No Rest for the Wicca (23 page)

“Take a step back. Concentrate on another aspect. That’s what I do. When I look at the puzzle with fresh eyes, the pieces fall into place.”

“Yeah, well I’ve never been good at jigsaws. Plus, time is running out. It’s less than a week to Lammas.”

He glanced at his watch. “Well, we’d best get a move on. It’s almost
seven a.m.
I’m sure you want to shower and change before we have to get to the University.”

I looked down at my rumpled pants. “Guess I’d better. If I show up looking like this, Graft will really think I’m a charity case. Bloody hell—“

I stopped, eyes wide.

The blood of
Seven will be too late.
Too late.
We will never be free.

“Blood,” I snapped my fingers. “It’s key. The blood of seven.”

“What does it mean?”

I looked at him. “There’s some ritual which requires the blood of seven pure witches be shed. There’s got to be some voodoo god who requires specific parts be given as a sacrifice—the book,” I cried. “Of course. It makes strange sense, somehow. Darla must have had a book that had that particular ritual in it. That was the contribution she meant.”

“It could be, indeed,” Cole agreed. “But we need proof.”

I slid from my seat. “We’ll get it.”

His lips curved upward. “Just how do you propose to do that?”

I set my jaw. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, so to speak. I’
m going to start asking
questions. And I intend, one way or another, to have some answers.”

I caught up with Dru in the cafeteria around seven-thirty. Her aromatherapy book lay open on her lap as she doodled in the margin. She glanced up as I slipped into the seat across from her.

“Hey,” I said. “Quiz today?”

Dru nodded. “Yes, and I’m totally unprepared. I didn’t study this at all last night.” She blushed. “This guy, Frankie Dodd—he’s in my Earth Power class—well, he asked me out for ice cream last night so—“

“Good for you.” I took a sip of my apple juice, made a face. “Yow, that’s disgusting.” I grinned. “I didn’t think guys took girls out for ice cream any more.”

Dru laughed. “He’s a cutie. So I made him top priority instead of Lewis’s class.”

I waved my hand. “Easy stuff. You’ll ace it anyway.” I leaned forward. “If you have a minute, I wanted to ask you something.”

She set down her pen. “Sure. You look intense. Is something wrong?”

I was half-tempted to tell her about Margit, but thought better of it. It would raise too many questions, questions I wasn’t prepared to answer at the moment. Instead I pulled a photo of Darla from my totebag. “This woman—did you ever see her with Florrie?”

Dru took the picture, studied it a moment, and passed it back to me. “I can’t be certain, but—yes. Yes, I think so.”

Good.
Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere
. “Would you know if she ever met with Graft
, or with Morrow
?”

Dru leaned back, brow puckered in thought. Finally she shook her head. “I
’m sorry.  I couldn’t say.”

“Okay.”  I took a breath.  “Would  you possibly
recall just where you saw her with Florrie?”

Dru looked at me. “Why is this so important? Do you—do you think she might know where Florrie went? Where we could find her?”

She looked so forlorn, it was on the tip of my tongue to relieve her, to tell her Florrie would never be coming back, but Stone had been adamant the news of the latest murders be kept quiet. I just shrugged.

“She might,” I hedged.

“Let me see the photo again.”

I handed it back to her. She studied it, suddenly tapped Darla’s face with one red nail.

“Yes, yes, I do remember now. I was in the hall, waiting for Florrie, when she went into the office. She’d brought in a book
one of the professors
wanted, and Florrie took it. She and Florrie had some discussion about the Odic Force principle. I remember, because Florrie was late getting out and we missed half of Professor DiNardo’s lecture. Come to think of it,” she snapped her fingers. “It might have been this woman Florrie argued with. But I couldn’t say for certain.” She handed the photo back to me. “Did I help any?”

I shoved the photo back into my bag and picked up my bagel. “More than you know,” I answered. “Dru, do you know
which professor Florrie was supposed to give the book to?  And if she ever did?”

Dru’s gaze wavered, and she looked away. “Honest, I couldn’t say. I don’t know what happened to it.” She glanced at her watch, gathered up her books. “Geez, I’m late for class. See you later.”

As she hurried down the hall, I watched her retreating back.

You’re lying, Dru.
But why?

The large office the two professors shared
was bright with the early morning sunshine streaming in through the open blinds over the picture window just behind
a massive cherrywood desk on which rested a state of the art computer.  The assistant’s accommodations weren’t bad, I thought, as I ran my fingers over the smooth wood.  Both office doors were ajar, so I decided to take a sneak peek.  I peered into Morrow’s office first.  The man was obviously disorganized—papers were scattered everywhere, and books were open atop file cabinets.  The wastebasket next to the desk overflowed with papers.  I crossed over and sifted through a few—most were notes on lectures regarding magical spices and ancient spells—nothing in the least sinister.  His desk was covered with papers and notebooks.  I noticed a
pile of papers positioned underneath a
small statue of a bird, wings spread,
and more papers underneath
a tiny
Waterford
clock square in the middle of the desk. 
Apparently Morrow used whatever was available as a paperweight.

Graft’s office was a decided contrast to his colleagues.
It appeared very neat; papers all in straight piles, not a one out of place. I walked over to one of the file cabinets and opened it. Every folder was perfectly alphabetized, not a stray paper sticking up or out of order.

So he’s a neat freak.
What el
se might he be?

I moved through the room, paused in front of a large banker’s bookcase. It reminded me of the one in Cole’s office, except instead of classics, this one was loaded with texts and ancient volumes on both witchcraft and voodoo.

Ancient Rites of the Haitians.
Simplified Wicca.
Guide to Satanism.
Treatise on Devil Worship in
New England
.

“I see my little library interests you, Ms. Hawkes. Have you a greater than normal appreciation of the occult, perhaps?”

I whirled and saw the man himself in the doorway. He walked into the room, set his lizard briefcase on top of the desk. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, bright and beady behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

He made a motion and I lowered myself into one of the two black, vinyl-upholstered chairs in front of the desk. I crossed my legs at the ankles and shrugged. “As much as anyone, I suppose. I mean, I am taking quite a few courses in it.”

Graft settled himself into his own leather chair. He took off his glasses, pulled a cloth from his pocket and swiped at the lenses. “Most of the students enroll in my classes out of a healthy curiosity.  If they don’t have the blood themselves, they’re curious about the roots of both witchcraft and voodoo. If they do have the blood, they’re usually interested in their craft’s beginnings. Some want to learn how they can further their working knowledge.”

“I see.” I rested my hands on the arms of the chair. “So are a lot of witches interested in voodoo spells?”

He replaced his glasses on his nose. “As I mentioned in my first lecture, there are a great many similarities between the two, whether one chooses white magic or black.”

“I see. And which do you find most choose, Professor?”

He gave me a measured stare. “Black, of course. White, or Wicca magic is seldom as interesting. Harm none, after all.”

I pursed my lips. “So you find harming another human being interesting?”

He leaned forward. “Let’s just say I find the possible ways of doing so interesting. It doesn’t mean I’d ever actually practice them—dear girl, no.” He tore several sheets off the pad, handed them to me. “I’d like you to cross-reference my annotations, then type up those sheets. There’re for a dissertation I’m giving later this week.”

I glanced at the title, written in a bold hand.
Esbats and Sabbats
– a Tribute to Energy.

“An interesting topic,” I murmured.

“Yes,” Graft answered without looking up. “You see, Ms. Hawkes, in Wicca, the year is likened to a wheel that keeps turning, sort of a continuous cycle of celebration. Do you know the difference between an Esbat and a Sabbat?”

Xia would most likely ace this question,
but I was a bit rusty. “No,” I answered.

He stopped writing and leaned back in his chair. “During an Esbat, which is always celebrated at night, one draws on the Goddess’s energy to perform feats of magic. Depending on which energy one wishes to draw one, the phases of the moon are usually celebrated. For example, a New Moon reflects new beginnings; a waxing moon, building and growth. The most popular is the Full—that’s when energy is summoned to achieve one’s heart’s desire.”

“You forgot one,” I said as he paused. “The waning moon?”

“Very good, Ms. Hawkes. It’s a banishing,” he replied. “Getting rid of the negative. Now the eight Sabbats invoke male energy—many believe these nights are the most powerful of all. Magickal energy at its finest.” He rose, splayed his hands across his desktop. “Voodoo has their gods—their
petro
, their
lwa
. And Wicca worships the power of the Goddess, Satanism Lucifer.  Think of all three were combined—and the key, my dear, is the magickal energy.”

“Magickal energy. You mean, like…odic force?”

His head snapped up. “You’ve heard the term?”

I shrugged. “I’ve heard some of the students mention it, but I’m not quite clear on it—not really. It refers to a type of energy,
right?
”

He laced his fingers together. “I’ve touched on it in a few lectures.
So has Professor Morrow.
Odic Force is the fabric of the entire universe, really. It’s probably one of the few constants between witchcraft and voodoo.”

I leaned forward, rested my arm on the edge of his desk. “How so?”

“I’ll answer that.”

I turned and looked at the other man filling the doorway.  Close up, Eugene Morrow seemed far more formidable than the few times I’d seen him speaking behind the lecturn.  He was a few inches taller than Graft, and more powerfully built.  His florid complexion stood out in contrast to his shock of thick, snow-white hair.  His eyes, a deep slate bordering on storm, regarded me with a sort of steady measure.

“Professor Morrow,” I said.  “Good morning.  I’m—“

“Morgan Hawkes, our new assistant.  I know.”  He strode across the room to stand next to Graft.  “I must confess to being surprised.”

I looked at him.  “Oh?”

“Yes.  Usually the entrée students could give a rat’s ass about delving into the courses, let alone expressing an interest in a subject like Odic Force.”

I shrugged.  “Perhaps I’m not your run of the mill entrée student.”

Morrow stroked at his chin with long fingers.  “Perhaps not.” He said.  “You’ll have to excuse me.  Both Professor Graft and I take particular pride in this subject.  We’ve researched it a great deal.

M
ost students
—the serious ones--
of witchcraft believe Odic Force—or OF—is the underlying principle of metaphysical nature.  It’s the life force, or one’s aura—many claim sensitives can see it.

Now in the practice of ancient Haitian rituals, OF is often referred to as prana. Prana was derived from sacrifice—either animal or human—to increase the effectiveness of a spell. Once the sacrifice was made, the creature’s life force would flow into the magician, and his own power would increase tremendously.”

“It sounds fascinating.” I hesitated, then said, “I imagine there are quite a few spells and rituals in voodoo which deal with blood, or human sacrifice.”

Morrow’s
shaggy brows drew together. “There are a few, some Haitian in origin, some Satanic. None Wiccan, of course.”

“Of course.” I traced a circle on the desk with my fingernail. “Do you know of any gods in particular who require it?”

Morrow smiled, but it was Graft who answered.
“There are a few. Actually, too many to go into now.”

I smiled at both of them.  “I have done some research on the subject.  Frankly, I find it fascinating.”

Morrow’s eyebrow lifted.  “Do you now?
Really?”

“Oh, yes,” I bobbed my head up and down.  “Some of the rituals are very intense—take the zombification one, for instance.”

“Yes, many people think zombies a dead subject.  But actually, they’ve got quite a bit of life in them.”  Morrow’s lips twitched, amused at his own joke.

“Dancing is also an integral part of some rituals. For example, I’ve heard there are special dances for certain gods.”

“That’s true,” Graft said.  “There are several different kinds of dances, each honoring a different lwa.  It’s said that dancing not only pleases the gods, but enhances possession.”

“I’ve also heard the climax of most Voodoo ceremonies involves the ritual animal sacrifice.”

“Yes,” Morrow said, “In order to maintain his strength, the lwa must eat.”  He chuckled. 

“The sacrifice is always an animal, correct?”

“Yes,” Morrow said, “usually based on the tastes of the particular god honored. The most common are chickens, roosters, doves and goats, although occasionally a larger animal might be sacrificed, like a cow or a ram.”

“I don’t imagine you’ve ever come across mention of human sacrifice to honor any of the gods,” I said, trying to make my tone casual.

Once again, I thought I saw the two men exchange a guarded look, but it was done so swiftly I couldn’t really be sure.  Then Graft cleared his throat.

“Well, there are some isolated cases, but very rarely.  That would be more Satanism than Voodoo.”

“But it has been done?”

“As I said, in very rare instances.” He pushed his glasses farther up on his nose.  “I must say, Ms. Hawkes, I’m impressed with your knowledge on the subject.  Neither Professor Morrow nor I had any idea you were so well versed.”