Spellbound Page 8

  “You summoned me yesterday,” Raven replied with an attitude as she glanced at her watch. “It’s not like the broomstick thing is real.” She turned to Sarah. “Is it?”

  “I have heard conflicting reports,” Sarah said and lowered her eyes again.

  “You’re looking well,” Morgan said to Raven, sparking a twinge of jealousy in Hazel.

  Morgan was the most beautiful woman Hazel had ever seen. Her shimmering blond hair looked as if it was spun from fine silk. Her flawless skin seemed almost to glow. Her features were delicate, but strong. Hazel was transfixed on her magnetism. If that was Raven’s type, how could Hazel ever compete? Thankfully, Raven seemed unmoved by the flirtatious lilt in Morgan’s voice.

  “So, this is Sarah Hutchinson and her niece Hazel Abbot,” Raven said as she encouraged Hazel to step forward.

  Hazel curtsied to Morgan as though she were Queen Elizabeth II. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.” She extended her hand, but Morgan walked right past it.

  “That means you’re our trans-century border wall jumper,” Morgan said to Sarah, then turned to Raven and Hazel. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

  “Aye,” Sarah said softly. “’Tis a marvel to make your acquaintance.”

  “Mmm,” Morgan replied absently, slowly circling Sarah as though verifying she was an actual, three-dimensional mortal. When it appeared she was satisfied with her inspection, she stopped, faced Sarah, and waved black-taloned fingers in a circle in front of her. “You, my dear, have gravely complicated matters with your appearance.” She lifted Sarah’s chin with one finger. “Some enterprising little entities followed you through the wormhole you and your voodoo boo-boo inadvertently created in your effort to flee those stuffy old Puritans. They had to have emerged in a time several years before you appeared, but they managed to stay off my radar until recently, which was no easy task. They have to be getting help from someone, but I have no idea who yet.”

  “Entities?” Raven said, cutting in front of Sarah. “As in more than one?”

  “I thought it was just that smarmy preacher,” Hazel said.

  Morgan shook her head. “Three. The father, the son, and the holy host…of a wildly popular conservative podcast that is soon to be part of Fox’s prime time lineup.”

  “Tammi Lee Sanderson,” Raven said in defeat.

  Hazel’s mind briefly flashed to the conservative talking head. Her views fell somewhere between believing women belonged barefoot and pregnant and bringing back slavery. The sound of her voice made Hazel’s skin crawl.

  “That’s her,” Morgan said. “Amazing how fast one’s star rises in the partisan news wars when one’s daddy knows a network programming exec and said daddy is also one of Satan’s most ardent devotees.”

  “Sarah, did Samuel Cranwell have children?” Raven said.

  “I know not of Samuel having a wife or children,” she replied. “Perhaps he found a bride amid his followers after leaving Salem Village.”

  “Oh, he found more than one,” Morgan said with a chuckle. “But Brigham Young got all the credit for polygamy. That sure put a bee in Cranwell’s bonnet.”

  “So, what’s Cranwell’s deal?” Raven asked. “Why did he send his lackeys after us at the arena?”

  Hazel’s body shivered at the mention of the men who’d attacked them. She knew everyone was now safe, but that didn’t make the memory any less terrifying.

  “Cranwell, or Lucien McCoulter, as he calls himself these days, knows that as long as Sarah’s here, he can be banished back to 1692, and he’s having none of that. He enjoys the life of excess that comes with being a false idol worshipped by his flock way too much to go back to the days of flinging the contents of a chamber pot out the window when it’s ten below outside. Besides, there’s been bad blood between him and Sarah since forever.”

  “Aye. He harbored much ill will toward my husband.”

  “Why do you think he accused you of witchcraft?” Morgan said. “What better way to avenge himself than to get the wife of the guy who quashed his bid for religious supremacy set to swinging like a bedsheet on a prairie clothesline?”

  “’Twas he who accused me? He hath been gone months from Salem without a word before the children commenced their devilish sport.”

  “Yeah, well, you give the people what they want, and they’ll show up for it,” Morgan said. “He informed the authorities that you sent your spirit out to try to tempt him with alcohol now that he was a reformed man of God.”

  “That foul drunkard,” Sarah spat, more riled up than she’d ever appeared. “Liar! He needed not the temptation of others to partake of the vile swill. I detested his presence from the very moment he arrived at our home.”

  “Your people were horribly misguided, Sarah,” Morgan said. “What they did to each other in the name of God.” She shook her head and smirked to herself.

  “Who’s the third demon, the son you mentioned?” Raven said.

  “Dirk Fowler,” Morgan said. “Some white nationalist half-wit who works as a political lobbyist for one of those organizations proclaiming they protect the American family values under attack from the scourge that is the progressive movement.” Sarcasm seeped even deeper into her words. “You know, all those heretics clamoring to be treated equally in the eyes of the law. However will society survive? So bourgeois.”

  “What exactly do you need us for, Morgan?” Raven said. “Getting rid of these three morons isn’t exactly a heavy lift for you.”

  “Oh, you mortals. Always in such a hurry. Let’s take a while to get reacquainted, Raven. It’s been so long.” She ran her fingers across the front of Raven’s hair and down her jaw.

  The sensual flirtation sent another jolt of jealousy charging through Hazel’s veins. Morgan must have felt it somehow because she turned to Hazel and smiled.

  Hazel tried to shake off the intensity of the situation. Unsure of Morgan’s capabilities, she didn’t want to give her a reason to peek into her mind. “If you have time, I’d like to talk to you. I have about a zillion questions, and I’m sure Sarah does, too.”

  Morgan tapped her nails against her lips and raked her eyes over Hazel. “There will be time for that.” As she stepped closer, Hazel fought the urge to step backward. “Tonight, we celebrate.”

  Hazel felt her breath catch in her chest as the Queen moved around her. She tried to refocus. “Celebrate what, exactly?”

  Morgan laughed and stepped away, sauntering back to the couch. “Everything, darling.” She motioned to the staircase. “Your things should already be in your rooms. Go freshen up, and then we’ll eat, drink, and…” Morgan’s eyes flickered over to Raven again. “Well, we’ll see where it goes from there.”

  Hazel headed toward the stairs, hoping she’d made her escape before any of her feelings seeped into Morgan’s psyche. It was unnerving to be near someone who could experience your emotions. It was like a violation, a burglary of some kind. Hazel wanted to be as far away from her as possible. She was having a hard enough time sorting out her feelings for Raven, and she didn’t need a centuries-old witch complicating matters. She’d been feeling slightly off since the moment she walked through the door. Being in Morgan’s orbit was causing her senses to collide. She’d sensed power bubbling beneath her surface, but couldn’t place its origin. It was confusing and enthralling all at the same time.

  She checked several rooms until she found her bag sitting next to a bed. It was unlike her to be dramatic, but she was terribly overwhelmed. She flopped down on her bed face-first and propped the pillow over her. She wanted to scream into the mattress but thought that would be a bit over the top.

  She rolled over and took a deep breath, needing a moment to gather her thoughts. Her entire world had been upended over the last few days. If you’d asked her three days ago if she knew demons were currently prancing around the world, she would have laughed off the idea as an ancient myth. She couldn’t have dreamed up the circumstances that brought Sarah into her bookstore. Thr
ow in a queen witch, a few evil entities trying to kill her, and a supernatural hunter whose eyes could stop a hell-bound truck of lost souls, and she would’ve told you to lay off the acid.

  Raven. Just thinking of her made her skin tingle. But what game was she really playing? Granted, Raven had never given any indication that something was happening between them, but there were glances, small touches, and flirtatious smiles.

  She sat up in bed. Maybe she didn’t have control over anything else that was going on, but she could find out what was happening between her and Raven. At the very least, maybe she could get some answers as to why Morgan looked at her like she wanted to devour her…and not in a sexy way.

  A soft voice that Hazel recognized as Morgan’s housekeeper was on the other side of the door. “Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres will be served in ten minutes.”

  Hazel looked down at her jeans and shirt. “Okay. Be down in a few.”

  Perfect. Hazel hoisted her bag onto the bed. She wasn’t sure what one was supposed to wear to dinner with the Morgan le Fay, but she was sure it wasn’t a Wonder Woman shirt.

  * * *

  Raven received the glass of wine Morgan handed her, careful not to allow their fingers to touch.

  “I hope you like this,” Morgan said. “I had it brought up from the cellar just for you.” She examined the label on the bottle. “It’s a two-hundred-year-old Bordeaux, a thank-you gift from Napoleon.”

  Raven swirled the plum colored liquid around in her glass, sniffed, and took a sip. “This is fantastic, but I can’t tell the difference between this and boxed wine.”

  Morgan laughed. “Oh, I do find you amusing.” She leaned over and traced her finger down Raven’s arm. “Tell me how much you’ve missed me.”

  Raven heard the creak on the stairs. Hazel and Sarah were coming to join them. Hazel looked beautiful but relaxed in her jeans and gray sweater falling slightly off the shoulder. Raven experienced a brief flash of what Hazel’s skin might taste like. Before her thoughts could go any further, Morgan waved her hand, and two seats jetted back from the table.

  “I’m so glad you could join us,” Morgan said as Hazel sat next to Raven and Sarah next to Morgan. “Raven was just impressing me with her knowledge of her favorite vintage of boxed wine.” Morgan waved her hand again, and the bottle floated into the air toward the glasses in front of Sarah and Hazel.

  Sarah clutched Hazel’s arm as their eyes followed the floating bottle. While Sarah stared with amazement, Hazel observed the bottle as it poured wine into their glasses.

  “Is that a Penfolds Grange Hermitage 1951?” Hazel reached for the unopened bottle on the table, then drew back her hand. “I thought there were only twelve bottles in existence.”

  Morgan seemed impressed. She nodded and sat back. “When it was first made, it was given out, an experiment of sorts. I knew Max Schubert, the genius who created it. I took several cases off his hands. Now, this wine goes for upward of fifty thousand dollars a bottle. But please, don’t let it overshadow General Buonaparte’s favorite.”

  Hazel did a double take at Morgan before taking a sip and setting her glass down. “What is it that you really want from us, Morgan?”

  The smile on Morgan’s face disappeared into a warning. “You’ve felt different since you’ve arrived? A little more brazen, a little bolder, feeling a surge of power pumping through your veins?” Morgan got up from the table and walked over to Hazel. She stood behind her and placed her hands on Hazel’s shoulders. “It’s because you’re in my presence. You have no idea what it means to be a witch. You have no idea the power we wield or what we’re capable of when pushed.” When Morgan leaned next to her ear, Hazel shuddered. “I’m the most powerful entity in this realm, and you’re absorbing small amounts of my power through mere proximity. Imagine what my full strength must be. Imagine what I’m capable of doing.” She kissed her cheek and walked back to her chair. “Now, let’s start again. Are you enjoying your wine?”

  Morgan waved her hand again, and Hazel slumped as if she had just been released from an invisible grip.

  Raven saw the panic in Hazel’s eyes and reached out, taking her hand under the table. She wanted to give her any strength she could, however she could. Hazel squeezed her hand, accepting her support.

  “It’s wonderful. Thank you.” Hazel smiled at Morgan. “I’m looking forward to learning whatever you have to teach me.”

  Morgan stared at Hazel for a moment as if deciding whether to move on or continue this battle; she seemed to land on the former. “I’m thrilled to have you here, my dear. Mi casa es su casa.”

  Raven let out her breath and picked up her wineglass. “To new friends.”

  “May God bless our bounty,” Sarah said, pressing her hands together and bowing her head over her place setting. She took a sip from her glass and started coughing. “Savage fire water,” she exclaimed when the coughing stopped.

  Raven and Hazel exchanged covert smiles.

  Morgan ran her finger over the top of her wineglass, leaning toward Sarah. “I’m terribly interested in the spell you cast that brought you here, Sarah. You’re either a very powerful or very lucky witch. I haven’t decided yet.”

  Sarah brushed her hair from her eyes and attempted to take another sip of wine before answering. “It were not I who cast a spell. Ayotunde spake incantations from our cell, and I waked outside near Goody Hazel’s shop. She hath saved me from the noose, and I fear she be jailed yet. If I be a witch, then I must find a way to rescue her, too.”

  Morgan shot Raven a warning glance as she addressed Sarah. “Let’s pipe down with this crazy talk for a moment, oui? Before I know it, with a poof of smoke, you’ll have the Proctors, Nurses, and Coreys sitting at the table with us, and I don’t have enough beef bourguignon to go around.”

  The room was quiet for a moment as they all waited for the awkwardness to dissipate.

  Morgan studied Sarah and Hazel. “Do either of you know the genesis of your power?” She paused and clearly noted the blank expressions on both of their faces. “Of course you don’t.” Morgan finished her wine, and the bottle dipped back over the opening, refilling the lonely glass. “You’re descendants of a witch I used to know very well, in more ways than one.” She smiled, seeming to reminisce. “Mary and I met in England almost six hundred years ago. She was charming, had a wonderful wit, and a face men would go to war over. Her father intended to marry her off to a wealthy merchant. The merchant was a terrible man with a heavy hand and an affinity for prostitutes. Mary and I had become very good friends, and she came to me, begging for a way out.” Morgan took a deep breath and shook her head.

  Raven had never seen Morgan show any inkling of fondness for anyone from her past. Her revealing any chink in her armor was unfathomable. Raven wanted to ask questions but was worried any interruption would halt the sincere glimpse into Morgan’s psyche. If that happened, she’d never be given another opportunity to peek behind the iron curtain of Morgan’s secrets.

  “I was willing to do anything to protect her, to keep her with me. So, I shared my blood with her, changing her forever. We were very happy together for many years. We traveled anywhere our hearts desired, met fascinating people, and had the most wonderful experiences. When we started hearing whisperings of the New World, we thought it would be our next great adventure. When those settlers came to Roanoke, Mary wanted to help them survive. They weren’t doing very well on their own, and against my better judgment, I agreed. I never could say no to her. It had been so long since I was challenged, and since the humans never posed any real threat to us, I thought helping them get on their feet would be easy.” Morgan looked past all of them as if she were looking directly into the past and watching it unfold again. “She took a liking to one of the settlers, a young man with broad shoulders and a toothy smile. He was nice enough, and I thought he was just a phase, another one of her crazy whims. It wasn’t until she became pregnant that I realized the depth of their relationship. I’d grown comfortable
in our pairing. I thought we were untouchable.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “The baby girl was born two days before the attack and a day after Virginia Dare.”

  Raven had never heard this story and didn’t know what to make of it. “The attack by the Native Americans?”

  Morgan put her hand on Raven’s. “No, darling. The attack by the demons and the dark magic witches. When they found out Mary had reproduced, they…well, let’s just say they were less than amenable to the new course of events.”

  Hazel leaned forward. “But why would they care? Obviously, witches reproduce; otherwise, we wouldn’t exist.”

  Morgan turned Raven’s hand over and started tracing small circles on her palm. Raven was surprised when the shiver that usually accompanied Morgan’s attention didn’t come. She wasn’t sure if it was Morgan manipulating her reactions or the fact that she could feel Hazel’s eyes tracking their encounter. Hazel was smart, willful, and beautiful. Raven knew she was attracted to her, but was it becoming something more? She rolled her neck, hoping to displace the thought for now.

  “Ordinary witches reproduce. But this child had my blood coursing through her veins. I had inadvertently created a line of heirs to my throne. This was not something that was ever supposed to be done. Unlike humans, witch DNA doesn’t dilute as the generations progress. It only strengthens, adapts, evolves.”

  Sarah appeared shaken. “What came of Mary and her baby?”

  Morgan kissed Raven’s palm, then rested it against her cheek. “I cloaked the baby in an invisibility spell and told them the baby had died in childbirth. Their magic wasn’t strong enough to detect the spell I had cast. But as my punishment, they burned Mary at the stake.” She looked almost apologetic, a demeanor Raven hadn’t ever seen on her before. In all the years they’d known each other, Raven had never felt sorry for her. This situation had clearly scarred Morgan and probably dictated a great deal of her current apathy toward people. Raven had always assumed Morgan was above human emotions, superior. But not even the great Morgan le Fay could escape this type of pain.