a whole lot of trouble if Roper ever found out about Blix.

He put down his half-eaten hot dog. “Not really a lunch topic, but okay. Some people try to claim their criminal activity is actually part of their religious practice. But criminal acts, such as human sacrifice, are not recognized as part of any religious practice. Murder, extortion, theft; these are all crimes, regardless of the killer’s religious affiliation or purpose. Just to be clear, the FBI is interested in the apprehension of criminals and the prosecution of criminal acts and criminal organizations, not the persecution of personal religious beliefs or religions.”

“What about sorcery? Satanic cults?”

He gave me a hard look. “Why don’t you just tell me what you want to know, Mattie?”

 I explained how Lou Scali had been run down by a hit and run driver. “Everyone keeps telling me that Sheriff Reynolds won’t touch a case involving witchcraft.”

“A hit and run is outside FBI jurisdiction. Even if it was attempted murder, it’s not something we would get called in on.”

 “Suppose it was the member of a witch cult who was driving? People are afraid of the Penfield witches. Lou Scali and I saw them performing a ritual last week. And now Lou is in a coma and no one is going to do anything about it.”

“What kind of ritual? Did you observe any criminal activity?”

“No.” I could see where this was going. “Lou said it was some kind of preparation for something bigger. Layering, he called it. Someone saw us when we were leaving.”

“Where was this ritual performed?”

“It didn’t exactly have an address. It was dark, and we hiked in. I could find it, though.”

“Private property? “

I remembered the bullet-pocked signs posted around the barn and fences. I sighed. “Yeah, probably. Look I know what you’re going to say--.” 

“Damn right. You were trespassing.”

“Sheesh.” I chugged the last of my iced tea and chucked the remains of my lunch into the nearest trash bin. “I should have known better. Forget it.”

If I wanted action, I was going to have to do it myself. Dollars to donuts that private investigator book Lou had given me would have the answers I was looking for. This was the last time I’d ever ask for Roper’s help.

“It’s nothing personal. I’m just doing my job.” Roper wadded up his trash and disposed of it as well. “Let me do a little research on the cult and sorcery angle. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t plan on holding my breath waiting for him. I should have known I couldn’t count on him. Unlike his predecessor, Roper’s stint as a supernatural investigator wasn’t a personal calling; it was just another step on the ladder.

Four months ago, when he’d arrived in Rochester with his demon-sniffing dog, every alternate individual in town had been terrified they’d be exposed as non—human. He probably expected to eliminate the demon problem and get a big promotion. Roper pooh-poohed my reports of dreamspiders, only to see me go up against an angry six-foot tall female and her hatchlings. Sure, he’d dragged me out of the flames and saved my life, but not before I’d saved a dozen innocent teenagers. He’d accomplished exactly nothing since he’d arrived here. And now he was acting as if he was doing me a favor. I would have respected him more if he’d just said
fuggedaboutit.

Fool me twice, shame on me. Next time, well, there just wouldn’t be a next time.

* * *

After my shift, I headed over to the hospital to check on Lou.

 I met Honey as she was coming out of the building. “You can’t see him,” she told me. “He’s still in a coma. They’re saying it’s a miracle that he lasted through the night. I still don’t understand why they went after him like that. Why?”

I swallowed the hard lump of emotion which had welled up in my throat. Lou couldn’t die. He just couldn’t.

Honey looked terrible. Dark circles ringed her eyes; her beautiful caramel skin looked sallow. I felt bad for her. I told her about working a stakeout with Lou. “We followed the husband to a cemetery in Penfield. We found the coven performing a layering ritual. Once he realized who they were, Lou got me out of there pretty fast, but one of them saw us as we were leaving. They probably tracked him through the license plate on his car. And last night, two women came into the bar, looking for someone, but they didn’t say who. It must have been Lou.”

“Oh God.” She closed her eyes. “I thought this was over.” Her body swayed.

I thought she was going to faint. I helped her down the steps and we sat on a warm bench in the dappled shade of a scarlet maple.

 “I guess I just wanted it to be.” She chewed her lower lip. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you’ve been dragged into this, Mattie.”

“Dragged into what, exactly? I’m not even sure what’s going on. Until last week, I’d never heard of the Penfield witch—um, cult.”

“No reason you should have. Ten years ago, before the FBI had a supernatural bureau, Nate and Lou were investigating the disappearance of a Picston City employee. As they tracked down leads in the case, they discovered other disappearances as well. They became convinced that someone was targeting long-time members of the Penfield coven. They were close to an arrest when Nate was killed.”

“I remember that,” I said. “Nate took a bullet meant for Lou.”

She shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “That was the official story, but not what happened. Nate was poisoned.”

My mouth went dry. “What? How?”

“With water hemlock. Common as a weed, and one of the deadliest plants in North America. Almost a cliché, in terms of a witch’s weapon, wouldn’t you say?” She gave me a bitter smile. “Someone mixed it into their lunch salads. The investigators never discovered who was responsible, and no one was ever prosecuted. The department hushed it up. Gave Nate a medal for bravery. Of course Lou blamed himself, but there was no black magic involved. Neither of them ever suspected there was anything wrong with their food.”

“How awful. I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t the end of it. Once or twice a year, someone leaves little carved wooden figures on our porches, covered in blood. It’s a form of intimidation, meant to keep us off balance. I won’t let the boys answer the door when I’m not home. Last week, a swarm of swamp lights appeared in Lou’s living room.”

“Excuse me?”

“Swamp lights. That’s what we called them when I was a kid. Or fey lights. White people call them will-o-the-wisps. Lou said they weren’t evil, just the cult playing head games, but now I’m not so sure.”

I slumped back against the bench. “Charlie and I had a similar experience,” I said. “He was pretty sure they were bad news.”

“When I was little, my grandmother told me that swamp lights are lost spirits, unable to pass beyond the veil. They serve as messengers between the land of the living and the dead. It is said that their message can only be heard by the intended recipient. Charlie’s suggestion that it’s a warning could also be correct.”

“They kept saying loosa-loosa.”

Honey gave me a worried look. “Sorry, I never learned many Senequois words, but Charlie speaks the language. Maybe he could tell you.” She rubbed her face. “I thought the nightmare was over years ago. That cult is a cancer. Now Lou is going to die and it’s all my fault.”

Instinctively, I put my arm around her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

She stiffened, her expression stony. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

“No. Lou told me. The Penfield witch cult did this. They killed Nate and tried to kill Lou. They’re the ones who cursed Lou and me.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at her shoes. “They won’t give up. It’s personal for them. They won’t ever stop until they kill me and my kids.”

I understood survivor’s guilt—I’d dealt with it nearly all my life. I couldn’t imagine how hard her life must’ve been—raising two kids on her own. She looked so forlorn.

“Honey, it’s not true. You had nothing to do with any of this.”

 “Oh yes I do,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She raised her worried brown eyes to mine. “I’m one of them. I’m a Penfield witch.”

CHAPTER 9

 “YOU HAVE TO understand,” Honey explained. “That the history of the Penfield witches began in the 18
^th
century, when the first settlers moved into the area now known as Penfield. The Senequois people, my ancestors, welcomed their new neighbors and helped them establish their homesteads. The Senequois tribeswomen in particular embraced the newly arrived white settler women as distant kin, and took it upon themselves to teach them about the local plants, medicinal herbs, and wildcrafting.

“Some of the women of my line became very close to several of the wives of the first settlers, or so the story has been passed down to me. They met regularly to share their knowledge. As it happened, the white women who were most accepting of the Senequois were not particular about attending church services every week. As the women learned herb lore and healing from their Senequois sisters, their children survived in greater numbers. Their husband’s crops and animals flourished. Their farms prospered. They were not plagued by pestilence and disease as severely as those on other farms. As sometimes happens, others in the community began to notice that these white women had become suspiciously friendly with the native tribeswomen.

“Fueled by jealousy and ignorance, rumors began to circulate that some of these settler women were witches. The wives of the more prosperous of these homesteaders became known as the Penfield witches. The name stuck.

“Senequois women have always shared their knowledge of wildcraft. We never excluded anyone who sought to learn from us. I grew up believing that the way of the People was one of peace and enlightenment. I was fourteen when I joined the circle, and we were known as the Penfield Eight for many, many years. By that time, only two of us could claim Senequois ancestry—my grandmother and me.”

A woman with two small children passed us, and Honey waited until they were out of earshot. She kept her voice low.

“Then, ten years ago, a brother and sister asked to join our circle. They were European—new to the area, and knowledgeable herbalists. They were so enthusiastic and eager to learn. They opened their home to the circle for our meetings and their drying shed for our herbs. They were British; unfamiliar with the ancient myths and folklore of the Senequois people. My grandmother, a storyteller of our clan, was flattered; and it was wonderful to hear the old stories again. Everyone loved this new energy coming into the group. John and Liddy had some different ideas and invited new members into our little circle. As our membership swelled, the focus of our circle began to change.

“John and Liddy were psychics, they told us—each of them gifted with the ability to communicate with the spirit world. Jonathan in particular, claimed the ability to summon certain spirits for the purpose of gaining knowledge. He was both charming persuasive, and before long, had convinced nearly everyone in the circle that the pursuit of arcane knowledge was a far nobler pursuit than messing about with weeds and seeds, as he called it. He said he could perform miracles with the power of a full and proper coven united behind him.

“It all happened so gradually, even my grandmother was convinced. He became our leader, or high priest, as he preferred we call him. It was just a name, and I went along with it like everyone else in the circle. His sister Liddy became our high priestess. The day came when John and Liddy presented each of us with a hooded black robe. That was the day I told Nate I was one of the Penfield Eight and I wanted out.

“I was pregnant with Arby, and Nate Junior was about to start kindergarten. Moving closer to Nate’s job in Picston made a lot of sense. Nate’s partner Lou owned a duplex and his tenants were moving out. It was the perfect setup for us.

“Jonathan didn’t like it one bit. At first, he tried to persuade Nate and me to move into his big house with his sister Liddy.”

“Wait,” I said. Are you talking about John and Liddy Fewkes? As in the puppet lady?”

She nodded. “Yes. Back then, they lived in a big old farmhouse in Penfield. They had more room than they needed, he said. He offered to let us live with them—rent free. He’d already persuaded my grandmother to move in with them. We’d be a big happy family. Of course Nate and I had no intention of doing that. We told him about the baby and how Nate Junior would be able to walk to kindergarten. We tried to be diplomatic.

“Liddy took a different approach. She tried to convince me that Nate was cheating on me. She even implied that he’d propositioned her. She told me he would break my heart and leave me for another woman. I’d have to raise his kids all alone. She kept at it.”

“What a horrible thing to say.”

Honey smoothed her skirt. “Of course, I didn’t believe a word of it. Lydia could be rather dramatic at times. But the pregnancy had me feeling vulnerable, and she got some of the other women in the circle to hint at the same sort of thing. I’d known some of these women a long time. I trusted them. They’d become convinced that John and Liddy were going to bring real magic into the circle, and Nate’s job with the police department made John and Liddy uneasy. John said that Nate had a negative attitude that constricted the natural flow of true power, whatever that meant. They even got my grandmother to suggest that I divorce Nate, saying that the life of my unborn child was at risk, and that the sisterhood of the coven took care of their own.