Never Burn A Witch argi-2 Page 2
His only response is a sour, demonic laugh.
I’m falling.
I’m screaming.
Silence.
“Rowan, so nice to see you.” Ariel Tanner is standing before me. Beside her is the same little strawberry-blonde girl holding tightly to her hand.
“Mister, why don’t you stop the bad man?” The little girl looks up at me with wide, sad eyes then turns her gaze to the right.
I follow her eyes, looking far off into the distance. There is a grove of trees surrounding a small clearing. Centered in the clearing is a hooded, robed figure standing with hands raised high. Moonlight glints from an object held in those hands. Moonlight glints from an athame. A ceremonial knife.
A small figure lies prone before the cloaked one. A small figure clad in white lace. Preened and arranged. Unblemished and virginal.
The scene begins to grow increasingly distant as trees erupt from the landscape, obscuring the view as they continued to appear, closer and closer.
Immediately before us, the earth trembles and begins to sink. Almost as quickly as the depression is formed, it is filled with water. The glossy surface ripples in the slight breeze, moonlight reflecting from it in a shimmering stripe.
The ground continues to shake, and another stand of trees erupt skyward. The tall pines form a line before us, now completely obscuring the clearing and all but the smallest glimpses of the shallow lake.
I turn to the little girl. She is pointing at the sign. “What does it say, Mister?”
I look downward, following along her finger to the small white sign. Bold, black, capital letters spell out PLEASE DO NOT FEED GEESE.
“Only you can save her now, Rowan,” Ariel’s lilting voice gently touches my ears.
I turn to her, and she holds forth her hand. In it, a tarot card. A tarot card known as The Moon.
She stiffens and the card flutters from her hand. Her eyes go wide, and blood streaks down the front of her dress.
“Hey, Mister, what time is it?” the little girl is talking to me. “What time is it? Hey, Mister!”
I look up to the glowing marbled disk of the full moon high above. Spinning around its face are the hands of a clock. I watch as the minute hand chases rapidly after the hour hand, overtakes it, then begins the race anew.
“Hey, Mister!” the tiny voice demands. “What time is it?”
Darkness.
A deafening, demonic chord.
The sound of water splashing violently.
I can’t breathe. My lungs are on fire, and the flames are licking up my throat. My chest feels heavy, and there is something tightening about my neck. The atmosphere feels thick and fluid around me. I want to gasp for air, but something is telling me I shouldn’t. My thoughts are beginning to cloud; my mind is turning murky and dark.
I open my eyes, flailing my arms in front of me. I so desperately need air. I need to breathe. The air is thick and murky. It stings. I catch a distorted glimpse, rippling and blurry, of the full moon above. It is all that I can see. All except for one thing-a pair of murderous gray eyes.
My world begins to fade.
Twilight.
An endless scream, “Why, Rowan, why?”
Darkness.
Falling.
Impact.
I was vaguely aware of struggling toward consciousness as my nightmare world sought to meet reality. Something, or someone, wasn’t ready for that however.
Running.
I am running blindly through a forest.
Chased.
Hunted.
The icy snow numbs my frozen feet. I am nude. Nude and streaked with blood. Wounds cover my tortured body.
Fear tears mercilessly at my soul as my labored breaths take in the wintry air, bringing frozen pain to my already frostbitten lungs.
I stop and search franticly for a place to hide. From what, I do not know.
A tortured scream in the night.
Fire.
Fear absolute.
The taste of death.
I am running.
I started to sudden wakefulness, eyes snapping open, and my body feeling as though it had just been soundly pummeled with a two-by-four. Foggy disorientation quickly lifted and was replaced with knotted fear in the pit of my stomach. Fortunately, after a few short moments of deep, labored breathing, I realized that it had only been a nightmare. It was simply yet another terror in the long series of phantasms that had once again begun to plague my sleep in these recent weeks. I thought I had seen the end of them, September last. Apparently, I was mistaken.
It was coming up on six months since my friend and former student of the Wiccan religion, Ariel Tanner, had been hideously tortured and finally, murdered by a sadistic killer. It was also approaching six months since I had stopped that killer from doing the same thing to an innocent little girl for the purpose of a twisted ritual sacrifice. To this day, no one had been able to determine what he had hoped to accomplish; perhaps fortunately, four 9mm slugs had seen to it that we probably never would. What we knew for certain was simply that his deranged mind had pushed him to mutilate, torture, and murder five women. Then, in the name of some perverse evil, kidnap a small child with the intention of doing the same to her. In stopping him, I had almost been separated from my own life that night in Wild Woods Park beneath a full, silver-veined moon. Had it not been for the marksmanship of my friend Benjamin Storm, a Saint Louis city homicide detective, I’m firmly convinced he would have succeeded. Ironically, Ben was the very reason I had become involved in the investigation to start with.
The vignette so forcefully appended to the end of the nightmare was another story entirely. I had no rhyme or reason for its cryptic display and wasn’t entirely sure I wanted any. Mutely, I wished for it to be an anomalous event that would never recur.
Shaking off the vivid remembrances that, in my opinion, couldn’t fade quickly enough, I gently tossed back the covers. Being careful not to wake Felicity, I let my feet touch the hardwood floor and drew in a sharp breath. A quick glance at the clock showed it to be 5:24-minus the phantom fifteen minutes, of course-which readily accounted for the fact that the electronic thermostat had not yet signaled the furnace to increase the comfort level in the house.
I quickly pulled on socks and sweats and then stuffed my feet into a pair of tennis shoes. Our English setter and Australian cattle dog both stirred as soon as they were convinced that I was up and moving about. With a choreographed pair of lazy stretches and slowly wagging tails, the two of them followed me through the house and into the kitchen where I let them out the back door. The motion sensor on the outdoor sentry instantly detected their movement and snapped the floodlights on full. The intense halogen beams pierced the darkness to illuminate our white-blanketed back yard and deck. Countless jewel-like pinpricks were reflected back from the crystalline snow, making the pristine landscape appear to be covered with a fine dusting of tiny diamonds.
Clusters of the cottony ice were still falling steadily from a grey sky; the low strata of clouds reflected the omnipresent lights of the city, lending to an illusion of almost brightness. Emily, our calico cat, brushed against my leg and started out the doorway onto the snowy deck. The moment her paws contacted the frigid substance, she lurched back with a hiss, back arched and tri-toned fur afrizz. The weather having brought about an abrupt end to her planned morning hunt, she pranced back into the atrium, leaped lithely into a chair and settled herself in, electing to watch rather than participate. The dogs had seen to their business and were now reveling like small children in the wonders of the snow that hadn’t been there less than eight hours before. They would be at play for some time yet, so I shut the door and proceeded back into the kitchen. I knew they would let me know when they wanted in.
After dumping a healthy portion of roasted Columbian Supremo beans into the grinder, I covered it with a dishtowel before depressing the button. I was still trying not to wake Felicity, and I wanted to muf
fle the noise. A choked rattle began immediately and was followed by an escalating whine as the blades increased in speed, first cracking and then crushing the contents. After a couple of sharp taps, I removed the shroud and emptied the near-powdered contents into the filter basket then filled the coffee maker with purified water. Rich inviting aromas were already screaming “CAFFEINE” at me when I let the dogs back in and made my way to the shower.
*****
After my shower and a change from sweats to casual but more respectable attire, I had dialed the Saint Louis city police headquarters and asked for Ben Storm’s extension. He had picked up on the third ring with his usual gruff and succinct, “Homicide. Storm.”
“So everything is still on for this morning?” I said into the telephone handset.
“Hell yes,” my friend’s voice issued jovially from the earpiece. “Coppers don’t get to stay home when it snows. Shit, you think the bad guys take the day off?”
Since my recent involvement in solving one of the most violent killing sprees in Saint Louis’ history, my friend had become readily accepting of the fact that I was a practicing Witch-and the uncanny abilities that I developed because of it. Taking it even a step further, he was now a staunch purveyor of educating his fellow officers about Wicca and The Craft. In a very short period of time, he had come to realize the importance of dispelling the myths about the religion of modern day Witches. His persistence, along with my success in aiding a serious investigation, had allowed him to convince the department to establish a program of lectures. The series of seminars was designed for the purpose of instructing everyone within the ranks-from chief to beat cop-about alternative religions and the fact that being a Witch did not mean that one was a “child-eating, broom-riding, sacrificial murderer.” Ben’s fierce determination about this had gotten me through the door. Now, it was my job to stand up in front of them and do the convincing. Today was to be the first formal lecture to a group.
“Well, you never know,” I answered with a laugh. “Seems like half the city shuts down if someone sees a flurry. You’d think they’d be used to it by now.”
“Yeah, well, what’re ya gonna do?” he stated rhetorically. “Especially when you got a bunch of prima donnas runnin’ around worried about gettin’ sno-melt on their new Lex-eye.”
“Lex-eye? Is that really a word?”
“Lexus, Lexuses, Lex-eye, whatever…” he answered with a chuckle. “Anyway, yeah, everything’s still on. Even with the snow, they’d be nuts to cancel now, especially after that article in the paper.”
“I suppose it would look a little strange to do that after that kind of coverage,” I said, knowing exactly what he was referring to. “You know, when I agreed to that interview, I really didn’t expect the article to be on the front page.”
“That’s nothin’, rumor has it the national wire services are picking it up. Face it, Row, a self-proclaimed Witch giving instructional seminars to coppers? You’re news, Kemosabe. Either that, or,” he added wryly, “it was a really slow day.”
“Thanks a lot,” I feigned hurt sarcasm. “That makes me feel real important.”
He laughed heartily on the other end. “No problem, white man. Hey, by the way, happy Candlestick or Endblock or whatever you call it.”
“Candlemas or Imbolc, either one is fine.” I corrected his crucified reference to the Pagan holiday that had been celebrated only the day before. “I’m impressed you remembered. Thanks.”
“Hey, I’m tryin’. So what was this one all about anyway?”
“It’s a celebration of the coming of the spring season,” I replied.
“Yo, Kemosabe.” He took on a mock serious tone. “I don’t wanna bust your bubble and all, but you might wanna take a look at a calendar. I’m pretty sure spring is a ways off yet.”
“Like I said, the coming of the season,” I told him, and then jibed, “You mundanes have your own bizarre and even less than scientific version of Imbolc, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, you all gather around and wait for a rodent to come out of a hole to see if it casts a shadow. Then depending upon the result, you proclaim the length of the winter season. On the other hand, we Pagans all gather ‘round, hold a simple rite welcoming spring and the growing season that we know to be just around the corner, then we have a party. In the long run, which one do you think makes more sense?”
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I give up… You win.” In the background, I could hear him shuffling papers about his desk. “So anyway, back to business. According to the departmental memo here, looks like the class is all set up for around ten. You need me to come get you?”
“No. Not at all.” I declined his offer. “I’ve got about two hundred pounds of sand bags in the bed of the truck, and it’s four-wheel drive.” With a chuckle, I added, “Question is, should I have given YOU a ride?”
“What, and leave the tank at home?” He asked facetiously, referring to the dilapidated looking, but well maintained, Chevy van he always drove. “Not a chance! Someone might think it’s abandoned and tow it! Besides…” He paused and I heard faint voices in the background. “Hey, Row…Could you hold on a sec?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The sound from the handset cradled on my shoulder took on the familiar dull hollowness of being placed on hold. Absently, I filled my hand with an ink pen from the jar on the bookshelf and began doodling on the notepad next to it. Outside the window, a muted dawn was managing to filter weakly through the clouds that still lay like a comforter across the city. Wet clumps of snow continued chasing one another in a frantic, never-ending race downward to the already fleeced ground. My hand moved on its own, tracing non-sensical patterns on the notepaper. I ignored it and continued staring through the double pane of glass. Distorted noises of metal against asphalt distantly reached my ears, growing louder, then fading once again as a street department snow plow pushed past my house, spewing salt in its wake.
“…So listen, Row,” Ben’s voice suddenly replaced the mechanical tick-ticking static of the hold button, “I gotta go have a second look at a crime scene, so I may not be around when you get here. If I’m back in time, you wanna grab lunch? I’ll buy.”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Especially if it’s on you!”
“Good deal. I’ll catch ya’ then. Later.”
“Bye.”
I was just settling the phone back onto its base when my eyes fell across the message pad. At first, I dismissed the concentric circles and figure eights of blue ink gracing the page as simply the random scrawling of my unoccupied mind. It was only upon the second glance, as I was tearing the page from the backing in order to discard it, that something struck me as odd. More than just meaningless scratches, the curves and lines twisted around, traced and retraced, forming numbers.
2218.
An obscure remembrance in the back of my head told me that I had dreamt this number earlier this morning. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering at its significance, before discounting it as a bizarre coincidence and crumpling the page in my fist. As I dropped it in the wastebasket, a pair of flannel-covered arms hooked about my waist, and a soft, curvaceous body pressed against my back. Any remnant of the puzzling number left in my mind was immediately and thoroughly replaced by thoughts vastly different.
“Aye, who were you talking to this early in the morning, then?” Felicity’s sleepy voice murmured.
“Ben,” I answered, turning in her embrace and squeezing her gently. “I was just checking in to see if I was still supposed to give that lecture this morning…what with the snow and all.”
“What did he say?” she asked quietly.
Her warm breath tingled my skin as she nuzzled in closer, her soft lips roaming up my neck.
“Still on. It’s set up for ten. I guess I need to be there by nine-thirty or so.”
“Mmmmmm… You smell good.”
“Thanks…You don’t smell so bad yourself.”
Clouds
of her loose auburn curls floated about her lightly freckled face as she looked at me with drowsy, jade green eyes. She was a perfect picture of her own Irish-American heritage, and the Celtic lilt in her voice tied the package together. While normally a singsong note simply underscoring her words, she needed only to spend a few short hours with her family, or be tired as she was now, to re-kindle a heavy brogue that even included occasional lapses into Gaelic.
“So what time is it now?” she cooed, rubbing cat-like against me and nibbling lightly at my earlobe.
“About eight.”
“I don’t have any clients scheduled this morning…” she whispered, referring to her profession as a freelance photographer.
“Good for you.”
I was feigning ignorance of what she implied, but she continued undaunted. When Felicity had set her mind to something, there was little I knew of that could stand in her way.
“…And you’ve got some free time,” she breathed.
“Uh-huh.” I was rapidly starting to melt.
“I’m loving you a whole bunch right now…”
I wasn’t exactly late, but it was close. I didn’t arrive at the Saint Louis city police headquarters until five minutes to ten.
CHAPTER 2
“Really. Trust me on this,” I said in a calm but very firm tone. “Witches DO NOT have lurid orgies by the light of the full moon for the purpose of spawning demon children. I don’t care WHAT that newsletter says.”
The bulk of the lecture was finished and by all accounts had gone very well. For the better part of ninety minutes, I had outlined the philosophy of WitchCraft and the Wiccan religion. Taking great pains to stress their benevolence, I recited the Wiccan Rede and focused on its most important covenant- An it Harm None, do what ye will. I had covered the rituals and the symbols of the two, most especially, the Pentacle and Pentagram. For centuries, negative connotations had been placed on the five-pointed star hemmed by a circle. It had obviously come as a shock to the group that the true meaning of the symbol, no matter how you turned it, was that it represented man and his relationship to the elements. Nothing evil. Nothing Satanic. Of further distress to their preconceived notions was the fact that Witches don’t even believe in Satan. They weren’t entirely sure what to do when I informed them that Lucifer wasn’t our boy, but theirs and theirs alone. That fallen angel was simply a deity more closely associated with Judeo-Christian practices and held no place in the Wiccan faith. Even so, there was still at least one of them who remained unconvinced. Because of him, I was now explaining to a room full of blue-uniformed police officers why a particular right-wing publication he flaunted like a shield was factually incorrect.