Spellbound Page 5

  Sarah stared at her in anticipation.

  “On second thought,” Hazel said. “We better save that conversation for something stronger than lattes.”

  Sarah folded her arms as Hazel eyed her worn dress from top to bottom. “Right now,” Hazel added, “we need to get you to a Gap.”

  * * *

  Hazel woke at dawn after a restless night and padded down the hall toward the kitchen. So many outrageous thoughts and visions bewitched her mind as she tossed and turned, not the least of which was the fact that her great-aunt Sarah had apparently time-hopped through three centuries and was now sitting at her kitchen table in front of a sandalwood Yankee candle.

  “I probably should’ve explained what these things are last night,” Hazel said as she pointed to the wall switch and flicked on the overhead light.

  Sarah flinched as she gazed up at the magnificent beam of light shining down on them. “Good morrow, Hazel. Have you no oats for a pottage?”

  “I’m going to go ahead and assume you’re referring to breakfast, but we’ll just swing by a drive-thru and grab coffees and croissants or something.” Sarah looked perplexed. It was an expression Hazel had already grown accustomed to her wearing. “Okay, um, I think what you mean is oatmeal, and we can definitely get you a cup of it once Raven gets here, and we hit the road. Can I get you a glass of juice or something? Actually, here’s the fridge,” she said as she flung open the door. “Help yourself to whatever you want. I have to jump in the shower.”

  * * *

  When Hazel closed the bathroom door, Sarah rose from her chair and tugged at the tight denim breeches Hazel had bought her in town yesterday at the trading post called Gap. Although they lacked comfort, she felt warm and protected in them. And relieving herself on top of that prodigious chamber pot, then watching it vanish beneath her was a marvel indeed. As befuddling as the experience had been thus far, Sarah woke before dawn with a sense of calm having been visited by her long-dead mother in a dream.

  She confirmed for Sarah that she, Sarah, and her sister Mary were all descendants of Arcadia, a medieval witch from the Tuscany region of Italy. After numerous attempts by Roman Catholics to wipe out Paganism, it was believed that Arcadia’s daughters fled to England, which was where Sarah’s maternal lineage was traced. Sarah’s mother also revealed that the reason she did not survive the birth of her second daughter was that Sarah’s powers were so strong, more so than her sister Mary’s, that a Christian demon slayer killed Sarah’s mother so that she would not bring forth another, even more powerful sorceress. The explanation that her mother had died in childbirth having her was much more palatable for the time than the truth.

  Sarah had wept at the notion that she was the cause of her mother’s demise, but her mother had assured her in the dream that Sarah was about to fulfill a much greater purpose.

  While she was engrossed in the mesmerizing task of turning the kitchen faucets on and off, a knocking sounded on the door, and Raven walked in.

  “What up, witches?” Raven called out. When she got to the kitchen, her boots skidded to a stop. “Whoa, Sarah. Those jeans are fire on you.”

  “Fire?” Startled, Sarah twirled around, examining her pants for smoke or flames.

  “Oh, sorry. Bad word choice on my part,” Raven said. “What I meant to say is you look pretty in your new clothes.”

  Sarah curtsied in appreciation. “’Tis more comfortable than a petticoat.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” Raven said, glancing around the kitchen. “So, are you guys ready to fly?”

  “Fly?” Sarah was aghast. “We must make our journey on broomsticks?”

  Raven swiped a hand across her face. “This is going to be one long road trip.”

  Hazel appeared in the archway holding two duffel bags. “Good morning, Raven.” She extended her smile at Raven while handing one of the bags to Sarah. “Are we ready to go?”

  Raven nodded and collected both of their bags. “I hope you packed a Puritan-to-English dictionary in one of these.”

  Chapter Five

  Lucien McCoulter was on his knees in the small room, illuminated by nothing except the candles on the altar. He traced the symbol on his chest from the ashes in the dish in front of him. He made a circle with the tips of his fingers and then a triangle inside the circle. He’d lost track of how many times he’d practiced this technique.

  The old him, Samuel Cranwell, would’ve called this heresy. The person he was before he and his children had walked in on the witches performing their spell in the jail would’ve shouted this atrocity from the rooftops and to anyone who’d listen. Luckily, Samuel no longer existed. No, “Lucien” had left him behind the day he’d discovered the King of the Warlocks, Blaise. If it hadn’t been for Blaise, he would’ve never survived being thrust into this new world in 2008, over a decade ago.

  Blaise had opened Samuel’s eyes to all that he’d been ignorant of his entire life. Blaise showed him that people don’t reach their full potential through piety and sacrifice. Those were tales spun by the disillusioned, lies whispered to children to nudge them in the direction predetermined for them by an entity they’d never be able to know.

  But Blaise he could see and touch. Blaise was a tangible thing. Blaise had been there when Samuel passed through to this strange world. A world plagued by rot, rot cleverly disguised as equity, equality, and social justice. These ideas diluted the purity of his people, his race, and limited future generations to mind-numbing mediocrity.

  The decision was the easiest one he’d ever made. He left “Samuel” behind and all the baggage that went along with him, embracing his new identity as Lucien. For that he was given an array of abilities, ones that would put any of the angels he’d once adulated to shame. Lucien felt those abilities growing by the day, and as more people listened to him and believed in his preaching, the more powerful he became. He’d entered into a covenant with Blaise whereby as soon as he accomplished his appointed task, he would join the ranks of Blaise’s force of omnipotent evil.

  Lucien clutched at the burning in the pit of his stomach, his signal that Blaise had arrived. “Master, thank you for coming.”

  “It looks as if time has finally caught up with us,” Blaise said. “Are you ready?” His form was hidden, but Lucien could see his scarlet eyes glowing from the corner of the room.

  “I’m ready.” Lucien knelt in Blaise’s direction and put his head down. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Blaise growled, and a wave of anger sliced through Lucien’s skin. “The witches have to be dealt with, all of them. We cannot complete our mission while they exist.”

  Lucien felt the excitement of imminent violence prick the hairs on the back of his neck. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Blaise entered Lucien’s mind, not bothering to say the words out loud. “If you fail, I’ll banish you to a region of Hell your people couldn’t have conjured up in their most twisted nightmares.”

  Lucien felt him leave just as he’d felt him arrive. His body fell forward, the absence of his leader immediately evident.

  The radio in the corner of the room crackled, and a nervous sounding voice came through the speaker. “Mr. McCoulter, we’re ready for you.”

  Lucien stood and looked in the mirror while buttoning his shirt. He smiled at his reflection, admiring the transformation that had occurred since his arrival in this time. This wonder of bathing on a daily basis was magical for the complexion. He tucked the pocket square into his jacket, making sure the gold cross was visible.

  It was time to go to work. Millions of his adoring followers waited to hear from him. He knew they were sitting in that stadium, salivating for a mere glimpse of him. They waited to be told what to do, what was right, and who was to blame for their struggles. As it turned out, people at their core hadn’t changed all that much in three hundred years. They still needed someone to justify their feelings, their dissatisfaction with life, their anger, and their hatred for whoever was to blame for it. They
still wanted someone to tell them it was okay to distrust those who were different and those who threatened their peace and prosperity. They did exactly as they were told because they needed to believe it was all a plan handed down from their God.

  It was the easiest job he’d ever had.

  He stepped onto the stage and let the applause and the screams wash over him. The sensation was invigorating. He snatched the microphone and walked to the center of the stage while images flashed on the screen behind him. He didn’t need to look to know what they were. Pictures of men kissing men, women dressed as men, and black men standing over the bodies of white children.

  “Are you tired of being called a bigot just because you believe in the word of God?” he shouted into the microphone.

  Screams of agreement filled the arena.

  “Are you tired of working your whole life to send your child to college, just to find out their spot has been taken by an illegal immigrant who received free tuition?” He paused for applause. “Are you sick and tired of men dressed as women stalking our children in public bathrooms?” He shook his head for effect. “Do I speak for all of you when I say we’ve had enough?” The crowd roared, sending a charge of exhilaration through Lucien’s body. “It’s time for a revolution, my friends. It’s time to put God back into ‘In God We Trust.’ This is our America they’re trying to take. We want our Jesus back, the real Jesus, not the corrupted version who allegedly accepts the gay lifestyle and wants us to welcome the droves of illegal immigrants stampeding our borders. Our Jesus would want us to protect our families and our Christian values. Our Jesus wants us to fight to protect His name, His legacy, His creations. Our Jesus wants us to resist the resistance and to destroy those who decimate His name to promote their own selfish and perverse agenda!”

  He raised his arms over his head and looked out into the simmering crowd of true believers numbering in the thousands screaming back. They loved him, believed in him, and were eager to play their part.

  The arena shook with their thunderous applause. He was unstoppable now, and those witches didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter Six

  Hazel did her best to look at anything except Raven, but it was proving to be more difficult than she’d imagined. There was something magnetic about her, and Hazel wanted to understand why she felt so drawn to her. Raven had an easy and relaxed way about her that had Hazel enthralled.

  “How’s it going back there?” Raven shouted to Sarah through the highway noise as her Jeep bounced down Interstate 81 South.

  “Methinks a broomstick would jolt me less,” Sarah said.

  “Atta girl,” Raven said to the rearview mirror, then smiled at Hazel. “She’s a good sport.”

  “Yes,” Hazel said, and felt her lips spread into a grin. “She cleans up pretty good, too, doesn’t she?”

  Raven’s eyebrows bobbed with approval as a grin stretched across her face. “I’ve had my share of complicated women, but I draw the line at time-traveling Puritan witches obsessed with auto-flushing rest stop toilets.”

  “Almost as bad as a new girlfriend who’s still uncomfortably close friends with her ex,” Hazel said.

  They shared a laugh and lingering smiles.

  “Look at her,” Raven said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “She’s like a kid seeing Disney World for the first time.”

  Hazel turned and smiled at Sarah, who was quietly taking in the sights. Out of nowhere, her insides began trembling. “I’m starting to feel a little weird,” she said, turning to Raven. “Can we make a stop soon?”

  “How do you like that?” Raven glanced up at an interstate sign. “Roanoke. That’s as good a place as any to stop.” She opened her podcast app for a little background noise, intending to catch up on some episodes of The Weekly Wine Down.

  “You’ve been listening to The Right Side with Tammi Lee Sanderson,” the announcer’s voice boomed. “Real talk, right talk with zero tolerance for leftist agendas.”

  Hazel and Raven looked at each other. Raven shrugged. “That’s not what I clicked on.”

  “Okay, folks,” the woman’s husky voice said. “We’re back, continuing our discussion on this week’s episode: ‘The War on God.’ So, we’ve been talking about the increasing threat to Christian values ever since the liberal activist Supreme Court justices legalized gay marriage. Since then, gay rights groups have had a field day taking their grab on equality to the extreme. And what’s been their favorite entitlement? Forcing us into going against our own strongly held beliefs and dictating how we should be serving God.”

  “What the hell is this?” Hazel said.

  “I don’t know.” Raven tapped the app on the console screen to try to change the podcast, but it didn’t respond to her command. “Of all the times for this piece of shit to freeze.”

  “Without further ado,” Tammi said, “I’d like to introduce a guest I’ve been chomping at the bit to interview ever since his rise to religious stardom began during the last presidential campaign: Lucien McCoulter, pastor at True Light Ministries. Lucien, you’re a best-selling author, motivational speaker, and most importantly, Christian educator and preacher. How do you manage to do it all?”

  Lucien chuckled. “Well, Tammi, first of all, thank you for that humbling introduction, and I must say, I couldn’t do any of it without a whole lot of divine help from above.”

  “Turn off the radio,” Hazel said. “I can’t listen to this garbage.”

  “Not yet,” Raven said. “There’s a reason this has come on.”

  “Beyond bad cell reception?”

  Raven rolled her eyes. “For a witch, you’re awfully logic oriented. You better start tuning in to your intuition. Our success, and dare I say our survival in whatever Morgan has planned, could depend on your ability to follow it.”

  “I am tuned in,” Hazel said. “I just said I’m starting to feel weird and think we should stop.”

  “That’s very good,” Raven said. “And no coincidence you’re feeling it this close to Roanoke.”

  Hazel closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, rattled by the onslaught of new sensations.

  Raven watched in concern. “Are you okay?”

  Hazel looked up and tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just a little overwhelmed by the juju around here.”

  “That’s because Roanoke isn’t what it appears to be.” Raven reached toward Hazel, then retreated, gripping the wheel with both hands until her knuckles turned white.

  “I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but what’s the significance?” Hazel said. “I thought the first colony was in North Carolina.”

  “It was, but Roanoke’s had a long, intimate relationship with evil. It wasn’t named Roanoke until the late eighteen hundreds. Before that, Native Americans used it as a transportation hub of sorts, and it later became part of the Great Wagon Road. What the history books don’t tell you is that this was the area where Morgan helped Virginia Dare and her mother, Ellinor, escape to.”

  “Escape from what?” Hazel said.

  “Native Americans who didn’t want settlers encroaching on their lands. When the original settlers left and then returned from England, they found ‘CROATOAN’ carved into a palisade. They’d assumed the Croatoan tribe captured and massacred them with the rest of the people they’d left behind.”

  “And Morgan le Fay helped them escape from the Croatoans?”

  Raven nodded. “For a steep price, of course. The Roanoke River runs from the lost colony of Roanoke up through here and then by Salem, Virginia. No witching influence there, huh?” She shook her head and scoffed. “Anyway, Morgan compelled the people to name this area Roanoke as a tribute to Virginia Dare and her family. That’s the story she tells anyway. I always thought it was a big ‘fuck you’ to humans for not figuring out what was right under their noses.” Raven glanced over at Hazel before she continued. “This is the birthplace, or rather rebirth, of the first shadowhunter, Virginia Dare. For that reason, this area is alive w
ith paranormal influence. Demons in all shapes and sizes constantly scour the area looking for Virginia’s remains. If they can destroy the remains, they can destroy the legacy of the shadowhunter, the people responsible for sending them back to Hell—me.”

  Hazel shook her head in disbelief. “So, you,” she said, pointing at Raven, “have the power to send Sarah and me to Hell?” Hazel poked Raven in the arm. “You should have mentioned that before you kidnapped us.”

  “Kidnapped, huh?” Raven smirked. “You and Sarah are probably the world’s first kidnapping victims who ever waited to be abducted at the front door with their bags packed.”

  That smirk of Raven’s. It annoyed the hell out of Hazel while simultaneously triggering a persistent case of the warm tinglies all through her. “Would you keep your voice down?” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I don’t want Sarah to get scared. She’s already been through enough.”

  “Relax. Ninety percent of the time she has no idea what we’re saying. It’s like we’re road-tripping with Long Duk Dong from Sixteen Candles. Besides, I can’t send you or Sarah anywhere. Witches weren’t forged in Hell. You’re out of my jurisdiction, honey,” she added with a wink.

  “Pray, pardon, Goody Raven,” Sarah said from the back. “I am beckoned, but I know not by what. Will our carriage be stopping soon?”

  Hazel grinned victoriously at Raven. “Guess who else is in touch with her intuition?”

  As Raven drove into the parking lot of a traveler’s motel in downtown Roanoke, Tammi Lee Sanderson’s voice continued droning through the speakers.

  “Can’t you turn this off? It’s making my headache worse.” Hazel didn’t want to sound as if she was whining, but this woman’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

  “I’m trying,” Raven said as she threw the Jeep into park. “The volume button is literally stuck.”