Smoke on the Water (11 page)

“I'll walk you to your room,” he said.

“I'll do it.” That was Zoe.

“I know where it is.” I went to the door. Then I had to wait for one of them to unlock it.

Luckily Dr. Frasier was closer, and he got there first. I had a feeling Zoe would have stepped on my foot, elbowed me in the ribs, or perhaps opened the door into my face. Childish behavior, but it had happened before.

Not with her. Not yet. But it would. I didn't even need to look into the water to know that.

“When Mary wakes up I'll come and get you.” He held the door for me as if we were on a date. Or at least I thought it was like that. The number of dates I'd had matched the times I'd been kissed.

Zero.

“I can get her,” Zoe said.

Dr. Frasier didn't even glance her way when he answered. “Your shift will be over by then.”

“So will yours.”

He ignored her. “You've been up all night, Willow. Get some sleep.”

“You too.”

I reached for the door as he retreated, and our hands brushed. Our eyes met. Time seemed to stand still.

I'd sleep so much better when I slept with him.

Memories of things that hadn't happened yet tumbled through my mind. My face flooded with heat, and I fled.

Before I went back to my room, I detoured to the library. I wanted to see if Mary's
Venatores Mali
actually existed. Not that she couldn't have Googled them same as I planned to, but it wouldn't hurt to know what was truth and what was not. And if she'd totally invented them, I should probably know that too.

According to Wikipedia, which wasn't always accurate but didn't make a habit of inventing witch-hunting societies from the seventeenth century, the
Venatores Mali
were secretly commissioned by King James. The one with his name on a Bible. He'd also written a book on witchcraft.

You'd think the two were mutually exclusive. But not when your name began with
King
and ended in a Roman numeral. James had two of the latter, being King James VI of Scotland and I of England. That many numerals would give anyone a God complex. He also had a hard-on for witches that would not quit. Hence the
Venatores Mali
.

James had kept the society a secret, not wanting to appear more backward to the English than they thought a Scottish king already was. Having lost a buttload of people in the merrily burning pyres at Smithfield thanks to Bloody Queen Mary, the English had had it up to their eyeballs with religious fervor. The relative peace and prosperity of the Virgin Queen Elizabeth's reign had made them less tolerant of anymore.

The leader of the
Venatores Mali
was Roland McHugh. He'd executed more witches than anyone in history. Before he burned them, he branded them, believing the mark would cleanse their souls, banish their demons, and purify them of satanic whispers.

Though no mention was made of what the brand looked like or what he had used to do it, I figured there were enough coincidences between Mary, Wikipedia, and my vision to think I'd found the right guy. That Mary thought Roland was coming back, even though he'd died in the Plague of 1636, was disturbing. That she thought he'd been speaking to her was even more so.

I went to my room, but it was a long, long time before I fell asleep.

I woke in the dark, and I wasn't alone. I didn't move, kept my breathing even, got ready to fight back if I needed to.

Then the scent of sun and limes reached me an instant before Dr. Frasier murmured, “Willow?”

I wanted to reach out, take his hand, draw him next to me on my bed, curl into him, go back to sleep. Instead, I sat up, tossed off the covers, stood. Lying in bed with him anywhere near only caused me to yearn.

“Mary's awake,” he said. “And she's asking for you.”

I bet she was.

I stepped into the bright fluorescent lights of the hall and blinked until my eyes didn't ache. Together we walked toward solitary.

“Did you sleep?” I asked.

“I had work.”

“You should go home.”

“I have to find out how Mary escaped. What if she does it again? What if someone else does?”

I didn't think that was going to happen, but as I couldn't tell him why, I kept quiet.

We walked down several long hallways. Solitary was located in the farthest wing still in use. Beyond it there were many more, but they were dark, cold, and dusty. Their entrances were blocked by padlocked gates so none of us could scoot down there and do things that we shouldn't.

Dr. Frasier stopped at a locked door, with a single small window. He glanced in. “I told her you would visit. It seemed to calm her.”

I waited for him to open the door, but he didn't.

“I should probably go in with you,” he mused.

“She isn't going to tell me anything if you're there.”

“What if she tries to hurt you?”

“I can take care of myself.”

His gaze was drawn to the window again. I got uneasy and glanced in too. Mary sat on the bed, hands folded, waiting.

“Why does she have a bandage on her forehead?”

“There was some head banging. She stopped when I promised she could see you.”

“Then let her see me before she starts up again.”

“What if she decides to head-bang you?”

“I've been in places rougher than this, with people scarier than Mary.”

His forehead creased.

“I'll be fine.” I'd envisioned the faces of several people who wanted to hurt me. None of them had been hers.

He unlocked the door and I went inside.

“Willow!” Mary rushed forward, hugged me a little too hard. When she let me go, she scowled at the window. “Is he out there?”

The glass was one-way. “Could be. But he can't hear us if we're quiet.”

He'd expect me to tell him what she said, but he wouldn't believe the truth, would write it off as crazy talk. I'd have to figure out something.

“What happened?” I asked, as we sat on her bed, side by side.

“We did the spell, and I was transported.”

I wanted to argue, but we
had
done the spell. She
had
disappeared from here and reappeared there. There'd been a time lag between the first and the second, but it had happened. I might have tried to convince myself that I'd imagined her blinking out of the library, except she'd been gone. I wasn't the only one who couldn't find her.

“I saw the big, ugly, bald guy. He had the ring. He was a
Venatores Mali,
a hunter.”

“What was he doing?”

“Eating a bratwurst.”

I blinked.

“Maybe a hot dog.”

“Did he say something to you? Recognize you?”

Mary's forehead creased. “Why would he? He didn't see me in a vision. Did he?”

“No idea,” I said absently. “Why did you try and strangle him?”

“He's going to kill that woman on the altar with a meat cleaver. The witch. From the looks of it, she wasn't his first.”

I'd thought so too. Still—

“You tried to kill him because he might someday kill someone we don't even know?”

“Has one of your visions ever not come true?”

She had me there.

“I don't think you're supposed to go around killing the people I see in them.”

“I do.”

“Mary—”

“Willow,” she interrupted. “If I wasn't supposed to see, then why did I? If I wasn't supposed to try and stop him, then why was I transported to the place where he was?”

I had no answer for that either.

She took my hands. “I didn't see the tall, long-haired woman. But I bet the next time we do the spell, I will.”

“Next time,” I echoed, and yanked my hands away. All I needed was for Mary to go poof while Dr. Frasier was watching.

Or maybe I did. If someone other than me saw Mary disappear, or vice versa—I wasn't exactly sure which one of us was causing this phenomenon, it might even be both of us—then I'd know for certain … what? That I wasn't crazy?

Technically, I
was
crazy, but not about this. Still, I'd like someone who wasn't certifiable to see the same thing I had.

“We have to wait for the full moon,” Mary said.

Another month. It seemed so far away.

 

Chapter 8

Sebastian watched the two women through the small window. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but they both seemed to be saying a lot.

The most interesting thing was how normal Mary appeared. She was still dressed in the tan jumpsuit accorded to the least stable patients; loaferlike slippers graced her feet. Her hair was matted and snarled. The white bandage on her forehead nearly matched the ice-pale shade of her skin.

But when she talked to Willow, her hands didn't wring, pull at her hair, or smack her own head; her eyes didn't dart, and her voice didn't lift toward a shriek. The two carried on a conversation like ordinary adults. Sebastian only hoped that when Willow came out she had more to report than gibberish.

Willow patted Mary on the shoulder and kissed her head. Mary beamed at her as if Willow had given her the world. Why, then, when he'd done the same to Willow, had she glared at him as if he'd farted in church? Probably for the same reason that Zoe had glared at him all day.

With a woman's sixth sense, they knew he wanted more from Willow than he should. He wasn't sure what to do about that. He barely knew her, yet he felt as if he did. He felt as if he'd known Willow all his life. And that was nearly as crazy as …

Willow tapped on the door, and he glanced inside, afraid he'd missed something dire while daydreaming. But everything was fine—or as fine as it got in solitary. Mary still sat on her bed, hands folded. Willow waited for him to let her out, which he did.

“What did she say?”

“Not much.”

“You were talking quite a bit.”

“Not much that made sense,” she clarified.

“Maybe you should tell me everything. It might make more sense to me.”

“Doubtful.”

“Try me.”

“She transported from here to there.”

“Like
Star Trek
?” he asked.

“
Star Trek
's not real.”

“Neither is transporting from here to there.”

“I didn't say it was true.” Willow studied the toe of her shoe. “I said that's what she told me.”

“Is this an idea she got from the Wicca lessons?” he asked.

Willow coughed. “You think Peggy Dalberg knows a spell that can make someone disappear from one place and appear in another?”

When put like that he had no choice but to say, “No.” Still … “I should probably put a stop to the lessons.”

“You're the administrator,” Willow said. “But if you want my opinion…?”

He nodded.

“The lessons are about finding joy, focusing your mind, discovering yourself. Mary's a lot calmer because of them.”

“I think she's calmer because of you.”

“Not me. Us. Friendship heals. The lessons are something to look forward to. Learning improves the mind.”

She made a good argument. “I suppose it won't hurt to continue the lessons. As long as there isn't any evidence of agitation.” Since he'd be having the guards keep a much closer watch on Mary, he'd know about it.

“Thanks.”

“Did Mary mention where she was when she transported?”

Willow seemed to think about that. Was she coming up with a lie or merely trying to find sense amid the nonsense? Why did he think she would lie? Maybe because she continued to find her shoe more interesting than him.

“Library,” she answered.

“The library is in the center of the facility. No way outside from there.”

“There's no way outside from anywhere. Which is what makes it a secure mental health facility.”

“It's obviously not as secure as I've been led to believe. Mary escaped somehow.”

“I wish I could be more help.”

“You'll tell me if she says anything else about it?”

“Of course.” She started toward her room, then paused, but did not face him. “When will you let her out of there?”

“If she remains calm, tomorrow.”

“You aren't going to make her stay in solitary until she confesses how she got out?”

“Do you think she believes that she transported?”

“Definitely.”

“Then she did confess. That it makes no sense is kind of irrelevant.”

She cast him a sideways glance. He thought again how blue her eyes were, like an ocean he'd never seen but yearned to.

“You're an interesting man, Dr. Frasier.”

He wasn't, but he liked it far too much that she thought so.

*   *   *

Dr. Frasier was as good as his word and released Mary from solitary the next day. She came directly to my room, where I gave her the
Book of Shadows
I'd had the presence of mind to take from the library when I fled, along with the candle and the bell, then warned her not to say a word to anyone about anything.

“If anyone thinks the spell Peggy taught us worked—” I began.

“It did!”

I tightened my fingers around Mary's. “Shh.”

Her eyes narrowed but she shushed.

“Peggy thinks it was a spell of joy.”

Mary snorted. “She's not the sharpest tool.”

“If anyone suspects you escaped using witchcraft, there'll be no more lessons.”

“We don't need Peggy.”

“I think we do.” I still wasn't completely convinced that we'd performed magic. If we had, it had been an accident, and I had a feeling that magical accidents ended badly more often than not.

There was also Peggy's admonition that magic for selfish reasons was black magic. I wanted nothing, whatsoever, to do with that. Enough nasty things had happened to me already. I didn't need to add evil to the mix.